by Juno Rushdan
They didn’t fully trust her, and the feeling was mutual.
She glanced at the row of town houses on the tree-lined suburban street. “I thought you’d take me to a hotel. Is this a safe house?”
“You could say that.” He opened his door. “This is my place.”
Her stomach clenched. Wasn’t there a proper procedure for this sort of thing? The Gray Box facility had been built with a no-expense-spared budget, based on the swanky lobby and the high-tech sublevel. But what kind of rinky-dink security detail were they running that left them bringing her to someone’s house?
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him to the front door. “Do you make a habit of taking POIs home with you?”
“Nope. You’re special.” He glanced at her, a wry charm in his tone. But the steeliness to him—as if he was a man always prepared to handle anything—never wavered.
“Whoopee. Lucky me.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Castle shook his head and unlocked his front door.
“Now that I know your address, can I know your last name?”
“Kinkade.”
She stepped inside, eyeing the elaborate security system panel on the wall, and looked around. Dark hardwood floors. Formal dining room beside the living room with worn-in leather furniture. Seventy-inch flat-screen. In the kitchen, dark cabinets, stainless steel appliances, black granite, and another TV. The wall décor, lighting, the special little touches throughout were more high-end than she expected. He’d paid a lot of attention to the details. Each room looked like something straight out of an Ethan Allen catalog.
“I’m surprised you don’t live in a bunker that’s armed and stocked to the nth degree.” She dropped her satchel and vegan leather jacket in a club chair. “Prepared in case of an apocalypse.”
“This is all for show to appear normal,” he said, deadpan, but there was something teasing in his voice that made her want to smile. “The bunker is upstairs.”
She digested his words and laughed. “Ah, you’re joking. Cute.” She winked. “Your home’s warm. Masculine, but cozy in a surprisingly chic way. How long did it take you to decorate?”
“Thirty minutes.”
She raised a curious eyebrow.
“I can’t really take credit for this. I hate going to stores, picking over things, traipsing down every aisle, wasting hours hemming and hawing—what my mom calls shopping. I went online to some furniture sites she recommended and just picked everything from a room that I liked and recreated the look.”
Still, he had excellent taste and a discerning eye. “Well, this place is spick-and-span. For a bachelor, that’s remarkable.”
“Not all single men are slobs.”
“That hasn’t been my experience. I take care of all the cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping for the guys…” A fresh, raw pang cut through her. She looked away and squeezed her eyes shut for a second, willing her knees not to buckle from the onslaught of anguish. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fought against the constriction in her lungs.
Castle came up behind her, put his hand on her back, and thankfully didn’t say any typical, asinine things like Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?
She wasn’t all right, there wasn’t anything anyone could do to lessen the pain, and she suspected Castle was the kind of guy who’d been through enough bad stuff to know that very well.
“I never would’ve pegged you as a domestic goddess, doing menial chores.”
Anything to stay busy, keep moving, and not think about the past. “Someone had to do it,” she said, her voice a bit strangled. She needed to deflect from her moment of woe is me. “I didn’t take you for a modest guy. I thought you’d soak up praise like a thirsty sponge.”
“Trust me, I can be a cocky, big-headed son of a bitch.”
She laughed since the alternative was far too depressing. “I believe you.”
“The one thing I will expect excessive praise for is my sanctum upstairs.”
“That’s what you call your bedroom, huh? The sanctum?” She shot him a grateful glance for being so good at this deflecting. He was a rare soul, to have the insight to roll with it and help her fake a normal conversation.
Their eyes met and the kindness shining in his made her think it might be possible for this nightmare to end one day. She wanted to thank him for having a generous heart, but she feared it’d come out sounding syrupy and she was never one to dispense saccharine compliments.
“The ladies must go gaga for that,” Kit said instead. “You take them to your sanctum where you worship their bodies on your altar of love.”
His smile was slow and wicked, telegraphing something she couldn’t define, but it lit her up until she felt alive and warm and not so weighed down inside.
“I’m not talking about my bedroom,” he said.
She was half relieved and half disappointed. What kind of man called his bedroom a sanctum? Then again, what kind of woman didn’t want her body worshipped on an altar of love? Suddenly, she wanted to live long enough to experience such a thing.
He patted her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Kit followed him upstairs to one of two rooms. She crossed the threshold after him and froze.
There was a computer on a desk in the center of the large room. No windows. Steel shelves were bolted to the walls and filled with weapons, gadgets, SWAT-type gear, bottled water and boxes of meals ready-to-eat.
The door swung closed with an unusual whispered groan, sealing with a heavy thud. A series of beeps sounded, engaging an electromagnetic lock. A red light flicked on in a control panel that had several TV screens, and the lights in the room popped on.
What in the world of the Walking Dead was this?
“Welcome to my sanctum. I turned my spare bedroom into a ballistics-proof safe room. The walls, door, and floor are lined with Kevlar. The screens on the panel are linked to infrared cameras throughout the house that can read the heat signatures off anything in their line of sight. The windows in the rest of the place have a blast film on the panes making them nearly impenetrable. You can control all the locks from in here as well.”
Sweet baby Jesus. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said the bunker was upstairs. “I take it you don’t get many overnight guests.”
“Nope.”
“Why did you build this?”
“I went through a rough phase after the military. Building this helped. The best defense system is one you never have to use, and I like to be prepared for anything.”
It must’ve been a pretty rough phase, but she’d hit the nail on the head about him being ever-ready. Spinning in a dramatic circle with extra flourish, she said, “Wow. I must confess, I’m impressed. This room is certified one hundred percent alphalicious.” It was totally him.
“Thank you. Now my head feels the size of a hot air balloon, which is just about right.” He waved her over to the control panel, showed her the code, and had her open the door.
Then he took her across the hall to the other room.
Her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped a smidge at the sight of the enormous spindle-turned bed that took up most of the space. “You also picked this from an online catalog?”
“Yep.” He nodded emphatically. “Welcome to my bedroom. You’ll sleep in here.”
Her shocked gaze flew to his, her cheeks heating. “This bed is humongous, enough room for a soccer team, and I understand you need to keep an eye on me, but I’m not sleeping with you. No offense.”
“None taken. I have no desire to sleep with you either.”
That wasn’t exactly how she’d meant it. This was foreign territory and she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. He wasn’t the kind of guy she usually bagged, but she’d slept with far worse than a government henchman who was turning out to be a savior in disguise. Look a
t where Jasper had gotten her.
“If we were in the same bed together,” Castle said, “we’d only end up fighting, or, you know…”
Fucking. She nodded in complete, silent agreement. Nothing like a little sweaty bow-chicka-wow-wow, as Lincoln used to say, to forget your troubles for fifteen minutes.
“Fighting some more,” he added.
The ridiculous thought popped like a soap bubble. Not that she had any clue where it had come from in the first place. “I was going to say the exact same thing. Fight, fight, fight all night long.” Or, in her crappy experience, fifteen minutes.
“I planned to sleep on the sofa. Downstairs.”
“Oh.” She paused a beat, her gaze sliding to the bed, then back at him. “Of course,” she said, half chuckling, unable to hide her embarrassment over being so presumptuous to begin with. “You weren’t planning to sleep with me. But you’re really too big to be on the sofa comfortably. You should keep your room and I should sleep downstairs.”
“Nonsense. I don’t sleep much anyway. Let me change the sheets.” He went to the closet and pulled out fresh linen.
She helped him strip the bed. Her hands trembled and she realized her blood sugar was terribly low. How long had it been since she’d eaten?
“Do you know how to make sharp hospital corners?” he asked.
“No, sorry.”
“Then I’ll take it from here. Why don’t you have a seat and rest.” He gestured toward a chair in the corner. “I’m a little OCD. For me, there’s only one correct way to make a bed.”
She drifted to his bureau, bypassing the chair, and started going through the drawers.
“You’ve got some brass lady-nuts if you have the nerve to rifle through my things in front of me. Can’t wait until I leave the room and shut the door?”
“We both know the moment I’m in here alone, this is precisely what I’m going to do. Better to do it in the open. That way, if I come across anything weird, I can ask you about it point-blank rather than staying awake worrying why you have a collection of human teeth or doll heads or something.”
He flicked the sheet in the air. “Really? That’s what you think of me? Collector of teeth and doll heads living in a doomsday bunker?”
She made a hmpf sound. “I was right about the doomsday bunker, and don’t forget the arsenal of firepower you’ve got stashed.”
“I’m a covert operative. Not a serial killer. An important distinction.”
She pulled out the bottom drawer and stared at a glass case inside. “What are all these medals for?” Jeez Louise, there were ten of them, all shiny and pristine on a velvet backdrop.
“Different things.”
Kit opened the case and picked up the one with a star-shaped medallion and a blue, white, and red ribbon. “What’s this one?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Silver Star.” His expression turned stricken, mirroring how she felt on a level she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“What did you do to earn it?”
For a long moment, there was awkward silence, and finally he said, “Killed people. I wish the answer sounded more noble to someone like you, but that’s the plain truth.”
Pursing her lips, she looked over the Silver Star. Stars were celestial, grand, noble. Handing one out for killing people seemed counterintuitive. “Who knew they gave medals for that?” She put it away and picked up another—a blue and white ribbon attached to a cross. “And this one?”
“Navy Cross.” His brow furrowed and a vein throbbed in his temple. “That’s the last medal anybody wants to get.”
“Why?”
“It’s for valor in combat,” he snapped. “I’m a Navy SEAL.” He hung his head. “Was a SEAL. I survived something when the odds had been ninety-five percent that I wouldn’t. I managed to get most of my team out. Most.”
The last word hung in the air. Talk about hitting a nerve. She put the medals away and stared at the case. The energy in the room had flipped from playful to wet-sand-stuck-in-your-shoes uncomfortable.
“You’re a war hero.” She hoped the sincere compliment might defuse the conversation and get them back to a place where she could breathe.
“I went to war plenty of times and did what was necessary.” Emotion gathered on his face like a storm cloud. “But someone on my team died because of me. On my watch,” he continued, his jaw tightening. “I let a man down and they gave me a fucking medal. I’m no hero.” He spat out hero as though it were despicable. His jaw was taut, his gaze distant, and she realized more serious deflection was in order.
“That explains why you’re a badass and why you’re helping me.” She closed the drawer, stood, and faced him. “You’re this elite commando.” Kit thought of the Spartan Commando characters in the Halo game the guys used to play, kicking butt and taking names to save humanity. Castle couldn’t possibly object to that comparison. “Programmed to kill the bad guys and save people. It’s in your coding to feel a sense of responsibility for me. Probably for everyone around you.”
Did that make him a true white hat after all?
Castle’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Programmed? Coding? Are you kidding me?” He flicked the sheet harder than necessary.
Had he even heard all the other good stuff?
“Listen, lady, I’m a man, made of flesh and blood with free will. Not a damn robot.” He yanked the linen into hospital corners that would’ve made Martha Stewart proud. “Although I’m sure it’s much easier for you to think of me that way while you bury your head in the sand about national security, choosing to indulge in conspiracy theories instead.”
She’d put her foot in her mouth, and in trying to fix things, she’d only thrown fuel on the flames. It was so much worse now.
“Castle. I…”
Kit was walking on eggshells and couldn’t figure out why this beefcake spy had her head spinning in cartwheels. She dared to step closer and put her hand on his arm. His bicep was so thick and strong. The muscle almost didn’t feel real, it was so darn perfect. What kind of workouts did he do to get this chiseled body?
Marshalling her thoughts back in line, she slid in between him and the bed, forcing him to look at her, but he didn’t drop his menacing glare. Her insides twisted.
“Sometimes I speak without thinking. I have a tendency to rub people the wrong way with my poor choice of words. I didn’t mean to insult you or how you’ve helped me.” On the contrary. He’d saved her life, gotten her out of the Gray Box unscathed, opened his home to her to protect her. No one else living or dead had ever done so much for her. “I can’t fully understand your perspective any more than you can mine. But I want to. Really.”
She wanted to understand what made him tick, what possessed him to put on a military uniform and later choose to work as a covert operative for an agency with questionable practices and too much unchecked power. For goodness’ sake, she wasn’t here of her own volition, even though he seemed to be doing his best to help her.
“Please, Castle…”
He was her only ally. She didn’t want to lose him. There were justified issues of distrust and misunderstanding on both sides, but she knew in her heart she’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.
Her big, stupid tongue. Gah! It was like it had a self-destructive mind of its own sometimes.
The last thing she meant to do was hurt him. From the angry and wounded look on his face, it was too late.
She was going to be sick.
13
“I made a conscious decision to help you because I wanted to.” Against his training, against his boss’s advice. A decision based on instinct.
She’d been terrified with her back to the wall, a true underdog. Castle might be big and bossy, but he was no bully.
He felt sorry for her, losing her team the way she had, but it went deeper. Kit reminded him of his mom. The same sp
unk and fire that his father had smothered.
“And I appreciate it. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sorry.” She sounded and looked so abject Castle found it impossible to stay angry.
“Fresh towels are in the bathroom and new toothbrushes in the cabinet.” He headed for the door.
“Hey.”
He turned back toward her and the intense look of relief on her face loosened something in his chest.
“I’m sure you don’t have anything that’d fit me, but a clean T-shirt would work.”
“I can have my sister bring some things for you.”
“One night in your T-shirt won’t kill me.”
He pulled out a couple of tees for her to choose from. “Leave your clothes in the hall and I’ll throw them in the washer for you.”
“Promise not to peek at my unmentionables?”
“Scout’s honor.” He gave a two-finger salute and left, shutting the door.
A second later, the hinges squeaked. “Hey, were you a Boy Scout?” she called after him.
“Nope.” He kept walking.
Once he heard the shower running, he went back up, collected her clothes that she’d left in a neatly folded pile with her unmentionables tucked in the middle, and grabbed a small black container from a shelf in the sanctum and the laptop.
Resisting the temptation to indulge his curiosity, he simply tossed her stuff in the machine.
Castle set the laptop in the kitchen on the counter where he could keep an eye on it—and Kit if she decided to hop on. He flipped open the black container and fished out two small GPS tracking devices—both shatterproof and waterproof. One he sewed into the lining of her jacket and the other into her satchel.
Kit was warming up to him, starting to let her guard slip, but Sanborn was right. She was skittish and might try something foolhardy like bolting. Desperation had a way of scrambling a person’s brain and driving them to recklessness.
He armed the security system and removed his holstered gun. His knees and the joints in his bad hand, the one he’d broken years ago, ached. Castle loved his job, but it didn’t love him back. His body constantly reminded him that he couldn’t do this shit forever.