The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Daryl stiffened—hell, they all did. "How much are we talking?"

  "More than 35 million for twelve acres. Twelve acres isn't a lot for a complex, is it?"

  "Depends on what they have planned. TR, are you sure about that price?"

  "Positive. I almost fell out of my chair when I saw it."

  "Do you remember who owned the property?"

  "Not off the top of my head, no. It's in my notes, though."

  Daryl exchanged another look with Mac. Could TR sense the energy, the alertness, going through them? He doubted it. She'd be more on edge if she could.

  "Would you happen to have your notes on your laptop at all?"

  "No, they're back at my apartment. On a thumb drive, along with a copy of the email. Why? Is it important?"

  Daryl offered her a smile, one meant to relax and reassure. Mac doubted it worked because he saw the way TR stiffened, just the slightest bit. "Not really, no. But it would be nice information to have. Nothing that can't wait until later, though." He stood, motioned to the other three men who quickly did the same. "And we've kept you long enough. You look exhausted. You should go upstairs and get some rest."

  What the fuck? Mac frowned at Daryl, wondering if the ass actually thought that ploy would work. How fucking obvious could he be? No way would TR not see through that lame attempt to get rid of her.

  Except maybe she did because, other than a brief hesitation where she took turns looking at all five of them, she pulled the fleece throw tighter around her shoulders and stood to leave. She paused at the doorway, tossed one last glance back at them, then disappeared down the hallway. Mac tilted his head to the side, following the sound of her steps as she climbed the stairs. As she moved along the upstairs hallway. As she finally entered his room and made her way to the bed.

  He turned to Daryl, a scowl on his face. "You know she didn't buy that abrupt dismissal for a second."

  "Maybe not but it got her out of here." He turned to Boomer. "Find anything?"

  He looked up from his phone and shook his head. "Nope, nothing. There's info on the training facility but nothing specific about the sale or who sold it for how much."

  "Keep looking when you get home." Daryl turned to Mac, his face impassive. "You need to take her home tomorrow, let her get her notes. Then bring her back to the office so we can go over them."

  "What are you thinking? Kickbacks?"

  Daryl shrugged. "Possibly. Wouldn't be the first fucking time. And it's not like news of a kickback going public would destroy many people, not even during an election year. Still doesn't explain why anyone would target her. And it doesn't explain a few other things she mentioned."

  "Like?"

  "Like how the Senator was acting when she met with him. According to her, I mean. The man might be a dirty son-of-a-bitch but distracted? Confused? Something isn't right."

  Mac followed the four men to the front door. He didn't even try to keep the satisfaction from his voice when he spoke. "Then you agree with me when I tell you my gut is screaming."

  "I agree there's something—we just need to figure out what." Daryl pulled open the door, paused to glance upstairs then turned back to Mac. "Let's plan on meeting at thirteen-hundred hours. In the meantime, keep an eye on her."

  Mac nodded then locked the door behind the four men. He turned, glanced up the stairs at the darkened hallway. Had TR gone to sleep already? No—he could see the faintest glow, coming from the light in his room. Daryl's words echoed in his ear.

  Keep an eye on her.

  Mac planned on doing a lot more than that.

  Chapter Eight

  TR sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the doorway. Every line of her body screamed dejection. Exhaustion. Worry. Did she even know he was there, watching her?

  Probably not.

  And what the hell was he doing, watching her like some obsessed stalker? She was tired—she had been tired, even when she came downstairs earlier to eat what little she had. The last few hours of rehashing everything with Daryl must have been even more exhausting for her. But she hadn't quit. Hadn't given up or balked.

  A brief smile curved his mouth. Maybe she had balked, a little. When Daryl had instructed her to start at the beginning—again. He'd seen the flash of impatience in her eyes, heard the sharp edge of frustration in her voice. But she hadn't stormed off, hadn't gotten pissed. She had stayed in control and recited every little detail for the twentieth time even though it had been obvious she thought it was a waste.

  Yes, she was exhausted. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It still boggled his mind that they'd been out together last night. Not a date, not really. She had simply needed someone to go with her to the Senator's party—it didn't have to be him. It almost wasn't him, had almost been Boomer because Mac—ass that he was—had turned her down at first.

  Until blistering jealousy exploded inside him when he pictured Boomer escorting her to the black-tie affair. Fuck that. Maybe it wasn't a real date but damned if he was going to let anyone else take her.

  No, it wasn't a real date. He had kept telling himself that the entire night—until he'd pulled her into his arms at the stroke of midnight and kissed her. Until her body molded against his as she leaned into him. Until her mouth softened and opened under his. Until he swallowed her tiny little moans as his tongue swept into the hot recess of her mouth.

  Maybe it hadn't been a real date but damned if his body had realized that. His cock was growing hard right now, just remembering the feel of TR's body pressed against him. What kind of fucking animal did that make him? To be standing in the doorway watching her with a hard-on, thinking about having her under him, on top of him, when she was exhausted and needed sleep? When she had damn near died last night?

  He pushed those thoughts ruthlessly away and cleared his throat before rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. TR jerked just the tiniest bit—proof that she'd been lost in her own thoughts as he watched her—then turned toward him. He held up the large backpack in his hand. "Here's your things. I wasn't sure if there was anything you needed in here before you went to sleep or not."

  "Oh. Yeah, thanks." She pushed off the bed, walked toward him until she was less than a foot away, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. Close enough that he could smell the faintest hint of his shampoo and soap on her. A wave of possessiveness swept over him, strong enough that he staggered back a step in surprise then silently cursed himself for being so foolish. Of course she smelled like his soap and shampoo—that's all she'd been able to use when she cleaned up earlier. What had she called it?

  Guy shampoo.

  Yeah, maybe, but it sure as hell smelled better on her than it did on him.

  TR's fingers brushed against his as she took the bag from him. Was it his imagination, or had she felt that brief tingle of awareness shoot across her skin as well?

  Must be his imagination because TR didn't even glance at him. She simply carried the bag across the room and dropped it on the chair in the corner then stood there, staring at it.

  She looked so...lost. Confused. He wasn't used to seeing her this way, not when she was normally so alive and filled with energy and sass. The sudden urge to pull her into his arms and hold her, to tell her everything was going to be fine, was overwhelming. Mac jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and leaned against the doorframe instead. Better to do that than make an ass out of himself.

  "You okay?"

  "Hm?" TR turned, her eyes focused somewhere else for a few seconds. She blinked, finally looked at him and offered him a small smile. "Yeah. Fine."

  "Did you need anything before you go to sleep?"

  "No, I'm good."

  "Good." Mac nodded, pushed away from the frame. Started to turn around. Stopped. "If you, uh, if you need anything, I'll be downstairs."

  A small frown wrinkled her delicate brow. "Downstairs?"

  "Yeah. In the den."

  "But..." She paused, looked around the roo
m then back at him. "Isn't this your bedroom?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Then you should sleep in here, Mac." She grabbed the backpack and tossed it over her shoulder. "I didn't mean to kick you out of your own room. I can sleep in one of the guest rooms."

  "There aren't any."

  "What? But I thought...what are the other rooms up here, then?"

  "Bedrooms. At least, they will be. I'm still renovating."

  "So they're empty?"

  "Not just empty—they're gutted. The only rooms that are finished are this one and the attached bath, the kitchen, and the den."

  "But I saw the living room—"

  "I haven't started demolishing that one yet."

  "Oh." She shook her head and hoisted the backpack higher on her shoulder. "Then I can sleep in the den. You don't—"

  "TR, I'll be fine." He offered her a small smile. "Trust me, I've slept in worse places."

  "But this is your room. I don't want—after everything else you've done—" Her voice cracked and she quickly looked away, sucked in a shaky breath and shook her head. Mac started toward her, stopped when he realized she was blinking back tears.

  "TR—" Fuck! He didn't want to see her cry, had no idea what the hell to do to make things better. He didn't even know why she was crying. Except she wasn't because she wiped a hand across her eyes and offered him a shaky smile, a wavering version of what he was used to seeing spread across her face.

  "I never said thank you."

  "Thank you? For what?"

  "For saving my life."

  "I didn't—"

  "Yes, you did. When you pulled me from the car last night."

  "It was—" nothing. He had started to say it was nothing but it wasn't. It was so much more than nothing. The thought of her dying, the thought of never seeing her teasing smile again, still made his gut clench with fear. With regret. He would have gone in after anyone—that's part of what he did, who he was. But with TR...no, it was more than that.

  He would have gladly given his life to save hers.

  But he couldn't tell her that—any of it—so he simply shrugged and said the first thing that came to mind. "It—it was no big deal. I would have—"

  "Stop it!" The anger in her voice brought him up short, surprising him with its vibrating intensity. The bag hit the floor with a loud thunk when she dropped it. Her face was a mask of rage yet unshed tears burned in her eyes as she approached him in three angry strides. She raised her hand and poked him in the middle of the chest. Hard.

  "Stop it!" Poke. "You don't." Poke. "Get to say." Poke. "It was. No. Big." Poke-poke. "Deal!"

  "Hey!" He grabbed her hand and folded it in his, felt her fingers trembling where they curled against his palm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "You didn't have to go in after me. You could have died, Mac. And for what? You shouldn't have—" Her voice broke on a sob and the tears she'd been trying so hard to hold back finally broke free. Mac released her hand, pulled her into his arms and held her. Her own arms circled his waist, her hands twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as she buried her face in his chest and cried. Not loud and wet sobs, but silent tears that made her shoulders shake with the effort of holding them back. Even now, with him holding her and her face hidden, she was trying to hold them back.

  Trying to stay strong.

  Mac tightened one arm around her, smoothed her hair with his free hand and murmured soft words in her ear. Reassuring words, over and over until her shoulders finally relaxed, until her small gasps turned into quiet sniffles that were muffled against his chest.

  "I'm sorry." She murmured the words into his shirt then tried to step back. He tightened his arms for a brief second, reluctant to let her go, then finally released her.

  "Why are you sorry?"

  She turned her back to him, her hands moving up to wipe her face. "For crying."

  "TR, there's nothing wrong with crying."

  "Yeah there is. I'm an ugly crier."

  Mac swallowed back his choked laughter. "You mean there's such a thing as a pretty crier?"

  "Yeah. Most women are pretty criers. I didn't inherit that gene, I guess."

  Mac moved to the bathroom, grabbed a handful of tissues then came back out and handed them to her. "You're not like most women."

  "Thank you. I think." TR wiped her face then quietly blew her nose before turning back to him. She leaned forward then frowned. "I messed up your shirt."

  "My shirt?" Mac glanced down, saw the damp spot in the center of his chest where she had pressed her face against him. "It's just a little wet—"

  "I probably snotted all over it."

  That time he did laugh, the sound a little rusty, a little gravelly. "It'll wash out."

  "I'm sorry—"

  "Stop apologizing. It's just a shirt. And it's been a really long day for you. Hell of a way to ring in the new year, right?"

  "New year?" TR frowned. Then her eyes widened and she looked up at him, her mouth slightly parted in surprise. "Oh God, how could I have forgotten? So much has happened, I didn't even remember that today's New Year's Day."

  Mac glanced at his watch. "Only for two more hours. Which means you need to get to sleep." He stepped past her, moving toward the closet to pull out a spare pillow and blanket. TR stepped beside him, her hand closing over his arm as she gazed up at him.

  "Mac, I should be the one sleeping downstairs."

  "No. We already had this discussion—"

  "Then sleep up here. With me." She dropped her hand and stepped back but not before he saw the faint blush coloring her cheeks. "I mean—it's a big bed. We can both fit in it without touching."

  Christ, she had no idea what she was asking. Did she have any idea what the mere thought of being in the same bed with her did to him? He prided himself on his self-control but holy fuck, he was only human. "TR—"

  Her chin tilted up just a fraction of an inch as she narrowed her eyes at him. He recognized the stubbornness in her gaze, in the way her jaw clenched ever-so-slightly. "It's either that or I sleep downstairs. Or you can take me home. Your choice."

  He hesitated, did a little jaw-clenching of his own. "Fine. I'll sleep up here." Yeah—until she was sound asleep. Then he'd move to the sofa in the den. "Just let me go turn everything off downstairs."

  She eyed him in suspicion. "No tricks?"

  "No tricks."

  "Scout's honor?"

  "Scout's honor." Easy for him to say—he'd never been a scout.

  "Okay. Fine. But if you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming after you."

  She was coming after him? Mac almost laughed. As far as threats went, the words were fairly tame. And he was half-tempted to push her time limit, just to see what she would do.

  Did she really think her coming after him was a threat?

  Not even close.

  Chapter Nine

  The bed dipped, waking her.

  TR almost rolled over, her body instinctively seeking Mac's heat, but something stopped her. Not fear. Not surprise. She wasn't sure what it was, only knew that whatever it was held her still, kept her from moving. She kept her eyes closed, her breathing steady and even, as her mind sorted out the puzzle...

  It was Mac.

  Well yes, of course it was Mac. Who else would be climbing into the bed with her? It was his bed after all—

  Stop.

  Her mind issued the silent command and she nearly laughed—what was wrong with her, that she was now arguing with herself? Silly. Stupid. She shouldn't be arguing with herself, not when she was trying to figure out why she couldn't simply roll over and snuggle with Mac. Why she couldn't rest her head on his chest and let the steady beat of his heart echoing in her ear lull her back to sleep—

  That was it. She didn't want to sleep. Didn't want to listen to the sound of his heart beat under her ear, didn't want it to lull her back to sleep. She didn't want to sleep, she wanted—

  Mac.

  Yes, that was it. She wanted Mac. Wanted to fee
l him hold her. Kiss her. Wanted to feel the length of his hard body stretched out over hers. Wanted to trace the lines of his body, wanted to feel if he was as hard as he looked. Her fingers itched with the need, with the desire, to touch him. Every inch of him.

  The bed dipped again as he shifted positions, rolling away from her. So that was how it was going to be. Disappointment swept through her when she realized he wasn't even close to her—he must be sleeping right on the edge of the mattress, afraid to so much as brush against her.

  Had she really expected anything different? He'd always held himself away from her, had always been afraid of getting too close. A year ago, at Sammie's wedding, when she had so boldly propositioned him, certain he'd been just as attracted to her as she to him.

  Less than two weeks ago, when she had shown up at his office out of the blue and asked him to be her date.

  A few days ago, when she leaned up and pressed a kiss against his cheek at the range, after her disastrous shooting lesson.

  Last night, when he had finally pulled her into his arms and kissed her. A real kiss, one that ignited a fire banked deep inside her, a fire she had long ago thought burnt out.

  But it hadn't burnt out as she had feared—it had simply been waiting for the right ignition source to bring it back to life.

  It had been waiting for Mac.

  She had been waiting for Mac. All this time, without realizing it. Or maybe she had realized it and simply hadn't accepted it. Maybe that was why she had searched him out. Maybe that was why she had willingly made a fool of herself—again—by asking him to escort her to the New Year's Eve gala at the Senator's.

  And she had thought—last night, at least—that he felt the same pull. The same attraction. The same need. But here they were, in his bed—and he was so far away, he may as well be sleeping on the sofa in the den.

  Had she simply been deluding herself? Kidding herself into thinking the attraction was mutual?

  No, she didn't think so.

  TR held herself still, her mind weighing every option, every choice, while her body remained frozen in place. Afraid to move. Afraid to so much as breathe for fear Mac would hear and move away—