Page 37 of Russian Rescue

“Now I can go out tomorrow and find a computer when you guys go on the op and watch the cameras. No one will recognize me.”

He wasn’t wrong. I never would recognize this new version of Wes if I was just scanning video feeds for him.

He jumped over the couch and landed beside me, the movement nearly causing my vodka to spill out of my glass.

“Vodka. Thanks.” He pulled the glass from my hand and took a sip.

“Hey, that’s mine!” I pulled it back. “Go get your own.”

“What? You worried you’re going to get my cooties?” He tugged it back and took another sip. “Because you’re going to get them when you kiss me anyway.”

Scoffing, I yanked the glass back, the clear liquid almost slipping over the edge. “I’m not going to kiss you, and you’re not drinking my vodka.”

“Hmph,” he said with a shrug. “We’ll see.”

He hopped back up and strolled into the kitchen. I tried to force my eyes not to drift over the muscles stretched taut over his back or the sexy taper of his narrow waist, but I failed.

Badly.

“You want those SpaghettiO things again tonight? I didn’t think they were half bad.”

“Uh, yeah. That works.”

“Someday, when we’re in a real kitchen, I’m going to cook for you. Gourmet shit. Just wait until you try this Sicilian Eggplant Caponata I make. It will change your life.”

“Sicilian?” I turned back and leaned over the couch while I watched him putter around the kitchen. “You’re not Sicilian, are you?”

“No.” He grabbed an empty glass and the open bottle. “It’s actually Lucia’s recipe. She gave it to me a couple months after we rescued her. You guys wouldn’t stop talking about her cooking, and since I wasn’t there, I didn’t get to taste it. So, she sent me some of her favorite recipes to try out.”

“Oh, yeah. Knox is a lucky man being married to a Sicilian woman who can cook like that.”

“You can be lucky too. I’ll cook for you anytime.” His playful gaze met mine, then he looked back at the vodka he poured into his glass. “Anyway, it’s delicious. So good, in fact, our secret assassin friend Martha Stewart would be jealous.”

I snorted at the visual again, almost sending my vodka out my nose. “God,” I choked out. “You need to wait to say shit like that until I’ve swallowed my drink.”

He twisted the can opener and popped off the lid. “It could be true. You never know. She may be just like you and under deep cover as Martha Stewart. I mean, she did spend some time in the clink. She’s kinda badass.”

“Valid.” I lifted my glass.

“Maybe she got scooped up by the CIA like you did. Maybe this is all some long game so her fame can get her access anywhere she wants.”

“Ah,” I shrugged. “I think the fame would be a serious downside. My ability to shift into anyone I want to be is what makes me so damn good.”

“True.” He dumped the contents from the can into the bowl. “And you are damn good. Our chameleon.”

“The best.”

“And now I’m a chameleon too.” He gestured to his new haircut. “See? I learned from the best.”

After he shoved the bowl in the microwave, he turned back and leaned against the counter. The way he settled his weight onto his arms only amplified the bulges in his biceps and the cut lines disappearing beneath his sweatpants.

“How did the CIA get you anyway?” he asked. “I don’t think I ever heard the full story?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. I just know they recruited you when you were like twenty, and you were with them a few years before the ESF got their hands on you. But how did they pick you?”

I shook my empty glass. Wes pushed off the counter and grabbed the bottle of vodka, then walked over and poured some in.