by Amy L. Hull
written for misura in the LJ Help_Haiti fundraiser
Bryce leaned against the bar. His white tux was dapper. Ice clinked as he sipped his scotch. He smiled the crooked, rakish grin he and Chuck and a million other boys modeled on Indiana Jones and practiced in front of a mirror.
Across the room the new agent danced. Her deep purple dress had sequins that highlighted her figure. She stayed near their mark and economized every sway and gyration of her assets.
Her eyes cast about the room with precision, disdain peering through mascaraed lashes. She offered him a sideways glance that weakened his knees.
He shook his head, mentally reciting CIA tactics the way some men might logarithms.
He stared openly in a way, he realized later, that could have compromised the mission. Instead it meant he saw her impossibly blue eyes lock onto his, blink slowly, just once, before she raised her eyebrows. Go. That meant go.
He was still reciting tactics.
This became instantly more arousing as knives appeared in her hands, unbelievably, from the perfect lines of her perfect gown leaving her perfect hands in perfect throws, every move perfectly deadly. The thunk of knives and falling bodies, the report of gunfire, shouts in several languages, and the rhythmic tap of the woman's high heels filled the air.
Training and adrenaline took over and Bryce acted in concert with the choreographed movements of the purple windmill of projectiles, leaping past or disarming bodyguards and enemy spies. He stripped the cufflinks and tie-tack imbedded with the secret plan chips while she retrieved the reader.
He stared at her creamy thigh, then at the purple fabric slinking back into place as she stood. He swallowed. He turned and could feel the heat from her back through his jacket as they covered the room. In moments they secured exits and were on their way to their rendezvous point.
Hours later, she offered him a sideways glance as the purple and sequins slithered down the perfect lines of her figure. She slid his shirt from his shoulders and tossed it aside, swaying against him, every move deadly and precise, economized and arousing.
Bryce looked at the creamy expanse of thighs above him. He swallowed. Tactics. Reciting tactics. It was rule number one: spies don't fall in love.
But there were no CIA tactics to combat this kind of woman. He knew he was going to drown in her perfection.