Winter Warriors Read online

  Published by:

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. USA

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Ltd. UK

  PO Box 787

  Hudson OH 44236

  ISBN

  MS Reader (LIT) # 1-84360-655-0

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  WINTER WARRIORS, 2003

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Maneater © Copyright DENISE A. AGNEW, 2003.

  Solstice Surrender © Copyright TRACY COOPER-POSEY, 2003.

  Turkish Delight © Copyright ROSEMARY LAUREY, 2003.

  This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author/publisher permission.

  Edited by MARTHA PUNCHES, ALLIE MCKNIGHT, SHERI CARUCCI

  Cover Art by DARRELL KING

  Maneater

  by

  Denise A. Agnew

  Chapter One

  Date: Christmas Eve

  Place: Special Investigations Agency

  Location: Top Secret

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” Cora Destiny Tremayne asked the tall, thin man as she stomped across the huge marble and glass lobby of the United States branch of SIA, Special Investigations Agency. Anger heated her blood. “You know I work alone on most missions, and you want me to team up with the biggest hard-ass in the agency? I don’t think so.”

  The Brit, Controller Quinton Maybrick, gave her a patient sideways glance. “He’s not that bad.”

  She gave an unladylike snort and glared. “Uh-huh. Right.”

  Cora felt his stare and realized he’d waited until they reached his office before answering. His eyes, enormous behind thick glasses, made him look like an owl. A very intelligent, blinking, curious bird. He palmed one big hand across his curly blond hair and looked a little nervous around the edges. Today he wore a beige suit that fit his skinny body to perfection; his navy blue tie held designer flair. She doubted he’d paid much for the ensemble. Quinton could negotiate a juicy rodent out of a python’s mouth if need be. Bargaining might be the Englishman’s forte, but she wouldn’t be pushed on this point.

  No way.

  As she walked faster, her sensible low-heeled boots echoed across the tiles. For once she’d like to have a decent Christmas. But noooooooo. She’d set foot in the building maybe three minutes before Quinton nabbed her and said she must go on emergency assignment. Her blood filled with instant excitement until she heard her partner would be special agent Mac Tudor.

  Absolutely, positively not. She wouldn’t do it. “You’re going to have to fire me.”

  Quinton didn’t reply as he opened his outer office door and they walked passed his secretary. “We’ll be in my office, Cheryl. Hold my calls, please.”

  With her usual aplomb, Destiny barged forward and opened his inner office door before he could get there. She charged through and turned toward him as he came inside and closed the door. Tinsel and glass ornaments hung around the sides of the door moved in the sudden breeze.

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Now, I’d like an explanation. You know I’ve always agreed to every assignment you’ve sent me on, but not with a mega-bastard like Tudor.”

  Quinton slid into the black leather executive chair behind the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  She almost refused, then realized that would be too dramatic. Despite being pissed, Destiny knew Quinton didn’t make assignment pairings lightly. Whether she liked it or not, he somehow thought putting her with Tudor would be a good idea.

  She sat in the chair, perched on the edge, razor-fine tension in her muscles. She could feel her jaw aching and tried to relax.

  Mac Tudor. Just his name set her teeth on edge. She didn’t want anything to do with the man. One encounter, at last year’s holiday party, solidified her dislike for the agent once and for all.

  Her face heated as she recalled in painful detail how fellow agents teased them about being wallflowers until Mac took her into his arms for a slow dance. One touch from his hands, one look into his gorgeous, melting-chocolate brown eyes, and she’d felt a quivering sexual awakening shocking her down to her designer shoes.

  Mac had looked down on her as he’d brought her body up against his rock-hard, muscled frame. Undeniable need had eased through her as he’d palmed her back and spoke in that husky, velvet-rich deep voice. She’d seen something hot in his eyes as they’d danced. Consuming, as a matter of fact. No man before or since made her feel on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump into dangerous sexual territory. He’d possessed the gall to whisper in her ear a few sensual possibilities for them later that evening.

  She’d told him in no uncertain terms she wanted nothing to do with a man who slept with every woman within a twenty-mile radius.

  “Destiny?”

  She snapped back to reality, disturbed by the memory of Tudor’s arms around her. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “There are two reasons why you’ve been paired with Mac.” Quinton held up his hand and started to count off. “One, you’re both single and don’t have families to worry about this Christmas. Many other agents have time off for the holidays. Two, you both have wilderness survival training and are in excellent physical condition. This case is particularly tough.”

  She shrugged, not convinced. “SIA takes on all the gnarly cases. That’s why we’re here.”

  Quinton blinked behind those gold-rimmed glasses, then smiled. His narrow, forty-something face always looked like a patient professor. “Destiny, this is of the utmost importance. The President of the United States ordered us to take care of this problem directly.”

  Wonderful. Use the old “You would never let down the Commander-in-Chief” ploy.

  “Just listen to what I have to say,” Quinton said.

  She heard a new hard-edged tone in his voice, and when Quinton Maybrick spoke like this, she knew he meant business. She sat up straight. “All right.”

  He opened the file on his desk and drew out an eight-by-ten glossy black and white photograph. He slid it along the desk until she could see it and pick it up.

  When she recognized the older woman in the photograph, her insides tumbled. Fifty-year-old agency veteran Phyllida Cuthbert smiled back at Destiny from the photo. Pretty, blonde, and one of the best agents in the business, Phyllida was a legend.

  “Why am I holding her photo?” Destiny asked.

  Quinton rolled his chair closer to the desk and leaned on it. He clasped his long-fingered hands together.

  A lump rose in her throat, her heart beat quickened. “Cut to the chase, Quinton.”

  “Very well. Phyllida’s gone missing.”

  “What?”

  “For three days. She supposedly disappeared at the same time as Dr. Bayou LaCroix, the director of the research complex.”

  “Maybe she’s off getting some nookie with the good doctor.”

  Chagrin entered his expression. “Destiny—”

  “Missing isn’t as bad as dead. Especially not for an experienced agent like Phyllida.” Her mind tumbled with possibilities. “She’s the best agent you have.”

  “Nonetheless, she was on assignment at the time of her disappearance from a high-mountain experiments lab.”

  “Oh, crap,” Destiny murmured.

  His pale face became a study in concern and frustration. “Since she went into the lab undercover last week, she’s maintained steady contact with SIA. Until three days ago, that is. Satellite surveillance shows there is still activity there, and we have the heat signatures of several individuals at the complex.”

  Destiny stuffed her
hands in her hair, running her fingers through the toss of long curls. “She wouldn’t leave the complex without making contact and telling us her plans.”

  “Exactly.” If the look in his pale blue eyes hadn’t told Destiny he feared the worst, the resignation in his voice would have. “She needs our help.”

  Destiny’s animosity dropped a full degree. “Of course. But Tudor won’t want to work with me. He hates my guts.”

  A smile exploded across Quinton’s face. “He doesn’t hate you.”

  “He does.”

  “Does not.”

  “Does—” She stopped. “This is ridiculous.”

  “That’s why I need you both to get over it. This agency is relying on you and Tudor to bring your fellow agent home safely.”

  Never one to cover up the truth, no matter how painful, she said, “If she’s still alive.”

  He nodded and stood. As he walked to the window and looked at the snow beginning to blanket the parking lot, his voice went soft. “There’s more to this case than rescuing her.”

  Oh-oh. Here it comes.

  He turned back to her, hands behind his back and imperial British written all over him. “You and Mac will receive a full dossier on the situation, but I need to warn you. Even if Phyllida is alive and well, she may need assistance. Situational Development Corporation is a huge facility. We’re talking a couple of football fields long and three stories high.”

  She shrugged. “So it’s a big building. What’s the problem?”

  “Several Situational Development Corporation employees have gone missing over the last few months, and that’s why the SIA got into the investigation in the first place.”

  “How many is several?” Incredulous, she stood and joined him at the window. “Are we talking about a serial killer?”

  “Maybe. This year several strange things have occurred around the world, and there is worry in some circles it has to do with a conspiracy. You’re not the only investigations team we’re sending out this winter.”

  She hadn’t spoken lately with two of her close friends, other female agents assigned in Europe and Canada. “One of those agents wouldn’t happen to be Nur Aydan?”

  Quinton looked uneasy. When Destiny met the agent some years ago, she knew there was something different about the woman, but she couldn’t say what. She got along well with Nur and liked the woman very much. Quinton wouldn’t tell her what made Nur different, so she’d dropped the subject long ago.

  “Yes. And we planned to send out Jenna MacDonald, but she’s on holiday right now,” Quinton said.

  “Well, Nur won’t let you down. She’s one of the finest agents around for any situation.”

  Quinton smoothed a hand down the lapel of his suit. “Frankly, even if there were other agents available, you and Mac are the best operatives we’ve got for a situation like this.”

  She smiled. “Go ahead, try buttering me up.”

  He didn’t smile back. “Mac is in top physical shape. He can do just about anything we ask. You’ll be in rugged territory. If anything should happen to your SUV, you will need the skills you’ve been taught by the agency, and more. Mac can mountainclimb—”

  “I know, I know.” She stood up, and then sat on the edge of the mahogany desk, well aware how cheeky it was. “Every time I see the section secretary, she’s extolling his many virtues.”

  Probably getting fucked by him, too.

  Whoa, Destiny. Where did that little piece of venom come from?

  “You’ve always gotten along with the other agents, Destiny, what’s so different about Mac?”

  She started to speak, then sputtered. “He’s…well, he’s so arrogant.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d acted like a petulant two-year-old, but right now she didn’t care. Working with Mac would be like grinding sand in her teeth all day. “He’s infuriating. Always smiling like he knows what you’re thinking, and damned smug about it. And here’s the kicker. He dared to call me a maneater. Can you believe that?”

  A smile parted the Englishman’s mouth as he tried to stifle a laugh and failed.

  She glared. Never mind that other people called her Destiny Cora “Maneater” Tremayne behind her back. She wore the nickname with pride. She’d chewed up and spit out more male chauvinists in her career than any other female agent at SIA.

  And God forbid if anyone called her Cora.

  Quinton rolled his gaze to the ceiling and exhaled an annoyed sigh. “If you can’t come up with something better than the objection that he’s arrogant, then I really am surprised at you.”

  Destiny felt it down in her bones. She was sunk.

  “I didn’t want to do this, Destiny.” He walked to his desk and picked up the file. He handed it to her. “You’re ordered to work with Special Agent Mac Tudor, whether you like it or not.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re going to meet with him in a half hour in the gym and talk out your differences.”

  Apprehension slid over her skin. “Why the gym?”

  He smiled, conspiracy written in his grin. “About this time every day he works on his martial arts. I need you to talk ASAP. And by the way, I’d dress the part if I were you.”

  She sighed. After a slight pause she said, “Mac and I can’t pretend we don’t hate each other’s guts.”

  “Well, then, you’re going to dislike this assignment more than you anticipated.”

  Oh, brother. What now? She looked at the file in her hand. “I’m afraid to open this.”

  “You’ll have to read it before you see Mac.”

  As she read the file, heat rose in her face. “You’ve got to be kidding. Who thought up this crazy cover story?”

  Quinton didn’t look the least repentant. “I did.”

  “What if I still refuse?”

  “Then you’ll be looking at a transfer to the upper reaches of North Dakota.”

  She grimaced. “Well, shit.”

  * * * * *

  Destiny hesitated at the gym interior entrance with her hand resting on the doorknob. She frowned at the goofy Santa someone had plastered on the door. She could return to the locker room and dress and then leave.

  Sure. Then Quinton will put in papers for your transfer, and you know he doesn’t threaten if he doesn’t mean it.

  Annoyed with her conscience, she took a deep breath and twisted the door knob. She’d come this far and tangled wits with Mac Tudor on more than one occasion since the first time she saw him. Working with Mac would be bad enough, but their cover story made Destiny consider jumping off a ten-story building.

  Buck up. You’re an SIA agent.

  Right. She walked into the room.

  A man stood with his back to her as he completed the graceful movement of T’ai Chi. Every flowing position defined muscles in his arms and legs. He finished and swung around, an alert cat-like grace in his big, muscular body. Like a man used to taking down the enemy with economic, lethal force.

  When his deep brown eyes captured hers, the same thing happened that always occurred whenever she saw him.

  Her heart almost stopped, her breath seized up, and her knees felt weak.

  Damn it.

  He advanced, his stride assured and not the least hurried. She swallowed hard. A dark blue muscle shirt covered his chest, but left his arms and stomach bare.

  No man on this planet deserved to have such a gorgeous body. Wide, muscular shoulders commanded attention. The short cut of his shirt revealed a sprinkling of hair down over his rock-hard abs and into the waistband of his shorts. Without remorse she allowed her gaze to wander over his body. Mac also possessed the best-looking muscular legs she’d ever seen.

  Oh, yes. She understood why the section secretary couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

  Destiny had felt his muscular legs brush against her when they’d danced last Christmas. She’d also felt the undeniable arousal pressed against her stomach as he’d moved her about the dance floor. More than enough evidence that, although he couldn’t stand her, his c
ock liked her very much. Worse than that, she’d wanted his spike-hard cock buried inside her. Thrusting.

  To her mortification her face flamed.

  “Tremayne.” His voice rumbled, husky, deep, and sexy enough to curl a woman’s toes at fifty paces.

  God, how she hated him.

  She started toward him and they met near a punching bag. Barely a foot and a half separated them. She tilted her head up a little to look at him. Although she was five feet eight inches tall, he must be at least six feet four inches.

  Her gaze snagged on those disgustingly dazzling eyes ringed with thick lashes. Bedroom eyes, hell. Tudor’s gaze said he could make her come anywhere, anytime, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.

  Orgasm by remote control.

  A smile escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked softly.

  She shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  A curious, but unwilling-to-give-into-it expression touched his face.

  And, oh, that face.

  Craggy didn’t describe his countenance. No one would dare call him merely handsome, because the description didn’t do justice to his presence. He was too hard, too rough-and-tumble. Too masculine to ever be thought of as a pretty boy.

  Combine Mel Gibson and Hugh Jackman, throw in a little Colin Farrell for good measure, and you got Mac Tudor. His short hair waved, and she imagined if it grew longer it would explode out of control. Tudor possessed a beautiful nose, neither too large nor too small. His mouth was made for kissing, the lower lip the tiniest bit bigger than the upper. Perhaps to show a little defiance toward convention, he often kept a little five-o’clock shadow along his firm jaw. Today was no exception.

  His hot, admiring attention slid over her breasts, down to hips, to her legs. She could feel the burn in his devouring look right through her clothing. A flush spilled into her stomach at the heat in his perusal. She swallowed hard, determined not to be the first one to speak again. She realized with a shock they had stared at each other almost a full minute without saying anything.