by Juno Rushdan
Cobalt rang the bell with a heavy heart. A moment later, the front door opened.
“Yes.” Mr. Harper rolled to the side in his wheelchair, repositioning his chair inside the doorway. An IV bag dangled from a metal pole attached to the chair. This would be easier than expected. Distract the old man and inject the solution into the IV.
This composition should put him in a coma, based on an approximation of his weight. Then things needed to be taken to the next level to ensure this hit the news, where Willow Harper would see it and feel compelled to rush to her father’s side.
Once the team took her out, Cobalt would take care of her dad, tying up the loose end.
“Hello, sir,” Cobalt said, keeping gloved hands out of sight. “I work with your daughter. There’s been a troubling incident. Do you mind if I come in? It’s urgent I speak with you.”
16
Springfield, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 12:13 p.m. EDT
In the third room at the far end of the hall, Gideon set down the clippers he’d borrowed from Ken on the bed next to a trash bag and roll of paper towels. The rustle of plastic drew his attention to the bathroom. The door was cracked open. Based on the moving shadow, Willow was hunched over the tub, probably working dye into her hair.
He’d rubbed petroleum jelly that Ken had given him over the tub before Willow got started to make clean up as painless as possible. Every inch of him hurt during the small task. He slipped out of his holster, peeled off his shirt, and unstrapped the bulletproof vest. His muscles screamed, his torso aching like he’d been hit by a pile driver. Two bright red spots from the impact of the bullets, each about the size of an orange, would turn purple by tomorrow.
Stretching through the pain, he stood and traipsed to the window. He scanned the back alley running along the rear of the stores and lined with dumpsters and focused on the next step.
To find out who was framing Willow, they had to follow the money. The offshore account had been opened in person, and there would be a picture on file. With luck, the mole was a woman and had used her own photo along with Willow’s name to establish the account. If the traitor was a man, good odds he’d use a woman close to him, someone he could control.
Either way, it was their one shot in the dark. Flying to Grand Cayman wasn’t an option. Safe bet the Gray Box was monitoring airports using Willow’s facial recognition program. He needed to figure out an alternate form of transportation and to know the Gray Box’s next move.
Grabbing the clippers, Gideon rapped a knuckle on the bathroom door. “Mind if I cut my hair?” Ken had been generous enough to give them one room to use. He wouldn’t impose by dirtying a second bathroom. “It’ll take two minutes.”
Two, and he’d get to work on creating an exit plan out of the city.
Water ran in the tub. “Come in.”
He ducked inside with his head lowered, but he still caught her rise to her knees, clad in only her bra and underwear, and dunk her head under the faucet. His thoughts careened. The sight of her creamy pale skin, narrow waist dipping to the small of her back, and heart-shaped ass tipped in the air lit up his central nervous system like a football stadium on game night.
Fastening his gaze in the opposite direction, he hustled four strides to the sink. The snapshot of Willow, her curves and every movement, had imprinted on his brain, filling in the missing pieces in his mind for a complete picture he could visit whenever he closed his eyes. For the first time, his memory was a liability instead of an advantage.
Might’ve been smarter to wait for her to finish. Gideon redirected the trajectory of his misfiring mind. He opened a trash bag over the sink to collect the hair and set the timer on his watch, determined to stick to two minutes and not a second longer.
Changing his appearance with a shave and haircut wouldn’t thwart a facial recognition program. But adding a pair of sunglasses and ball cap would make him less recognizable in a crowd, give him a slight advantage in person.
He flipped on the cordless clippers. First, he shaved under his chin, up and over his jaw, above his upper lip. Quick, methodical swipes to get the job done. Nothing fancy. He did the same with his hair, running the clippers from the nape of his neck to the front, his head hanging over the trash bag. The goal was simple—keep it neat, clean, even.
When he was done, he looked like a younger version of himself. One less cynical and guarded, a man who had naively believed he was capable of having a successful relationship. He no longer recognized that version of himself staring back.
The water stopped running in the tub. He wiped the sink and collected the trash bag. In the mirror, he watched Willow wrap her hair in a towel. His gaze slid over her sensual figure. Looking at her without being able to touch her was pure hell.
His alarm chirped. Perfect timing. He bolted from the room before she made it to her feet.
Before he could pat himself on the back, a sharp gasp came from the bathroom. Willow started crying. The pit of his stomach tightened.
Those weren’t crocodile tears. From extensive experience with his ex’s episodes of bawling on demand, he could detect fake tears at the first sniffle.
The pained sounds from Willow were real and had the inside of his chest twisting.
He hated how her life had been turned upside down. Over the last few hours, he’d asked a lot of her—high-pressure, high-risk things. She’d handled all of it with grit and trusted him with little explanation. It bumped his admiration of her several notches higher.
The absolute last thing he should do was go back in there, but her crying turned to sobbing, and he didn’t need her falling apart.
He threw his T-shirt on, set a five-minute timer—estimating it’d take longer than two to console her but not giving himself enough time to succumb to temptation—and stepped into the bathroom. Sanguine dye smeared the edge of the white tub on his right, making it look like a bloodbath. Plastic gloves lay on the floor.
Leaving the door ajar, he pivoted left. Willow stood trembling in front of the sink and mirror. Weeping, she faced him.
Water dripped from her dark-red hair in rivulets down her delicate body. Her flimsy gossamer underwear was see-through. Blindsided, he stiffened.
He pinned his gaze on her face, refusing to veer for a second below her neck.
“I don’t look like me.” Tears spilled from her eyes.
Unable to stop his feet from moving closer, he went to touch her but thought better of it and drew his hands back to his sides.
“I-I hate this hair.” She burst into a series of hiccupping sobs. “None of this is me. Running. Dodging bullets. Stealing cars. Being a fugitive.”
Her raw vulnerability gutted him. He had to say or do something—only a heartless asshole wouldn’t comfort her—but he was frozen in place. “Please, don’t cry.”
She reached for him. He couldn’t avoid the collision of contact as she fell against his chest and pressed a trembling palm to her mouth. Or perhaps he didn’t want to.
He wrapped his arms around her shivering body and held her, cradling her head against his sore sternum. She was warm, so warm and soft. Her fear was palpable, tearing him up on the inside. She really started sobbing as if she’d been holding back a moment ago.
Tightening his embrace, he shushed her and stroked her hair.
“Gideon, I can’t do this. I don’t know how. I need things to go back to being normal. I need normal.”
“You can do this. Your hair changed, not who you are. I see you, Willow.”
She blinked up at him. He wiped the tears still streaming with his fingertips while keeping an arm around her.
“Same hazel eyes that can’t decide if they want to be brown or green.” He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, a whisper of touch, and she leaned into his caress. “Same kind spirit.”
Her sobs slowed, her breathing steadied, her
body growing calmer.
“Same brilliant mind. You’re a survivor. I see you.”
He skimmed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, heat burning his face. She stilled, like she was holding her breath the same as him. He’d been attracted to scores of women…and then there was this.
Not mere attraction but a draw far stronger and more intense.
Kissing her would be a catastrophic mistake. An epic disaster. But only a blind monk would have the willpower to resist.
Her hands flew to his cheeks as she rose on her tiptoes and yanked his mouth down to hers. Their lips locked—his ability to think rationally shut down on impact—and their tongues tangled in a sweet, filthy slide of a kiss.
His heart kicked into a frantic pounding like machine gunfire against his breastbone.
On a sharp, mingled breath, it turned deeper, hot and hard and hungry.
Her supple body pressed tight to his, her leg hooking on his hip like she wanted to climb him. All her soft warmth ground against the growing bulge in his pants. Every single point of connection sparked more heat.
He had to stop this, stop her, stop himself somehow.
Then she slid her hand along his torso, down to his erection. He nearly burst from his skin. Gripping the nape of her neck and her hip with his other hand, he jerked her closer. The hard suction of her mouth, the way she licked and laved, tied him up in knots.
Shuffling her back against the wall, he palmed her ass and caressed her breasts, flicking a thumb hard over her nipple.
It registered on some distant level when the thin mesh of her bra tore in his rough hands that he was being too aggressive. But her moans grew throaty and her hips rocked against his.
The absolute last thing he’d do was take her in a rush, in a bathroom, without condoms, when he needed to protect this scared, trusting woman from any danger. And that included him.
His alarm beeped like a time bomb, and the fantasy detonated. This wasn’t make-believe with no consequences to actions, and this wasn’t a mission where the fallout didn’t matter.
In an act of sheer will, he ended the kiss. Their breaths came in ragged pants. There was too much space between their lips and at the same time not nearly enough.
She had the most beautiful mouth, lush and pink. Every atom of his being longed to hold her, taste her in a way that would erase necessary boundaries, but he had better sense.
“I’m sorry for taking advantage of you.” He’d underestimated his weakness and overestimated how far out of control things could spin in five minutes.
“No, you’re not taking advantage.” She drew her mouth dangerously close to his, leaning into him, and he was in misery.
Torn.
“I am. You’re upset, vulnerable. You needed comfort, not canoodling.” What kind of lowlife was he? With a hot stab in his gut, he dropped his arms and staggered away. “That was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.”
He cut his eyes from the hurt, confused look on her face and left, slamming the door shut behind him. His conscience was lead-heavy, and that sensation he was losing rushed up again. He wished he could push a button, turn ice-cold and disconnect, but his usual self-distancing techniques were failing. He holstered his Maxim, grabbed the extra 9mm from his go bag, and got the hell out of the bedroom.
* * *
Willow leaned against the wall. The ghost of Gideon’s kiss haunted her lips, the taste of him plaguing her tongue. Fingers shaking, she traced her wet mouth. A cruel echo of sensation throbbed between her legs. She closed her eyes, still feeling his arms bandaged around her, his hot hands on her bare skin. His fingers tight across her nape, running along her spine, clutching her bottom, kneading her breasts, pinching her nipple—causing a pain that hurt so good, her whimper poured down his throat.
In those few heated moments, she’d forgotten the fear, the dread, her sick father home alone, the uncertainty of the future, her utter lack of control in this uncontrollable nightmare.
Gideon had filled her up with something intoxicating and intense, the most intimate experience she’d ever had. Nothing else had existed besides the desire running liquid through her.
And for some reason, he still walked away.
Her stomach twisted, her heart beating heavily.
Lowering her head, she stared at her bra, stained with dye and torn. Ruined.
She hated underwear. The only reason she wore any was her father’s insistence it was inappropriate if she didn’t.
After the NSA hired her, her dad explained in nauseating detail the importance of dressing professionally to fit in. Her biggest issue was the uncomfortable textures of some fabrics on her skin. Cotton, silk, and cashmere were her go-to materials. In college, she lived in T-shirts and sweatpants. For the job, she’d Googled “best store for women business attire,” and Banana Republic came up first. At their outlet in Leesburg, she had found a comfortable seasonless skirt and classic button-down blouse. A saleswoman had recommended kitten heels, since she had little experience wearing pumps.
She bought the outfit, two in every color, and made a detailed chart on what dates she’d wear certain combinations, adding cardigans during the winter. No one seemed to notice, and Amanda complimented her often that she was always very well put-together.
Willow chucked the bra and bikini briefs in the trash. They were a matching set—she couldn’t wear one without the other—and she was glad to be rid of both.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
The hair looked awful—unnatural—but this time, she concentrated on her flushed face and not the floppy reddish-brown mane. Ken had armed her with a blow dryer and arsenal of hair products, everything from a pleasant-smelling leave-in conditioner to hair spray. No wonder the guy had gorgeous locks.
She threw on her top and slipped into her skirt in the bedroom. Gideon’s voice was muffled through the wall of the room next door. Padding barefoot into the hall, she spotted Ken hunched over the lightbox on the table. She reached for the handle of the adjacent bedroom, but Gideon’s sharp tone and the clipped edge in his voice pricked her nerves, staying her hand.
“Listen to me, Maddox. It was a judgment call. Willow is my target, and this is like any other assignment,” he said on the other side of the door.
Willow cringed, bracing a hand on the wall.
“This is the only way to find the real mole. Trust me, this isn’t personal. This is business. Let me do my job.”
Her heart lurched, the beats bleeding together. She spun, rushing back to the bedroom. Shaking, she closed the door and locked it.
Willow is my target.
This isn’t personal. This is business.
Humiliation burned inside her, followed by a sickening realization. Everything finally made sense. His sudden interest in her, a plain Jane misfit, when he was obviously into drop-dead gorgeous women. His deceased wife had looked like a Victoria’s Secret model.
No surprise the only reason he cozied up to her, came into her house, snooped through her room, distracted her with a kiss, was for an investigation.
She slid down the door, her lungs squeezing. She was his assignment. She was business.
Business!
Hope that anything romantic with him might’ve been possible ruptured like a burst water pipe. She slapped the wall, wanting to slap Gideon. He didn’t care about her. He was only using her to find the mole.
She’d trusted him on the most intimate level, knowing he’d never take anything from her that she didn’t willingly give. No, he’d never hurt her physically, but she’d been short-sighted. She hadn’t considered her heart.
17
Springfield, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 12:40 p.m. EDT
“Listen to me, Maddox.” Gideon paced in the room, chewing on a piece of gum. “It was a judgment call. Willow is my target, and this is like any
other assignment.”
“This isn’t the way,” Maddox said over the phone. “You’ve lost your objectivity.”
No shit. He’d made the mistake of touching her, and the contact had robbed him of all common sense.
“This is the only way to find the real mole. Trust me, this isn’t personal.” He doubted Maddox was buying the bullshit he no longer sold to himself. Things had gone from professional straight to intimate. “This is business. Let me do my job.”
Glancing at his watch, he checked the time. He’d bet his left nut Maddox wasn’t tracing the call, but he liked his balls as a set and wasn’t willing to risk being wrong.
At the forty-five second mark, he’d hang up.
“For what it’s worth,” Maddox said, “I think she’s innocent. Forensics is checking her brake line now, and I think Sanborn is doing what he can to impede the hunt. I get the feeling he doesn’t want Harper in a holding cell or interrogated any more than you or I do, but Parker is hitting him hard. The DNI is going to force his hand soon under orders from the president.”
“I’m asking a lot, but I need you to buy me time. And someone should check on Willow’s dad. The guy’s in a wheelchair and may need some help.”
“I know what you’re going to do next because it’s what I’d do. Don’t fly.” She hung up, ending the call before he did. Her way of reassuring him she was on his side.
Good to know Sanborn believed in Willow. But unless the chief had evidence that she was innocent, he could vouch for her until his lungs burned and it wouldn’t matter.
If Maddox knew they were going to the Cayman Islands, so did Sanborn. Gideon just needed the hunt steered away from the bank long enough for him to get proof.
Parker and those pencil-pushing accountants wouldn’t expect this move, since they assumed Willow was guilty. In their minds, if the account was hers, she’d wire the money out rather than go there in person. He had to get Willow to the Cayman Islands by the time the bank opened on Monday.
How was he supposed to look her in the eye for two days after overstepping boundaries?