The Animal Under The Fur Page 11

  “All right.” Jules shoulders her bag, her jean jacket riding up a bit. “You guys able to hold off killing each other until we arrive in Cuetzalan?”

  She and Akoni will be traveling separately in their own car. Lucky fucks.

  “I think that question’s directed at you, wife.” I flash 3 a syrupy smile.

  “And I think the answer depends on whether you’re going to magically transform into a completely different person on the ride there.”

  “I don’t know about the ride there,” I say, “but we can certainly satiate your desire for role-playing when we get to the hotel.”

  Her eyes pinch to slits before her demeanor quickly melts and shifts into something foreign, heated, and I warily watch her slide closer to me, a snake approaching in high grass.

  Every muscle tenses.

  “That’s a great idea,” she purrs, her voice a trickle of warm blood as she presses her breasts against my chest. This close I can smell her subtle scent of coconut shampoo, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall, unsure if it’s from fear or arousal. What the crap is going on?

  “You can be my patient.” She runs a finger up my bicep, a trail of fire. “And pretend like it doesn’t hurt when I cut out your intestines and hang you from them.” With a sharp poke of her nail, her gaze turns from dripping honey back to sleet, and I watch stunned as she turns, stomping back the car before slamming the door shut.

  What the—

  I blink to the space she just occupied, trying to straighten out my confused male libido that her creepy-smooth mood change just stirred.

  “Yeah.” Akoni steps next to me. “I’d stay away from any sort of role-playing games if I were you. It didn’t end well for the last guy.”

  I glance to him, trying to gauge if that was a joke or not, but he merely gives me a sympathetic pat on the back before walking to his own vehicle, backpack snug against his large gray hoodie. Jules flashes me a thumbs-up before following him, leaving me once again wondering how the hell I can get out of this marriage.

  The only positive thing so far on this trip is that 3 likes jazz, something that caught me by surprise when she set up the music for our ride. Living in New York for as long as I have, I think it’s impossible not to feel an affinity for the genre. Its calming and mellow notes are something I always tend to crave after returning from a rather intense assignment. So when 3 clicked on Duke Ellington, it appeared both of our moods thawed a bit.

  Despite this one commonality though, we haven’t exchanged more than eight words in the past thirty minutes. 3’s gaze has been plastered to the view beyond her side of the car since escaping the city limits, and I slide her a fervent glance, watching her red hair, made copper in the sunlight, flutter around her face from the wind slipping through her cracked window. Her usually pale skin is made a shade warmer in the morning light, and I hate to admit that she really is quite pretty when she’s not sneering and gnashing her teeth.

  “So, 3, hunh?” I try starting a conversation because I’m either a masochist or my ADD for sitting still has kicked in. “Are all the Ops at SI6 numbers?”

  She continues to study the passing scenery of farmlands and sloping hills.

  “Listen.” I let out a resigned sigh. “I know we don’t like each other. It’s painfully obvious we’d both rather be getting Chinese water tortured than confined in this car, but here we are, and we’re about to be stuck with each other for God knows how long. Can we at least call a truce for this mission? Then I promise we can go back to plotting each other’s demise.”

  She keeps her eyes glued forward, like she didn’t hear a word.

  “Fine. Whatever.” I grip the wheel tighter, concentrating on the curve of the road as it winds into small mountainous terrain.

  “No.”

  I glance her way.

  “The SI6 Ops aren’t numbered.” She plays with her phone in her lap.

  “So why do they call you 3?”

  “It’s a nickname.”

  I snort. “Yeah, no shit it’s a nickname. I’m asking how you got it. Are you sure you passed the entry IQ—”

  3 shooting me a murderous glare cuts me off.

  “Sorry.” I hold up a hand. “Truce mode. I promise.”

  Flicking a glance at the roof of the car, like she’s asking for help from a higher being, she lets out a huff. “It’s how many mission targets I completed in a day.”

  “Like, you had to take down three in one assignment?” I ask to clarify.

  “No. Separate assignments. Separate locales.”

  The sound of Duke Ellington’s fluid piano playing is the only sound for a moment as I let the improbability of this sink in. “How is that even possible?”

  She shrugs. “It was just one of those days.”

  “Just one of those—” I glance at her wide eyed, taking in her bored expression, right before I fall into my wheel laughing. It’s one of those laughs that has me slowing the car so as not to crash, one that aches against my stomach and lasts until little tears build in the corners of my eyes. “Oh, hon—3,” I quickly correct. “We might get along after all.”

  She merely purses her lips in distaste before sliding her gaze back out the window, returning our drive to its edgy silence.

  Then again, maybe not.

  We arrive in Cuetzalan in the evening and head straight to our hotel, Flor Tranquila. It’s located in the north central part of the small town and has a tiny stone entrance that leads to an open courtyard, where five floors of balconies stretch up to a cloudless blue sky. The entire infrastructure is made from a variety of stone: red bricks tile the floor, crude cut rocks make up the walls, and uneven slate steps lead from one door to the next, creating a charming, lost-in-time, secluded atmosphere—a perfect honeymoon destination.

  3 checks us in while I handle the bags like a good hubby. She speaks fluently in Spanish to the cutest little old lady sitting behind the concierge desk. She’s wrapped in a colorful textile shawl and introduces herself as Señora Flores. Taking us up to our suite on the fourth floor, she explains how she’s the third-generation owner of the quaint establishment and that the rooms are more like little apartments, meaning we’ll be left alone unless we request otherwise. 3 and I share a glance, knowing this eradicates the issue of stashing our gear from room cleaning. Again, making this a perfect retreat for newlyweds to get randy. It’s almost a crime that all these consummating conveniences will be wasted on us.

  Stopping at a door at the end of the hall, Señora Flores uses a vintage iron key to show us into our room. The small sitting area, kitchen, and bedroom are all laid out together in an open space with a tucked-away bathroom in the corner. The floor is decorated with a beautiful rust-colored tile leading to white painted walls with yellow, blue, and red mosaic crown molding.

  Dropping the key into my hand, she gives me a knowing smile, telling us to enjoy ourselves before leaving us standing awkwardly alone, staring at the one piece of furniture that’s obviously placed as the main attraction. A four-poster bed with a soft white draped canopy sits in the center of the far wall, beside the bathroom and near an open balcony door. The fabric sways lightly in the breeze drifting in and shines translucent from the setting sun.

  I’m not one to be emotionally moved, but even I’m taken aback by the romantic wistfulness and become painfully aware of 3’s presence beside me, all her hard edges mixing with the soft slope of her undeniably female curves. I almost want to laugh. This might be the only time in my life where I’m in a hotel room with a woman and have no idea what to do.

  Another beat passes, our quiet deafening, before we each talk at once—3 saying she should take a quick shower and me explaining that I should unpack.

  “Right.” 3’s brows furrow as she picks up one of her bags. “We can explore the town when we’re done.”

  “Sounds good.” I scratch my neck, watching the back of her leather jacket disappear into the bathroom.

  Looking down at myself, I realize for the
first time in the hours we’ve been together that we match.

  Shit.

  I try not to think about what that might imply.

  28

  3

  CUETZALAN, MEXICO: 1726 HOURS

  The sun casts the village in a warm yellow glow as we walk the cobblestone streets. Cuetzalan is also known as Pueblo Mágico, or Magic Town, for the mist that tends to descend from the surrounding mountains. It also retains the name from the ancestral legacy that still lives so vibrantly among the people and the ever-changing winding footpaths that beg to be explored. A few indigenous men and women pass by wearing traditional garb while carrying goods, and just like their clothing, the buildings feel untouched. The mix of raw stone facades and whitewashed walls accented with vibrant colors gives away the richness of history. Cuetzalan is easily one of the most peacefully beautiful places I’ve ever been to on assignment, and I’ve been to a lot of really amazing locations. Too bad they’re always stained red from work.

  The air is warm but still crisp from the nearby foothills, and I pull my sheer cardigan closer as we pick our way along shops that are slowly closing down to get ready for the night. The owners watch fleetingly as we pass, seemingly used to the occasional tourists. And I definitely feel like a tourist with my hair down, flowing freely around my shoulders, and my dark-navy summer dress. Stephanie Nickels, interior decorator, at your service.

  Gag.

  “Hold my hand,” Carter says as I turn away from taking a photo of a doorway lined with potted plants.

  “What?” I recoil.

  “Don’t look so excited,” he says dryly as he grabs my palm, which I remove at once.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re on our honeymoon, remember?” he says in a low voice. “I’m not exactly lighting fireworks about this either, but we have to start acting like we’re in love.”

  Ick. Love.

  I study him for a moment, taking in the way his normally neatly swept-back dark hair is currently tousled, his two days’ worth of scruff shadows his jaw, and his gray T-shirt and jeans give off the vibe of a man on vacation. His mouth is set in a thin line revealing that he does seem rather butt hurt about the idea.

  “Fine.” I take his hand, despising the sensation of having his warm, strong fingers entwined with mine. “But don’t get any ideas about needing to consummate it as well.”

  He snorts a laugh. “Trust me. I’d rather hug a cactus naked.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  “Fine,” I bite out.

  “Perfect,” he volleys.

  “Stop it!” I forcefully tug on his arm.

  He fights a grin as we walk on, and I internally count down from ten. I don’t know who came up with this method of relaxation, but it’s friggin’ idiotic and currently not working. Usually I can fix my annoyance by getting rid of the thing that caused it, but glancing at Carter as he smiles down at a little girl who shyly peers up at him from behind her mother’s legs, I unfortunately don’t have the option of getting rid of this one.

  Eventually we make our way to the Church of San Francisco, the town’s big tourist attraction that sits in an open square and whose bell tower can be seen from practically any point in the village. Letting out my senses, I poke around for anything that might be out of the ordinary, but there’s almost a startling vacancy of elevated heart rates or fear pheromones—merely a village wrapped in soft breezes and, although a Wednesday, bars and restaurants humming with content patrons.

  Walking through the center, I wish I could say holding Carter’s hand for this long has been a miserable experience, but I’ve surprisingly been able to do it without upsetting my gag reflex. Maybe because he’s not half bad looking and knows what a shower is, I’m able to bear it longer than with the other slimeballs I’ve needed to drape myself over in the past.

  Still, I do mind getting any sort of cozy with him. So indicating that I need to put my camera away, I hastily remove my hand from his.

  “This looks good.” He gestures to a small café that’s close to the church square.

  Taking a seat at an outside table, Carter leans back, draping an arm across my chair, and I instinctually straighten away.

  “I’m not going to bite,” he says with a quirk of his lips. “Of course, unless you want me to.”

  “God. You can’t help yourself.” I scrunch my nose but manage to relax a bit.

  Newlyweds in love. Newlyweds in love…

  This part of the job should come easily to me—pretending to care, pretending to be someone I’m not—but for some reason it’s proving more difficult than normal, and I’m starting to get really pissed by that.

  I’m better than this.

  If Carter can so flawlessly transition into this role, so can I. With his other hand resting on the table, I place mine on top, nestling into his side. He shoots me a surprised glance, and I give him a smile like a woman head over heels. He blinks, empty headed, before flashing his own grin, and in this light I hate to admit it, but he is sort of attractive. His moss-green eyes are by far his best feature and are made brighter against his olive skin. His nose has obviously been broken a few times, but it gives him character, which he clearly could use.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He leans over to whisper in my ear, and I resist, tilting my head away from the warmth of his breath grazing my skin. A ticklish feeling flutters in my stomach, and I frown. Maybe I’m coming down with something, except I never get sick.

  A waitress walks over to take our order, and Carter and I ask for coffees. Not only do we need something to pick us up from our drive, but Cuetzalan is known for this beverage. It’s the village’s main trade.

  Sipping the frothy drink, my taste buds explode with richness. Normally, I don’t like too many spices or sweets, given my oversensitivity to them, but this is like heaven wrapped in a dream cloud.

  “Oh God,” I groan.

  Carter shifts next to me. “There are a lot of indecent comments you just set me up with, but seeing that we’re in truce mode, I’ll refrain. But you should know”—he smooths his palm up my arm—“it’s taking a great deal of effort.”

  The skin feels too hot where his fingers traced, and I stiffen while saying, “With the nickname The Bull, I’m impressed you have any kind of wiring for restraint.”

  “Wire, rope, handcuffs.” He flashes me a mirthful look. “I’m a fan of restraining in all sorts of ways.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, that lasted two seconds.”

  He chuckles, the vibration of it running along my rib cage. “What can I say? I’m a mere mortal.”

  I don’t comment but turn to watch a group of old men jabbering nearby.

  “It’s crazy,” Carter muses.

  “What?” I take another sip of my coffee.

  “This place.” He nods to our surroundings. “It’s hard to imagine it has any connection to our friends.”

  “Actually, the older the family, the more they tend to reside in places like these.”

  “Of course you’d know that.”

  I fight a grin at his annoyed tone before catching sight of Jules and Akoni walking out from a small alley, Akoni excitedly snapping pictures of practically everything he sees. I shake my head. His tendency to be overly exuberant in taking on his undercover profiles is one of the reasons he’s rarely given one on our assignments. He’s more useful hidden in a room behind computers, especially since his height and bulk make him stand out just about anywhere.

  Carter sees them too and lets out a low chuckle, the sound throaty and warm, while watching Akoni’s theatrics before they notice us and slowly make their way to our café.

  “We should figure out where to eat tonight.” Carter traces lines with his finger on my exposed shoulder again just as Jules and Akoni take a seat at a nearby table. “I’ll go ask the barista if they have any suggestions.”

  I merely nod as he leaves, rubbing away the flush of my skin where he just touched. Maybe I have a f
ever, except I never get fevers. While I’m busy stewing on my discomfort, I almost miss the change in the air, an electric current sent through the wind that only ever means one thing.

  We’re being watched.

  And not the glimpses-of-strangers watched, but purposefully studied.

  Taking a slow sip of my drink, I flicker my gaze to anywhere I would choose to observe someone unnoticed. I glance at every darkened window, deep alley, and shadowed doorway. There are too many spots to be able to pinpoint which one holds my admirer, but I know they are there, somewhere.

  Thump, thu-thunk. I shuffle through the heartbeats in the surrounding area, trying to find any that would give them away, but besides a few locals that suffer heart arrhythmias, the scene is calm. I’d use scent, but it would currently do little help given our proximity to so many restaurants and that most of the people here have an overwhelming amount of body odor. Deodorant seems to be a novelty for the town’s folks.

  I catch Carter walking out of the café wearing a grin. “I’ve got the perfect place for us,” he says, wrapping an arm back around my chair.

  “We’re being watched.” I smile over to him like I’m telling him something funny.

  His jaw muscles jump before he does a casual sweep. “You sure?”

  “I’m never wrong with these things.”

  “Of course, dear,” he drolls, knowing he can finally call me a pet name in public while enjoying my attempt at keeping my smile plastered in place. “You should see yourself,” he says with a grin. “You look crazy.”

  “Maybe because someone is making me crazy,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Crazy in love.”

  As he leans in playfully, I grab his chin and bring him closer, as if for a kiss, and he immediately tenses, his quickened heartbeat filling my ears. “If you keep this up,” I whisper, my grip tightening, “I’ll make you regret it when we’re back in the hotel room. I have something that will keep you from screaming, but not because you won’t want to.”