The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  But seeing him...in the flesh, in broad daylight—yeah, not even her imagination had come close. It wasn't just the wide expanse of bare flesh and hard muscle—that by itself was enough to make her mouth dry with need. But the tattoos...wow. Just...wow.

  She'd never before thought of herself as someone who could be turned on by tattoos. Ink didn't bother her. In fact, some ink was nice. But Mac's tattoos were a work of art. A huge American Flag, its tattered shape expertly drawn in shades of black and gray, covered the top half of his chest. A wreath of poppies framed in bold tribal markings draped his back and shoulders. In place of stems, the flowers—symbols of remembrance—had names inked in delicate scrollwork. Too many names.

  She didn't need to ask whose names they were or why Mac carried them on his flesh—she knew. They were names of men he had served with, men who hadn't come home.

  She blinked, forced her mind from that sobering thought, forced her gaze from the broad expanse of Mac's chest—

  And found him staring at her, the barest hint of a smile curling one scarred corner of his mouth. Heat filled her face as she cleared her throat and looked away.

  "You didn't hear a thing I said, did you?"

  "Um, no. I, uh, I was..." Her voice faded into the amused silence.

  "Distracted?" Mac supplied the word for her with just a trace of humor in his voice. Damn him! How could he go from being so quiet and reserved—so damned reluctant—to being so damn sexy in the space of one night? No, that wasn't right—he'd always been sexy, to her. But he'd never impressed her as being comfortable with his appeal, or even realizing he had appeal. She wanted to throw something at him. She wanted to wipe that sexy smirk of male satisfaction of his face. She wanted—

  Him. God, yes. Him. She wanted to drag him back upstairs. Hell, she wanted to drag him across the table, crawl on top of him, straddle that large body and ride him until she collapsed in a boneless heap—

  "Everything you're thinking shows on your face." His deep voice, low and gravelly, raced across her pebbled skin.

  "It does?"

  Mac nodded, those deep intense eyes never leaving hers. He moved with lightning speed. One second, he was sitting on the other side of the long table. The next, he was leaning over it, one strong arm behind her shoulders, pulling her toward him. His hand closed around her neck, large and warm and rough yet gentle. His mouth crashed over hers.

  Hot. Wet. Hungry.

  Demanding a surrender she willingly conceded.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her mouth under his. Sighed at his tongue's invasion.

  Moaned when he pulled away, his breathing as harsh and raspy as hers. Her lids fluttered open and she sat back, trying to catch her breath, secretly pleased that Mac seemed to be having trouble doing the same—until he spoke.

  "About that email."

  TR blinked, not bothering to hide her surprise—or her disappointment. "Email? After that, you're asking about an email?"

  "It's either that or throw you on your back. Right here." His voice lowered, his eyes sparking with hunger.

  "Is there something wrong with option two?"

  "No." Those dark eyes swept over her, igniting fire to her already sensitive nerve endings. "But the email, along with those notes you told Daryl about, is important. And so is running to the store."

  Her mind swirled with a million questions, finally latching onto the most insignificant one. "The store?"

  "Yeah." He stood, stretched his arms high above him and rolled his head from side-to-side, each vertebra making a small popping noise. Then he faced her again and pinned her with a look that made a flush creep across every bare inch of her skin. "For more condoms. We used the only two I had last night."

  "Oh. I...ah." She coughed, cleared her throat, coughed again as she stared at the grainy pattern of the table's surface. "Um, okay."

  "Now about that email—"

  "Let me get my laptop." She started to get up, hesitated then sat back down with a frown. "Mac, I have other emails on there. From interview subjects. From my editor. They're private. Nothing earth-shattering or cryptic or anything like that, but still private. You're not going to go through them, right? You don't need to look at everything?"

  "I'm not looking at anything, Chaos is."

  "Chaos? Who's that?"

  "Derrick Biggs. He's our tech genius. And no, he doesn't need to go through anything else."

  "He's coming here?"

  "No, we're going to him. To the office. I told him we could be there in an hour. It might be better for him to see what he can find before we meet with Daryl later." He grabbed her coffee mug from the table and carried it to the sink, completely at ease in nothing more than a pair of sweatpants that hugged the tight curves of his ass. She let her eyes roam over his back, over the wreath of poppies and the network of scars beneath it. Lower, to the indentation of his waist and the dimple to the right of his spine.

  TR narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. No, not a dimple. Another scar, round and puckered, a little faded with age. She sat back, unable to hide her gasp. Mac stiffened, his shoulders flexing for a brief second, then relaxed. He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes carefully blank.

  But still questioning. Still waiting for her judgement.

  She moved from the bench and closed the distance between them. Her hand automatically reached out, her fingers trembling before gently touching the scar.

  "Is this—" She stopped, swallowed, tried to convince herself she was jumping to conclusions. She would ask the question and Mac would laugh and tell her no, it was something different. "Is this from a gunshot?"

  Mac turned, his hand closing overs with a gentleness that took her breath away. But the expression on his face was anything but gentle. Hard, rough, carefully impassive.

  "It's old."

  "But it's from a gunshot? It really is?"

  His fingers tightened around hers, abruptly released them. "Yeah. Happened a little more than ten years ago."

  "You were shot?"

  "It's not a big deal—"

  "How can you say that? Mac, you were shot! Someone tried to kill you! You could have died—"

  His hands closed over her shoulders, silencing her with their strength, their warmth...

  Their gentleness.

  "TR, I've been shot at quite a few times. And I've faced death at least a hundred times. It's part of what I do."

  "But—"

  "Why are you so upset over that tiny scar when these—" He drew his hand to his face, traced the network of scars covering the lower half of his jaw. "—don't even phase you?"

  "Because you were shot! You could have died!" And why was he making light of it? Couldn't he see the difference? Didn't he know that it wasn't the scars she cared about but the fact that his life had come so close to being snuffed out? Here one second, so alive and big and larger-than-life and then...gone. Extinguished with the carelessness of a gust of wind blowing out the feeble flame of a single candle.

  No, he didn't see that. Or if he did, he didn't care. What was it he had said?

  It's part of what I do.

  And maybe it was as simple as that—for him. But not for her.

  The world needed men like Mac, heroes ready to give their life in the blink of an eye. Without question. Without regret.

  But she didn't, not like that. She refused to be the reason for his life—for any life—to be so carelessly extinguished. Not today. Not tomorrow.

  Never.

  Mac thought there was more to what was going on than either one of them knew. He seemed to think that, for some reason, her life was in danger. She didn't think so, thought his worry was nothing more than an overprotective streak she didn't understand.

  At least, she hoped that's all it was.

  And if it wasn't...well, if it wasn't, then so be it. She'd figure out how to handle it on her own.

  Because it wasn't worth even the smallest risk to Mac.

  She finally met his dark gaze, o
ffered him a quick smile she didn't really feel, and leaned up to press a quick kiss against the corner of his mouth.

  "I'll get dressed and grab my laptop so we can leave."

  She turned on her heel and left, not giving him the chance to respond. And not giving him the chance to look at her too closely, worried he'd see everything she was thinking and feeling on her face.

  Chapter Eleven

  "It's gone."

  "What?" The color drained from TR's face. She pushed herself in front of Chaos, actually sliding his chair out of the way before tapping the keys of her laptop. She frowned at the screen, completely ignoring the surprise that lifted his brows or the amused half-smile he tossed at Mac.

  Mac said nothing, just simply stood there, watching as TR pounded the keyboard. She swore under her breath then spun around, pinning Chaos with such an expression of pure anger that Mac had to bite his tongue to keep from snorting laughter.

  "What did you do? Everything's gone!"

  "Yeah, that's what I said. And I didn't do anything—your email was deleted before I even got in there."

  "No. No, that's not right." She turned back to her laptop, banged a few more keys. "It was just there. Everything. You must have done something. It wouldn't have just disappeared."

  "Listen, lady—" Chaos caught Mac's low warning growl and snapped his mouth closed. Took a deep breath. Started over in a calmer voice. "I didn't delete anything. All I did was launch your email program after you booted the laptop. And it was already empty."

  TR shook her head and turned back to the laptop. She lowered herself to the chair, her fingers still tapping at the keyboard. Not as hard this time, though—it was almost a gentle coaxing, like she could cajole everything into reappearing. She even spoke to the computer, her voice lower than a whisper, so soft that Mac couldn't even make out the words.

  "TR—"

  "No." She shook her head, repeated the word even louder. "No, he must have done something. Everything was here the other day. Right. Here. It has to be here. It can't have just disappeared—"

  "TR, it could have—"

  She spun around and pinned him with an angry gaze. "No, Mac, it couldn't have. Things just don't disappear from your email. It doesn't work that way. Not unless someone deleted them." Her brows lowered in an angry frown as she spun back toward Chaos. "And you are the only person who accessed my email since I did."

  Chaos straightened in the chair, his neck muscles bulging as he fought to control his reaction. Biggs was a large guy, Mac's height but not as broad. He'd served in the Marines, got out and did a stint working black ops before seeking out Daryl and Mac, looking for something a little less...dark. A little less covert.

  The man wasn't used to having his abilities questioned. Hell, Mac doubted if he was used to being questioned, period. But he kept his cool, strangled back any comment he'd been about to make.

  Not because of his own control, which was probably as finely-tuned as Mac's, but because of the dark look Mac shot his way.

  "You're right in that emails don't just disappear. Somebody probably deleted them." Chaos took a relaxing breath, released it with a slow sigh then offered TR a smile that was anything but reassuring. "But it wasn't me."

  She spun around, her black hair fanning across her right cheek. She brushed it away with an impatient swipe of her hand then narrowed her eyes at Chaos, completely oblivious of the dangerous animal that lay beneath the civilized surface. "What do you mean, it wasn't you? Who else could it possibly be? You're the only one—"

  "Not necessarily." He pushed away from the desk and stood, towering over TR's slight frame. Mac stepped forward. He didn't give a shit if Chaos worked for him or not, didn't give a shit if the man had talents worth ten times what they paid him—which was one hell of a lot. If he so much as looked at TR the wrong way, Mac would snap his fucking neck like a twig.

  Chaos quirked a brow in his direction, one corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile. Yeah, no doubt about it—he'd received Mac's message loud and clear and was sending another message back, one that let Mac know he was overreacting.

  "Your email program is web-based. Secure, but not that secure. It could have been hacked by anyone who knew what he was doing."

  Mac silenced TR's argument with a quick wave of his hand. "You're saying someone hacked into her email?"

  "That's what it looks like."

  "Can you tell who?"

  Chaos paused, frowned, finally shrugged. "Maybe, if they were careless and left a signature behind. If it was a pro..." His voice trailed off, the silence providing an answer for him. If it had been a pro then no, there was no telling who might have hacked into the system.

  "But it can't be gone. I don't believe it. Who would have done that? And why? There was nothing that important in there. Nothing except that stupid email that started this whole thing. Why not just delete that? Why delete everything else?" Disbelief filled TR's voice. Not just disbelief—there was a hint of defeat in her voice as well, as if losing her email on top of everything else that had happened this past week was the final straw. Her unsuccessful and confusing meeting with the Senator. Her car being vandalized. The New Year's Eve gala and the accident. Being trapped in her car, nearly dying, nearly drowning—

  She'd handled all of that, only to brought up short by the realization her email had been hacked.

  Mac took a step toward her, stopped when she raised her head and met his gaze. Her eyes narrowed and her chin jutted forward with sheer stubbornness.

  Mac swallowed back the overwhelming need to pull her into his arms and reassure her. He'd had to do the same thing an hour ago, in his kitchen. Right after she'd seen the scar on his lower back. Something had changed in her, some miniscule shift in...something. He didn't know what, couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't read the expression that had crossed her face before she quickly shuttered it. Even now, he had no idea what had been going on in her head. All he knew was that he didn't like it.

  And he hated the feeling of icy apprehension that washed over him whenever he thought of it. She was up to something. He had no idea what, didn't need to know. Just simply knowing TR was up to something was enough to freeze the blood in his veins and make his balls draw tight in fear.

  She pulled her gaze from his and swung around to face Chaos. "Can you find it? The email. Can you find it and restore it?"

  Chaos shot a quick glance at Mac then turned back to TR. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a noncommittal shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "But if you had the email, you could trace it, right? You could figure out who sent it from where?"

  "Again, maybe. Maybe not. Depends on—"

  "I don't care what it depends on. Just do it." TR shot from the chair with enough force that it slid back and hit the desk with a soft thud. "And I'll get you a copy of that email, then we can see how good you really are."

  "TR—"

  "Get me a copy and I'll rock your world so hard, you'll be worshipping at my feet, doll."

  TR leaned forward, invading Chaos's personal space enough that Mac actually worried the man would push her away. He didn't—but he wanted to. Chaos didn't like his personal space invaded. Hell, none of them did. Mac was ready to grab her and pull her to safety but she started speaking before he could.

  "I'll hold you to it...Chaos. But for the record, my world's only been rocked once." She straightened, her pale blue eyes sweeping Chaos from head to toe and back again. "And I doubt you have the equipment to measure up."

  Mac stood there, unable to control his jaw before it dropped open in surprise. He started to speak, stopped when the words tangled in a laugh and got caught in his throat. What the fuck? Had he heard TR right? He knew she was capable of attitude but holy hell, he'd never witnessed it, not really. Not like this.

  What the hell had gotten into her?

  He didn't have a chance to ask before she spun on her heel and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door. "Come on, we need to leave.
"

  "TR—" He tugged back, dug his heels in and brought her up short. "TR, wait. What the hell are you up to? What do you think—"

  "We need to go to my apartment. Now."

  Mac ignored the snickering coming from Chaos, ignored the flush he felt staining his cheeks. "For what? Why the rush?"

  "The thumb drive, remember? All my files are on that thumb drive back at my apartment. Everything—including the email. We can get it and bring it back and see if your boy—" She laced the word with so much artificial sweetness that Mac actually cringed, "—is as good as he thinks he is."

  "Wait. I don't think it's that easy." Mac turned back to Chaos, ignored the other man's amused smirk. "Is it? Can you actually trace a copy of an email?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how your girl—" Chaos's voice was an exact echo of TR's earlier sweet tones, "—saved it. If there's enough of a header, I might be able to work some magic."

  Mac started to argue again, started to ask what the fuck he had missed and why the fuck Chaos and TR were butting heads like two surly siblings, but TR tugged his hand again. Harder this time, hard enough that he actually followed her out the door.

  "Mac, come on. We need to go. Now."

  He didn't argue with her, didn't question her sudden urgency. He simply followed her out the door to his truck—and wondered what had happened in the last two hours to change the shift in his new balance.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Son of a bitch." The curse came out in a low growl, vicious and angry. He heard TR's gasp of surprise behind him, reached out and caught her around the waist before she could move past him into the apartment.

  The trashed apartment.

  TR struggled against his hold, still trying to move past him as incoherent gasps of surprise fell from her mouth. He pushed her behind him, already reaching for the Glock tucked into the waistband of his pants.