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needs some work.”
    Ward said the same thing at least ten times per day, only not in those words because they had a stick-up-her-ass ring to them. Sending two men to take out a crazed dictator with big guns amounted to a CIA suicide mission. Yet here he was, in the middle of a makeshift jungle, sporting limited weapons and partnering with a pissed-off Brit with a needle-poking habit.
    Maybe he really should have gone into finance.
    â€œI’m not necessarily disagreeing, but what mission are you referring to exactly that the CIA screwed up?” The woman sounded as if she spoke from experience, and that had him listening. “Maybe if I knew where your anger came from—”
    She stopped and stared at him. “I hate men who think all strong women are angry.”
    Well, that explained the thin lips and eyes spitting with fire. The woman clearly thought he was an ass. Not something that normally bothered him, but on this subject matter, it pissed him off.
    They didn’t have time, but he stepped in closer and took a few seconds anyway. “I called you angry because you threatened to rip my balls off earlier today, not because I use anger as a code word for bitchy or some other sexist nonsense.”
    She hesitated for a second as her gaze scanned his face; then she nodded. “Understood.”
    That went easier than he expected. He didn’t question the stroke of good luck. “Now that we have that settled, tell me your issue with the US intelligence community.”
    â€œLet’s just say I’ve had trouble in the past with the CIA getting into the middle of my operations and screwing them up.” Then she took off again, slicing her hand through the heavy vegetation and moving at a speed that should have had her tripping but didn’t.
    The whole take-no-prisoners attitude . . . so fucking hot.
    He waited until he drew up next to her again to dive back into the conversation. “Sounds as if you were dealing with amateurs.”
    â€œBut you think you’re different, I assume.” Her voice no longer vibrated with fury, and the corners of her mouth twitched as if she fought off a smile.
    â€œI don’t know those guys—they were guys, right?” When she nodded he joined her. “Yeah, figured.”
    He knew the type—blowhard, in control, my-way-or-I’ll-shoot-you types. A few lingered the halls of the agency, vying for attention and recognition. They tended to lack longevity. Anyone worth anything in the field blended in. A healthy ego was mandatory. A need to be noticed got people killed, and he’d seen more than one innocent caught in the crossfire.
    â€œDon’t write off the entire agency based on a few CIA assholes.” He doubted she gave much thought to any of the losers she passed on the way up her career ladder, but he felt the need to say it anyway.
    This time she did smile. “Are you trying to charm me?”
    That face. Damn . “Would it work?”
    â€œNo.” But her tone suggested otherwise.
    He forced thoughts of her naked and under him out of his head and concentrated on making his point . . . once he remembered what it was. If he planned on putting his life in her hands, and it might come to that, she needed to know he did not screw around when it came to the job.
    Thinking that building a bit of trust might not be a bad thing, he handed her one of her knives—one he could wrestle away from her without trouble if this turned out to be a miscalculation. “Here. Just don’t use it on me.”
    She stared at it, then at him. “Look at you acting against type.”
    He decided to ignore the shot. “My point is I don’t know which agents you’re talking about. But if you’re asking if I’m dependable and focused despite the flirting, yes.”
    Her smiled only brightened. “You sound a bit like one of the Queen’s corgis.”
    â€œThat’s a dog, right?”