Hard to Protect (Black Ops Heroes)

by Black, Incy

  “Hmm, didn’t think so. Glaciers are pretty hard to scale. Most men wouldn’t bother.”

  Wide eyed, she returned his stare. How bloody rude. She noticed that after their collective intake of breath, the grannies looked like bunnies caught in the headlights.

  She flashed them a reassuring smile before returning her attention to the man she wanted to kick in the shin. “Funny, you’re the first man to have found it difficult,” she lied. “But then, like I said, you’re not my type. Furthermore, you crossed a professional boundary by repeatedly asking me out, so I’ll be referring your file to my colleague, Dr. Watts.”

  She’d like to see Will Berwick try and hook up with that cantankerous woman.

  “Give him hell, darling,” one of the grannies encouraged.

  “Yes, Pretty-boy might have a pert bum, but that doesn’t compensate for a shite personality,” the one beneath the yellow umbrella chimed in.

  “She’d be better off sucking a fruit-drop,” muttered the grumpy-looking one with the standard black umbrella.

  “Should have slapped the bastard,” declared Pink Umbrella in a much-too-cheery voice for someone advocating that kind of violence.

  Angel smiled her thanks for their support before honing in on Berwick. “You’ll have to excuse me. I believe that cab has my name on it,” she said with icy hauteur.

  Skirting around him—because he sure as hell wasn’t about to step aside—she crossed to the idling vehicle. And damned near hit herself in the face with the heavy, black door when he called after her, “If I’m no longer your client, does that mean we can date without compromising your professional ethics?”

  Only her promise to Rhys that she’d keep her shit tight prevented her from screeching back a heartfelt, “Fuck off!”

  Lips fused firmly shut, and without looking back, she clambered into the cab, the heavens collapsing as she slammed the door.

  Heavy rain blasted the windows, dulling London’s garish lights to an abstract blur. The hard drumming of the water on the metal roof echoed the violent beat of her heart.

  Exhaling deeply, she slumped against the backrest and closed her eyes. No man was that persistent. Not when it came to her. Berwick was up to something. What else could account for his about-face and sudden interest in her?

  Rhys had warned her to trust no one. She certainly didn’t trust Will Berwick. She’d earned her doctorates studying aberrations just like him. Men with too many masks who’d sold their souls to the devil. Men who, having witnessed the worst of humanity, lost all trace of their own. Unpredictable men. Evasive men. Dangerous men.

  Oh, Christ, had Berwick been a decoy? Did the Service have a lead on Rhys? Had they needed her distracted so she wouldn’t scream public blue-bloody-murder when they apprehended him?

  Lurching forward, her seatbelt all but severing her in half, she rapped on the transparent screen separating her from the driver, and quickly instructed a new destination.

  Twenty minutes later, she’d discarded her burnt-apricot cashmere dress on the rusting floor of a shipping container. It was one of several thousand such storage units piled high and close, in anonymous rows and columns, on the grounds of an old gas works that had poisoned the soil, rendering it unfit for housing or business development.

  The leasing company had charged an outrageous cash advance for the shipping container she’d needed to garage her bike, but they hadn’t demanded proof of identity when she’d registered. Which had meant she’d been able to use a false name. Which, in turn, had meant she’d been able to keep this one pleasurable aspect of her personal life, private.

  A small rebellion, but important to her, hemmed in as she sometimes felt by Rhys, by the strict ethics of her profession, by the rigid expectations of the Service, by her own insistence that she never allow her emotions free reign to explode messily… Yes, this little secret was her personal, inner battle cry against all of that.

  With the last of the steel clips on her boots fastened over her leather pants, she straightened and zipped closed her black body-armored biker jacket, yanking the steel tab to her chin.

  Christ, she hoped she was doing the right thing.

  Rhys had insisted all contact between the pair of them had to be initiated by him alone, but enough was enough. Six weeks without a nocturnal visit or even a call on the burner phone he’d given her. Not knowing if he was safe. Not knowing what it was he needed her to do. The uncertainty was driving her demented. She wanted her brother. She wanted her life back.

  Rhys’s favorite haunt had been a beach hut on the Dover coast. She bet he’d gone there. This time of night, rain or no, she’d be able to fly on her baby.

  Straddling her black-as-sin Carbon Fiber Suzuki Hayabusa, she engaged the ignition and kicked the beast free of its stand, taking the weight with her thighs. Exquisite exhilaration fired through her veins. She exhaled deeply as a calming sense of having some control wrapped her body.

  Yes, she did have an interest, thank you very much, Special Agent Berwick—extreme speed.

  The risk, the thrill, the freedom. Her skill at making sure life cheated death. This was her private obsession. One she’d had to put on hold since Rhys got himself into trouble.

  With a twist of her wrist, she revved the engine, its purr-to-roar promise easing the sickening tension that had coiled her belly for weeks. Rhys would be pissed. Too bad. There was no risk of anyone following her. The speed she’d be doing, they’d never keep up.

  Besides, she had a valid excuse for tracking Rhys down. Something felt off. Berwick’s sudden and inexplicable attention on her, for a start.

  She reached for her helmet.

  A hand she wished she didn’t recognize flashed into her line of sight, fastened around the keys to her bike, and killed the Hayabusa’s growl stone silent.

  “Sneaking off anywhere special, Doc?”

  Chapter Three

  As Angel’s shock at seeing Will Berwick subsided, her pulse quit its erratic skip and lapsed into the slow drum of a death march. This was her lock-up. She had to control the situation so as not to trigger further suspicion.

  She extended her arm, her palm upward, and called forth the ice-bitch persona that even she was beginning to hate. “Hand them over, or my next report on your stalkerish behavior will flag you as beyond help and therefore incompatible with the needs of the Service.”

  His forefinger through the ring clip, he kept her motorcycle keys high and swinging. “Careful, Doc, you don’t want to remind me what a spiteful little she-hound you can be. Now, aside from the fact that I annoy you, and have done so since we met, why did you Red-Flag me?”

  Because he was harboring personal issues that, unless resolved, made him unpredictable, dangerous even, and he’d stubbornly resisted the professional support she’d offered. “Well, that explains your sudden interest in me, but it’s a question better answered in my office rather than on an elaborately contrived fake date,” she countered.

  Razor glints slashed the green depths of his irises. “Just answer the question.”

  She tightened her lips. They were every bit as dry as her mouth. Will Berwick wasn’t known to be difficult—except around her. Reputedly, he went with the flow, preferring instead to charm his way past conflict. One reason why the report she had filed on him had met with such incredulity—and then disturbing glee—from Butters.

  Her arm rising fast, she snatched at her keys. She refused to discuss his psych needs in a rusting shipping container.

  Berwick stepped back.

  It cost every ounce of her fraying self-control not to surge forward and attempt another swipe, this time at his nuh-uh grin.

  “A six-month wait before my next psych review can be filed. I think you owe me an explanation.”

  She did, and she’d be happy to give him the answers he sought, but not here, and not right now. And certainly not when he was blatantly checking her out, the heat in his eyes burning holes in her leathers.

  A prickling sensation swept
her breasts and seared upwards to her cheeks. Christ, she didn’t blush. Ever.

  Toeing down the bike’s stand—which took three clumsy attempts—she dismounted and squared her shoulders. To intimidate this man, she’d need her full height. She’d never appreciated the advantage of all but kissing six-foot. But she did now. Though he still had four inches on her.

  Maintaining eye contact, she held out her palm once more in silent insistence that he return her keys.

  His body rippled an exaggerated mock shiver. “Anyone ever tell you, you have eyes to shame the Siberian plains in deepest winter, Doc?”

  No, she couldn’t say they had. She’d been called a frigid bitch a time or a hundred, but never in reference to the pale gray of her eyes. The complaints still stung. So too did Will’s latest criticism.

  She lowered her hand but not her stare. Berwick wasn’t going to stand down. She’d just have to filter her explanation. “You’re dangerous.”

  “A prerequisite for the job, sweetheart.”

  God, he’d lose that smirk fast enough if he forced a full disclosure from her. She turned her head, her glance assessing the gaping exit. Escape wasn’t out of the question, provided she moved like lightning.

  Berwick filled her field of vision. His broad shoulders loose but promising a punishing counter response.

  Christ, she hadn’t even heard him move.

  “Rapidly running out of patience, Doc.”

  She shouldn’t have fired up her bike while it was still in the shipping container. Acrid fumes she could taste hung bitter in the confined space. “A brilliant strategist, a gifted leader, you’re considered an outstanding asset by the Service,” she rasped, going with the good news first.

  “Or,” she rushed on, running her words together, “you were until I profiled you as a reckless risk-taker incapable of sound judgment. Not your fault, not even permanent with the right help. The number of times you’ve faced down death, barely surviving a lethal shooting the last time, it was inevitable you’d come to believe yourself invincible, immortal even.”

  She heaved in a breath and held it.

  Berwick’s eyes widened. “You flagged me as delusional.”

  She gave her lungs respite and matched his appalled whisper. “God. No. I hinted, hinted, that you might be suffering from post-traumatic shock.”

  His shout of laugher, so not full of humor, nearly took her head off. “Do you seriously believe that is any less damaging?”

  Forefinger tapping his temple, he got right in her face. “Up here, I hold secrets that could cripple countries. I carry a gun, fully loaded, and I never miss. Even unarmed, I’m an expert in close-contact killing. And let’s not forget my prowess with explosives. Since I’ve been deemed apparently unstable, who the fuck’s going to trust me now? Christ, I’ll be getting sideways looks for the rest of my career; that’s if I still have one.”

  “Look, I can—”

  “What? Fix this? Fix me?”

  She wished he’d stop laser glaring. She needed what was left of her skin. “You’re not broken, just—”

  “How many people have seen your psych assessment on me?”

  He needed to stop barking at her. She didn’t react well when cornered with her own temper on the rise. The heat tended to thin her icy control, and if that melted completely, God help him. “Only Butters, but he might have circulated—”

  “No. That bastard will have kept it to himself. Leverage to use against me—Fuck.”

  The metal bucket she used to clean her bike took flight, the force behind his kick sending it to the far end of the shipping container. The echoing scream of metal on steel left her ears bleeding.

  The shocking silence that followed was just as violent.

  “Berwick—”

  “Quiet. I’m thinking.”

  She bit her lip hard. His mind had to be reeling. But that was the one and only equivalent of a “shut up” she’d give him for free. Ever. And as for him flying solo in that head of his? Good luck with that. Stubborn bastard.

  “Okay. Dinner. Tomorrow night. And don’t even think about refusing. I’ve got a single shot at retrieving my credibility, and you are going to help me.”

  Resisting the urge to break the finger he jabbed at her, she smiled sweetly, her forced sugar threatening to erode the enamel from her teeth. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  He snorted. “To get Butters off my back, I need you to pretend like crazy that we’re dating.”

  She stumbled a hasty reverse and damn near flipped backward over the bulk of her bike. Would have done so, had Berwick’s hand not shot out to steady her. “Why? What’s Butters up to now?”

  “Never you mind. Just be ready to get your acting skills on.”

  She wrenched her arm free. But she did mind. How dare Berwick assume she’d put her professional reputation at risk for him? Yes, she’d already arranged to pass his file and future counseling needs on to Dr. Watts, but she’d still get sideways glances for appearing to forge a close association with a former client. “No.”

  “Why not? Worried I’ll use you to get to your brother?”

  Never again would she have to wonder what it felt like to fall off a cliff. He was after Rhys. Who he’ll get to over my dead body!

  And as for the sharp sting she’d felt at hearing Berwick confirm she hadn’t been his real point of interest? Well, she was hardly the first woman to harbor a secret thrill at having caught a handsome man’s attention—and then have it crushed. She’d survive.

  Besides, she had more important things to worry about than her own bruised feelings. Like protecting Rhys.

  Chin high, she purposely jarred Berwick with her shoulder as she stalked past him. “Keep the damn keys. I’ve got spares. Just make sure you lock up before you leave.”

  She would not be played. She would not betray her brother. And, bloody right, she would not show her hurt. Christ, she hoped to God Berwick kept his discovery that she had a secret lock-up to himself. He hadn’t specifically questioned its existence; maybe he’d skirt over it as insignificant in light of the undisclosed problem he had with Butters.

  The darkness beyond the weak light spilling from the shipping container’s solitary bulb had almost swallowed her up when he called her to a halt. Turning to face him down, she had to throw out her hand to catch the jangling bunch of keys twisting her way. It was that or get hit in the face.

  “Nice reflexes, Doc. Not that they’ll save you when Butters finds out about this little setup of yours. Which he will, the minute I call it in.”

  Her skin dropped five sizes, squeezing the air from her lungs. The unregistered bike and undisclosed storage unit would garner her a slap on the wrist and dismissal from the Service—she could live with that.

  But the multiple false identities for her and for Rhys, the passports, driving licenses, national insurance numbers, all locked away in the antique safe hidden beneath the heap of tarpaulin at the far end of the shipping container? Butters wouldn’t hesitate to have her jailed for that little infraction. Christ, he’d probably cite the Terrorism Act and have her locked up for life.

  She thought fast. Not easy with her heart skipping beats and panic flushing all reason from her brain. For all his issues—his wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am-it’s-been-fun attitude to women. His driving ambition to the exclusion of all else. His abject refusal to talk about his dead fiancée, his mother, in fact, anything too personal—Berwick was intuitively empathetic.

  She’d appeal to that side of him.

  She forced a shy smile. “Please don’t. Other than indulging a guilty pleasure for riding too fast, I’m not doing anything seditious. I spend my life in other people’s heads, often losing all sense of myself. The bike, this secret space, this is me remembering to be me.”

  Realizing her hands were clenching and unclenching, she stuck them behind her back. God, between that nervous tell and her pitiful “myself and me” plea, he’d think her pathetic.

  Berwick scratched his
chin. Then, grinning, sauntered toward her, all Mr. Cocksure. “Okay, it’ll be our little secret… On the condition you agree to pretend like crazy we’re in the throes of a budding relationship.”

  He might be empathetic, but this man was also flat-out devious. He didn’t know how not to seize an opportunity and twist it to his advantage. He needed a warning. “Dating me won’t get you any closer to finding Rhys.”

  His prowl toward her didn’t slow. “Maybe not, but all I need is for Butters to believe it will. And I suggest you change before you leave. Your house is under surveillance, and sexy as those leathers are, which, incidentally, is very, they scream closet biker. Something I suspect you’d prefer to keep hidden.”

  Shit. She was never careless. Never. Except for once, as a child. When she’d let a monster into her home. “Thanks for the warning, but what do you care?”

  And still he kept coming, closing in on her. She promised her feet a barefoot run over splintered glass if they dared take flight.

  He stopped only when close enough to tap her on the nose with his forefinger. “Because we all need a friend, Doc, even you.”

  Nope, she did not do friends.

  He withdrew his hand fast, denying her the satisfaction of slapping it away. “Dinner. Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven. No need to dress up.”

  This close, his body heat slammed her. The scent—his scent—triggered memories of skipping along a storm-heavy sea front as a child in a scarlet sou’wester, the wild waves crashing, salt spray hanging in the air, the wind whipping her hair while she laughed and roared back at God’s temper.

  Best memory ever. Even if she had been grounded for a month for daring to go out on her own in a force 10 gale.

  She should never have allowed her thoughts to drift.

  He seized the advantage and stole a kiss—just a peck, but on the lips.

  By the time planet earth resumed its rotation and her senses unscrambled, he’d disappeared into the dark.

  Good God, stunned by a cheeky kiss… Could her existence get any more bloody tragic? Fine, she’d play her part in his stupid illusion. But she’d make sure he regretted it.