Jo Davis - I Spy a Wicked Sin

The first book in the Shado Agency series, 2010

My heartfelt thanks to:

My husband and children for putting up with my craziness during deadline.

My awesome agent, Roberta Brown.

My editor, Tracy Bernstein; my publicist, Elizabeth Tobin; the art department and all the wonderful folks at NAL.

The Foxes.

I couldnt survive without you.

Sweet Christ.

Elbows on the ratty desk, John Sandborn dropped his face into his hands. In the wake of this terrible exercise of connect the dots, hed be goddamned lucky if he didnt wind up at the bottom of the Atlantic. In five different oil drums.

Because a traitorous, murdering bastard was coming for him. No doubt about it.

If he had a whisper of a prayer of avoiding a grisly fate, he had to work fast.

Clicking the X in the top right corner of the laptops screen, he closed the classified file and opened another. Fingers flying, he activated a program hed hoped never to use, but was damned glad hed put into place. Next he composed a simple coded message-a ten-year-old couldnt decipher it, but a trusted operative could.

Okay got it. He blew out a deep breath. It wasnt perfect, but it would have to do.

Last, he opened his e-mail and hit Send. He waited, every muscle tense, while the new files, along with the classified one, shot to six different destinations and burrowed into six different hard drives. A high- tech worm that would make any hacker cream in his shorts-and just might save his ass.

Action complete.

Thank fuck. Sandborn attacked the keyboard again, clicking rapidly. His instincts screamed Get out, but he didnt dare leave the last two tasks undone.

Precious seconds were whittled away, scraping his nerves raw, as he accessed the script file hed written to initiate the virus that would destroy his hard drive. The final box popped onto the screen, and he executed his CTRL+F+U command.

Sandborn gave a grim chuckle at the double entendre in his chosen three-finger salute and wiped the sweat from his brow. Time to make like a ghost.

The door to his motel room burst open, hitting the inside wall like a gunshot. Sandborn spun, the SIG from the desktop already in hand, arm leveling at the leader of the traitors cleanup crew.

Too late. A pop split the air, and pain blossomed in his chest. He stumbled backward, managing to get off a shot, the explosion deafening in the tiny space. The leader went down with a grunt as Sandborn trained his gun on the second man, tried to squeeze the trigger-and couldnt. His arm fell limp and useless to his side.

The second man crossed the room, a smirk on his ugly pockmarked face. Cold overtook the pain, spreading from Sandborns chest to his limbs. Numbing every muscle. Looking down, he stared in fascinated horror at the dart embedded in his left pectoral.

He swayed, speaking quickly. His life depended on it. Tell your boss I know everything. I put safeguards in place, and hell never find them without me, he rasped, the drug freezing his vocal cords quickly. If I die the whole world will know what hes done.

Sandborns legs buckled and he slumped to the floor, completely nerveless. Aware but paralyzed, along for the ride and at their mercy. A nightmare.

A pair of heavy- soled leather boots appeared in his line of vision as the second man paused, obviously peering at the laptop. You smart-ass sonofabitch, Crater Face hissed.

Sandborn pictured the cartoon gopher dancing across the screen, shooting the finger at the henchman, and a hoarse laugh barked from his dry throat. The boots backed up a couple of steps.

John Sandborns last image was a snapshot of the mans right shitkicker rocketing toward his face.

From the dossier saved on her laptop, Lily Vale knew without a doubt-if shed had any to begin with-that her new target was the most beautiful man shed ever seen.

The bastard wouldnt be quite as pretty after she sent him to hell.

Striding down the hallway of the vast mansion, she clutched her purse, comforted by the heavy weight of the weapon secreted inside. If only she could use it to take him out, clean and simple.

For his crimes against innocent Americans, men like Jude St. Laurent deserved to die. Monsters like him had murdered her father, the most brilliant, gentle soul who ever lived. Perhaps quick and easy wasnt always the best form of justice. Not that a swift end was a choice on this assignment anyway-locating the information would take time.

And while Lily worked her way into St. Laurent s confidence, hed have no idea he was already a dead man. A bullet might be easier, but slow and painful was her specialty, reserved for the most vile of men. That alone fortified her resolve as nothing else could have.

Hearing voices, a low moan, Lily slowed her steps. Using caution, she approached the room the housekeeper had directed her to and peered inside.

Neither the photos in his extensive file nor her brief glimpses of him in the past had done the rogue justice. But the current tantalizing view certainly brought his many physical assets into complete focus.

Jude St. Laurent was sprawled on his back in a pile of pillows, eyes closed, chin-length auburn hair fanned around his head, gloriously naked. His long, athletic legs were spread to accommodate the equally naked brunette crouched between them, sucking his thick, erect cock in long, slow pulls.

God, yes. After a few more bobs over his lap, he moaned and gently pulled her head back. Wait. Come here, darlin.

The woman crawled between his legs as he sat up, and brushed a kiss against his lips. Whats wrong?

Nothing. Giving his lover a warm half smile, he reached out, skimmed a hand up her arm, to her shoulder. He combed his fingers through her hair and then brought his other hand up as well, his palm finding her breast.

His touch was tentative, careful, as his fingers searched. Probed her feminine curves, traveled to her cheeks and lips. Her forehead. His tender exploration made the woman giggle.

Youve seen me a dozen times, she said.

That was for the sake of art. He grinned, dropping his hands. This is for fun. Lie down on my left and spread out for me.

Lily remained quiet, trying to make sense of the puzzling exchange-and of the way his dazzling smile snatched the breath from her lungs. His smooth voice, laced with a hint of the Deep South, the New Orleans variety, was the cherry atop the sundae. She could almost forget the man didnt own a soul.

The brunette did as he asked, stretching out on the pillows like a cat, eyes glittering in anticipation. Despite everything, Lily couldnt blame her.

He laid one big palm on her thigh and moved his hand up, as though mapping new territory. Moving carefully, he straddled her torso and positioned himself on his knees, thighs spread wide. Slide down and guide me to your mouth, sweetheart. I dont want to hurt you.

Lilys curiosity grew. How could he hurt her?

The woman scooted down and guided the broad head of St. Laurent s cock to her lips. She took him down her throat and he moaned, lean body shuddering. As he bent to her sex, Lily had the fleeting thought that a nice, decent person would excuse herself until the couple was finished.

Nobody had ever accused Lily of being either.