Page 53 of Missile Strike

The guest bedroom door was closed.

Isabella tiptoed down the stairs to the first floor and got a glass of water, then swiped the romance novel she was reading from the living room and made it back to her room without running into Danny. She withdrew her vibrator from the nightstand drawer and settled beneath the covers, the book open to her favorite spicy scene.

Sage sat at the long dining table, dressed in a low-cut emerald gown, jewels dripping from her ears and neck as she played the part of the rich American socialite. Her host—and target—Viktor Morozov sat to her right. The wealthy shipping magnate turned underground arms dealer openly enjoyed the cleavage she had on display as he made polite dinner conversation.

Conversation she was struggling to keep up with, thanks to the handsome bastard seated across from her, Xavier Stone. Spy. Her rival. The bane of her existence. His hand was in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, finger on the dial of a remote that controlled the clitoral stimulator nestled inside her panties.

A lost bet, and here she was, trying to prove she had more control than to let the arrogant, sexy jerk get her off in public.

The vibrations increased.

She breathed through the tension coiling below her stomach and took a shaky sip of her wine, shooting a discreet glare at Xavier over the rim of her Baccarat crystal glass.

His lips quirked in response as he answered a question their host had directed his way.

Isabella’s breaths shortened as she continued to read, the vibrator sliding beneath her pajama shorts to press against her clit until her own body spasmed. She clamped her lips together to keep her moans from carrying down the hall and alerting Danny.

Why couldn’t she have what Sage had—the courage to give up control and win the love of a dangerous man?

Her gaze went to her closed door, seeing beyond it, down the hall to the guest bedroom. Control was the only thing that had ever kept her safe. And as much as she might crave the passion and adventure she read about in books, she wasn’t like those characters.

The book slid from her fingers, slapping shut before she could set the bookmark at the correct page. Her attention drifted back to the door. For one reckless second, she imagined herself leaving the safety of her bedroom, walking down the hall and knocking on Danny’s door.

When he opened it and saw her in her camisole and shorts, would his eyes turn dark?

Would he pull her into the room and make love to her?

Her pulse tap-danced at the base of her throat. Grabbing the glass of water, she gulped it down, ignoring the dribbles down her chin that fell to her camisole.

Wanting Danny didn’t make her weak—but acting on it would.

Her boundaries weren’t punishment.

They were protection.

Placing the empty glass on her nightstand, she reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it off.

She made her own choices.

Never again would she be collateral damage.

Chapter Thirteen

“I’m staying at Bella’s from now on,” Danny told Ryder on the phone the next morning. Her bedroom door was still closed when he came downstairs. No sign of Trip.

He took advantage of the solitude to catch his boss up on yesterday’s incident.

“There was no direct threat made to Isabella?” Ryder asked.

Danny rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension settling in as he sipped his coffee. He peered out the living room window at the neighborhood street. “Not directly, no, but it mentioned missile strikes. I think it’s from someone who isn’t a fan of the senator from his time as SecDef.”

Or earlier, from his time as a carrier pilot, flying bombing runs like Operation Nighthawk—the campaign in northern Syria that supposedly killed Miran Hassan’s relatives.

A knot pulled tight beneath his ribs.

Ryder continued, “What about the gala?”

“Bella and I are meeting with hotel staff today. I’ll send my final security recommendations by the end of the weekend.”