Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(229)

Javier chuckles; “It's a honest question.”

I shoot him a look before he just shrugs; “Well, anyways, that’s where they all came from; from Blackriver.”

“What the heck would they want with me?”

Javier shrugs; “Great question, because honestly they should have everything to do with me. What they want with a C.I.A. operative is beyond me, because pulling a stunt like that seems fucking insane, even to me.” He shakes his head; “But you have to think about that for a second.”

I stare at him, waiting for more.

“You’re a C.I.A. Agent on a secret mission, right?”

I roll my eyes; “It’s not that spy-movie sounding, but sure. Get to the point here, Javier.” I eye the payphone across the street from the beach motel; my lifeline back home and my ticket off this island and out of this ridiculous adventure with him.

“And they knew where you were?”

I frown, suddenly hating to admit how much of point he has here; “OK, why would they try and-”

He shakes his head; “No fuckin idea. But believe me, honey; you want nothing to do with Blackriver.”

“Oh yeah? And what makes you the expert on-”

“Those daddy’s boys of yours?”

I grit my teeth, and Javier seems to grin at my annoyance; “I hired them.”

What?

“I worked with Blackriver; the same Blackriver that knows who and where you are when only the damn C.I.A. should know that.” Javier looks pointedly at me; “Sure sounds to me like someone sold you out, princess. You still want to make that fucking phone call?”

Goddamnit. I hate how much sense his crazy talk is making, and I hate how much I’m actually buying into it. The voice inside is screaming that this is all some sort of long-con mind-game of his; all part of his plan to ditch out and run away. But on the other side of that coin, I did get ambushed by a bunch of men with guns, and as much as I absolutely hate to admit it, the only reason I’m here and not God-knows-where-else or dead is because of the criminal standing in front of me.

“Don't.”

I frown; “What?”

“Don't ask 'what now'“

“I wasn't goi-”

“You were so.” Javier smirks at me, and I can feel my blood boiling. I’m not thinking about seeing his cock anymore, I'm thinking about getting away from the obnoxious, arrogant asshole I’m saddled with right now.

“It's your operation, spy-girl. So what's your move?”

The cocky Spaniard rakes his fingers through his long, dark hair; pushing it back from his face. He’s so fucking arrogant in the way he acts like he’s letting me be in charge here; as if he’s allowing me to believe I’m still the boss. He’s egotistical, he’s full of swagger and macho bravado, and for God’s sake, he needs to put a fucking shirt on.

“We need to lay low, until I can figure this out.”

He grins; “Now you’re talking sense, princess.”

I whirl away from him as I storm towards the main office of the run-down looking motel, but it’s not so much out of anger this time. This time, it’s to hide the grin on my face, because for the first time, I don't mind him calling me that.





11





Chelsea




“You're in deep shit, agent.”

Koufax's voice is his usual weasel tone, though he sounds even more annoyed at me than usual.

The pay-phone in the parking lot of the motel is hardly a secure line, but we've got protocol for things like this. Koufax, as sputtering mad as he is, also sounds like he's sputtering mad through about three layers of cardboard with all the proxy lines we're being wired through to avoid a trace.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“We were ambushed at the hotel, sir. I had to break cover when we ran, and we've been in hiding since. This is the first call I could make.”

“Ambushed?” Koufax's tinny voice drips with sarcasm even through the thirty-odd connections we're being patched through.

“Yes, sir. There were trained men there; definitely a paramilitary group of some-”

“Toro.” Koufax's voice cuts me off abruptly; “Do you have Toro, Agent Archer.”

I'm fine, and I'm not dead. Thanks for asking, asshole.

“Yeah, I've got him.”

I can almost hear Koufax frowning on the other end of the line; “Well, where is he, exactly.”

“We're at a motel, sir. He's back in the roo-”

“You're at a motel?!” Koufax's voice explodes with anger, his tone sharp through the receiver; “Wha- you-” He starts to sputter; “You just left him in the motel room to make a fucking phone call?!”

I wince, knowing how this probably sounds; “He's not going to run, sir, he-”