Spy Hard

Jase wasn’t sure who made the last small move that brought them together.

Melanie’s soft lips tasted like sweet papaya. An odd, exhilarating feeling hit him like a lightning bolt out of nowhere and sent his head spinning. He wanted to sink into her sweetness, to take her up—here and now—on everything she was reluctantly offering.

Jase pressed closer and licked the corner of her lips. Melanie gave a soft, startled sigh, but didn’t move back. If anything, she leaned toward him. Hot need plowed through him like a freight train.

In the back of his mind he was aware of the open door. He knew if someone walked by, it would mean instant execution. They’d drag him outside and shoot him like a dog. He was a dog, for taking advantage of her like this.

Yet with Melanie’s lips on his, the guilt and the risk didn’t seem so grave, and certainly seemed worth it…

DANA MARTON is the author of more than a dozen fast-paced, action-adventure Intrigue novels and a winner of a Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antiques shops and enjoys working in her sizable flower garden, where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Cindy Whitesel

and Amy Ignatz, friends I’ve been lucky enough to reconnect with lately.

With my sincere thanks to Allison Lyons.

Lazy drops drummed a unique rhythm on the emerald leaves. Not rain—not yet, just the humid air weeping in the South American rain forest. Ripened fruit dropped from the mango trees, one nearly hitting a capuchin monkey. The animal jumped aside with a shriek, which sent a flock of parrots flying from the canopy, red-blue wings flapping. The soft and harsh noises blended into perfect harmony, pulsing with life—the morning song of the jungle.

A few hundred yards to the east, boots splashed in the shallow water of the ravine. Guns clinked against the water canteens on the men’s hips. The intruders must not have heard the jungle’s music, because they didn’t even try to fit in, creating disharmony.

Mochi perched halfway up the kapok tree, his feet dangling a hundred feet above the jungle floor. He’d sneaked out of the village at dawn to spy on the new batch of baby monkeys, hoping to spot one without a mother, an orphan he could take home. Since a jaguar had stolen his pet dog in the spring, the mud hut where he lived with his three mothers seemed empty.

But the monkeys dashed off the moment those boots came too close for comfort. Slow minutes passed before the six men came into view, then stopped to rest right below Mochi. He stayed to see what they were about, even if his mothers would be awake by now and looking for him. When he got home, nothing would save him from a good beating. He bristled at that. Nobody seemed to appreciate that he was now the man of the family.

An accident at the diamond mine up north had killed his father three months ago, the same week that his oldest brother had been shot by the drug lord who controlled their village. His three middle brothers had been taken more recently by a curse from an angry jungle spirit one of them had stepped on accidentally. A potion from the witch doctor could have helped, but the witch doctor had been on his annual pilgrimage. So the spirit-curse disease spread through the family, nearly taking Mochi, too. The witch doctor had come back in time to save him, but he’d been too late for the others.

He was still weak and now hungry. A line of lemon ants marched up the trunk not far from him. Not much, but enough to take the taste of hunger out of his mouth. He stood on the wet branch to reach them, balancing on bare feet.

He would never have slipped if a small part of the jungle spirit’s curse wasn’t still wedged somewhere inside him, making his legs unsteady. He grabbed the branch, his feet scrambling in the air for only a second before they found purchase. He barely made any noise at all. But one of the intruders below looked up, right at him.

A dark smile spread on the man’s face.

He weighed the mango in his hand, then threw it hard. The missile hit Mochi square in the middle of his chest, and the boy lost his perilous perch in the tree.

A KID WAS the dead-last thing Jase Campbell needed in the middle of this particular undercover op. He swore under his breath as he watched the boy drop. The soft leaf carpet and the kid’s age, meaning flexibility, saved him from any broken bones, as proven by his quick recovery and dash into the trees.