by Juno Rushdan
He strolled alongside her for some unfathomable reason. His strong physique and weightless stride—propelled by athletic grace—projected his lethal ability to handle anything.
“I’ll walk you out to your car.” A declaration, not a question.
Her stomach somersaulted. “What? Why?”
It took nine minutes to get from her desk to the parking lot, depending on the wait for the elevator. An extra two to her car since she parked on the far end. That meant for eleven minutes, she’d have to talk. With him. Concentrate on the rules to seem nice. She wasn’t unfriendly, but things got lost in translation.
Her rib cage tightened, making it hard to breathe. “There’s no need to walk me out.”
“I’m leaving anyway. It’s no trouble.” Gideon peered down at her and the intense look in his piercing blue eyes sent butterflies dancing in her belly.
She stared at him, trying to recall why it was a bad idea, and tripped over her feet. Gah!
Tearing her gaze away, she focused on what was going on around her, determined to pull it together and not fall flat on her face.
Holding center stage in the middle of Intel as she passed around a platter of fudge was Janet Price, the director’s assistant. She was a Rubenesque woman, who had an effortless way of bringing people together over her homemade dishes.
Gideon stopped and joined the gaggle. Willow considered hurrying to the elevator, but she needed to work on being socially acceptable in the office. So she stayed, following etiquette about mingling for a minute or two to avoid coming across as antisocial.
Laughter floated in the air over the background noise of the news. Doc and Janet giggled, practically arm-in-arm and breathless over one of Daniel Cutter’s Marine Force Recon stories.
On and on, Daniel went. His stories always sounded the same, not at all funny to Willow. She never got their humor.
Voracious hands shoveled chocolate into eager mouths. Chatter flowed easy as a breeze.
Willow swallowed past the tightening in her throat. Sometimes she longed to be a sail riding that wind but usually found herself a feather adrift in it. Social codes and cues she couldn’t decipher layered their conversations. There was a wall between Willow and everyone else. She didn’t know how to break it down, and trying was overwhelming.
Gideon swiped a piece of fudge, and a slow-burning smile spread across his face. An odd tingle gathered in Willow’s chest, making her toes bunch in her shoes.
“Janet,” Gideon said, “these are incredible.”
Everyone else chimed in with a chorus of compliments. Willow’s obligated two minutes of office mingling were up. This was the perfect moment to skedaddle to the elevator. Alone.
She pivoted and nearly bumped into Amanda Woodrow, the lead analyst.
“Willow,” Amanda said, smiling. “I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Not now. I need to leave.” Willow rolled her pearls between her fingers, hoping her honesty didn’t sound rude. Amanda was a lovely supervisor, never giving her a hard time about special accommodations, like the setup of her workstation. Willow didn’t want to offend her.
“It’ll just take a sec. You’re doing a great job. I’m really impressed with the counterintelligence program you’re developing.”
As Amanda kept praising her, taking far longer than a second, Willow got a queasy ache in her stomach. She had to end this conversation. In a book she’d read, one technique was to change the subject with unexpected flattery followed by a direct farewell. But what to say? Her gaze roamed over Amanda’s desk, past colorful crayon drawings and to the photo of her five-year-old son, finally with a full head of hair since his leukemia had gone into remission.
“I like your son’s curls,” Willow said, cutting off Amanda. “They’re really pretty.”
“Uh.” Amanda’s brow furrowed. “Thank you.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Before Willow took ten steps, Gideon stalked off from his friends, waving goodbye. He was at her side again, stirring unease in her and, at the same time, a shocking sense of comfort.
What in The Twilight Zone was happening?
Gideon popped the chocolate in his mouth, moaning mmmm, an intense look on his face, fingers curling as he savored it. Oh, she’d love to melt in his mouth like that. Mmmm, indeed.
But even if she managed to get through a conversation without babbling or blowing it by being herself, she’d heard through office gossip about the way he picked up women at Rocky’s Bar. For one night only. Reminded her of a Broadway musical song her mom had loved.
“One night only,” she sang under her breath, “come on, baby.”
“What’d you say?” Gideon licked the remnants of chocolate from his fingers.
“Oh, nothing.” Her cheeks burned. Shut. Up.
“Why didn’t you take any fudge? Don’t like chocolate?”
“I love chocolate, but I don’t eat homemade stuff other people bring in.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if their kitchen is clean, if they have cats or wash their hands before cooking. Amanda told me her son, Jackson, sneezed in cake batter once, and she still baked it.”
Willow’s skin crawled with the heebie-jeebies.
“Don’t you have a dog?”
“Cats and dogs are different. Cats climb all over everything. But no, I don’t have a dog.”
Gideon nodded with another constipated expression. She bit her lip, quickening her step.
In the central hall, they passed Director Sanborn talking to two forensic accountants who’d been ordered to come here even though it was a holiday. The chief wanted to follow the money to find the leak by auditing everyone. The pressure on him was immense. Surely, the director of national intelligence and the president, the only two people Sanborn answered to, were looking at this situation under a microscope.
The chief was a good man and always looked out for her. She didn’t want to let him down. Hopefully, her new program would help.
Gideon tapped the button for the elevator and stood behind her, where she’d have to look over her shoulder to see him. Glancing at the carpet, she slipped her purse strap across her body and peeked back to glimpse his boots. He had big feet to match the rest of him.
“Sorry I held you up at your desk.” His warm breath brushed the nape of her neck, and her skin tingled.
“It’s okay.” She fought the dangerous impulse to look back.
“Are you hurrying off to an appointment?”
“Sort of.” After the last around-the-clock mission, she’d made a promise to be home for dinner every night this week and make fresh-cooked meals.
The ten-inch reinforced steel elevator doors opened. She stepped inside with a shaky exhale and slunk to the far corner, needing a little distance between herself and him.
Gideon strode into the car. The heavy doors slid shut with a soft thud. He leaned against the side of the elevator and crossed his arms. Light danced off his hair, forming a halo, but his hard body and smooth swagger spelled unabashed sinner rather than saint.
His gaze homed in on hers. A shiver chased through her down to her thighs.
“You never told me what happened to your face,” he said.
“Yes, I did.” Her voice was the barest thread of sound.
“You neglected to mention who’s responsible.”
“It’s none of your business.”
He pressed his lips together and lowered his head for a second. “You’re right. I don’t mean to pry. I’m concerned, that’s all.” He pushed off the wall and moved toward her. The stark power of his impossible-to-ignore masculinity drove her feet backward.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about,” she said.
“Then what happened? A guy threw something at you?”
“Not at me.” Her nerv
es drummed. “It’s personal. I don’t discuss my private life with coworkers.” The steel wall at her spine stopped her retreat. “And we’re not friends.”
He halted shy of breaching her personal space, a good foot between them, and stared down at her for so long with his brows scrunched, she wondered what he’d say next, if anything.
Then he gave her a sexy, lopsided grin.
A zing speared her belly. She clutched her purse against her stomach to steady herself.
“You don’t have many friends here, do you?” His tone was soft as velvet.
“No. Not many.” Zero friends, at work or otherwise. Her dad didn’t count.
“Sounds lonely. Might be nice to let someone get to know you, spend time with you.”
His warm smile spread, lighting up his face, thawing his icy eyes. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips. If he’d been within tongue’s reach, she would’ve licked him.
“I’d like to be that someone.”
Her mind pinwheeled. “Huh?” She’d heard him, but he might as well have spoken Greek.
His perfect smile dimmed. “I’m saying that I’d like for us to be friends.”
She managed a swallow, loud enough to punctuate the thickening tension.
Gideon’s gaze fell to where she was clutching her purse like a lifeline and back up to her face. “Do I scare you?”
“Sometimes.” Big. Fat. Lie. He scared the heck out of her all the time.
She’d involuntarily memorized his personnel file. Information had a way of wallpapering itself to her mind. Age: thirty-two. Height: six-three. Weight: two-ten. Trained by the CIA. Sole Gray Box helicopter pilot. The specifics of all his assignments. She’d even hacked into the sealed parts of his record and devoured every nugget that’d been redacted. Savage details, extreme things he’d done out of duty and in self-defense. How he’d killed with his bare hands and once ripped a man’s carotid out with his teeth.
She was as frightened by him as she was attracted to him. What did that say about her?
He backed away at her admission.
Frowning, he tugged at his shirt collar as if it’d gotten too tight and raked back his unruly forelock. She wanted to erase the uncharacteristic red dots of color surfacing on his cheeks.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” That was the first time she’d heard his voice sound so low and shaky. “I’d never hurt you, Willow.”
Another hard swallow. He said her first name. She didn’t think he knew it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Is it okay to walk you to your car? I can hang back in the lobby if it’s not.”
Who wouldn’t want a hot guy walking them to their car? It just didn’t make an iota of sense why he wanted to. “It’s okay.”
The elevator opened onto the same floor. They hadn’t moved. She hadn’t pressed the button for the lobby and neither had Gideon. She was going to be late.
Castle, a hardnosed operative built like a howitzer, entered and hit the button for the lobby. He jerked his chin up, and Gideon did likewise.
The elevator cage crowded in, and she wanted to run off. Gripping her purse strap, she watched the floor numbers illuminate as they ascended from the secure sixth sublevel. She’d rather look at Gideon but couldn’t pry her gaze from the elevator’s display until the doors opened. It was one of many things she couldn’t explain to others about her spectrum disorder.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Castle strode out first. Gideon stepped off at her side. Her kitten heels clicked across the smooth sea of concrete polished to a mirror finish. The sharp sound echoed in the austere, high-ceilinged lobby.
Castle swiped his ID card along one of the electronic turnstiles that sandwiched the metal detector and strolled outside. Gideon waved to the armed plainclothes guards seated behind the ivory marble desk, addressing both by their first names.
Maybe it meant nothing that he knew hers as well. Something inside her deflated.
A sign embossed with Helios Importing & Exporting in elegant gold script hung on the wall. The business front provided a plausible explanation for the specialized vehicles on the compound and the helicopter in the warehouse behind the main building and a credible cover story to family members for operatives traveling at a moment’s notice.
She swiped her ID card. The plexiglass flaps of the turnstile retracted, and she walked through. Gideon hurried ahead and pushed the door open for her, standing on the threshold. She brushed the steel frame on the way out to avoid physical contact that might be too personal at work—yet another rule.
The slap of broiling heat and unforgiving humidity had her blouse sticking to her dampening skin before they reached the tree-covered parking lot.
“Where are you headed for your appointment?” he asked.
“Wolf Trap.”
“Where’s home?”
“Wolf Trap.”
She rushed to her car. Her pulse had a wild, skittering beat. He asked a lot of questions—twenty since he’d come to her desk. It was kind of nice. Answering questions was easier than racking her brain for something interesting to say. But his tone on the elevator had delved deeper toward want to take your clothes off than want to grab a latte, if she hadn’t misread things—as she often did. Now he stayed two feet away as if he were the one afraid—to get too close to her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have admitted that he scared her, but she wasn’t worried about her physical safety with him. She probably messed up the entire conversation, acted the wrong way, said the wrong thing. As usual. What if he never talked to her again?
Regret burned her face. She pressed a palm to her forehead. “Tomorrow, if you need me to do research for you, I don’t mind.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable, those blue eyes deadly serious. “Sure.”
“No need to be my friend. It’s my job.” Idiot. Such a poor choice of words, although true. It might be really nice to have him for a friend. She unlocked her car door. “I mean, I’m happy to help you.”
“Everyone needs an ally, Willow.”
Ally? What a strange way of putting it.
She hopped into her older yellow VW bug and brought the engine to life with a sputtering rumble. She cranked the air-conditioning and fastened her seat belt over her purse strap.
With her hands at the ten and two o’clock positions, she pulled off. She glimpsed Gideon in the rearview mirror, watching her drive out of the lot. He pivoted as if to step away but then lowered his head. Staring at the ground, he knelt and touched the asphalt.
She turned onto the single lane dotted with twelve-inch diameter silver disks. Headed to the front gate, she noted the sign that warned against exceeding thirty-five miles per hour. Higher speeds would activate the retractable pneumatic bollards—electrohydraulic stainless-steel pillars—that’d pop up from the ground. One of many security features of their lockdown protocol, also intended to prevent hostile intrusion.
Huge shade trees lined the road up to the six-foot rebar-reinforced concrete barriers that edged the first few hundred yards of the entrance. The automatic armored gate slid open.
The traffic light changed from green to yellow. She punched the gas, zipping by the small manned gatehouse, and cleared the light as she sped down the access road to hit the highway.
The George Washington Parkway ran along the Potomac River northwest to Langley, where it bled into I-495. Blowing past the fifty miles-per-hour sign on the GWP, she eased off the gas. A slight incline slowed the car to sixty. She merged onto the two-lane highway. With the holiday, traffic would either flow smoothly or cramp in a blink. She switched on cruise control for fuel efficiency, hoping for the former. Every nickel saved added up.
Drawing in a breath, she prepped for sensory triggers. She had difficulty processing certain sounds. Sirens overloaded her synapses, and
the unbearable noise of metal on metal was crippling. Growing up, if an emergency services vehicle passed with sirens blaring, lights flashing, her sensory meltdowns in front of other kids had infuriated her sisters.
Her father never wanted her to drive, but she had no choice if she wanted to work at the NSA. In time, her excellent driving record had lessened his qualms.
The parkway merged into I-495, looping the urban fringes of Virginia and Maryland, encircling DC. The southbound strip of highway construction wasn’t hampering her commute, but she hated the claustrophobic effect of the concrete barricades funneling four streams of traffic into three and blocking the shoulder. Barring any jams, she wouldn’t be too late.
Her car zipped up on a white minivan. She sighed, glancing at the adjacent lane to see if she could maneuver over. No such luck. She tapped the brake, but her car didn’t slow. The cruise control should’ve deactivated, but the light stayed on and the speedometer didn’t budge as her car devoured the pavement, getting closer to the van. This can’t be happening. She’d taken the car for routine service last month, and everything had been fine this morning.
She jabbed the button and pumped the brake again. The ABS light blinked on. The distance to the minivan closed at a staggering rate. She stomped her foot, and something in the brake assembly shifted this time, the spongy response giving way to no resistance.
The brakes are gone. Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear overrode disbelief.
A glimmer of light bounced inside the van. Cartoons played on two flip-down screens. Kids were inside, and she was rushing toward them with no brakes and nowhere to pull over.
Panic buzzed in her skull. What was she going to do?
An opening appeared. She darted behind a truck, despite the position drawing her further from the exit lane. Blocked on all sides, the speedometer snagged on sixty, and her options dwindled to nil. Her car barreled toward the back of the eighteen-wheeler. Horror flooded her.
She jammed down on the brake, the pedal to the floor, and prayed for a miracle. Honking, she signaled to change lanes, first trying to the left, then right, but no one let her in on either side.