Covered By A Kiss Read online

  It was the thought of either one of them stepping out into this plush lobby that prompted him to wrap his hand around TR's arm and tug her toward the hallway. She followed him—for two steps. Then she dug her heels in and refused to budge.

  Not that he couldn't move her if he wanted to—she was a tiny thing, with more sass than size. It would be nothing to throw her over his shoulder and haul her off—

  He damn near laughed at the idea. Yeah, he could go all fucking caveman on her—if he relished the idea of having his balls kicked up to his throat. TR would do it, too, of that he had no doubt.

  One glance at her made him wonder if she was already considering doing just that. Her chin was lifted in a defiant tilt that sent her thick black hair cascading down her back. And those clear eyes of her, so blue they matched a summer sky, sparked with some kind of emotion. Impatience? Irritation? A silent dare?

  Hell if he knew. But he was smart enough to drop his hand and take a step back.

  I need a date.

  What the fuck did that even mean? Why was she here, after he'd done his best to scare her off all those months ago?

  Mac opened his mouth, ready to ask that exact question, when she placed one fist on her denim-clad hip and narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  He sucked in a deep breath, mentally counted to three to control his voice, then narrowed his own eyes. "I was going to take you back to my office but if you'd rather have this discussion here—"

  "No, your office is fine." Her gaze darted to the side, just for a split-second, and he had the impression she was trying to hide a flash of disappointment. What the fuck she had to be disappointed about was beyond him. He didn't bother to question her, just simply turned and headed down the hallway without a word, knowing from the sound of her footsteps that she was following him. He shortened the length of his strides, not wanting to get too far ahead of her. If he did, she'd never find her way through the dizzying maze of hallways and doors.

  He finally reached his office and pushed open the door, standing to the side so TR could enter in front of him. She brushed past him then hesitated, her body flinching as the door closed with a soft click. Mac tamped down the desire to reassure her and stepped over to his desk, lowering his bulky weight into the chair and shifting to get comfortable.

  TR's gaze scanned the small room. He briefly wondered what she'd been expecting. A well-lit corner office with a view? A room decorated with expensive accents designed to impress? Not fucking likely, not in their line of work. The computer system on the work station behind him was state-of-the-art but everything else was bare-bones functional. The desk, the two chairs, the filing cabinet he had accidentally dented the first week he'd had it—they were there to serve a purpose and nothing else. There were no windows, no potted plants, no personal touches at all—unless you counted his go-bag tossed in the corner where he'd dropped it thirty minutes ago.

  He waited another minute, watching TR as she continued to study the office before finally settling in the stiff-backed chair across from him. Silence filled the room, heavy with expectancy, tight with tension. His? Hers? Maybe a little of both.

  He leaned back in the chair, his gaze giving nothing away as he watched her.

  The silky thickness of her black hair. The way the long strands clung to her fingers when she pushed a thick hank behind her ear. The sparkle of light as it hit her earring, reflecting back at him with flashes of red and orange and blue. The way the fringed hem of her long sweater clung to her thigh as she shifted in the chair. The glimpse of creamy flesh peeking from the V-neck of the linen blouse.

  He swallowed and dropped his gaze, watching as she crossed her long legs. The whisper of leather brushing against leather filled the silence when her boots rubbed against each other as she shifted once more. The impatient sway of her foot was almost hypnotic—back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Restless. Nervous.

  And totally at odds with the woman he knew. TR wasn't restless, and she certainly didn't get nervous.

  "What do you want, TR?" Did the gruff impatience of his voice bother her? If it did, she didn't let it show. She simply tilted that chin up a notch and met his steady gaze with one of her own.

  "You."

  Chapter Three

  You. I need you.

  TR's quiet voice echoed around the small room, the words ringing in his ear with the force of an explosion.

  You.

  Fuck.

  How many times had he dreamed of hearing those words? Too many. But dreams were one thing—reality was something completely different. He didn't deserve to hear them. Not a year ago. Not now.

  And fuck! Thank God he had a poker face because her answer damn near floored him. It was the last thing he expected to hear her say. From the pale flush staining her cheeks, it was probably the last thing she had expected to say. Her lids fluttered, those dark lashes creating a shadow against her smooth skin. Her foot stopped swaying as she uncrossed her long legs; a dull thud echoed in the quiet room as the heel of her boot connected with the carpeted floor.

  "I mean—" She cleared her throat and shot a quick glance in his direction through those fringed eyes. "I want to hire you."

  "Hire me."

  A flash of temper flared in her clear blue eyes, there and gone before he really had time to register it. "Yes. Hire you."

  "For what?"

  "I told you: I need a date."

  "Tabitha—"

  "Don't call me that. You know I hate that name."

  Yeah, he did—which was why he used it. Better to have her get pissed and storm off before he did something fucking stupid. "Tabitha, this isn't an escort service—"

  "I know that—"

  "It's a security service specializing in high-risk operations—"

  "I know that. I still want to hire—"

  "You can't afford me. Us."

  Her pale eyes heated with another flash of anger, this one lasting more than a few seconds. She leaned forward and placed one hand on the edge of his desk, her fingers tightening until the knuckles turned white. Mac was positive she was pretending the desk was his neck, and that she was happily strangling him in her mind.

  He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breathe. He just sat there watching her, waiting to see what she would do next.

  Hoping she would simply get up and leave. What would he do then? Would he go after her, or let her walk out?

  He'd let her walk out, just like he'd done nearly a year ago. Let her? Hell, he'd practically tossed her out the door, wounding her pride just enough to make sure she never came back. She deserved more than he could ever give her and that was the only way he knew to cut whatever ties had unexpectedly grown between them.

  He was a fucking ass. The fact that he was sitting here, practically doing the same damn thing again, was proof of that.

  The heavy silence was finally broken by the small sound TR made—a cross between a growl and a sigh of frustration. She reached into the large purse hanging from her shoulder, her gaze never leaving his.

  "Don't you even want to know why I'm asking? Why I would humiliate myself by even coming here?"

  Humiliate? He hadn't thought of it that way, hadn't considered how she might feel seeing him again. Hadn't considered what kind of effect coming here would have on her.

  He started to ask, thought better of it, then changed his mind and opened his mouth. What should have been a simple question came out as bellow, the roar echoing off the walls of the small room.

  "What the fuck is that?"

  TR jumped, her surprise clear in the way she flinched. A furious blush stained her cheeks as she tried to push the weapon back into her purse. "It's...nothing."

  "Nothing, hell." Mac moved around the desk with a lightning speed that caught her off-guard. He yanked the purse from her hand and reached in, pulling out the shitty peashooter she was probably calling a gun.

  He tossed the purse to the desk, his gaze focused on the small Beretta 950 Jetf
ire. The safety was on, thank God for small miracles. He released the clip and sat it behind him on the desk, then racked the slide to clear the chamber. Empty—another small miracle. The .25 caliber handgun might be a peashooter of a pocket gun, but it could still do damage in the wrong hands.

  And TR's feminine hands were definitely the wrong hands.

  "Why the fuck do you even have this thing? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

  "I have a permit."

  She was lying, he could see it in the way her gaze dropped to the desk behind him. He didn't call her out on it, though. He simply moved across the room and placed the empty weapon in the top drawer of the filing cabinet then quietly locked it.

  "Hey! That's mine—"

  "You don't even know how to use it."

  "I do, too. I've taken lessons."

  God save him from civilians who had taken lessons. Didn't she know how many people were killed with their own handguns each year, because they either didn't know how to use them—or were afraid to use them when the time came? Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. He wasn't going to lecture her, not now. Not until he found out why she felt the need to go around armed.

  "What's going on, TR?"

  "I told you: I need a date."

  Mac swallowed a growl of frustration as he moved toward her. He leaned forward and placed one hand on each arm of the chair, imprisoning her with his size, with his nearness. She sat back, trying to put distance between them, but she had nowhere to go, not when she was trapped in the chair. Her head tilted back, her eyes widening as he leaned in even closer.

  "What's going on, TR?" He repeated the question, his voice low and gruff, barely more than a whisper. Her gaze met his and for the briefest second, panic and worry clouded the clear blue of her eyes. Then her chin tilted up just a fraction of an inch, her shoulders stiffening with determination.

  "I told you: I need a date. That's it."

  Chapter Four

  The morning had been a complete failure. TR tried to ignore the disappointment, tried to tell herself it didn't matter. She hadn't really expected Mac to agree. Why would he? Especially after he'd made his position clear all those months ago.

  Maybe if she had told him why—

  She shook her head, mentally shoving the thought away. Telling him why would just give him another reason to say no and open up the doors to one more lecture. He'd already lectured her on the hazards of carrying a gun illegally—and okay, maybe it was a stupid thing to do. She still wasn't sure why she'd started carrying it, not that it mattered anymore since the thing was now locked up in his office. But she didn't need another lecture from him and that's what he'd give her if she told him why she needed a date—only this time, the lecture would be on the wisdom of getting involved in something that was nothing more than a wild goose chase.

  But what if it wasn't a wild goose chase? What if there really was something to the email she'd received?

  TR clicked open the tab for her email program then quickly scrolled through the folders, finally choosing the one labeled "Shopping". Misfiling the message wouldn't stop anyone from finding it, not if they were really looking. Her work email was secure—to a point. Her passwords were long and confusing—to a point. But enough to stop anyone who was determined to break into the system?

  Not even close.

  She wasn't foolish enough—or naive enough—to believe that anything on her computer was even remotely secure. If it was hooked to the internet or stored in a cloud somewhere, it was fair game. Her private files were backed-up and stored offline. Drafts, stories, research, notes, contacts, all of it. The only way anyone could get to those files was by stealing one of her thumb drives—and she had three of them. One was always with her, one was locked up in her home office, and the other was stored here at work.

  Paranoid? Maybe just a little. But she'd lost all her work before. Not once, but twice. That would be enough to make anyone paranoid.

  Not that anyone would actually steal her stuff. There was nothing to steal. Her stories were mostly human-interest pieces, like the series she had done on the Chesapeake Blades and the new women's hockey league. Not exactly fluff, but not exactly earth-shattering, either.

  Which made the email she had received two weeks ago all the more puzzling.

  She clicked on it now, frowning as she read it for what must be the millionth time.

  There's more to the new defense complex than you think. Look deeper. Follow the money. Follow your instinct.

  TR had no idea what the message meant. The defense complex was nothing more than a new training facility being constructed just outside Frederick, on a sprawling parcel of land that might be in the middle of nowhere but wasn't exactly secluded. The facility was small, hardly large enough to be called a complex, practically inconsequential when compared to other facilities. It wasn't even that important, in the grand scheme of things. She was covering it for a story she was working on, weighing the economic benefits to the area against the destruction of a potentially historic piece of land. It wasn't exactly an earth-shattering story.

  So who sent the message? And why? Were they even referring to the same project?

  TR had no idea and part of her wondered if maybe she was being pranked. Maybe one of her new co-workers thought it would be funny to pull her into a cloak-and-dagger mystery then sit back and watch her run around chasing her tail.

  Maybe.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Follow your instinct.

  TR closed her eyes, tried to empty her mind of everything else and focus on what her gut was telling her. If it was just the email, she'd give it a half-hearted look then let it go. But getting the invitation to the New Year's Eve party five days after receiving the email? A party being hosted by the same Senator who just happened to be the driving force behind the new facility?

  The same Senator who had given her the run-around when she initially contacted him for an interview only to suddenly be available today? The week between Christmas and New Year's, when Congress wasn't even in session?

  That was too much of a coincidence, especially since she had only spoken to the Senator exactly one time before—every other contact had been through his office. One conversation, and suddenly she was being invited to a black-tie affair to ring in the new year?

  No, she wasn't buying it. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the invitation. Maybe the Senator's assistant had accidentally added her name to the wrong list. Or maybe the invitation was nothing more than a subtle attempt at bribery: invite the reporter from the small paper to a party. Impress her in the hopes of garnering a favorable review when she wrote the article.

  TR snorted, the indelicate sound echoing around her. No, she still wasn't buying it. If the paper was bigger than a regional weekly and if she covered local or national politics and if she had built her name up for something other than human interest pieces...then maybe it might make sense. If the story had even a remotely political slant, then maybe she'd buy it.

  But it didn't. Not even close.

  So why had she been invited? And who had sent the email? And what the hell did it all mean?

  Not going to the party wasn't an option. She'd go alone if she had to but she'd definitely feel more comfortable if someone went with her. That was why she'd finally decided to break down and go see Mac this morning. She could mingle, ask questions, maybe even do a little snooping if Mac was with her. Nobody would think twice of questioning him and she had no doubt he'd keep her safe if she got caught.

  But who would keep her safe from him?

  She swallowed back a small growl of frustration at the thought. It was a moot point anyway—he'd told her no, in no uncertain terms. She certainly wasn't going to beg him. She'd simply go by herself, no big deal.

  TR shoved all thoughts of Mac from her mind and closed out of the programs she had running before shutting the computer down. She'd already wasted too much time—she had the meeting with the Senator in two hours and she'd b
e lucky to make it to his office on Capitol Hill in time. Traffic into DC was always a nightmare. Maybe she'd have better luck taking 295 instead of I-95.

  Or maybe she'd skip the drive altogether and just take the MARC train down. That would probably be the best thing to do. The train ticket and parking at Penn Station would be a lot cheaper than parking anywhere in DC, and she wouldn't have to deal with the headache of driving.

  Her mind made up, she grabbed her oversized tote bag and headed into the ladies' restroom to change. It was a small paper and the office dress code was relaxed—as in, almost nonexistent—but no way was she going to meet a US Senator wearing jeans.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in tailored black slacks and low-heeled shoes, she was walking out the door. She'd have plenty of time on the train to review the questions she wanted to ask the Senator. And, with any luck, maybe her subconscious would work overtime and figure out what to do about that cryptic email.

  And not think about the image of Mac dressed in a tux.

  Chapter Five

  He couldn't sleep.

  Mac rolled to his side and glanced at the clock with a grunt. He'd managed to doze, but only in fits and starts. Would it be worth it to stay here in bed and try again?

  No, it wouldn't. Not when he couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. He tried to tell himself the feeling was nothing more than his imagination, that the subtle uneasiness washing over him had more to do with his surprise visitor this morning than anything else.

  Seeing TR had rattled him more than he cared to admit. Not just her visit—that was surprising enough by itself. But for her to show up after nearly a year—

  For a fucking date.

  He didn't buy it this morning, and he wasn't buying it now. A date? Oh hell no. The woman was up to something.

  But what?

  Maybe that's why he was so uneasy, why he couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. The mere thought of TR being up to something was enough to make the man upstairs shudder with worry. Mac—being a mere mortal—should probably be shaking in his size thirteen boots.