He unbuttoned his shirt, peeling the cotton dress shirt off his broad shoulders, revealing well-defined biceps and pecs. And a whole lot of manly, naked, gorgeous torso.
Holy sh— Vicky stepped on the other heel, and pain stabbed the ball of her foot. “Shoot.”
Ryan lifted his head, meeting her gaze as he slowly undid his belt. “Sorry? Did you say something?”
She rubbed her foot as he rolled the belt in his hand, the leather taking on all sorts of sexy, naughty elements as it twined around his fist like a restraint. Oh, yeah, a restraint that he could...
She blinked. “What? Uh, no. Not me. Nope. Nothing.” What? Had she said something? She couldn’t remember, she was too distracted with ogling the hunk.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, and slowly, sexily lowered the zip of his fly.
“Uh-huh.” She was incapable of intelligible speech. Stop staring at the man!
Her eyes widened when she realized he wasn’t going to stop. His hands moved to slide inside the waistband of his black trousers, and he bent slightly at the waist.
HOLY SH— She whipped around to face the bedside table, concentrating very closely on removing her watch and bracelet. She toyed with the items on the table, trying to give him enough time to get his naked ass into the privacy of the bathroom. She heard him moving around in front of the wardrobe, the sound of hangers rattling as he hung up his pants. Crap. Who knew he was such a neat freak?
She tried to hum casually as she opened the top drawer of the table. Oh, look, a bible. She wasn’t really looking for a bible, but anything that would make her look busy without being obvious would help. She picked up the book and started leafing through the pages. He was still moving around in the room. How long did it take to shuffle that glorious butt off to a shower? Then she realized she was pretending to read a bible while a handsome, naked man stood just feet away. She hit her forehead against the thick tome. I need to get out more. And yet Ryan didn’t seem to suffer from any shyness with sharing a bedroom with her. Probably because he saw her as a friend. A mate. A bloody chum.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Ryan’s deep, velvety voice whispered across the room to her.
She jerked her head up and stared at the abstract painting above the bed. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”
Moments later the click of the bathroom door echoed through the suite. Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped the bible. Okay. Sexy nude man gone.
She turned around and listened. He was whistling. Oh, yeah. He was just as caught up in the sexual tension as she. Not.
A moment later she heard the faucets turn, the sound of water running. He was stepping into the shower. She swallowed. All well-toned, muscled, six feet and three inches of him. Butt naked. Sexy. Wet. Images of what he’d look like, stepping under the spray, water running down that sexy chest, over the taut stomach and...further, flashed through her mind. She smacked herself lightly in the forehead with the bible again. She was drooling over Ryan. He was her friend, for crying out loud, and she just wanted to fling open that door and join him in the shower. She was not being a good friend, at all. Very naughty, in fact. She sighed. What she wouldn’t give to get naughty with Ryan.
And he’d probably want to run as soon as the shower curtain opened.
Damn.
She only had a few minutes before he would finish in there and return. Ryan might like walking around the room without a stitch on, but she didn’t want to get caught in the buff. She hurried over to the tallboy to look for something to wear.
She opened a draw and burrowed through it. Bras, panties, and some sort of shapewear that Jessica had told her was a must for some of the chosen outfits, flew over her shoulder as she hunted through the cavity. Her fingers finally encountered something soft, silken. She pulled it from the drawer and held it up, her jaw dropping.
It was a nightgown. Of sorts. The bodice was all peek-a-boo lace in a midnight blue color, while the skirt of the gown was in a matching silken fabric—what little there was of it. Jessica must have thrown it in. Oh, no. No way. She could not wear that in front of Ryan. It was too sexy. Too...revealing. Too obvious. She stuffed it back in the drawer and rifled through the garments until she found what she was looking for. Ah. Much better. She pulled out her black Betty Boop boxer shorts with matching racer-back cami. Cute and concealing. Just like her.
The water in the bathroom stopped, spurring her into action. Twisting her body this way and that, she finally managed to unzip her gown and wriggle out of it. She stripped out of her underwear, kicking panties and bra off to the side before almost skipping into her pajamas. She hurried over to the dressing table and smothered her face in make-up removal cream before grabbing tissues and wiping the mess off her face. Her eyes stung and teared up as she got some of the product in her eyes. She threw the tissues in the trashcan underneath the table, and slapped on some night cream—at least she hoped it was night cream. Everything was just a little blurry.
She staggered over to the bed, and tripped again over those bloody shoes. Clutching her toe and hopping, she finally fell back onto the massive bed. She rolled over and over until she made it across the diagonal and could pull the edge of the covers back. She jackknifed so that she could slide her legs between the expensive, cool cotton sheets and wriggled down. She tugged the top pillow until only her nose remained outside of her linen cocoon.
Crap. She’d left the light on. She threw the covers back and scurried across the width of the bed. She jumped from the bed and ran to the light switch, flicking it off. A lamp on a coffee table in the living area gave a golden glow over the sofa that Ryan had selected to sleep on. They’d made it up with pillows and blankets upon their return from dinner. She bolted back to the bed. She leaped onto massive mattress—ooh, bouncy—and slid under the covers, tugging them up over her ears just as the bathroom door opened.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Pretend to sleep.
She tried to even her breathing, a hard task when her heart was pounding from the mini-Olympics she’d just run.
She heard him moving about the room, his footsteps padding down the three steps that separated the bedroom area from the living area. Pretend to sleep.
She cracked her eyes open, just a little. Oh, wow. He wore some sort of fitted boxer briefs, and his skin glowed golden in the lamplight. She sighed. He was gorgeous. How was she supposed to get any sleep with him lying just a few yards away? There was no way she’d be able to relax.
He lay on the lounge and pulled the blankets over himself. He punched the pillows a couple of times, and her mouth went dry as she watched his biceps flex. He rolled to his side. Then to his back. Then turned to face the back of the sofa. He sighed. He reminded her of the cartoon where the kitten kneaded the dog’s back before settling down to sleep.
A long arm reached up and turned off the lamp. “Good night, Cassie.”
“Good night, Pete,” she responded automatically, then squeezed her eyes shut.
Damn. So much for pretending to sleep.
* * *
“Hang on!”
Ryan jerked awake at the cry. He listened for a moment. The sheets rustled on the bed upstairs, as though someone was wrestling with them. He sat up, blinking, trying to peer through the darkness.
“Please, wait. Don’t die.” Vicky’s cry was low and tortured, and Ryan realized she was dreaming. Orla.
“It’s okay,” he whispered through the darkness.
A whimper, followed by a shuddering sigh, had him sitting up on the sofa. More sheet rustling. She sounded like she was fighting the linen.
He flung off his covers and rose, his first steps uncertain. Was she awake yet? He didn’t want to disturb her, but he also didn’t want her to suffer in her sleep. Or say something that could blow their cover to the person on the other end of the listening devices. He crossed th
e room and padded silently up the steps to the sleeping area.
“Shh, it’s okay.” He kept his voice low. She thrashed a little on the bed, trying to kick off the comforter. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, but he still couldn’t figure out if she was awake or not.
“Hey, it’s okay. She’s okay,” he whispered as he approached the bed. She whimpered, turned toward his voice. “She’s going to be okay, darlin’. Relax.”
He knelt by the side of the bed, and gently brushed her hair off her face. He could make out the sheen of tears on her face, and an unfamiliar warmth bloomed in his chest as he stroked her hair. “Shh,” he whispered, trying to comfort her in her sleep. His hand trailed down to her shoulder, covered by the thick blanket, and he felt her shudder. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She moaned a little, and burrowed into the comforter. His lips tightened. She’d seemed so calm, so determined at the meeting, and at every moment since that he’d shared with her. She hadn’t hinted at the pain she was carrying over her friend’s attack. She’d hidden it behind a brave face, and he’d just assumed she was getting on with the job, just like him. He shook his head as he continued to stroke her shoulder through the blanket. He should have known, should have realized.
His best friend was hurting, and he’d not even considered how she might be processing what had happened to her friend, and her friend’s father. Damn.
She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have been there when he found Orla, either. He would do anything to wipe that memory from her mind. He hadn’t realized how jaded he’d become. He’d seen Orla, cut and broken, and hadn’t really looked at her as a person. Just a victim. He’d seen worse. But he should have made the effort to see it from Vicky’s point of view. He’d been in Vicky’s position, once, when he’d found someone he’d cared about, broken and dying. But he hadn’t reacted with a fraction of the grace with which Vicky had dealt with her painful situation.
He wondered if that drove her present need to be active in the field. He gazed down at her face, watching as breath by breath, she slowly slipped into a deeper, more restful slumber. He could understand her need to track down this couple, hold them responsible for their actions. Hadn’t he done the same, in her position?
Well, okay, maybe what he’d done had been much worse.
He sighed as he stroked her hair. She didn’t wear it loose very often. He toyed with a curl. It was smooth, silken to the touch. Soft. Just like Vicky, despite all her bluster.
He lowered his head until his lips were level with her ear. “I will keep you safe, Vic,” he whispered almost silently. “No harm will come to you, not on my watch.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek in a soft, reverent kiss and sat back on his haunches, content to watch over her for a while, soothe her if she needed it.
The door that led to their private terrace rattled softly, and Ryan snapped around, senses on red alert.
The rattle came again.
He rose, taking the steps down to the living zone in one long, silent leap before racing through the dark suite. That’s not the wind.
Chapter Ten
He sidled up to the closed curtains, conscious not to touch the fabric and give away his presence. He tried to peer through the gap, but couldn’t see much at this angle.
He stepped to the side, until he came to one end of the curtain, away from the middle gap. Raising one finger, he slowly slid it behind the drape and gently, infinitesimally, moved the fabric to peer outside. He held his breath, making sure the movement was slow, gradual.
He peered into the darkness outside. The snow on the ground gave the stone-enclosed terrace an eerie glow in the darkness. The surrounding pine trees obscured whatever light the high walls didn’t block, creating a haunting pocket of gloom.
Nothing.
He scanned the terrace, his eyes cataloging every minute movement and detail. The breeze that fanned the branches of the pine trees visible over the wall. The bird that took flight into the darkness. An owl. The shadow cast by the stone wall. Nothing.
Nobody.
But he was sure it hadn’t been the wind. Even though the higher branches moved, it was a slow, freaky dance, not caused by a wind strong enough to rattle the door in its frame. No, something else had done that.
He scanned the area again, and froze. Just in front of the door were slight impressions in the snow.
Footprints.
And not from a curious rabbit, either. No, those footprints were definitely human.
He frowned. Someone had tried to break into their suite while they were asleep. He wasn’t sure what had caused them to run. Maybe he had made a sound, but he doubted it. Maybe the lock on the door was a little trickier than they’d estimated. Either way, there was no sign of the intruder now. He eyed the stone wall. They must have scaled it. It wouldn’t be difficult.
He dropped his hand and looked up at the bed in the sleeping area. Vicky was still sleeping, oblivious to any potential danger.
Just the way it should be.
He crossed to his sofa and lay down, raising his hands behind his head and gazing up at the dark bed. He couldn’t quite see her, but he could hear her, her deep breathing signaling an end to her tortured dreams.
I’ll watch over you. His personal vow fired a new determination in his gut.
* * *
Ryan pressed the light on his watch. 5:09 a.m. Damn. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. What a hellish night. Intruder aside, he’d barely slept a wink. Some of it his fault. Most of it hers. He glared at the bed on the upper level.
He’d enjoyed teasing Vicky last night with his little strip tease. Payback for the afternoon bath. He’d seen her blush—heck, Google Earth would have seen her blush. He’d also seen the appreciation she’d tried to hide, the attraction. He hadn’t meant to drive her to the bible, was still trying to process that, but it had been fun, knowing he could turn her on with the flick of a shirt button. And that was his fault. Trying to arouse her had backfired on him, and he’d ended up standing under a cold damned shower for as long as he could stand it, and then fantasizing about what she was wearing. Or not.
And then her nightmares had started, creating all sorts of protective urges that he simply couldn’t remember feeling for a long, long time. There hadn’t been another incident, not outside the suite, anyway. He should have been able get some rest.
But no. The woman humphed in her sleep. She rolled in her sleep. She moaned in her sleep. She kicked in her sleep. And she talked. The damned woman would not shut up. “The broccoli’s on the stove.” “No, not SpongeBob.” Oh, and his favorite, “More sugar, please.” What the hell? And she’d been out cold the whole time. He’d checked. The third time she’d startled him.
“Maybe next Thursday,” Vicky now muttered from the bed.
He rolled his eyes. Okay. That’s it. He flung the blankets off and rolled from the sofa. He was going for a run. There had to be some sort of gym somewhere, with all the salad-eating, weight-conscious clients who stayed here.
He quickly dressed in running clothes and threw some ski gear on over the top, checked the resort manual for the gym details, and left the cabin.
It was damn cold outside. He trudged over the snow toward the main building. He wouldn’t expect the guest transport to be operating at this early hour.
It didn’t take him long to find the resort gym and change. It was blissfully silent. No rustle of bed sheets. No mutterings. No sexy little sighs. With only the discrete hum of the air-conditioning to distract him, he settled himself into an eight-mile run on the treadmill. Hopefully that would wear off some of his energy.
He’d finished his run and was working his way through a weights training program when the door to the gym opened.
Deborah walked in, a white towel draped over one shoulder. She’d taken a few steps in before she n
oticed Ryan, and she paused.
“Oh, hi there. I didn’t realize anybody would be in this early.”
Ryan finished his biceps curl. “I usually try to get in a workout before work.”
Deborah walked up to an exercise bike and draped her towel over the handle grips. “Hmm, I try to get a workout in every day, too.” She picked a program and started pedaling. “I need to get in shape.”
Ryan’s eyebrow rose. “You already look like you’re in good shape.” He didn’t mean it as a come-on, although Deborah did give him a second assessing look before smiling at him. The woman wore Lycra shorts and a crop top, and from what he could see, she was already in good shape. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her face was perfectly made up—which didn’t make any sense to him, because don’t you tend to sweat during a workout? Unless she was hiding scars underneath the war paint?
He wished they had more information on Jade Maxwell other than the general description from her police file. At least her outfit might reveal some surgical scars. This might be a good opportunity to get a closer look.
“Thanks,” she huffed, not pausing in her pedaling. “I’ve been out of the country for the last few months, out of my usual routine.”
“Oh, holiday? Where?” Like at a Chicago hospital getting a facial reconstruction?
“Switzerland.”
Uh-huh. Switzerland, Chicago. Same difference. “Switzerland is nice this time of year. I know it well. Where did you go?”
Deborah shrugged. “Oh, here and there. Mainly in the Alps.” No details, and she kept her eyes focused on the readout on the exercise bike.
“Oh? Zermatt? Gimmelwald? Or Berhnoff? I love Bernhoff, personally.”
Deborah smiled. “Yes, somewhere around there,” she panted, then dropped her gaze to the bike again.
Ryan nodded. Uh-huh. He’d made that last place up. He continued with his reps, lifting them slowly to get maximum effort from the muscle groups he was working.
“Hmm, I find that those places are very tempting. You end up staying longer than you expect. How long were you there for?” Enough time to fit in with the estimated recuperation time for having surgery?
For Her Eyes Only (McCormack Security Agency) Page 9