Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,20

your heartbeat. Sometimes, I can detect… more. Someone sneaking up on me. Intense emotions like rage. Lust. Hostility. Deadly intent. He was also sure he’d just heard a vertebra in Mark’s neck pop.

“Seriously? Which version?”

Krav Maga was an Israeli-style of self-defense. Derived from a combination of Aikido, boxing, wrestling, Judo, and Karate, it focused on extreme efficiency of motion. At its core, Krav Maga took the best practices of other techniques and streamlined them into concise, hard-hitting, core fighting maneuvers that expended minimum energy, yet achieved maximum results.

“As you know, there are two versions: civilian and military. I’ve been studying under Jacob Ben Amin the last two years. He’s shown me how hard Israel’s military fights, and why they win as often as they do.”

“General Ben Amin? Well, good god damn! Maybe you can teach us a thing or two.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” As he said those words, Jameson meant them with every fiber of his being. At last, his chest heaved. His lungs relaxed enough to fill with the air of this brand-new day and the fantastic opportunity he’d just been granted. Almost made him giddy to think he now worked for the much-maligned Alex Stewart, the guy who’d turned King Street on its ear when he’d become the most successful defense contractor in the States. For some unknown reason, the press hated Alex, and he hated them right back. Working for him was going to be fun.

“One more thing.” Mark pushed his chair back, so Jameson did the same and stood, bringing his walking stick centerline of his body.

“Yes?”

“We’ve got a client who insists she needs a bodyguard tonight. All other agents are on assignment. You feeling lucky?”

“Yes, sir, I mean, Mr. Houston. I am.” I’m damned lucky!

Mark knuckled Jameson’s shoulder. “Stop with the mister crap. We operate on first names around here. I’m just Mark. You’re just Jameson. You’ll be on your own tonight, but all you need to do is make sure this woman boards her private jet leaving Reagan, precisely at ten. You’ve been to Reagan before, right?”

Jameson nodded. “That’s how I got to Virginia.”

“Good. She claims she’s got a couple stalkers. Beau will drive you there, but frankly, he doesn’t have the patience to deal with someone like her, and you’ll be her official escort on the tarmac. She’s flying out by private jet; you won’t have to navigate the terminal. The jet should be waiting for her when you arrive, so you won’t have to deal with her long. Can you handle an easy op?”

“I can,” Jameson declared adamantly. Hell, I’d walk though fire right now for you guys.

“Good. Her name’s Lucy Shade. Have you heard of her?”

“Ahh, yeah.” Damn. Who hadn’t? Miss Shade was the sole American reporter to be granted an interview with Pops Delaney, the Irish Godfather, straight out of Ireland.

Much to the chagrin of the FBI, he allegedly worked his dirty arms business on the South side of Boston, and was getting away with it. As if that interview hadn’t garnered her enough fame and glory all by itself, she’d publicly trashed Delaney’s reputation after meeting him, made unverified allegations, and, oh, yes, she fancied herself a celeb and had her greedy sights set on stardom in Hollywood. No wonder she needed a bodyguard.

“Any questions?”

“Nope, I’m good.” Damned good.

“Well, I’ve got one for you. I pass your building every morning on my way to work. Can I give you a lift?”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. No trouble. You’re on my way.”

“I usually take the metro, but yeah.” Wow. “I really appreciate the offer.”

“Great. Let’s introduce you to the gang then.”

Mark had no more than opened his door, when the sweetest breath of spring bounced into Jameson’s chest, damned near knocked him on his ass. He grabbed onto whoever she was to keep her from falling, then gripped tighter when he detected the distinct hammering of her pulse under his thumbs. His nostrils flared at the lush scent of mellow lavender mingled with peppery pheromones and the sweet tantalizing zing of feminine stress.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I, ma’am?” he asked, his head cocked as his senses opened wide to resolve the mystery behind her worry.

“Oh, no. It’s my fault. I am so, so sorry,” she cried. But then she brushed her fingertips over his chest as if trying to make a boo-boo better. Which was just plain endearing. There was no way this fluff of femininity could’ve bruised a former SEAL in the first place, not by bumping that soft, warm