Dangerous Ground 2: Old Poison by Josh Lanyon Read Free Book Online Page A

and bellicose. She had probably had to fight—and fight hard—be taken seriously in the mostly all-male world of international security, and it had left a sizable chip on the shoulder of her Anne Klein onyx suit. She made a point of never making the simple, courteous gestures of one coworker to another in case anyone mistook her for a woman.
    She charged out of doors first, letting them slam in her male coworkers' faces, she never made or Dangerous Ground: Old Poison
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    bought anyone coffee when she got her own, she interrupted and talked over and contradicted. It was hard working with her. It felt like penance.
    Taylor would have preferred to work on his own, but that idea was shot down instantly by Assistant Field Officer Director Greg Cooper, who welcomed Taylor back to active duty and informed him he'd be working with Special Agent Varga until further notice.
    “Further notice?” Taylor had repeated woodenly.
    “We'll see how it goes,” Cooper said, shuffling papers.
    Taylor was smart enough to nod and keep silent. If Cooper did suspect that Will and Taylor's relationship had changed, and that that change might ultimately conflict with their loyalties to the DS, any objection would hammer the last nail into the coffin of their partnership.
    He listened unemotionally to their briefing, let Varga do all the bitching about the fact they were being landed with a low-profile babysitting job. Varga was taking it personally, as she did pretty much everything. She didn't actually accuse Cooper of sexism, but she wasn't far from it.
    Taylor actually closed his eyes at one point, anticipating the explosion.
    When he opened them again, Cooper was watching him, and he had the impression the AD
    was trying to keep a straight face. Cooper wasn't too bad a guy, even if he did play it—every play you could think of—strictly by the book. He heard Varga out unemotionally, was not swayed an iota, and sent them on their merry way.
    In the car—Varga's car, which Varga insisted on driving—she announced, “I know you don't want to work with me, MacAllister. For the record, I don't want to work with you either.”
    “Who do you want to work with?” Taylor asked out of curiosity. That seemed to take Varga by surprise.
    She said shortly, “I'd prefer to work alone.”
    Taylor nodded politely and settled in for what was sure to be a long, long week.
    They had been assigned to protect Madame Sabine Kasambala, the very young and very beautiful wife of a cabinet minister of the African island nation of Comoros. Comoros had about as screwed up a political situation as could be imagined, and it seemed to have revolutions about every fifteen minutes as far as Taylor could make out. Death threats were routine, even de rigueur, and Madame was far less interested in arrangements for her safety than possible diplomatic discounts the DS might be able to arrange for her with Beverly Hills boutiques.

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    Josh Lanyon

    Varga's stony professionalism scored zero points with their charge, and it was left to Taylor to try and charm Madame into cooperating. He was not particularly good at working the charm; that was generally Will's forte. In fact, Taylor had the uncomfortable feeling that one reason he didn't like Varga was she reminded him a little too much of himself.
    He did his best, though, and by eleven o'clock they were trotting Madame in and out of the famous shops along Rodeo Drive, a three-block obstacle course of palm trees, lampposts, flower urns, expensive cars, and self-absorbed people.

    * * * *
In or out of uniform, Lieutenant Commander David Bradley was a big, handsome bear of a man. He did look exceptionally handsome in his naval uniform. He had a silky dark beard, warm brown eyes, and a sexy growl of a voice.
    “Good to see you, Will,” he said when Will was shown into his office at Naval Base San Diego just before lunch on Monday morning.
    They shook hands, and Bradley's grip lingered just a fraction of a second longer than