Breaking the Honor Code

by Stanalei Fletcher

  Mitchell turned on the screen and pressed a button twice. “Umm. Courage, truth, respect. I’m only up to level four.”

  “Those are impressive code words for a children’s game.” Sloan seemed surprised.

  “There’s more to fighting bad guys than just beating them up.” She tried not to come off as defensive, but was sure she failed. “That’s the point of this game.”

  “So what’s the next code word?” Mitchell glanced up at her.

  Allison shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m not giving any hints. You’ll just have to retrace your steps and find it yourself. Cheating has no part in Bushido.”

  “Bushido?” Mitchell and Sloan asked at the same time.

  “The Samurai warrior’s code.” Allison ruffled her nephew’s hair. “It’s what the game is based on.”

  ****

  Sloan began to realize that Allison had more layers than the onion they’d had for dinner. After that quick little kiss in the office, he knew she tasted better, too. “You know about Bushido?”

  “I studied martial arts for a few years and picked up several books on the philosophy. The Japanese history of sacrifice and dedication is fascinating.”

  “Which martial arts?”

  “Judo and Jiujitsu.”

  Sloan had spent time studying martial arts too, and was partial to Aikido. “You already knew about the explanation I gave Mitch tonight.” He referred to their dinner conversation.

  She nodded. “I did. It was clever to use that approach to teach American history to him.”

  Sloan shrugged. “Seemed to me like he’d understand that logical approach.”

  “Hey, I’m right here.” Mitch looked between the two of them.

  “Sorry, kid.” Sloan ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “And I’m not a kid.”

  “Mitchell,” Allison said sharply. “Mind your manners.”

  “Fine.” Mitch slid off the couch and sat on the floor next to the fire. “Now you guys can have your adult conversation.”

  Sloan chuckled. Then he glanced at the kid’s aunt and felt a kindred energy arc through the space between himself and Allison.

  Firelight flattered her fair skin and cast shadows that accentuated her high cheekbones and straight nose. Full, sensual lips curved into a smile as she watched her nephew play his game.

  Women seldom surprised him. They mostly fell into two categories: those who wanted to have a good time and those who wanted a commitment from his bank account. It was rare when a woman didn’t calculate to gain his attention. He couldn’t remember any woman as fascinating as Allison, and wondered what it was about her that kept him so interested.

  He’d thought her brush-offs were an act, a way to play hard to get. He realized now she wasn’t being coy. Her cyborg behavior was a defense mechanism against getting too close to people. Had she been hurt in a relationship? Was that why she shut herself off? It surprised him how much he wanted to ease the loneliness that sometimes seemed to engulf her.

  He studied her face—the curve of her neck. Her baggy sweatshirt didn’t completely hide the swell of her breasts and slim waist. Long, slender hands lay clasped in her lap. What would those sexy, capable hands feel like sliding through his hair? A yearning warmed him from the inside. She was only an arm’s length away. All he had to do was reach out. Touch her soft skin. Stroke her dark, silky hair.

  Without warning, she turned. Her unguarded expression shone with a gentle look that also spoke of innocence.

  Sloan felt sucker punched. The unexpectedness shook him to the core.

  He went after women who knew the stakes—who had experience. But with Allison he was playing with fire. He wasn’t ready to be tied down and she came with enough strings to wrap him up like a mummy. She was out of his league and didn’t even know it.

  He thought back on his actions since coming to her house. The near misses blasted through his memory like warning shots across a ship’s bow. Guilt lodged in his throat.

  Her eyes glowed and her lips started to curve upward at the corners, but she turned away and gave the smile to her nephew.

  Sloan swallowed the guilt. Only an arm’s length away, and for a moment it didn’t matter that they were coworkers. It didn’t matter that he wanted to wrap himself around her, take the sweetness she had to offer—drown in the pleasure she would bring. It didn’t matter that his charred flesh would rot in hell…

  But it did matter.

  His martial arts training taught him of Bushido, too. Marked by centuries of dedication, sacrifice, and loyalty. The Samurai’s code—death before dishonor.

  The seduction of Allison Richards would have no honor.

  ****

  Drew Getty bit his upper lip, then refreshed his monitor screen.

  This couldn’t be right. Allison Richards was supposed to be permanently offline. She shouldn’t be cleaning up the last mess he’d left on Northstar’s servers. If the IP address he’d pinged was correct—and he knew he hadn’t made a mistake—then she was actively working in Idaho.

  What the hell happened to the guy he’d sent to kidnap her? Maybe he shouldn’t have insisted on radio silence. If his man was somehow delayed, it would put a huge crimp in the schedule. If she joined her doofus coworker, Tom, in Los Angeles, that spirit of competition he’d seen at the gaming convention last year would kick in. He’d be back to square one. The Allison Richards he’d gone up against was dogged. Persistent. That was her pride.

  Drew couldn’t let that happen. No, the nerd diva was going down. He’d show her. He’d show them all. The time for subtlety was over. The final pieces were prepped and ready for release before his brother’s first hearing in two days. Then the details, or in this instance, the lack of details about the case would go viral—spammed over the Internet for everyone to see. The judge would be anxious to throw the case out of court to avoid embarrassment. No prosecutor would go to trial after this publicity blowup.

  Drew pinched the bridge of his nose and focused. He had the heavy artillery to prove Allison was a traitor, and he would use it. By sending that note when he had, hinting that she was in danger and arranging it so she was unreachable, it made her look even more guilty.

  He thought about the fact she was online at her home in Idaho. He could still make the plan work. He’d force the next transmission to ping from her IP in Idaho, leaving a trail even that goof, Tom, could follow. He didn’t need to hear from his man. If Allison couldn’t be captured in Idaho, then Northstar would be forced to bring her to California. That’s when he’d strike. Once she accessed the FBI’s files, securing his brother’s release would be easy.

  Drew took a breath to settle his nerves. He had to trust the hired help to do what he himself couldn’t. It would be okay. Soon Allison Richards would be captured and he’d possess the last piece of intel he needed.

  Chapter Eight

  Allison curled inside her sleeping bag on the couch and watched Sloan add another log to the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney as the charred wood collapsed under the weight of the new log. By the firelight, she studied the strength of his jaw and broad shoulders. His suit was nothing but a faded memory. Dressed casually in jeans, he looked as if he belonged in the wilds of the mountains instead of the glitz of the big city. His ability to blend with his environment, to adapt to the situation, was impressive.

  She wondered exactly when her opinion of him changed. Had it been when he came into the garage? When he helped Mitchell with his homework? While he silently watched as she spent hours tracing through code? Or was it there all along and she’d just pushed it aside? If she wasn’t careful, her resolution to stay detached would snap like a broken icicle.

  A few feet from the fire, Mitchell was stretched out in his sleeping bag. She was glad he was around to help keep the situation in perspective. Unfortunately, it had only taken him minutes after his head hit the pillow to fall asleep, so he wasn’t running much interference at the moment.

  By staying awake as long
as she could, Allison was delaying the inevitable—sleeping in the same room with Sloan. It shouldn’t be such a big deal that she and Sloan were alone, not in today’s society. Yet, in her mind they would be together, breathing the same air, dreaming through the same night. The closeness, the intimacy, was tangible—almost like sharing the same bed.

  The blizzard hadn’t let up and the power hadn’t returned. The rooms upstairs were quite cold when she sent Mitchell to get ready for bed. Instead of trying to find ways to warm the second floor, they decided to use the sleeping bags near the fireplace. It made the most sense, but the closeness made her uncomfortable.

  Sloan insisted Allison use the couch while he rolled out his sleeping bag on the floor next to Mitchell. At first, she thought the gesture unexpectedly generous of him. Then she recalled how helpful he was with Mitchell’s homework—how supportive he’d been when they’d needed to take care of the house after the power went out. Chivalry was obviously part of Sloan’s character. Just when she thought she’d found a flaw to hold onto, to keep her resistance strong, he revealed a quality totally unforeseen before tonight.

  She wished his thoughtfulness didn’t affect her. She didn’t want to like him. However, the man stoking the fireplace was not the Sloan Cartland she thought she knew.

  It was late. The day had been eventful. She should be tired, but her nerves were stretched to the point of snapping. She was hypersensitive to every move he made.

  He turned and caught her staring at him. Heat flooded her cheeks and she hoped the shadows hid her blush. She glanced away and looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight.

  “Do you think the log will last a while?” His deep voice was quiet, riding on the scent of burning wood. The sound coiled around her, warming her with a familiarity she wanted to ignore.

  “It should.” She focused on the question and kept her voice casual. “It took almost two hours to burn the last one.” Nodding toward the log he’d placed on the fire, she added, “That one is bigger.”

  He poked at the fire one more time and then replaced the screen.

  She shifted in her sleeping bag. “Are you sure you’re going to be comfortable on the floor? That’s hardwood under the carpet.”

  “Are you offering to share the couch?”

  “No.” The denial came sharper than she intended. “I mean…”

  He smiled, seeing her discomfort. “I’ll be fine.” He glanced at the sleeping bag, then at her. “I need to let you know something, though.”

  “What’s that?” She frowned.

  “I’m not sleeping in all these clothes.”

  His statement sent hot tremors racing to the pit of her stomach.

  “Okay.” To her dismay, her voice squeaked. So much for sophistication. “I don’t have a problem with that.” What else could she say?

  “You can watch…or not.”

  Duh! Of course he wasn’t asking permission to sleep in the buff. At least he’d been decent enough to warn her. “Right.” She flipped to her other side and faced the back of the couch.

  She heard a dark chuckle, then a thud as his boots hit the floor. Next, came the torturous sound of the zipper on his jeans. A few more seconds passed, where she imagined him slipping out of his shirt, before she finally heard the rustle of his body sliding into the sleeping bag.

  “You can turn around now.” His voice drifted up from his position on the floor.

  “I’m fine this way.” Her reply was muffled from facing the couch.

  “Chicken.” There was teasing in his tone.

  “No need for name-calling.” She couldn’t see him, but the image of him shrugging those well-muscled shoulders suddenly appeared in her mind.

  The room went quiet. She closed her eyes and counted breaths. Slow and steady, in and out, deep and relaxing. Except there was a problem with the relaxing part.

  “Allison?”

  She started when he interrupted her meditation. “Yes?” She rolled onto her back.

  “I never thanked you for bringing me here.” He paused. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t expected any thanks. “You’re welcome. You didn’t have anywhere else to go. I couldn’t just let you wander the town in a blizzard.” If he could be gracious, then she could certainly try, too.

  He gave a noncommittal grunt and then it was quiet again.

  She relaxed her breathing.

  Deep and slow, in and out.

  A small smile graced her lips as she drifted off to sleep.

  ****

  “Allison.” A large hand shook her awake. “Allison. I think Mitch is having a nightmare.”

  She rolled to her back and peered through sleep-heavy eyes. “What?”

  “Stop! I’m gonna tell!” Mitchell’s shout came from the middle of the living room floor.

  Wide-awake now, she slipped out of her sleeping bag and hurried to her nephew’s side to crouch beside him.

  “Is he okay?” Sloan looked down at the boy.

  She nodded. “It’s just a bad dream. He gets them sometimes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry he woke you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  She glanced at him, standing shirtless in his bare feet and jeans. He must have dressed to wake her. As he ran a hand through his hair and tousled it into sexy disarray, she averted her eyes and turned to comfort Mitchell. “Hush, baby.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everything’s okay. It’s just a dream.”

  A lock of hair had fallen onto his face. She brushed it back, and he rolled to his side; the tension in his body seemed to ease as his breathing evened out.

  Allison lightly rubbed his shoulder until she was satisfied he’d settled into a deep sleep.

  “He didn’t even wake up.” Sloan’s whisper came from above her. She hadn’t heard him move.

  “Mitchell sleeps like the dead. He doesn’t get the dreams often, but once they play out in his mind, it’s over, and he seems to be able to rest better.” She smoothed her nephew’s hair, stood, and turned too quickly, bumping into Sloan as he leaned over. The contact made her jump, but he caught her before she tripped over Mitchell’s sleeping form.

  “Steady.” He held her forearms, his bare chest only inches from her face.

  She’d forgotten to put on her sweater when she got up, and the heat from Sloan’s palms burned as though he’d held them next to the fire. The contrast against the cool air made her shiver.

  Several long seconds passed. She didn’t trust herself to move, afraid to look into his eyes, afraid she’d lean into his warmth. Shadows cast by the faint light of pulsing coals in the hearth emphasized chiseled planes and angles of his well-defined torso. A tattoo of a compass, much like Northstar’s logo, rested high on his chest and caught her eye. Then, a glint from the top snap on his jeans drew her gaze downward.

  She placed a hand against his arm to push away. A mistake. The feel of the silky hair on his forearm spread molten fire through her limbs. Her tank top and sweats covered her, but offered little protection from the super-heated air suddenly surrounding them. All thought fled as his scent melded with the warmth from his body, circling her in a veil of sensual longing. She raised her eyes and caught him staring at her lips.

  “Why?” His tone was husky, smoky.

  Her thoughts swirled around the heady sensation caused by being so close to him. She had no idea what he was asking. “Why, what?” She swallowed.

  Sloan’s gaze drifted lower and a shiver tightened her nipples in response.

  His lips flattened and he lifted his gaze. “Why does Mitch have nightmares?”

  Mitchell. Right! That’s why she was standing in the middle of the living room in Sloan’s arms. “Oh. Umm.” She backtracked to her nephew’s problem. “We think it’s because some of the kids tease him at school.”

  “The teasing causes nightmares?” He lightly stroked the underside of her arm.

  She could barely concentrate. “He’s sensitive about his size. I think other boys s
ee him as too brainy.” Her voice sounded breathy.

  “Like you?” There was a touch of humor in his question.

  Sloan must have some image of her. “I suppose.”

  “I could teach him some things about self-defense—”

  “No.” Her reply gave her strength to escape his hold. She slipped away and walked across the room where the air was colder. It helped her regain composure.

  She finished her explanation. “I mean, I’ve already taught him some techniques. He’s afraid to use them. He thinks others will treat him like even more of a weirdo.” Through the darkness, she felt him search her out.

  “I suppose he might see it that way.”

  Needing something to do, she picked up the flashlight from the end table next to the couch and hefted it from hand to hand.

  “It may feel like forever,” Sloan continued, “but boys usually grow out of this sort of thing.”

  “That’s what we’ve been hoping.” She turned on the flashlight. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” Anxious to put more distance from Sloan and the chaotic sensations he stirred inside her, she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll see if the storm has let up.”

  In stocking feet, she padded around the kitchen island. She was a fool. All Sloan had to do was touch her and she practically fell into his arms. The longer this night went on, the more confused her reactions made her. She hoped the snow had stopped falling and the crews were working on the power.

  Aiming the light out the window showed the storm wasn’t letting up any time soon.

  Sloan’s quiet footfalls sounded behind her.

  “How does it look?” His question drifted seductively through the cold night air.

  It would be so easy to let the sound of his voice wrap around her—a cocoon from the cares of the day. Instead, she switched off the flashlight to view the frenzied, swirling flakes that mirrored her emotions. There was no artificial light for miles, but the white of the storm was clearly visible.

  “Mitchell was right. There won’t be any school tomorrow.”

  No reprieve for her, either. Once the snow stopped, it would take half a day for the plows to clear the road to the house. If they were lucky enough to reach Boise after the storm, they wouldn’t be able to take a flight to L.A. until tomorrow night.