Operation Christmas Contraband, Super Agent Romantic Suspense Series, Book 6
Operation Christmas Contraband
Misty Evans
Operation Christmas Countraband, Super Agent Romantic Suspense Series, Book 6
A Conrad and Julia Mission
Misty Evans
ISBN:
Cover Art by Fanderclai Design
Formatting by Beach Path Publishing, LLC
Editing by Elizabeth Neal
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Josh and Naomi coming soon!
Ready for more?
PNR & UF by Misty/Nyx
Meet Misty
Letter from Misty
One
Nice legs.
Conrad eyed the sexy brunette over the top of the Tribuna de La Habana as she moved toward him. She’d chosen the sand for her approach from the hotel to the outdoor dining area, rather than the boarded walkway. Good choice. The soft sand under her flip flops caused her hips to work a little bit, exaggerating their swing.
In, out, in, out…her left thigh, taut and tan, flashed and disappeared along the edge of the slit of a barely-there wrap-dress hugging her body.
Between the high leg opening and the deep cleavage revealing the hint of her raspberry colored bikini top, she looked like a present…sexy and inviting. The ties of her outfit cupped her breasts, forming a tiny bow at the center, showing off her mounds to perfection.
What he wouldn’t do to work those loose and reveal the beautiful woman underneath.
Although her US driver’s license claimed a height of five-five, she topped out at five-four. But those legs…their lean contours gave her the appearance of a model. And she knew how to use them, her steps concentrated but not overly theatrical.
Add to that the sway of her hips and every red-blooded male in the area was adjusting his suddenly tight shorts. She didn’t overdo it or exaggerate her stride, just let things flow in a sweet, gliding back and forth rhythm that had his pulse kicking up to track star mode.
Reaching him, she slowed and flipped her hair over one shoulder. A bright flower pinned above her left ear matched the bikini color. The slightest sheen of perspiration enhanced the tawny skin above her full lips. She lowered her dark sunglasses an inch and locked her gaze with his over the rims. “Hey, sailor boy.”
Damn. The Mae West voice. Deliberately low and husky. Her green eyes flirted with his, so focused on him heat shot straight to his groin.
At 0700 hours, it was far too early for such a direct assault on his libido.
Her lips were devoid of gloss or false color. The full bottom curved ever so slightly in a spider-to-the-fly smile. Bumping out one hip, she rubbed it against his arm before resting on the table’s edge. “Can I buy you breakfast?”
Conrad’s brain shorted out. Only for a single beat of his heart, but it was enough to smoke a few neurons and send a second surge of heat to his little brain. He swallowed and reached for his coffee, letting one corner of the Cuban newspaper sag. Caffeine. He needed caffeine.
The cup was empty.
Figures.
Setting the it down, he noticed the woman’s lips rise with smug satisfaction. This was what he got for lying to his wife and abandoning their hotel bed before the sun rose.
The wife in question noticed his quandary, pulled out the chair next to him, and made herself cozy. Her sexy, flirtatiousness lost a bit of its luster as she hung her bright blue tote bag off the chair and pinned him with the classic I’m-disappointed-with-you look. “We’re on vacation, Con. Translation: mind-blowing sex marathons, sleeping in, ordering room service, and deep tissue massages on the beach. In other words, re-lax-a-tion. Surely you’ve heard of the concept.”
Spies and FBI agents didn’t take vacations. “I stopped listening at mind-blowing sex marathons.”
“Of course you did.”
Goddamn, he needed that caffeine hit. “Jules, you know I’m not the type. I don’t sleep in, and if I recall correctly, the Julia Torrison Rules of Engagement state the only person allowed to touch my body is you.”
She tossed her sunglasses down and tucked a windblown lock of hair behind her ear. “Do not try to turn this into an argument. You refused to visit our families for Christmas. The least you can do is humor me and allow me to enjoy the white sand beaches and blue Caribbean waters here instead.”
Con laid the paper on the cheap wooden tabletop and swept his hand toward the view from the outside terrace. “Go forth and enjoy.”
A waiter hustled up with Café Cubano and a clean cup for Julia. Her Spanish was mediocre, but she played her hand well, acting discombobulated as she fumbled over finding the right words to order breakfast.
The young guy openly flirted with her, patiently walking her through the pronunciations of items on the hotel restaurant’s menu.
Conrad stewed. Not only did he want to rip the guy’s head off, he needed to get Julia occupied for an hour so he could do a job. One his boss, Michael Stone, had handed him along with his plane tickets and covert orders: Find Ramon Cabrera. Confirm the formula is legit. If it washes, sneak the Cuban refugee and his valuable antidote past the communist government.
In other words, spies never took a vacation.
Julia ordered food for them, and Con debated his options. Julia was no longer a spy, and the mission was classified. Hell, Conrad didn’t do fieldwork anymore, so this mission was beyond classified if Stone had handed it to him.
Which just went to prove, the Great Conrad Flynn was still considered the best CIA operative when it came to exfiltrations.
And lying to his wife.
He’d lied to Stone, too. No way would the tightwad have given him permission to bring Jules with him. But Conrad couldn’t give a flying fuck about obtaining the deputy director’s permission. He might not always follow the rules, but he always tagged his man.
Mission accomplished – the sweetest set of words in his full adult vocab. That’s all that mattered in his book, and part of accomplishing Operation Exfiltration, a.k.a. Christmas Contraband, was bringing Julia on vacation.
Stone wasn’t married. Not yet. He’d learn soon enough when his fiancée finally dragged his ass to the altar. Classified was classified, but a happy wife beat a full house in the
job department any day.
The waiter left, gifting Julia with another smile. She returned it and shifted to Con. “We have dual massages at nine.” She scooped up her long hair into a ponytail with one hand as she used her other to locate a band inside her bag. “They do it right on the beach. The tables actually sit in the water. We’ll be surrounded by warm sun and nature.” She secured the pony tail, exposing her graceful neck, and flashed him a grin. “Total bliss.”
Right. Bliss would be running his lips over that neck and exposed cleavage. Using his tongue to trace the pattern created by a series of moles on her stomach that reminded him of the Orion constellation.
“Gee, I’m sorry. I scheduled a dive session at nine.” Total flippin’ lie. One he would pay for dearly when she found out he was sneaking a Cuban defector back to the States.
He rearranged the paper’s folds, pretended interest in a story about a former baseball star planning a visit to a landmark Havana restaurant on Christmas. “It’s the best time to see the coral reef, according to your guidebook.”
She sipped her beverage. Narrowed her eyes over the white porcelain edge of the cup.
Busted.
Sell it, Con, or there will be hell to pay.
Taking a sip of his own freshly refilled brew, he lowered the paper and gave her his best nonchalant, innocent return gaze. “Has something to do with the angle of the sun. Plus, I thought you’d still be re-lax-ing, as in sleeping in, at that hour, and since you hate underwater stuff...”
He deliberately trailed off. Being a former SEAL, he loved the water, and she knew it. And while her happy place included white sand and blue ocean, she became claustrophobic if her head was more than a foot under. Diving was out of the question. She didn’t even like snorkeling.
Which was a damn shame. There was a cool world under the surface he knew she’d love if he could show it to her up close and personal. One of these days, he was going to work on that stupid phobia shit.
But not on this trip. He had a defector to hunt down, interrogate, and skip town with.
Sell it. He glanced at a want ad that caught his attention, reading and rereading it, and keeping his voice light. “Unless you want to come with me? Sunbathe on the deck while the guide and I take an underwater tour?”
In his peripheral view, he saw her set her teeth, glance away. She fiddled with her cup. “Nine is the only time slot the spa had open. If we don’t get them today, we’re screwed.”
He sighed as if it were a real disappointment for him, too. Ran his fingers through the edges of the paper. “The price we pay for such a short trip, but hey, it got us out of D.C. and the holiday madness for two days.”
Her green eyes swung back to his, dropped to the paper and rose again. Reluctant acceptance replaced her suspicion. “Just promise we’ll meet back here and go to lunch when we’re each done. We’ll make our last few hours fantastic.”
If things went according to plan, he’d confirm Cabrera’s intel, notify Team Pegasus to pick up their package at midnight, and return before she was putty under the masseuse’s hands.
He waggled his brows and gave her a sexy smirk. “After that, I’m locking us in our room and making good on that mind-blowing sex marathon.”
Her responding grin was dirty and dangerous. “You’re on.”
Two
She really wanted that damn massage.
Julia finished her meal and lingered over her coffee, pretending to buy Con’s diving story while she enjoyed the ocean view from the patio. Done with his ham croquetas, he slid his plate away and picked up the newspaper, folding it into halves and settling in as if he really were on vacation.
The great Conrad Flynn didn’t read news for entertainment. He was looking for something. The state of communism in Cuba? The weather report? A coded message?
The best spy in the biz, now the CIA’s Director of Operations, wouldn’t be seeking a covert message in a communist paper. Especially while on a getaway with his wife. He didn’t do fieldwork anymore.
Yeah, right. Like Con would ever retire from getting his hands dirty.
Julia let go of a sigh. She really, really wanted that damn massage.
She also wanted to know what her husband was up to.
A breeze rattled the palm tree fronds to her left. The trunks had been wrapped in Christmas lights and the soft sounds of Muzak holiday tunes drifted from the speakers overhead. Castro had brought back Christmas in 1997, thanks to the Pope at that time, and even the small tourist islands surrounding the mainland went all out.
Tonight, people would gather at the island’s Catholic church, much like Americans back home would do. For those vacationers who didn’t want to make the trip to midnight mass, they could watch the Pope on the big-screen TVs in the hotel lobby.
Taking one last sip, she hid her grimace—she really should have ordered Café con Leche. This stuff could wake the dead, which was why Conrad liked it so much. She’d have to flag down the cute waiter boy and order a pot for the room. Stretching as she rose, she gathered her bag and shades. “I’m going shopping first. I promised to bring Zara a Castro bobblehead.”
Con’s attention lifted, those dark orbs so intense she could drown in them. He’d let his stubble grow the past few days and his skin was deeply tanned. He fit right in with the local population. “I don’t want to know what she plans to do with that, do I?”
“She has a collection of world dictators she uses for target practice.”
A corner of Con’s mouth quirked. “That’s my operative.”
Smiling with him, she thought about her previous life as a spy. She’d switched sides to the CIA’s dismay and joined the FBI. It was similar, and yet not. Some days, she wondered if she still had what it took to be an operative in a foreign land. “Do you miss it, Con? Fieldwork?”
The breeze lifted a lock of his dark hair and blew it across his forehead. “Every day of my life.”
Her heart pinged, guilt taking her for a ride. He’d chosen her over the one thing he lived for, all in the name of love.
“And I’d give it up all over again.” He shoved the paper aside and turned his white coffee cup in circles. “It’s worth the price to wake up next to you every morning, Jules. Nothing compares to that.”
Julia skirted the table, laid her tote on top of his paper and plopped down on his lap. This man. So incredible. “That just earned you double points for this afternoon’s holiday celebration, Director Flynn.”
She brought her mouth to his and kissed him. Under her bottom, she felt him grow hard.
Wiggling a little, she deepened the kiss, making sure he was properly dazed and couldn’t comfortably walk for at least five minutes. His hands roamed her skin, teasing her through the soft fabric of her dress and bikini. “I’m at your mercy,” he murmured against her lips.
A minute later, she extricated herself from those familiar hands and straightened her now askew clothing. As she sauntered from the table, she kept one hand on her tote and cast a seductive gaze over her shoulder at him. Those intense eyes were locked on her hips and she gave them extra swagger for good measure.
Out with the massage and in with some spying. When she figured out what her duplicitous husband was up to, she was going to make him pay. Dearly.
She made it to the door before she heard Conrad call out. “Hey, you stole my paper!”
The girl’s still got it. Giving herself a mental high-five, Julia patted the tote and headed inside.
Three
0800 hours.
Conrad smiled at the spot where Julia’s swaying derriere disappeared. That would keep her busy for a while. Massage or not, he’d bet his baseball collection she’d spend at least an hour or two combing the articles with her weak Spanish skills and that would allow him to meet with Cabrera—the object of international renown and manhunt.
Plus, it was good for her to think she could still get one over on him. In his book, she always came out on top, and he knew she was the better half of this
marriage. Her undercover skills made him as hot for her as her body did. He’d trained her, after all, and he reveled in the fact she liked a little competition, in love and war.
Ramon was first and foremost a medical researcher, a virologist working for his country. His mission was to develop a bioweapon. Ebola was one of the deadliest created, one for which no antidote existed, until Ramon accidentally discovered a possibility. Add to the fact it could be transmitted by aerosol, and you had a bastard of a biological means of mass destruction that even a little ol’ country no one paid much attention to could distribute with ease.
The Soviets had started the whole Ebola biowarfare gig, and all these years later, a secret group inside the Cuban government was reported to have resurrected the program. When the Soviet bloc fell, it devastated Cuba’s military and infrastructure, but in the time since, their biotech research had emerged as one of the most advanced industries around.
With help from another communist party, Cubans became cyber-savvy, and gained funding for anti-U.S. programs. Intel sources reported the plans were to use the virus as intended.
Combined with the country’s close proximity to American soil and a growing paramilitary contingent schooled in Soviet ways, this current sitch made the Cuban Missile Crisis look like a minor skirmish. The Department of Defense had dozens of examples of how this secret sect had intensified strategic targeting of the U.S. in recent years.
Uncle Sam was worried. The Centers for Disease Control and the private medical sectors were as well. Taskforces had been set up, committee meetings called. Contingency programs ratified.