Covered By A Kiss: A Cover Six Security Novella Page 5

  "No. No, you don't get to do this."

  "What am I doing?"

  "Making me paranoid in my own home. I'm safe here. Nobody's hiding. Nobody's coming after me. Nobody's going to jump out at me."

  "Never said there was." He stepped further into the living room, frowning when he noticed the safety bar for the sliding glass door was unlatched. He moved over and slid it into place then checked to make sure the door was locked.

  "You should keep the safety bar in place."

  "I do. Every night before I go to bed."

  He gave her a look that let her know what he thought of that then moved down the hallway, stopping to study the small kitchen before moving to the bathroom. TR muttered something under her breath as he pulled back the shower curtain.

  "Do you plan on checking under my bed, too? Because I have to tell you, there's probably a killer dust bunny waiting there, ready to gobble you up."

  Mac allowed himself a small smile at her sarcasm then quickly schooled his face before turning back to her. "Now who's the smartass?"

  "I wasn't being a smartass. I told you, I'm just tired." She spun on her heel, heading toward her bedroom. Mac followed, hesitating for only a second when he caught sight of the bed in the middle of the room.

  Yeah, because seeing a bed in a bedroom was such an unusual thing.

  He gave himself a mental shake and forced his gaze away from the rumpled comforter. Told himself to pay no attention to the pale green sheets or the fluffy pillows—

  Or to the colorful scraps of lace tossed on the dresser against the wall.

  TR must have noticed them at the same time because she rushed over and snagged the bra and matching thong then quickly tossed them into the small hamper. A flush of pink stained her cheeks as she shot a cautious glance in his direction.

  "I, uh, I was running late this morning. I'm usually not this sloppy."

  "I'm not grading you on your housekeeping skills."

  "Oh, goody. Just what are you grading me on? Never mind, I don't want to know." She started past him, her arm brushing against his chest as she moved toward the hallway. "C'mon, Mac. Out. You've scared off all the boogeymen, now it's time for you to leave so I can get some sleep."

  "I thought you were going to have that glass of wine first."

  TR stopped in the hallway, sighing loudly before shooting him an impatient look over her shoulder. Another sigh, then she continued on to the kitchen. "I am. As soon as you leave."

  Mac propped his shoulder against the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining area and simply watched her as she opened a cabinet and pulled down a stemless wine glass. She ignored him as she reached into the refrigerator and grabbed an almost-full bottle of white wine from the top shelf.

  "Just one glass?" His voice held the faintest hint of teasing. The question earned him an impatient frown.

  "Since when do you drink wine?"

  He didn't, not usually. Bourbon was generally his choice of drink but he knew she didn't have any on hand. But he didn't say any of that, just simply shrugged. "Nothing wrong with an occasional glass of wine."

  TR snorted, the sound somehow oddly feminine even as it conveyed both her disbelief and impatience. She poured wine into her glass, corked the bottle, then turned to lean against the counter. Her clear gaze caught his for a few long seconds then slid away.

  "Not going to offer me any, huh?"

  "How about you tell me what you really want first?"

  "Who says I want anything?" And Christ, what a fucking lie that was. What he wanted was her—he had from damn near the first time he'd seen her. Not that it made any difference. He couldn't act on that desire now any more than he could a year ago.

  Could TR tell what he was thinking? Christ, he hoped to fuck not. No, she couldn't, he was positive of it. She was too preoccupied with whatever else was going on to pay any attention to what he was thinking.

  She blew out a tired sigh then raised the glass to her mouth and took a long sip. Only after that did her gaze return to his. Frustration and impatience were reflected in her pale blue eyes, along with apprehension and worry. Her eyes grew a little brighter and the overhead light reflected off the film of moisture that appeared in their depths. Mac's gut clenched when he realized she was going to start crying. And fuck, what the hell was he supposed to do now? He could handle damn near anything thrown his way—bullets, blood, pain. But the sight of those tears growing in TR's eyes? Fuck no. He had no idea what to do. If she started crying—

  TR blinked and the tears were gone, replaced a weariness that made him want to step forward and wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. Mac curled his hands into fists and shoved them in the back pockets of his jeans, afraid he'd do just that.

  He couldn't, no matter how much he might want to.

  "Tell me more about this party you invited me to this morning."

  TR's head snapped up, surprise flashing in her eyes. She took another sip of wine, this one a little longer. "It's just a New Year's Eve party. A black-tie affair down in DC."

  "So I need a tux?"

  Her gaze snapped to his. "You don't need anything. I found someone else to go with me."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Yeah. Ryder's taking me."

  "Who?" Mac frowned, his mind going blank for a frantic second before the name clicked. Ryder. Ryder Hess. Boomer.

  "You know: Ryder. The guy you sent to babysit me a few hours ago?"

  Mac chuckled, the sound rough and edgy and maybe even a little rusty. "He wasn't babysitting, he was keeping an eye on you until I got there—"

  "Which pretty much defines babysitting—"

  "—and Boomer isn't taking you anywhere."

  "Yeah, he is. He said—"

  "He turned you down."

  "He might change his mind."

  "He won't. And he's not taking you. I am."

  "I don't want—"

  "You asked me. I answered."

  "Yeah, and that answer was no. A very vehement no. You were extremely clear—"

  "I changed my mind."

  TR looked like she was ready to dig her heels in and start arguing. Not that Mac could blame her; he wouldn't expect anything else from her, especially after the evening she'd had. But she surprised him by carelessly shrugging her shoulders, like it didn't make any difference to her at all.

  "Fine. Whatever."

  "That's it? No argument?"

  "I'm too tired to argue."

  Mac watched her for a long minute, noticed the strain around her full mouth, the exhaustion in her eyes. Not just exhaustion, but worry as well. He straightened away from the doorjamb and stepped toward her. Stopped. Took a step back and swallowed back a silent growl.

  "You going to tell me what's going on?"

  "Nothing's going on."

  "You know you can talk to me, right?"

  "Mac, there's nothing to talk about. I'm just—" She hesitated for a few seconds, frowning as she stared into the wine glass cupped between her hands. "I'm just working out some different angles on this story and it's giving me fits, that's all."

  Did he believe her? For the most part, yes. But there was something else going on, something she wasn't telling him. He didn't think she was being deliberately evasive, though.

  Should he push? Ask for more details? No, not tonight. He could see the exhaustion on her face, feel the frustration rolling off her. Pushing her would only make her more frustrated—and probably a little angry, as well.

  "Maybe sleeping on it will help."

  Was that relief he saw flash in her eyes? "Yeah. Maybe."

  "Then I'll let you get to sleep." Mac stepped out of the kitchen, waited for her to follow him to the door. "Lock the door behind me."

  "I plan on it."

  He nodded and opened the door then paused, one hand still on the knob. "Come by tomorrow and I'll take you to the range. Show you how to use that peashooter of yours."

  Surprise flashed in her eyes a second befo
re they narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

  "Why not?"

  "Just like that? You're going to take me shooting then give the gun back?"

  "Only if I'm comfortable with you having it back."

  "Fine."

  "And only after you tell me what's going on."

  "I told you, nothing is going on."

  Mac watched her for a long second then stepped toward her, so close their bodies nearly touched. Surprise flared in her eyes and she reached up, placed one hand in the center of his chest. It was the touch of her hand, the slight trembling of her slender fingers, that made him stop and realize what he'd been about to do.

  She didn't push him away—no, she wasn't smart enough to do that, wasn't smart enough to step back and tell him to get lost. And dammit, he could see the need in her gaze, in the way her mouth parted ever so slightly as her tongue darted out and swiped along her lower lip. All he wanted was one taste, one taste to carry him through his lonely nights—

  Fuck.

  What was he doing? Why had he moved so close to her? He needed to step back, put distance between them before he did something they'd both regret.

  No. Something she'd regret. And she would. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but eventually, and sooner rather than later.

  As soon as she realized he wasn't a shining knight but rather a tarnished, jaded rogue.

  Mac took a steadying breath then stepped back, ignoring the disappointment welling in her gaze as her hand dropped to her side. It was that disappointment that made him lean forward once more and press a quick kiss against her forehead. He didn't wait for her response, simply stepped into the hallway and glanced at a spot over her shoulder.

  "We'll talk more tomorrow."

  She nodded then quickly shut the door. Only after he heard the click of the deadbolt being turned did Mac breathe a sigh of relief and turn toward the stairs.

  And wonder what the fuck he'd just done. He should have never touched her, not even for that innocent kiss. Because now he wanted more of her, more than ever before—

  And he knew that could never happen.

  Chapter Ten

  The man sat in the car and watched. He was in no danger of being seen—the car blended in with all the vehicles parked around the complex. The windows were tinted, hiding his silhouette. The rain made things challenging but cracking them two inches prevented condensation from forming. It also stopped people from hesitating and looking around. People were always so afraid of rain, afraid to get wet, afraid to take their time—or take notice of their surroundings.

  But the rain—and the dark of night—were his companions. His assistants.

  Comforting him. Hiding him.

  The man who had accompanied the woman into her apartment was a surprise. He was unknown and, therefore, suspicious. Large. Broad. Muscular. One look had convinced him the man was former military. Possibly a police officer.

  No, not a police officer. There was something too sharp and controlled about his movements, too stealthy, too aware. Military then. Maybe Special Forces. Maybe Black Ops.

  And didn't that make things interesting?

  No matter. He was always up for a challenge. He simply committed the truck's tag number to memory and sat back to watch. To wait.

  Was the man an acquaintance? A friend? Something more? There had been no information about a boyfriend but information was only as reliable as its source—and sometimes, not even then. And his source—his client—was less reliable than he'd prefer.

  Panic did that to people. Made them act before thinking. Made them take steps they wouldn't normally take if they stopped to consider the ramifications first. That was why his client found himself in such an untenable situation.

  More untenable than he realized.

  But the man was paid—paid very well, indeed—to act, not advise, so he would wait and watch and rely on his instinct instead of the haphazard information he'd been given.

  The door of the apartment building opened and the man who had entered twenty minutes earlier walked out. He paused on the sidewalk, the frown on his scarred face visible even from this distance. He glanced around, his frown deepening for a few seconds before he shook his head then returned to his truck and climbed in.

  Breath held, his body as still as a day-old corpse, the man watching didn't move. A few minutes later, the truck was gone and the man was left alone again, a nefarious sentinel hidden by night and shadow.

  Should he go back inside the apartment and continue his search? No. As tempting as the challenge might be—to search while the woman slept, unaware—there was no need. He'd seen enough in the time he had already searched.

  What he was looking for wasn't there, just as it hadn't been in her car.

  Just as he had known it wouldn't be.

  Vandalizing the car had been unnecessary but his client had insisted, certain that it would delay the woman's return to her apartment. The man had considered talking his client out of it then decided against it. His client liked being in control—even if that control was nothing more than an illusion.

  A faint vibration came from his pocket, the movement lasting no more than a second. He pulled the phone out, not bothering to glance at the blacked-out screen. Only one person had this number and he had been expecting the call.

  "Yes." His voice was quiet, well-modulated, giving away nothing that could be used to later describe him.

  Unlike the caller's voice, which was filled with impatience and irritation and—under that—a tell-tale strain. "I expected a report by now. Do you have what I sent you for?"

  "No. It wasn't in either her car or her apartment."

  "Dammit. I need that information. Now. I need to find out what she knows."

  If the man had a sense of humor, he might have chuckled at his client's frustration. He might have even told his client that his expectations were unrealistic, that he was jumping to dangerous conclusions. But his emotions had been leeched from him through years of training, leaving him with nothing but a tightly-reined control.

  And it wasn't his place to share his opinions with the clients.

  The man stared straight ahead, his voice carefully neutral as he spoke. "I believe that she carries any information she might have with her."

  If she had any information—which he suspected she didn't. But his client was too impatient, too frightened, to consider that possibility. The muttered string of profanity was a clear indication of that.

  "Dammit, I'm not paying you for your opinion. I need that information. Now. I need to find out what she knows."

  Did the client realize he had repeated himself? The occurrences were happening more frequently, something the man had noticed the last few weeks. He had become a liability, even though he hadn't yet realized it.

  "I can look again tonight while she's sleeping. Take care of her as well."

  "No, that's too risky. It might raise suspicion if something were to happen to her after this evening's incident." There was a sharp sigh, followed by a long pause of silence.

  The man imagined his client sitting back in his expensive leather chair, his manicured fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He had never met his client in person, wasn't supposed to know who he was.

  But he did. The man had made it a point to know. Had studied him, knew his strengths and weaknesses, knew he had many more of the latter and very few of the former.

  "We need to let things quiet down for a few days. Stand down for now. We can resume our plans at the party. That would probably be a better time to get to her, anyway. I'll be in touch with you before then."

  The party would be the worst time but the man kept his opinion to himself. "Of course, sir." The words spilled into silence, heard only by himself since the call had already been disconnected.

  That was fine with him. Let the client think he was in charge, let him think he was the one making the decisions.

  The man knew better.

  He carefully placed the phone back into his poc
ket, knowing he would dispose of it later tonight. Then he focused his gaze on the building in front of him.

  Thinking. Planning. Relishing the feel of his hands around a slender throat, watching flesh bruise and eyes bulge as the last breath of life escaped the woman's body.

  Imagining the thrust of a blade sliding between his client's ribs, sinking deep into flesh and muscle. Feeling the hot wash of blood rushing over his hands as he twisted the knife, dragging out the moment of death.

  The woman first, then the client.

  He did, after all, have his orders.

  Chapter Eleven

  "What do you know about the Senate Committee on Armed Services?"

  TR would have been disappointed if she expected the question to distract Mac because he didn't even pause before sighting in his target and firing. One shot, then another and another, the sound muted by the hearing protectors she wore. No, he wasn't distracted at all. In fact, he didn't give any indication he had even heard her.

  And maybe he hadn't. Maybe her voice had been too low for him to hear through his own hearing protectors.

  He ejected the clip, checked to make sure the barrel was empty, then carefully placed the gun—the pistol—on the wooden platform in front of him. He tugged the padded protectors down around his neck then turned to look at her.

  "What do you want to know?"

  So he had heard her.

  She shrugged, carefully avoiding his gaze. "I don't know. Just general stuff, I guess."

  "They have legislative oversight of the military, including the DoD. Military R&D—research and development. Oversight on nuclear energy pertaining to national security" Mac's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And my personal favorite: military benefits."

  "Yeah, I read all that online, too. I want to know what you can't find online."

  "You said you were looking for general stuff."

  "Okay, maybe more than just general stuff."

  Mac watched her for a long minute, his dark gaze so intent that she looked away. That didn't stop her skin from prickling, didn't stop her heart from skipping. Didn't stop the heat of awareness from washing over her.