It wasn’t difficult to see why he intrigued her on the deepest level.
But though he was undeniably a sexy, handsome man, her wolf saw beauty through a different lens. It was drawn to his strength, his ease with himself—and with her. Riaz wasn’t bothered if she lost control during intimacy and drew a little blood, didn’t care if she wanted to take the reins at times. When they’d worked together during the battle with Pure Psy, he’d given orders with cool, calm control even in the midst of chaos. The soldier in her respected him for that, while the woman found it another compelling aspect of his character.
However, she also understood that he’d be maddening in a relationship. He wasn’t simply a dominant predatory changeling male, a lieutenant, he was a lone wolf. It was legend how incredibly possessive and insanely protective a lone wolf became with the woman he claimed as his own—as opposed to one with whom he’d agreed to build a friendship based on a storm of shared need … and shared pain.
“Two seconds,” he said, those amazing eyes locking with her own. “Ready?”
Her stomach clenched in visceral awareness. “Yes.”
“Who the hell is this?” a rough male voice asked, accepting an audio-only transmission after the call rang for a quarter of a minute.
“Bo, it’s Riaz.”
A pause, the sound of sheets rustling. “Christ, let me get out of bed,” was the response, though it had to be midmorning in Venice.
“Late night?” Riaz asked.
“Unfortunately not the x-rated kind.” A couple more seconds passed before Bo’s face appeared on-screen. He’d shaved off his hair, so he didn’t have bed head, but his face was rumpled on one side, the smooth caramel brown of his skin carrying a fine sunburn … as if he’d been out on the water. “That was quick.” Somber eyes that watched Riaz with piercing intensity.
Riaz didn’t blink. “You know what this is about.”
“I can guess.” Bo rubbed a hand over his smooth skull, the lines of his face masculine yet elegant—a man who’d be beautiful if not for the flinty hardness in his eyes, the ropes of muscle across his bare shoulders. “I can’t say anything on this line.”
“It’s secure.”
But Bowen shook his head, a stubborn angle to his jaw. “Has to be face-to-face, and I’m not planning on any travel right now.”
Leaning back against the wall, Riaz folded his arms. “You’re sounding paranoid.”
“You would, too, if you’d just had the week I’ve had. It’ll only take you what”—Bo frowned—“three hours on an express airjet to get here?”
“This isn’t the best time for a SnowDancer lieutenant to leave the pack.” Riaz held the Alliance male’s gaze. “What priority is your intel?”
“High.” No hesitation.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Trust me, Riaz. You want to hear what I have to say.” Bowen signed off with those portentous words.
Waiting until the screen was clear, Adria said, “Why didn’t you confirm a trip?” He was right about the timing, but it was doable, wouldn’t affect the strength of their defenses.
“If he’s on the mark about the comm being monitored,” Riaz said, blue-black strands of hair falling across his forehead, “it’s no use tipping off any listeners to the fact we’ll be in the area.”
Her pulse spiked. “We?”
“I’m going to need backup.” Riaz saw Adria’s eyes widen. “Situation like this, I’d usually ask my man already in the area, but he’s got something else on his plate, and you speak fluent Italian.” He knew it was the right decision, that her linguistic skill and status as an experienced soldier made her the perfect choice. He also knew he was treading a dangerous line.
But Adria, when she rose to her feet, showed no indications of having read more into his suggestion than he meant. “How do you know that? The fact I speak Italian?”
“It’s my job,” he said. “I keep track of anyone in the pack who has a skill that might come in useful internationally.” Adria’s CV had passed across his desk when she transferred. “What I can’t understand is why you chose to learn Italian when Spanish would’ve been more useful in the region.”
She didn’t answer, her next words telling him her mind was on something else altogether. “I don’t want to disrupt things so early on with my trainees.”
“It should only be a day or two.” He knew how heavily the juveniles relied on their assigned supervisors.
A slow nod. “That’s manageable. I was planning to ask Riley to put me on a high-perimeter shift anyway.” Catching his questioning look, she said, “They might be submissives, but constant oversight isn’t good for any wolf’s development.”
“We’ll leave early morning tomorrow,” he said, wondering how a tough senior soldier understood SnowDancer’s submissives so well. “That give you enough time to organize cover for your duties?”
“No problem.” Then to his surprise, she did a funny little dance around her chair, singing, “I’m going to Venice. I’m going to Venice.”
It startled laughter out of him, his wolf standing up in fascination at the unexpected and sweetly charming crack in Adria’s sober facade. “If you’re really good,” he said when she stopped dancing to grin at him, “I’ll take you on a gondola ride through the canals.” Delight, bright and dangerous, cascaded through his veins.
Chapter 37
HAVING COMPLETED HIS research, Vasquez located the first three addresses fast enough, but it took hours of hacking through Net firewalls to unearth the second three, and four days to complete the list. Psychically exhausted, he considered sending the one he served an e-mail with the update, but they had agreed on electronic and psychic silence. Nothing of their plan was going to leak and jeopardize everything they had set so meticulously in place.
Conscious that tiredness could lead to mistakes, Vasquez slept long enough to become functional, then made his way to the compound hidden deep in a rural sector of Ireland. “I have the coordinates and necessary images of the first set of targets.”
“When can we move?” The voice was a rasp, a broken saw, issuing from a throat that had suffered second-degree burns when Henry Scott screamed as his legs were turned to ash, one of his arms sliced below the elbow by a whip of cold fire.
The medics had been working to repair the damage, but it was severe. Sienna Lauren’s X-fire had cauterized the wounds, so they’d needed to be cut open vein by vein to allow for the regeneration aids to work. However, the worst damage had been done when a Pure Psy operative shoved his body over Henry’s in an effort to protect him. That operative’s weapon had melted into the former Councilor’s flesh.
It was proving near impossible to excise the plas from his body, some of it appearing to have integrated into his organs. As a result, Henry remained hooked up to multiple devices, his body supine on a hospital bed inside a large chamber of sterile glass, his ruined voice issuing via a speaker. However, the fire had done nothing to his mind, and they were Psy. The mind was all that mattered.
“Are we in a position to strike?” Henry elaborated, his bloodshot eyes looking at Vasquez through the glass.
“I recommend waiting until we have at least ten complete sets.” It would allow them to strike back to back, leaving no time or room for a counterstrike. However, it all depended on whether Vasquez could muster enough trusted personnel with the right abilities.
Loud, rattling breaths. “The Net is becoming weaker with each day that passes, filled with those whose Silence is flawed. We need to remind them of who we are as a race.”
“Yes, but our chances of success rise exponentially if we act without any warning.” Giving the enemy no time to prepare before the avalanche.
Henry took a long time to reply, his breathing so rough Vasquez knew this interview would soon end. “Five sets,” the former Councilor said at last. “Five complete sets and one outlier.”