Rebel thought fast, attempting to examine her answer from all angles. What was her end game? Can't con a con artist, cher. I learned at the skirts of the best.
"Yes." He firmed his stance. "That's correct. More or less."
"So what if I put your fears to rest-with a personal test?"
"What do you mean?"
She stepped away from Rhett and tilted a look of open challenge. "Why don't you step outside and find out?"
He let his laugh spurt out. Gave her-and the smirking baboon next to her-a look that meant only one thing. Are you fucking kidding me? "You're asking me to ‘step outside' with you, Miss Monet?"
She twitched her head a little. Flipped her hair back again, only to gather the thick, waist-length glory into one hand and secure it into a ponytail. "Well, isn't that how you ‘boys' like to settle things, Sergeant Stafford?"
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What the hell kind of response was good for something like that?
Rhett didn't wait for him to decide. With a snort that became a smirk, he turned for the slider that led out to the backyard, tossing over his shoulder in the process, "This is going to be so good."
* * *
Eight hours later, the shithead wasn't any more tired of that annoying-as-fuck jam-demonstrated by the bellows of laughter from the tall ginger soldier waiting on the tarmac outside the private charter terminal at McCarran for him. RAF Commander Sam Mackenna was a hardworking guy who got along with everyone he met, but in the years Reb had known the man, his laughter could never be qualified as bellowing-until now.
Well, wasn't that fucking special? Especially when a glance at his watch instantly narrowed down the list of who could be calling Mackenna at exactly this moment.
Take rocks. Dump into gut. Grind into acid. Stir. Repeat.
"Fuck," he muttered beneath his breath, though kept his approach to Sam at a definite don't-mess-with-me stride. Didn't do him a short curly hair of good. As he got close enough to make his glare blatantly clear, Sam covered his mouth and dedicated himself to a very loud, very fake, cough.
"Desert air drying you out, Braw Boy?" He growled both syllables of Sam's call-sign, a reference to the Gaelic slang for the rugged face most women couldn't resist. If the emphasis didn't get through to Mackenna, Rebel would be more than happy to illustrate further by "prettying up" that square jaw with an upper left hook.
God, he damn near prayed for it.
After the events with Brynna in the backyard last night, he was looking for any reason for a good dust-up. He watched a roadrunner skitter across the runway, tempted to call the damn bird out for a few rounds-especially as Sam pocketed his phone, barely able to control the quirks of his "bonny" Scottish lips.
That did it for niceties.
He leaned over, "patting" Sam on the back so hard, a lesser man would've tumbled into the brush. Sam stayed put but really did begin to choke. Reb clucked his tongue. "Damn. That sounds bad. Maybe you should go see somebody about that, boyo."
Sam added laughs between the chokes. "Not if I'm feckin' dead, ya lice-ridden oaf."
Rebel snickered despite his tension. "Haven't lost a damn bit of your touch, Braw."
"Better with age, Moonstormer. Like good Scotch and my very talented cock."
He groaned. "Oh now, that's a good one. You been saving that up the entire two years we haven't seen each other?"
Sam snorted. "I really have had better things to do."
"Like talking to Rhett on the phone?" He peered out toward all the mirrored buildings on the horizon. Sin City was oddly pretty in the late afternoon sun. He wished he was in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. "That was him, wasn't it?"
Sam's back was turned as he inspected the five-seat Piper Lance they were taking to Texas, in lieu of anything available at the base. But if this "off duty escape" was truly going to fly below the radar, so were they.
They … meaning Sam, Brynn, and him.
He still couldn't believe he was agreeing to this.
"Well, we didn't talk long." Sam's tone was suddenly matter-of-fact, lending the hope that not long was the honest-to-fuck truth and Rhett hadn't relayed anything about the startling events in the Bommers' backyard last night. But he didn't trust the Scot's nonchalance. Not for a second. "He, errrmm, just wanted you to know he's already unloaded at the landing strip in Austin, and is getting ready to drive out to the complex you secured-after he stops at Hopdoddy for a triple patty special. Wasn't sure if he meant that last part, or if he said it just to taunt me."
"Both," Rebel supplied, though allowed himself a whoosh of relief past his small smirk. "Okay, then. That all sounds good. Real good."
"Hrrmm."
Something about the guy's hum told him the relief had been premature.
"Yeah, well … he also wanted to know if you'd gotten all the air back in your lungs, seeing as how a sweet little lass named Brynna managed to-how'd he say it?-‘flatten you like a pizza' three times in a row last night?"
Yeah. Really premature.
Rebel shot over a glare-only to have it smack the Scot's massive shoulders, which shook with distinct intent. Those muscles couldn't hide much, especially if Sam was laughing his ass off at someone.
"Damn it. She took me by surprise."
"Right." Sam sniffed against his mirth. "Because after four years in the Special Forces, you're not used to that or anything."
He spun, more than happy to show the guy what his shoulders were up to-a demeanor he was more than happy to bear out, in every coiled inch of his stance. "You want to tell me the shifty little heathen wouldn't have duped you?"
Sam shrugged. "Way I heard it, there wasn't a lot of shifty. She proposed her conditions, fair and clear. Three solid chances to prove she wasn't the little wilting little violet you assumed." Sam swung out from beneath the wing, tugging at rivet points as he went. Whether the man was flying a jet, a helo, or something in between, he was famous for his personal aircraft cross-check. "And you know what happens when you ‘assume,' my dearie."
"I'm not your goddamn dearie."
"No. She's meeting me in a room at Catacomb tonight." His ginger brows waggled. "And I guarantee she'll be calling me a lot more than ‘dearie' by the time we're done."
Reb chuckled. Couldn't help it. Forget trying to stay immune to Mackenna's charm, even as a guy. The man was like a fucking TV weatherman. One had to smile even if he brought news of raining cats and snow flurries. Worst part was trying to visualize the guy as a Dom. He'd heard tales about the guy's legions of dripping subbies back home. Nope. The gray matter wasn't going to cooperate with that image right now-especially as Sam's face brightened in an even more affable smile, as he looked somewhere over Reb's shoulder.
"Ah. This must be the ‘shifty little heathen' now."
The Scot was right. Their new visitor was Brynna, a fact conveyed before Reb even turned his head. More important senses drove it into him with startling surety. The energy on the air, tautening every hair at the back of his neck. The uptick of his heartbeat, prepping everything else in his body for the joyous conflict of being near her again. Yes, even after last night-maybe more so because of it.
The extra exhilaration in his blood didn't take long to find its way between his thighs. Happened almost instantly, in fact, as soon as he pivoted to take her in once more, making him suddenly feel like it had been eight years since last seeing her, not hours. Per his growled command after she'd turned him into human pizza for the third time, she was dressed for purpose, not prettiness: a khaki work shirt tucked into skinny jeans, leading down to sturdy hiking boots with green and pink striped socks bunched around the tops. Her hair was styled just as practically, a single side braid roped over one shoulder. An Angels baseball cap covered the top of her head.
Goddamn. If anything, the attire enhanced everything that awakened him sexually to her-even the fandom for the Halos. What woman wore attire for a trip to the wilderness but still looked like fucking Aphrodite?
This was definitely going down as his most uncomfortable op-that-wasn't-an-op.
Screw that. Off the books or otherwise, he was damn glad this was the first and last time he and Brynna Monet would be "working" together.
Shay strode onto the tarmac behind her, bearing her small duffel bag. He actually looked a lot better, though half-moons of darkness still haunted the bottoms of his eye sockets. Though Brynn had come to an abrupt halt in her tracks, Bommer kept walking, holding out a hand to greet Sam.