Overkill (The Mammoth Book of Special Ops) Read Free Page A

quick “Yes, sir” and set out as though on a mission to save a dying species.   He had to hand it to the guy, he worked fast; in no time he was back swishing expensive clothes under Tanner’s nose.
    “Will these be suitable, sir,” he asked.
    “Fine.” Tanner pulled out his credit card and handed it over. “Wrap ‘em up.”
    “You’ll need a tux.” Laine stepped up beside him, her eyes scanning the clothes laid out on the counter, while the clerk did his tally. “I suggest Armani. And switch one of the black suits for a gray. And maybe add a couple of pale blue shirts.”
    The clerk looked at her, then him.
    Tanner dropped his gaze to hers; she was smiling. Without looking at the clerk, he said, “What the lady says.”
    “And put them on my account.”
    Again the clerk looked at him.
    “Negative that.”
    Laine shrugged. “What the man says.”
    When the clerk left to make the changes, Tanner looked down at Laine; raised a brow. “You trying to buy me.”
    “It crossed my mind... given you’ve ruled out friendship.” She wandered away, fingering suits, shirts, whatever, as she went, and occasionally glancing back at him.
    He followed her. Like a damn puppet on a string. Toward the private dressing rooms.
    They paused outside a door. Tanner opened it. Laine stepped inside.
    They were alone in the heart of London.
    Tanner planted his hands on the wall, one on each side of Laine, careful not to touch her. But he could feel her warmth through his cheap shirt, see her heart pounding under the silk of her blouse, smell her million-dollar perfume—the million dollar woman. If there was sound outside their tight and cozy world, he didn’t hear it. What he heard was the whisper of her breath, the flurry of it on his throat. “You sure about this?” he asked.
    She placed her hands on his chest—and his lungs damn near stopped pumping. “Absolutely not.” She moved her palms, grazing his nipples. He sucked in a breath. Their eyes met. Held. “Are you?”
    He brought his mouth down, brushed it over hers. A taste. The barest of tastes. “I’m sure it’s the biggest mistake of my life.”
    “Good.”
    He cocked a brow in question.
    “We never forget our mistakes.” She continued, then slipped her arms around his neck.
    Running her hands through his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers. Took it hard and greedily. And in that moment, he went deaf, dumb, and blind to everything but her lips pressed to his. On a moan, she took his tongue, played with it. His temperature shot to stratospheric, and the down-low, intelligence-starved anatomy behind his cheap Congo zipper turned to hot steel, raw and rough with lust.
    Wanting closer, wanting in, he ground himself against her, his reward only the crush of her breasts to his chest. He tugged at her blouse, slid a hand under the silk of it, then over the satin and lace of her bra. He pressed his thumb against the pebbled jut of her nipple—and she pushed back, whimpered. His brain went primordial.
    The kiss deepened—Him? Her?—he couldn’t tell, but when she sagged in his arms, he locked her body to his, his hands sliding over her hips, her ass. He wanted her. He wanted her now. Here!
    In a fucking Harrods changing room?
    He pulled back. “Jesus...” He put his forehead to hers. Their uneven breathing a storm between them—hot, gusty, and trapped in a dense silence.
    “Well... that was, uh, interesting,” Laine finally said, burying her face in his shoulder.
    “That’s one description.” His voice sounded broken, too low.
    “And yours?”
    “A hell of a good beginning.” He looked around the well-appointed dressing room and smiled. “But your choice of venue is seriously lacking.”
    She gave him a small smile in return, and started tucking in her blouse; her hands were trembling. “I didn’t exactly plan ahead for this.”
    He pulled her to him, again brushed his lips over hers. Damn near killed him to hold back. “But you did plan.”
    She