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her wake, another reminder she was unprepared for an op. If she were prepared, there’d be no fragrance. Still, from now on when he saw her, he’d smell her.
    Damn it to hell.
    A minute later, he heard the shower turn on.
    Now he had the image of her sleek, wet, naked body to get out of his head. He got up to pour himself a cup of coffee and stood drinking it, glaring at the closed door.
    Bombs were his thing, but Rafael hoped to hell he could neutralize the European threat fast so he could move on to a less incendiary partner— op . Less incendiary op . Dammit. He turned away from the door and returned to his seat, where he set about wrestling with his usually disciplined mind.
    He didn’t notice the time pass and was surprised to find his coffee mug cold and empty; he placed it on the side table and stretched his legs. Even though he knew her skin and hair would no longer have any kind of fragrance after her shower, he still had the scent of her on his clothing.
    Winston had been fully made-up back at the house, but she returned ten minutes later, fresh-faced, hair wet and slicked off her forehead.
    Even without the expertly applied makeup, her lashes were dark—dyed, he suspected—and her cheeks a healthy pink. Stunningly, heart stoppingly beautiful. Rafael was a guy who liked pretty things. He liked bombs as well. Both could be equally dangerous if not handled correctly.
    Winston looked—and was—wealthy . As in well groomed, well fed, and pampered. With her pale, shoulder-length hair, clear, smooth skin, and gray-blue eyes, she could appear in any fashion magazine. Medium height, she had the lithe body of a model or athlete, and the mouth of a hooker.
    She’d exchanged the cashmere sweater for a long-sleeved, black T-shirt. Her feet—damn her for not playing fair—were currently bare. She sat, tucked her legs under her shapely butt, and pulled her laptop back in front of her, opening it and tapping the keyboard. “Give me a synopsis of what we’re dealing with.”
    “Bad people want to wreak havoc.”
    “That goes for everyone we deal with,” she said dryly. “Do we have new intel as to why Luz Roja is in Europe?”
    “Intel from our people there indicates the bomb has their signature. I don’t buy it. It’s rare for them to venture outside Colombia—maybe they have a point to make elsewhere in South or Central America, but Greece? Bombings? Yeah, they like their bombs to make big points. Consulates. Government buildings. Military insulations. A bank? Doesn’t feel right.”
    T-FLAC’s huge intelligence apparatus looked at the whole terrorist network; recruiters, fund raisers, facilitators, as well as the bomb-makers themselves. They kept on top of emerging technologies-always asking; Can this be turned into a bomb? There was always something new to learn. “We’ve drilled into the details, looked at components and elements.” He shrugged.
    “Jack didn’t mention why he was accompanying you to Greece. What exactly will my role be once we’re there?”
    He could think of several and not all of them required her to be naked. “I need the Cyber Security team to go into the bank’s records to see what, if anything, has been manipulated. They might be moving money to blur a new trail.”
    The Colombian tango group had their fingers in a lot of pies. Drugs, prostitution, and weapons. The Americas—all of them—were a nice big playground for them. Athens was a long way from Bogotá.
    A red light pulsed in the bulkhead nearby, indicating an incoming call. Rafael plucked the receiver off the wall base nearby. “Navarro.”
    “Brengard. Close to a thousand people hospitalized from the blast,” she said in Greek. “Two hundred plus people have been sent home with minor injuries. Death toll just reached three hundred and eleven. Estimated to be well over four hundred by tonight or tomorrow. Revolutionary Strength officially claimed ownership of the bomb, called it in to the local CNN five minutes