“What do we do?” she whispered, her lips moving against his finger.
“This,” he said, and he whirled her around and pressed her back against the brick wall of the stairwell. She gasped just as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Not only did he cover her mouth with his but also he covered her body, too. To hide her. To protect her.
That had been his intent. But her lips were soft beneath his, her breath warm, and he found himself really kissing her. He moved his mouth over hers, taking advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss.
And her arms moved between them. Instead of pushing him away, as he expected, they linked around his neck. And she clung to him.
Agent Undercover
Lisa Childs
LISA CHILDS writes paranormal and contemporary romance for Mills & Boon. She lives on thirty acres in Michigan with her two daughters, a talkative Siamese and a long-haired Chihuahua who thinks she’s a rottweiler. Lisa loves hearing from readers, who can contact her through her website, www.lisachilds.com, or snail-mail address, PO Box 139, Marne, MI 49435, USA.
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With love and appreciation for my dad—Jack Childs.
You will always be my hero!
Contents
Special Agent Ashton Stryker’s heart pounded fast and hard with anticipation and a rush of adrenaline. He was about to meet the greatest threat to national security in his career with the FBI’s antiterrorism division. Ash’s responsibility was to neutralize that threat.
A bell chimed, announcing his time up with the woman across the table from him. She may have said hi. He wasn’t certain; he hadn’t been paying any attention to her. His target was farther down the long table, smiling at the man whose hand she shook before he moved on to the woman to her left.
Had she passed anything to him in that handshake? Ash wasn’t close enough to see, but there were other eyes on her. Other agents had her under surveillance, too.
Ash stood up and took the next chair down the table. He was getting closer to her. The bell chimed again, announcing the beginning of the next five minutes.
“How can you look like that and be so socially awkward?” the woman across from him asked.
His focus on his target, he only spared the woman a glance. She was probably old enough to be his mother—maybe his grandmother—with iron-gray hair and small reading glasses hanging from a chunky gold chain around the neck of the sweatshirt embroidered with cats. “Excuse me?”
“You haven’t said anything to the women before me,” she said. “Of course when you look like that—the epitome of tall, dark and handsome—you probably don’t have to say anything. You could grunt and women would go home with you.”