Page 26 of Stealth Mission

“I need to know you’re okay with this.”

Golden-brown eyes dancing, she jerks me forward. “I might be crazy. But I haven’t been this okay in forever.”

“Then I’m not stopping.” I lean down, holding her nape in one hand, and devour her again—fuck the heat of her mouth with my tongue as her fingertips bite into my pecs.

When I can’t take it anymore, I drag her onto my lap. I’m breathing raggedly, all my blood is rushing out of one head, heading for the other. “I should stop.”

She licks her lips and whispers hotly, “I should go home.”

But neither of us pull apart again until a massive BOOM makes Marianna scream.

“On the floor!” I shove her down into the footwell behind the front seats.

The driver leaps into the car and slams the door.

Angling my body so I’m covering hers, I search for the source of the ground-shaking explosion. “What’s happening?”

Before I’ve even finished my question, the engine roars to life and he throws the car in reverse.

“There was bomb under car.”

A Russian accent? But that’s not my priority right now.

A car bomb trumps all else. “Fucking hell.”

He guns the engine, swerves backwards and spins the car around before taking off.

Marianna’s gasping on the floorboard, curled into a tight ball. “Is anyone hurt?”

He scans the mirrors before focusing ahead. “No.”

A rush of blood fills my ears as we speed out of the estate, the car swaying wildly. Tires skidding on the asphalt driveway.Marianna’s skin is damp and feverish below the hand I’m using to pin her to the floor.

All of my training kicks into place. Calm takes over. My mind starts to work the pieces. “Whose car was blown?”

“Mr. Strickler’s.”

“Sylvester’s car!” Marianna shrieks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” the man snaps without looking back.

My muscles tighten. I curse a blue streak silently. A bomb was bad enough, but on Sylvester’s car—this is fucked.

Marianna’s coming to the same conclusion I am. Her voice is thready as she shudders. “Oh my god. That’s terrible.”

The Russian grunts.

I jerk off my coat, the heavy fabric suddenly suffocating now. My voice gets tight as a whole new set of realities play out in my racing mind. “Have the other cars been checked?”

“My coworkers are doing that now.”

Cold dread surges inside me. “What about this one—has it been in a secure location?”

“I’ve been with it all day. It was locked up last night. I’m responsible for this vehicle. No one puts bomb on my car.”

A breath hisses out of me. “You sure?”

He glares at me in the mirror.

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