Doubled And Redoubled (Xmas/new years)

[Washington DC, present day, sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve]

Buffy’s heels clicked along the nearly empty halls of the main offices of the CIA, her trim silk suit both conservative and sexy, a perfect fit for her persona as the Boss Man’s high-clearance secretary. Only he and she knew that she was still more, still did runs that no one else could manage, especially of the ‘recovery’ variety. Nice word for stealing, that, and all in the service of Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

Things were better here anyway, she thought as she leaned close for a retinal scan, then went on her way. Better still since she’d gotten her spot at the top. She could refuse any job she wanted… and she just had. No way was she going to work with William Spike, Agent 0013, ever again. Fucking bastard had damn near torpedoed her career five years past, and she’d never even figured out why. They’d been successful, managed to get out of a very tight spot due to a lucky prisoner exchange, and the heat between them still burned in her memory, even when she tried to shove it away. Brutally. Repeatedly.

Oh, fucking face it, Summers, none of the men you’ve had since compared to that frantic moment in prison with him. Bastard. Or before, if she were honest with herself. And he’d cut her off like last week’s codes immediately after the mission in Taiwan. Hell, before, while they were still on that damned bus to freedom. Didn’t speak to her in the debriefing, didn’t see her get her medal. Didn’t try to pursue the heat. And she found herself ever-so-politely shuffled away from anything resembling a mission of importance, and finally shuffled right back overseas and into the CIA again.

No, she wouldn’t be working with him again. They’d have to get the second-best sneak thief and agent in the world, because the best? Just wasn’t interested anymore.

Even if she did feel badly for telling the Boss Man ‘thanks,’ but no thanks.’

She swiped her ID card and gave a thumbprint check, and headed for the suite of offices she and the Boss Man shared. Practically her home, they were, a complete apartment tucked in behind them, where she spent more nights than she did in her home just across the state line in Maryland.

Regardless of where she hung her hat, or when, the holiday season was a perfect time to catch up on the mundane crap that was part of her official persona, and since she’d no one to spend the holidays with, coming in tonight made sense. Boss Man would be there anyway. And who knew what other interesting tasks might come across her desk, giving her first shot at claiming the job? Being the job was better, easier than being the woman. The job would only kill her. Being the woman would get her heart broken.

Half-smiling, she sat down at her desk and pulled her keyboard to her, tapping in the multiple passwords needed for her clearance. Activating the phone intercom, she merely said, “Hey, Boss Man. Back.” And then she got to work, a cup of coffee gently steaming at her elbow.

Spike walked along the long hallway, flashing his visitors badge every few seconds as a new layer of security wanted to know what he was doing on the premises. How very American... they alwaya overdid things, didn't they?

He finally reached the offices of the head of covert operations, and buzzed... making sure to stand directly in front of the camera so that the occupants of the room would see him.

Buffy raised her head, curious as to who would need to be buzzed in at this hour, on a holiday. The workaholics were already in, and the ones with families were decidedly out. When her eyes landed on the screen, though, she knew exactly why he was here. Apparently, Agent 0013 didn't know how to take no for an answer. Only how to give it.

Angrier than she'd thought possible at seeing that gorgeous mouth, those slashing cheekbones, the blonde hair and bright blue eyes again, reproduced faithfully even with the black and white screen --and how in the hell could she see the exact color of his eyes in black and white? Memory was a stone bitch-- Buffy stabbed at the intercom button again. "Boss Man. Agent William Spike is a-tapping at our chamber door. I guess I have to let him in, don't I? Please say I can send him away? Pretty, pretty please?" Bitter amusement colored her tone; she knew perfectly well she couldn't do any such thing. And Boss Man knew she knew it.

"'Fraid not, Hot Stuff. Buzz him on through." She sighed, even after the connection clicked off. And then she did as she was told. Features composed, blonde hair in an impeccable and elegant twist, blue silk suit barely wrinkled even after hours of work, she slid her heels back on and freshened her lipstick. All right, the lipstick didn't matter at this hour, and the shoes wouldn't make her any taller behind her desk, but damned if she'd face the man who'd nearly destroyed her career barefoot. It was psychological.

Spike walked along the long hallway, flashing his visitors badge every few seconds as a new layer of security wanted to know what he was doing on the premises. How very American... they alwaya overdid things, didn't they?

He finally reached the offices of the head of covert operations, and buzzed... making sure to stand directly in front of the camera so that the occupants of the room would see him.

Buffy raised her head, curious as to who would need to be buzzed in at this hour, on a holiday. The workaholics were already in, and the ones with families were decidedly out. When her eyes landed on the screen, though, she knew exactly why he was here. Apparently, Agent 0013 didn't know how to take no for an answer. Only how to give it.

Angrier than she'd thought possible at seeing that gorgeous mouth, those slashing cheekbones, the blonde hair and bright blue eyes again, reproduced faithfully even with the black and white screen --and how in the hell could she see the exact color of his eyes in black and white? Memory was a stone bitch-- Buffy stabbed at the intercom button again. "Boss Man. Agent William Spike is a-tapping at our chamber door. I guess I have to let him in, don't I? Please say I can send him away? Pretty, pretty please?" Bitter amusement colored her tone; she knew perfectly well she couldn't do any such thing. And Boss Man knew she knew it.

"'Fraid not, Hot Stuff. Buzz him on through." She sighed, even after the connection clicked off. And then she did as she was told. Features composed, blonde hair in an impeccable and elegant twist, blue silk suit barely wrinkled even after hours of work, she slid her heels back on and freshened her lipstick. All right, the lipstick didn't matter at this hour, and the shoes wouldn't make her any taller behind her desk, but damned if she'd face the man who'd nearly destroyed her career barefoot. It was psychological.

Magnetic locks clanked open in the door before Spike, inviting him to push on through. The other side of the sterile hallway was a comfortably furnished office and reception area, high quality but understated in the extreme. And behind a desk, a blonde looked up and fixed unfriendly green eyes on him. They quickly cleared to an utterly neutral gaze, making him wonder if he'd imagined the hostility. Women didn't usually react this way to him, and that included enemy spies!

"Morning, luv," he strolled over, amused by the rebellious lift of the petite blonde's chin. "Making you work on a holi are they? Hope they're paying you well for it," his gaze slid appreciatively down the curves of her body, and came back to meet her eyes. Had they met before?

"Probably better than they pay you, Agent Spike," Buffy replied in a cool, bored tone. "Go on through." She bit back the temptation to tell him that his trip had been utterly wasted, the temptation to make a snide remark regarding his skills, the fierce need to make a hateful dig for what he'd tried to do to her, years ago. None of that would solve anything, or make her feel better about the past. And she'd already told him no on the most important issue, anyway. And her boss was about to do it again. A tiny smile crept across her lips, barely even there.

You're probably right about that," he agreed. MI5's payscale wasn't the highest, but no one did this job for the love of money. Then again, the agency was quite generous with its flashy toys and had an excellent budget. "Might make a bit of sense for you to take me to breakfast, then. After I talk your boss into seeing a bit of sense," he smiled, wanting nothing more at this moment than to thaw out the ice chips in her eyes.

"Ooh," she said with mock regret. "A world of 'I have to wash my hair.' Sorry," she said, sounding anything but.

"Really?" His lifted an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind skipping breakfast and giving you a hand with your hair." Seeing her gaze drop to his hands, he decided there was potential here. "Been told I'm good with them. My hands," he clarified when she looked back up.

"Some people will say anything when they're notching their bedpost," she murmured offhandedly, furious at the jerk low in her belly at the tactile memories that assailed her when her gaze fell on his hands. Good with them would be an understatement! "Boss Man's waiting. Go on through. And quit harassing the hired help," she added with petty viciousness. "We frown on abusing one's position here."

"Gossip mill has a far reach, does it?" This one must object to his reputation. He'd reached the door to the adjoining office, when he turned to look at her again. That last comment was familiar... it couldn't be....

"No, Agent, I deal in facts. And one that immediately leaps to mind is you've traveled a long way on short notice; corollary: you're wasting time now." She didn't mention whose. Or how much. Like, the whole trip. Though she didn't bother resisting taking a glance at his ass as he went in. It was still fabulous. Too bad he wore its twin on his shoulders.

*

Five minutes later, her intercom buzzed. "Hot Stuff, need you in here a moment."

"Coming, Boss Man," she said without hesitation, securing her computer and rising from her desk to enter the room, a steno-pad held as a prop in her hand. Had to keep up the illusion, after all.

If it had been anyone other than the curvy ice princess, Spike might have complained. He needed resolution and needed it quickly, and there was no reason to go through several intermediaries to get to Buffy Summers. This was why he'd come straight to the head of covert operation of the CIA.

His gaze was still traveling down the length of her legs when his gaze snapped back up to her face.

"Put the pad down agent Summers," Stone slipped back into professional mode. "As I'm sure you are aware, this is agent 0013. It seems our British friends have gotten wind of something potentially catastrophic and need our help saving the world."

Summers... Buffy.... A good twenty years ago, Spike's mouth might have dropped open as he gawked at her. Now, his gaze brushed over her face as he put things 'in place' in his mind. Yes, this was Summers. And she'd put one over on him again! If he'd listened to the urgings of his body instead of relying on his sight, he would have figured it out.

"You will be traveling with agent double-oh... Agent Spike to Paris. He will give you the details en route. You leave at..."

"In two hours," Spike supplied, an amused smile playing about his mouth.

"I... leave. In two hours. Sir," she said, glaring at Spike, "I was under the impression that this mission had been turned down. What's changed, exactly?" The glare switched to her boss, tempered with respect.

"They need the best," Stone said simply. "They need you, and you're going."

Her eyes flashed green fire and her lips thinned. "I work alone," she reminded her boss. "Always have." Since Taiwan, anyway. Agent Spike had made sure of that, and then she'd found that it was better that way. Taking a dance partner along on a dangerous sneak and snatch was a serious no-no, anyhow. Only got you hurt.

"Not this time," he told her, sympathy behind his steely eyes.

"I'm sure we'll deal famously," Spike smoothly interjected.

She glared at him again. "Whatever."

"MI5 appreciates your cooperation." He knew she had cause for those sparks shooting from her eyes, but this wasn't the time or place for discussions.

Stone cleared his throat. "And the CIA is happy to cooperate." It was clear that when he said the name of his agency, he meant Summers.

"Thrilled," Buffy interjected, her tone clearly saying she'd rather be back in a smelly Taiwanese prison. Alone.

"That's wonderful." Spike smiled at her and didn't even manage to thaw the ice around her edges. She was hard... or had grown hard. "Right, I'll see you at the airport, then."

She snorted delicately, left the room for less than thirty seconds though a door behind Stone's desk, and returned with a small roller case and a hefty shoulder bag. "I would be ready now."

*

A few hours later, they were seated next to each other on the airplane and already half way to Paris. Ordinarily, traveling by Concord was a big plus, but he had to admit that he was having difficulty breaking through her defenses and that a longer travel plan might have worked out better.

She appeared to be happy to discuss the details of their mission, but refused to let him have his say about Taiwan. He decided to try again.

Dragging his errant gaze away from her nimble fingers stroking the base of her martini glass, he turned to her. "I've found it's best to clear the air before going on a mission. There's history between us; we need to discuss it."

"Really don't," she returned.

"You're angry. I'm not saying you don't have cause to be, but if you'd listen—"

"You want me to listen? Talk about the mission. Just the mission. If it's that your ego is hurt that I'm not falling all over myself with excitement at working with you again, get over it. If it's that you have to be acknowledged as attractive, fine. You're as hot as two cats fucking in a wool sock," she informed him, deliberately crass. "But that's as personal as we're getting, Spike. Back off."

His mouth tightened. Instead of pursuing the matter, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a diamond engagement ring. "It's a good thing you find me attractive as we'll be real close over the next twenty four hours, seeing as I'm a wealthy executive interested in investing in some of the Russian territories, oil exploration and the like, and you're my gold-digging fiancée. That means you'll be on draping duty," he drawled.

"It's your outside I think is hot," she hissed. "Definitely not the inside. If there even is an inside," she jabbed, poking him in the chest with her fore-finger even as her other hand, without ever seeming to leave her lap, was suddenly sporting the diamond on its fourth finger. "I can play the part. I can play any part. Even with a loathsome co-star."

"Right. Therein lies the problem," he muttered, gripping her finger and hand, holding it for a few seconds and releasing. He didn't need this reminder of how her hands felt on him... all over him, how she panted and called his name... how it affected him, even when he'd thought she was a man.

The flight attendant arrived at his side. "Another martini, Mr. Spike?"

"Thank you," he smiled back and accepted the drink. "Would you like something, Buffy?" He could tell she was going to hold even this against him.

Buffy didn't jerk her hand from his grasp, but it was a near thing. She did, however, wipe her fingers across her skirt, hoping to erase his touch, warm and strong and altogether too affecting for a professional. And she was a professional.

So she steeled herself and began working immediately. "Please, darling," she purred, laying her hand with the glittering diamond artfully on his forearm and stroking lightly. Speaking to him, rather than the stewardess, she added, "Cosmopolitan.”

Not missing a beat, he put his own hand over hers to make sure she didn't withdraw it too quickly, and looked up. "Cosmo, with cranberry juice."

"Yes sir," giving the pair a speculative look, the flight attendant walked away.

"The ring suits you. As do skirts and heels," he said, still holding her. Bloody hell... if only he'd known in Taiwan.

“Thank you, darling.” Beneath the cover of his hand, her nails dug sharply into his forearm through jacket and shirt alike. Tilting her head winningly to the side, she gazed lovingly at him and cooed softly, "Let go or lose the use of your thumb for six to eight weeks."

He brushed the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand, before releasing her. "You seem tense, pet. Would you like me to give you a quick massage? I've been told I'm quite good," he said, looking at her slender neck... recalling what her skin tasted like, felt like under his mouth.

Buffy's spine tightened, even in her languid pose, and the light caress had her insides humming with tactile memories. Brutally, she quashed them. Professional. Business. Fate of the world. Career-torpedoing bastard. "Really?" Her lips parted artfully as she slowly withdrew her hand. "How much were you paying them?"

*

Buffy eyed the narrow swath of shimmering silk with a jaundiced eye. "This dress will not work," she informed Spike flatly. "Nowhere to conceal things."

When they'd arrived at the hotel, she'd firmly locked the bathroom door behind her and taken a long... very long Jacuzzi bath. Realizing she intended to stay in there as long as she could, he'd nipped out and found her a suitable dress. "On the contrary, darling, it will suit you right down to the ground. Trust me," already he imagined the dress showing her curves off to best advantage, and the plunging neckline.

Crossing the room, he opened a drawer and pulled out some straps with flat pockets. "Inner thighs... anything you can't fit, I will carry." He looked over at her. "Would you like some help putting them on? They're a bit tricky."

"Hell, no," she returned. "And have you ever even heard of chafing? My God, those things only work in movies." Still, she took the apparatus from his hands and looked it over, trying to think of a way to make it work. Her picks, sure... but the mini-comp? Smaller than a Blackberry, it still wasn't exactly designed for inner-thigh wear. She'd been planning on the small of her back. Purses were… sometimes searched. Even if the mini-comp did look like a fancy phone. But that... excuse for a dress he was trying to talk her into... it didn't even have a damned back –just a web of complicated, narrow straps, interlacing in a web that looked guaranteed to tangle with everything it touched, and to make dressing alone an impossibility! Purse, then, she sighed internally.

Damn the equipment, he wanted to see her in the dress. "Try it on." His voice grew husky as he imagined the shimmering lemon yellow material clinging to her, its folds slipping between her legs as she walked. "Buffy. Try it."

"Summers," she corrected him in a hiss, hating that a coil of warmth pooled deep inside at her real name spoken in his husky accent, in that voice made for sin. It made her want to give throwing her arms around him and kissing the breath out of him another try, with a more satisfactory ending than the one on the airfield in Taiwan... or in the prison cell. On the bed. Tumbling together. Naked. Sweaty. Panting. Penetrating. Fuck!

"And there's not time to play dress-up in a dress that will. not. work," she added in a female growl, hoping the change in tone would come across as the pure anger she wanted to feel, and not as a giveaway hint of arousal.

"Oh... it will work," he promised, "it will distract, confuse, and arouse any red blooded male in the security detail and they'll completely understand why I need a moment alone with my fiancée, when we disappear."

As he expertly started to undo the complicated web of eyelet hooks on the back of the dress, he knew security wouldn't be the only ones with that problem. If only she'd listen to him. He was sure they would end up in bed, finishing what they'd started... it was a matter of time. And why not now? It would ease the tension between them.

"Fine," Buffy grumbled ungraciously, not missing the flick of his bluer than blue eyes toward the enormous bed, and turned her back to him, dropping her lounging pants to reveal bare feet and long tanned legs rising to smooth rear delineated by a plain cream thong beneath her practical tank top. "I'll try it." She could be professional about this. It was just another job. Had to be.

He stepped towards her, and when she did nothing about that tank top, he took matters into his own hands. He put his hands on her hips, resisting the sudden urge to pull her up against him, to grind against her the way he'd tried not to when they'd jumped off that building together so long ago. Slowly, he slid her top up, letting his fingers trail up the warm skin he exposed. "Lift your arms," he whispered near her ear.

A quivering tension filled her, and Buffy fought valiantly against the urge to lean back against him, to draw those hands forward to cup her breasts. She bit her lower lip, hard, and raised her arms without a single rude comment.

His breaths came out faster as he pulled the top over her head and glanced over her shoulder. How the bloody hell had he bought it... thought she was a man?

"Wish I'd seen you like this," he muttered, quickly putting the dress above her head before she could fight him.

Buffy sputtered beneath the folds of lemon-yellow silk, soft as a cloud, and shimmied to make it fall away from her face faster. ""What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he countered, cursing lightly at the way she moved. He ran his hand across her belly, smoothing the material to bring enough of it to her back and start hooking it.

"Really don't," she snapped, angry that even that impersonal touch made her want things from him that would be disastrous. To her reputation, to her career, to her sense of self, all painfully rebuilt after Taiwan.

"The last time I took you to a party, you wore wore a tuxedo," he clarified. His hand skimmed over gossamer strings and silky smooth skin, warm under his palms... he know how hot it could get with a bit of exertion. If he'd known then, what he knew now... there was a chance he would have ripped that tuxedo right off her, taken her on the ride up to the party the elevator. She'd been willing then, he thought, feeling her stiffen under his touch. "Let me explain, Buffy—"

"I don't want to hear it," she said flatly, and moved forward enough that his body heat wasn't leaping across the space between them and tingling along her bare spine. "Just hook the damned dress already."

Quickly, he finished up and turned her around to face him. The dress clung and draped to her figure just the way he'd though. His heated gaze traveled down her neck line, all the way to where the material started just above her navel. "Summers. You clean up nice." Too nice. He swayed toward her, instinctively seeking her mouth with his.

Captured by those brilliant blue eyes, she lifted her head enough to slant her mouth against his, moaning deep in her throat at his taste, which she remembered perfectly even after five years. Her fists clenched at her sides even as her lips parted invitingly.

One simple touch, mouth against mouth, and here he was in the grips of explosive heat, wanting her, needing her... needing this. He kissed her fiercely, with a hunger that had unconsciously simmered over the years and now roared to life full force.
Cas: He gripped her arms, dragged her up hard against him, held her in place as he probed every corner of her mouth, his tongue battling hers... thrust and parry, feint... stroke. He was a fool... an arse of the first degree... how had he ever believed she wasn't all woman!

For one heat-driven moment, Buffy fell into the kiss, drunk on his taste and smell, his hands gripping her arms, the desperately needy wet hot hollows of her body screaming to be filled, and then she ripped her mouth from his, shoving against his chest and staggering back. She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes filled with disgust. Not at him. At herself.

He drew in a few harsh breaths, unsettled by the fact he'd gone farther than he'd intended. "Practice run," he managed to say, ignoring her childish gesture. They both knew she'd given as good as she'd gotten.

His ultra thin and undetectable weapons were already on him in the form of various common items, such as his lighter. "Is there anything you need to me to carry for you?" He steadfastly didn't watch as she put her thigh straps on, but that didn't stop him from wishing he were one of them.

Buffy braced first one leg, then the other, on the bed as she placed the straps, filled them, and tested them. They would do, more or less. Not ideal, but she could make them work. "You'll have to carry the mini-comp," she said at last, unable to think of a way to hide it effectively. "Break it, and you've broken the mission, because I don't have anywhere for a back up and recreating that programming on the fly would be more like wading in sludge than moving with anything like speed. Understand?"

She slipped on the frivolous high heels –her own— and added jewelry. Nifty MI5 gadgetry in there. She'd missed that, if nothing else, over the last five years!

"I take good care of anything placed in my hands." Their stint in prison notwithstanding. His fingers brushed hers as he accepted her gadget. The electric jolt that passed between them no longer surprised him, it was now part of the territory, something he'd hal with. "Looks enough like a smartphone not to raise suspicions, he said putting it in his jacket pocket, then putting the Armani on. In a few strides, he was in front of the mirror and putting on his tie, which had a few yellow stripes that matched her dress exactly.

"Riiight," she said, crossing to him and plucking it out of his pocket. "I'll be putting it in my purse, then." She turned away, but his pocket felt no less weighty than it had before. He started to reach for it as she said, "Now we have room for the backup," and tucked her primary into her small, glittering clutch along with a particularly deadly lipstick, some specially designed hairpins, and a tiny bottle that wasn't perfume. And damned if being that close to him, sliding her hand over his shirt and chest, hadn't made her twitchy with need. Again.

For a moment, he'd imagined her going much deeper into his pocket. Right... she hadn't. Forcing his gaze back into the mirror, he finished straightening his tie. "You look fantastically feminine;" he didn't care if that earned him another earful, it was true, and he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

"Girls generally do," she said dryly, smoothing her hair and replacing the lipstick he'd kissed away with a safe tube.

*

Spike had kept his distance during the drive from the hotel to the tower, but once he turned his flashy red car over to the valet, everything changed. Like it or not, Buffy Summers was his plaything for the next hour or so, and he fully expected her to play the role.

"Time to drape all over me, darling," he gave her a suave grin, put his arm through hers and walked into the elevator to join the other well dressed people who'd also been screened before being allowed up.

When the doors opened, they found themselves in the temporary quarters of the Russian embassy. It was clear that they'd been monitored on the way up because almost immediately, each guest was greeted by name and welcomed.

"This is Buffy Eggbertson, my fiance," he said, without batting an eyelash when he felt Buffy squeeze his arm.

"My, what an unusual name." One of the greeters said, looking her over.

"The first name or the last?" He inquired, his mouth quirking. "Never mind, they both match the person. She's very unusual, aren't you darling," he moved his face close to claim a kiss.

She pouted sensuously and addressed the greeter. "Willy does like to tease," she purred, and turned back to him. "Don't you, honeybuns?" She went on tiptoe to accept the kiss, seething inside. There was nothing wrong with Buffy as a name!

He internally winced at the nicknames, but the kiss from the most striking woman in the room went a long way in making up for whatever anyone thought about a 'millionaire' allowing his fiancée to call him honeybuns in public. "Only because you have such a good sense of humor, Buffykins."

The greeter looked at him, then her, then back at him. Blinked. Then told them that the ambassador made it a point to request an introduction sometime during the evening's festivities.

"Certainly," he agreed, then led the way into a large ballroom. "Drape... don't forget to drape…." His gaze clashed with hers. No one said he couldn't enjoy himself.

"Oh, love-muffin," she cooed, and brushed her breasts against his arm as they walked, clinging with both hands in true besotted style to the crook of his off-arm, "how could you ever doubt me?" Her eyes snapped right back at him. He'd started the name game, but she would have him whimpering in twenty minutes. Somehow, though, the image of Spike whimpering didn't involve gooey-sweet nicknames in her mind's eye, though. That vision was more centered on wrapping herself around him and riding him till he begged. Or she did. Whichever. Damnit, no asshole had the right to be so damned fine, and the tux he was wearing made it even harder to keep her mind on her work.

"Didn't. Not for one minute." His gaze held hers. He knew, and had always known that Billy or Buffy... was one hell of an operative. "Not ever."

"Liar," she returned, gazing adoringly up into his eyes and managing to pinch his toes with her heel subtly but painfully. "Let's stick to tonight, shall we, sugarbritches?"

To his credit, he showed no signs of discomfort. Of course she'd known he would have no choice. "Excellent plan. The flaw is that it will be impossible to execute." He brought his mouth down over hers in a punishing kiss, and there they were – back in Tawain. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest... only this time he molded her close to him, her feminine curves validating the feelings she managed to stir up in him.

Unprofessional? Only because it wasn't an act. Otherwise, his conduct fell well within the plan.

A torrent of memory washed over her, making her melt against him. Sparks whirled and shattered behind her eyes at the power of that kiss, and Buffy felt her libido catch fire as she slid her arms inside Spike's exquisitely tailored jacket, her hands eager to explore the heat of his skin and the shape of his back. Just as eager as her mouth, which opened and clung, tongue dueling with Spike's for supremacy at first, and then drawing him in with a hunger that had only grown in the last five years. She kissed him until she couldn't breathe, and then did it some more.

Good natured laughter broke out around them, although Spike made out some vulgar comments in Russian that were interspersed with otherwise banal English phrases such as "lucky man." Immediately, he profiled and picked out the security team members. "Very lucky," he drawled, putting his hand lightly over his fiance's backside, as if to say she was his.

Taking a calming breath, he passed her a champagne flute. She was as intoxicating as the sparkling liquid... it was a good thing he was good at keeping his head.

Buffy contrived to flush delicately through the simple expedient of holding her breath and tightening her lungs for a moment, sending blood flowing into her face. Smiling shyly at the commentors, she allowed Spike's hand on her rear to seem to be the impetus for her hips swaying forward, brushing against his as though she couldn't wait to bed him. Who was she kidding? She couldn't wait to bed him. Job, job, job, she chanted in her mind, furious at the effect he had on her.

When he handed her a flute, she sipped delicately at it before backing off a trifle even as she looked up at him as though he were the center of her world. Bastard. He'd ripped the center out, and she'd do well to remember that on this mission. "Thank you, sweetums," she murmured.

"Careful. Might start believing you, yeah?" He could tell she was furious... could guess as to her reasons. They'd have to sort this out eventually. Whether she wanted to or not. Whatever was between them was too strong to be denied.

She tossed back her head and trilled a laugh, as though he'd said something clever, amusing, or adoring. Perhaps even all three at once. "Oh, no, lover," she purred as their eyes met again. "That would be a bad idea," she smiled. "Since you are here on a business trip, after all. I'm just glad you have a little time for me tonight.”

"We'll see." His fingers dug into her side as he internally vowed not to let her get away. She might not forgive him, she might hate him, but she would not deny him what they both wanted.

"Good evening, Mr. Spike..."

The next thirty minutes were spent socializing and discussing investment prospects in Russia over the next decade. While Spike kept the conversation flowing, he continued to mark undercover security and squeeze or pat his fiancée at just the right moment, making sure none of them missed the clues of his rising libido.

Then suddenly, he excused them and dragged her to the nearest exit, nuzzling her neck and barely concealing his groping. "Are they buying it?" he asked, unwilling to raise his head to look.

Buffy tipped her head back, panting with artfully contrived passion. Well, it would have been contrived if Spike didn't have such a damned way with his tongue! Eyes slitted half-shut, she noted that the security detail and undercover gun-toters were already turning back to scan the rest of the crowd, clearly convinced that her 'Willy' was about to have his way with her on the concrete stairs. Moaning, she answered. "Yes, yes, oh, God yes, Willy! I can't wait for you any longer, baby!"

"Bloody hell, when you say it like that—" Spike held onto her a moment longer than necessary, then nodded for her to move. They had to climb twenty stories, get the goods and be back within a half hour. If the guards searched for them any sooner... they'd have to go to plan B.

He waited as she removed the heels and lifted her skirts, and they were off at a steady pace. If his gaze lingered on her arse, he felt no guilt. None this time around. Only a blind man wouldn't look.

"Doesn't mean anything," she hissed as she started moving up twenty flights like the running machine she'd learned to be, well aware that these stairs had no cameras in them. "Just a damned job, is all." She cut herself no slack, and used the movement to replace the desire that thrummed through her entire system.

"Right." His mouth tightened. "You'll have to train our female agents on faking nipple hard-ons, then. You're quite talented like that."

"Reflex," she shot back, legs pumping faster, breath still coming smooth and strong. She might marry her Stair Master. "Would happen with anyone. I don't get out much."

"Liar," he whispered, once his ego stopped stinging and his thoughts became clearer. He knew how quickly she responded to him, as well as she knew how she affected him. He was experienced enough to see through her charade.


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