"I haven't gone a day without changing clothes since college." He pressed a hand affectionately on Archie's shoulder. "And thank you."
"Shall I tell your guests that you had to attend to an emergency at work?"
"Hell no. Tell them I got a ca
ll from--who's that actress who just got slammed on the internet for making a sex tape?--tell them I'm off to see her. Wouldn't want to start repairing the reputation I've worked so hard to destroy."
"In that case, I wish you godspeed and success. And, Dallas," he added, his voice thick with emotion as he strayed from his usual formality, "come back in one piece."
Dallas's grin was both quick and cocky, but his voice was serious. "I will. I always do."
Archie looked like he was about to argue, and Dallas understood why. Sure, Dallas had participated in missions before--but like Liam had pointed out, Dallas had always been a ghost.
He'd worked behind the scenes in research and analysis. He acted as a front man and liaison, interacting with potential clients by pretending to know someone who knew someone who could help them get their loved ones back quietly. He frequented high end parties across the globe, both to gather intel and to plant listening devices or perform other necessary tasks. And on the rare occasion when he did go on a raid, he was suited up, so there was no chance that anyone would recognize his very well-publicized face.
This time was different. This time he wanted to be in the room. He wanted to look Mueller and Ortega in the eye until he was certain he'd extracted every bit of information that he could from the bastards.
And then he wanted to see them dead. Ortega, who'd been the fulcrum that had pushed Dallas's own life over the edge. And Mueller, who'd blithely snatched so many children--who'd ripped their lives and the lives of their families apart for no more reason than the money and the thrill.
"I'll be careful," Dallas said slowly, his eyes on his old friend. "But I'll get the job done."
Archie tilted his head in acquiescence, like a parent resigned to sending a son off to war. It was an apt metaphor. If anyone knew more than Dallas about Deliverance and its inherent dangers, it was Archie. Stoic, serious, self-possessed Archie, who worked behind the scenes, juggling Dallas's household, his daily life, and all manner of his extracurricular activities, both the real and the spectacle.
As for the latter, Archie nodded toward the far side of the room and at the women who still lounged in Dallas's bed, looking both curious and impatient. "I'll leave you to finish getting dressed and say your goodbyes." He glanced at his watch. "Be on the helipad in fifteen minutes." He didn't wait for Dallas's acknowledgment. Instead he turned, crossed efficiently to the door, then slipped silently out of the room.
"A helicopter?" The redhead pursed her swollen lips into a pout. "You're really leaving?"
"You were eavesdropping?"
Her mouth curved up impishly. "I guess maybe you should punish me."
"I'll add it to the agenda," he said. "But you're right. I have to leave." He checked his watch. He wanted to be on the pad when the helicopter arrived. He didn't want to waste a moment. "You have my cell number?"
"Of course."
"Text me pictures." He shifted his gaze to the blonde. "Text me very interesting pictures."
He took more pleasure in the blush that crept over both women's faces than he probably should, but what the hell. He wanted what he wanted. And if a bad selfie of those two kissing could get him hard--could get his mind off Jane and where he was going and what he was doing--then he wanted it in his inbox. After all, it was a very long flight to Argentina.
He'd just grabbed a black T-shirt from the back of a chair when he heard the light tap at the door. "Come on in," he called, hoping Archie wasn't going to tell him the 'copter was held up.
But when he looked inquisitively toward the opening door, it wasn't Archie's efficient face that appeared at the threshold--it was Jane's. And in that moment, Dallas's heart stopped beating.
He stood frozen, like a fucking idiot, staring at the door as if he were looking at a ghost. Hell, maybe he was. It was more likely that a specter would grace these halls than this woman who'd once lived there.
She wore only jeans and a pink tank top under a transparent, white blouse. Her lush brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face. She wore no makeup, and her brown eyes seemed huge against her pale skin.
She looked frazzled and rushed. She looked stunning. And even after all this time--even after fighting against it every goddamn day--he felt desire curl through him, hot and demanding and far too dangerous.
Her eyes found him almost immediately, and he saw her visibly calm, as if he was exactly what she'd been searching for and all she could ever need.
Her eyes were bright, her smile as fresh as sunshine. And for that moment, time stopped and everything was frozen in possibility.
Then the warmth in her eyes cooled, and her gaze flicked down over his bare chest to where his jeans hung on his hips, still unbuttoned, the fly open to reveal the faded black briefs he wore. He felt his cock--already going hard simply from the sight of her--twitch under her inspection. And he wasn't certain, but he thought he saw two spots of pink touch her cheeks.
She didn't meet his eyes, but quickly turned her head, her attention now going to the bed, and the two naked women who were still there, looking defiantly at her, as if they owned his heart. As if they meant more to him than a diversion.
He watched as she licked her lips, then rolled one shoulder, like a fighter about to enter the ring. When she looked back at him, her eyes were flat. "I didn't realize when I walked through the crowd downstairs that you were having a private party up here, too. I guess I should have. That's what you do now, isn't it? That's what you are?"