had changed the rules that night in Vienna. She hadn’t been able to confirm that he was an enemy, and then there was that technicality as to where they had sex—she could honestly say she’d never had a sexual encounter in the shower before that night.
She could say that’s what had altered the outcome of their night together—why she’d let him live—but she would be lying. From the very moment he had taken her hand and led her out of the alley, she had lost some of her ability to think rationally.
She hadn’t analyzed it at the time, but now, five years later, she knew what had made the difference, and she felt foolish—she’d been had by a professional, taken in by some of the most basic tricks a man could use on a woman—good old-fashioned experience.
She’d thought she was the one with all the experience, but Bjorn Odell was the master, his touch capable of lighting a thousand fires under a woman’s skin.
And the way he used his lips…
Even now the memory of him coaxing her into climax sent raw chills up her spine. Helpless in his arms—that was the only way to explain how she had felt. Helpless and willing to forfeit everything to feel what she had never felt with any other man.
No, she had never wanted to see him again, didn’t dare. Not after the way she had shattered in his arms. But that didn’t mean she would ever be able to forget the man with the hot hands and the sky-blue eyes.
She wanted to turn around and run from the airplane, but she wasn’t going to. She needed to visit Wilten Parish, and if Ruger wasn’t there… No, he would be there, and he would assure her that all was well—that their secret was safe.
Then he would prove it by saying the prayer that produced miracles and moved mountains. Ruger had saved her once before, and he would do it again.
She came aboard wearing red wool and snowflakes, and the memory it evoked tightened Bjorn’s gut. He watched her slip off the cape and toss it on a seat opposite him.
She was dressed all in black under the cape, and he sized her up. Her sweater moved along her curves as if it had been painted on. Her pants, too, fit like a sleek pair of expensive leather gloves. His eyes shifted to her narrow waist, then traveled to the flare of her hips. Then to the junction of her thighs.
He had boarded the Learjet ten minutes early. He had wanted to be seated, waiting for her when she arrived. He was glad he had; the memories of Vienna were making his pants damn uncomfortable.
She took the seat across from him. It required her to step over his legs sprawled in the aisle. He didn’t move, but he did inhale the scent of her as she stowed her carry-on beneath her seat. The Alpine heather hijacked another hot memory, and he cursed it and her.
She avoided looking at him, finding something out the window to focus on. That amused him and he shifted in his seat to scan the airport for what had caught her attention. He saw Lev Polax standing in a long coat and flambeau hat below a spotlight. He lingered for only a minute longer, then jerked his hat low over his eyes to battle the nasty weather and walked away.
Still staring out the window, she asked, “When and where do we land?”
“Vienna, in one hour, thirty-six minutes.”
His answer pulled her gaze from the window to look at him directly. He held his arrogant, relaxed posture, his legs angled and his ankles crossed, taking up the walkway.
He still wore what he’d had on earlier—his blue pants and sweater. In the seat across the aisle next to her red cape was his navy blue peacoat and a tan wool scarf. His elbow was propped on the arm of the seat, and his chin rested comfortably between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why Vienna?” Her voice sounded flat, and she directed her eyes back out the window.
“I thought it would be a nice way to start off the mission…on familiar ground.”
Her head jerked back around. “Is this the way it’s going to be with us the entire trip? At each other’s throat?”
Bjorn shrugged for lack of an answer. He didn’t know why he was pissed. Yes, he did. She had walked out on him that night, and he still felt cheated.
It was true that every man wants what he can’t have. That night what he had wanted was more time with Nadja Stefn. More touching and tasting. More holding her and hearing those unforgettable moans that she made.
“Let’s try to keep our minds on the mission,” she said. “We’ll be more effective that way. And for the record there will be no—”
“Heavy breathing? No moaning? No, ‘right there, yes…there. Don’t stop.’” Bjorn let the words roll off his tongue in his Danish lilt. The very words she’d breathlessly recited to him over and over again.
He’d played with those words in his mind a thousand times.
“Dreams are free,” he said.
Her nose lifted, bringing her chin up. She tucked a strand of pale-blond hair behind her ear. She was a true blonde. He knew that because he’d been privy to seeing her naked. He hadn’t been shy, no never. A shy man had regrets.
Polax mentioned a tattoo. He hadn’t seen it that night in Vienna, and that didn’t make sense to him—he’d touched every inch of her body…looked hard at everything. Remembered everything.
The memory of her body moving against his caught and held him, sending more blood pumping through his veins—through his phallus. They had been tangled in a knot of lust in that narrow shower, and he hadn’t ever been a part of anything that damn powerful in his life.
The plane’s engine began to sing, and then they were taxiing onto the runway. The snow was blowing like hell and the temperature was steadily dropping.
He had been listening to the weather reports while waiting for her to come on board. It looked like they would be flying into a level-ten storm. That’s the real reason he had altered their flight plan and decided to land in Vienna. The airports in and around Innsbruck were all closed.
Once they landed, he would check out the weather reports and see if any flights had opened up. If not, they’d rent a vehicle and drive to Otz.
“In Polax’s office you said that you knew where Holic Reznik would head. Enlighten me.”
She had heard him, but instead of answering him, she dodged the question and asked, “Are you sure we should be leaving in this weather?”
“I’ve flown in worse. We’ll make it.”
He said the words with confidence, though he didn’t like the weather outside, or the fact that they could be flying into worse. He wasn’t much on flying anyway, although he had done his fair share over the past seven years.
The plane’s engine grew louder, and the reminder to fasten seat belts flashed overhead. Bjorn straightened and buckled up as the jet rolled out and headed down the runway. They turned, the plane’s engines winding up, and suddenly they were racing down the runway.
Bjorn closed his eyes, hating that someone else was in control at that moment. That was what it was all about for him—giving over his control to someone he didn’t know or trust, someone who might be having
