Some Black Op missions are too dark—even for him.
Volcanic hot and ambitious Special Agent Will Berwick doesn’t give a damn what his orders are, he’s not taking the enemy—the lovely, but arctic Dr. Angel Treherne—to bed. Nor will she die on his watch, most certainly not by his hand. Oh, he’ll root out her
secrets. But his own way—teaching her a much-deserved lesson while he’s at it:
that no one messes with his career plan just because they’re a little peeved with him.
No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. She didn’t even blink. But the sudden chill she threw damn near caused his balls to retract.
Then, like an assassin’s blade in the dark, she sliced. “Suffered any symptoms of impotency since your injury, Berwick?”
Perversely, his groin heated. Well, apparently, if he wasn’t going to dignify her surprising and utterly unprofessional counter-challenge with a response, his dick would. Odd, when to-date, this woman hadn’t stirred so much as an extra pulse-throb from him.
Not that she was unattractive. On the contrary, her classical beauty could launch ships. Flawless bone-structure. Complexion creamy, lustrous as a pearl. Fathomless grey eyes intent enough to make a man’s soul hum. Wide mouth. Generous lips, blush-pink and ripe. Hinting at dirty.
Her demeanor though—do-not-touch frigid.
Jesus, if someone had told him a Nordic God had carved her out of ice and then had second thoughts about getting close enough to breathe some warmth into her for fear of forevermore ejaculating snowflakes, he wouldn’t have argued.
Without breaking eye contact, he vaguely imagined what she might look like with that tight French braid of hers loosened, the tips of her breasts peeking through the untidy fall of blond tresses, as she lay naked, writhing beneath his hands.
And gave himself a mental slap.
Never going to happen. No way would he take this female to bed. Even if he survived the encounter, he doubted she would. Someone, or something, had damaged her. No woman wrapped herself in that many layers of frost without good reason. She may have crossed him, and for that she would pay, but he didn’t want to break her, for Christ’s sake.
He’d shattered Diana, and in return her death—suicide—had shattered him. A joyride through hell he preferred not to repeat.
No, he’d cajole the whereabouts of Treherne’s brother from her in a way that didn’t require physical contact or, at least, not deep physical contact. The odd affectionate caress he’d allow, purely as a sign of friendship. He had a feeling she could do with an ally. “What would have to happen for you to agree to have dinner with me?”
“Both ice caps would have to melt.”
He choked back, Well, you would know, and widened his grin. To hell with his reservations. This wintery beauty shared none of Diana’s frailty. The Doc could take care of herself.
very odd cats, Incy Black committed to a law degree (University College, London), first to piss off those who said she didn’t stand
a chance, and second, because she’s never learned to walk a hill when there are
mountains to be climbed.
writing romantic action adventures, she works as a Marketing Director…also cook, cleaner and homemaker.
scares her (most things) and delight in pushing her neurotic buttons—at their peril.