"I've got nothing to hide." She grabbed her work journal, pad, and pen. "Let's go."
Flanked on either side by the two special agents, she rode the elevator down a floor where they walked to one of the interrogation rooms. Her computer—she assumed it was hers from the little cartoon sticker she'd once pulled off a tangerine and stuck on the monitor's frame—sat in front of Cal Freeman, the best IT expert in the unit. Cal tapped away and watched as data scrolled by on the screen. He barely glanced up when her group entered.
"Take a seat over there, if you would, please," Tony said to her. "We tracked the transmission of certain sensitive files from the Brigadier General's work computer to your IP and port address. The good news is we haven't found any trace of them on your machine. This probably means they were intercepted and downloaded to a different device."
Connie blew out a sigh of relief, but at the same time she worried if they'd lobotomized her computer.
"However, we did find something else. Bring up the zoom, Cal."
Oh no. Incoming...
Fingers flying over the keyboard, Cal opened a scanned image, but it was too blurry to read.
Tony pointed at the screen and asked, "What's this?"
She squinted at the image. "A slip of paper with some kind of type on it?"
"Who sent it to you?" Damien asked.
"I don't have enough information to answer your question. I can't even tell what it is."
Tony pressed his lips together and pointed to the screen. "It's a business card of an organization known to launder money for cyber terrorists."
A serpent of dread coiled in her belly. "I've never seen it before."
"How did it get on your computer then?"
"I don't know. Did you check my email?"
"We did," Tony said. "Nothing. Which means, or could mean, that you didn't get it from anyone but took a photo of it after it had been entered into evidence. Does that ring any bells?"
She did sometimes take photographs, but only as part of her testing procedures, never something like this. "No. None." She met the gaze of each man in turn, hoping her sincerity got through to them.
Tony stared back at her. An oppressive silence filled the room, one of the most basic interrogation tactics. Even she knew that. "Bring up the second image, Cal."
Cal tapped a couple more keys, and there it was. Her most mortifying weakness had been discovered and blown up to oversized proportions for all to see—a photo of Damien sitting in his chair, his back to his desk. She'd been fooling around one day, taking candid shots of everyone. This had been her favorite. With a little cropping and zooming, it appeared as if she had been standing three feet in front of him when she took it. In reality, she had been standing in the doorway. He hadn't seen her, had been talking to the guy at the desk next to his. The smile on his face had been the focus of her lens, the casual, lighthearted side of Damien Spiros.
"Did you take this photo, Connie?" Tony loomed over her like a thundercloud ready to strike her with a bolt of lightning.
She swallowed hard and began to pick at her thumbnail. "Yes."
Damien's gaze pierced her like a bullet. If only she had a shovel, she'd dig a hole and bury herself in it to escape his unspoken query. Hot licks of flames shot up into her face. Her silly schoolgirl crush had been trotted out for everyone to see. Those tiny scraps of pride she'd clothed herself in the morning after their sexcapade had been blown to smithereens. Now he'd feel sorry for her, realize she'd only put on a brave front the next morning so he wouldn't feel guilty or conflicted for what they'd done, wouldn't feel pity or contempt. She'd struck the first offensive blow as her only defense, not that he cared.
"Did you request Special Agent Spiros's permission first before you took that photo?" Tony asked.
"No. I was passing by and heard Damien ... Special Agent Spiros laughing. I-I guess I wanted to capture the moment."
"You wanted to photograph someone laughing, and it was therefore a complete accident that you also, accidentally, captured Special Agent Spiros's monitor in the picture? Zoom in some more, Cal, to show how it matches the first photo."
"Matches the first photo?" Damien asked. Was he actually nonplussed? Connie wondered.
Cal did as he was asked, and there, captured by accident on her photo, on Damien's computer monitor in the background, was the same business card they had shown her earlier.
Connie's mouth fell open. "I had no idea. I'm not a spy." She lifted pleading eyes to Tony.
"Damien, did you authorize this photo?" Tony asked.
She shifted her gaze to Damien. He'd deny it. Of course he would, because it was the truth. He'd never seen her in the doorway, never known she'd captured him in a candid moment. Tears threatened to form, and she couldn't have that. "No, he—"
"We were just having some fun. Messing around one afternoon. I didn't realize what I had on my monitor or I wouldn't have allowed it, would have made her delete it on the spot. I'm 100% sure Connie didn't even know about the case back then. If I'd known that's how she got the photo of the card, I'd have said so at the get-go."
Tony's brow puckered, and a scowl overtook his features. "You were just messing around?" He thrust a thumb in Connie's direction. "With Patel here? You two bicker all the time. How would that even be possible?"
Connie opened her mouth to speak, but Damien cut her off. "We don't fight all the time. Isn't that right, Connie?" He flashed a lazy smile her way.
What was he up to? How should she answer? "No. We don't fight all the time." Nothing else would come.
Tony glanced from Damien to Connie, then back to Damien. "Really?" No one spoke. "All right then, Connie. That's all for now. You're free to go."
"And my computer?" she asked, trying desperately to keep the tremor out of her voice. "When will I get it back?"
Cal spoke but kept his attention on the screen. "I'll probably be done with it by end of day today. Only have a few more sectors to go."
Tony forced a smile and gestured to Cal in a "there you have it" way.
"Fine." Connie stood and brushed down her skirt, an unnecessary gesture other than it gave her somewhere else to look than at Damien Spiros. "I'll be waiting for it. I've got a lot of catching up to do. Please call me if it won't be ready tonight." With her head held high, pretending to be unruffled, she walked out of the room.
Most embarrassing moment in history. Totally busted being a swooning ninny. Fan-girling over a stupid photo of Damien. At work, to boot. She had the same photo at home, of course she did. Cal would probably erase it from her hard drive since a sensitive document could be seen in the background. Should she delete her copy at home? Probably should. She would, as soon as she set foot in her cozy two-bedroom townhome. Maybe after she had a glass of wine, kicked her feet up.
What if she simply cropped out the background, made it innocuous?
No. Best to go cold turkey on Damien Spiros. They couldn't be more than bedmates, because she'd always want more and he wouldn't. The man was an accomplished dater by multiple accounts. Nate had shared plenty of gory details from his boys’ night observations. No telling how many women there had been. Probably a lot judging from how quick Damien was to agree to her one-off/mistake/best forgotten speech. He hadn't protested or called or emailed her even once after that, but had kept a very chilly distance. The very next night Nate reported seeing him with some leggy, dark-haired woman, a Helen of Troy if his description was to be believed. Connie didn't do serial, casual, or open relationships. Her DNA didn't allow it.
If only her heart would stop reading into why Damien had lied about allowing the photograph. Why had he done that? Was he protecting her ... or someone else?
Chapter Three
Connie moved faster the more distance she put between her and the interrogation room. Damien jogged to keep her in his sights. He needed to speak with her alone. Timing mattered in terms of where he overtook her. She stopped to slap the up elevator button a few times. Maybe he could corner her there.
She must have seen him coming, read his intentions, because suddenly she was race-walking for the stairs.
"Oh no you don't," Damien muttered to himself. He ran the remaining distance to the stairwell door. Clicking heels alerted him to her haste in ascending.
"Connie!"
The clicking quickened.
"Connie! Wait!" Damien took the remaining stairs two at a time. She stopped midway up the last flight. Thank heavens for old buildings with high ceilings and lots of stairs. "I need to talk to you."
With a scowl firmly affixed and her arms crossed, Connie leaned back against the railing and eyed him warily. "Why did you lie about my photo? What's going on? Am I being set up?"
"Set up? No! It's just..." He paused and scratched the back of his head. Had he lied? The words had tumbled out of his mouth when Tony accused her. She wasn't guilty of anything, except maybe, if he were lucky, the same sort of longing that had kept him up more nights than he would ever admit aloud. He lost the thread of what he'd planned to say. His tongue froze. "It's just ... I got to thinking about—"
"Don't. Don't think. Don't analyze. Don't hypothesize." She squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a vigorous shake. "I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry I'm not nearly so casual about these sorts of things as you are."
Huh? What the hell was she talking about? "I'm a little lost. I’m talking about the photo. What are you talking about?"
"W-well that ... and other ... you know ... things."
Damien screwed up his face. She still was not computing. "What other things?"
Connie threw her head back and blew out a loud sigh. "Okay, you're gonna make me spell it out? Fine. You remember when we slept together and I said it didn't mean anything and that it was an accident?"
The burr under his saddle shifted to a tender new spot. He cleared his throat. "Yes." He tried to keep the aggravation out of his voice, but doubted he'd been successful.
"I don't do casual sex."
"I don't either."
She snorted. "Right."
"What's that supposed to mean? Look, I get that you don't normally go for," he raised his hands and made air quotes, "lunkheaded white guys who carry guns. Message received loud and clear."
"What are you talking about? I never said that!"
"You might as well have."
Her arms uncrossed, and her fists fell to the sides of her hips. "Excuse me, but that is not me at all. I don't go for guys of any color who are always looking for the next one."
He tilted his head and wrinkled his nose. "The next one? The next one what?"
"Piece of ass, you idiot! Word gets around this place."
Inside something was winding tighter and tighter, threatening to blow at any second. Blood rushed to his head, and his ears burned. His hands curled into fists. "Word about me? What the fuck are you saying here, Connie?"
She threw her hands down and slapped the fronts of her thighs. "Honestly, I don't know how much worse this conversation can get so I might as well just throw it all out there! You ready?"
He beckoned her on with his fingers. "Bring it. I'm ready."
"You sure? Because things are gonna get even more awkward after I say what I have to say."
"I think I can handle it."
"I took that picture of you—"
"Wait, wait, wait. I don’t want to talk about the damn picture. I don't give a shit about the picture. That was all much ado about nothing. I told Tony he was wasting his time. I want you to rewind this conversation even farther back."
"Fine. You ever want something you know isn't good for you but it doesn't stop you from wanting it?"
He didn't like the sound of where this was going. "Yes."
"You are my cheesecake."
"Cheesecake?" Not what he expected.
"Yes. Way too many calories and not all that healthful, but it doesn't stop me from craving you. So one night when I'd had too much to drink, I said, 'Hell with it! I want cheesecake!' And there you were offering me a fork and nice clean china plate to eat you on."
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, a joke begging to be voiced, but he thought better of letting it off leash or saying anything.
"But here's the thing ... I can't live off cheesecake. I need more. But that's not what you're about."
His smile fell. "What do you think I’m about? Do you think I stuck my neck out for you back there simply because I wanted to get into your pants again?"
Connie rolled her eyes but wouldn't meet his gaze. A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. "Maybe. I don't know. I've heard enough stories about—"
"What stories?"
"And I saw you the next night with that, that Victoria's Secret model at DiFranco's restaurant."
"What stories?"
"Well, Nate hasn't been shy about—"
"Nate! Yeah, figures. And you believe him?" Damien pressed his lips together and counted to ten. "Of course you do, because ... because I did, too. And now I just want to punch that asshole's lights out. The little shit—"
Connie pressed her finger to her lips and then made a downward motion. "Please stop shouting."
"Hold on a second. Nate's been filling your head about me? I thought ... I thought ... Wait. You haven't been dating Nate?"
"What? No! Eww, no way."
"You went to the ball with him!" He threw a hand up in the air.
"And I had a miserable time!"
"So did I!"
They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Damien broke the silence first. "Fuck. All this time I thought ... and then you blew me off and..." He paused and released a long slow breath, his features relaxing. "Okay. Let's set the record straight here. That Victoria's Secret model you saw me with was my sister. Bet Nate didn't tell you that, did he?" A storm gathered in Connie's eyes, and her brows tilted at the sides. "Yes, I have dated a lot of women—in the past—but lately I can't stop thinking about a certain forensic expert. I haven't been able to get her out of my head no matter how hard I try ... and even when I tell myself to 'Back off, Damien. She's not interested, Damien. She said so herself,' I can't help but wonder over and over what I did wrong or didn't do or needed to do, because it was obvious I screwed something up or scared you ... and I'm not making any sense at all, am I?"
She shook her head slowly, but the fluorescent light overhead reflected off the tears in her eyes. If she hadn't been smiling, he'd have been at a complete loss. As it was, he was only partially lost, but the glimmer of hope shimmered in those tears. With an unspoken deliberateness she moved toward him until she stood close enough to wrap her arms around his waist and press her head against his breastbone. His heart roared to life in his chest, thumping wildly.
"I’m sorry. I didn't mean it," she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head. "I didn't either. I was an idiot for agreeing with you. That's all."
She wiped her eyes on his t-shirt. "It's all your fault," she said between sniffles.
Damien grinned. "No, I think you're the one who botched it up."
"Still your fault."
"Okay. My fault," he whispered before placing another kiss on her head, on each eyelid, the tip of her nose, before finally bringing his lips to hers.
Between kisses, she murmured, "No. My fault." A pair of cinnamon-colored eyes peered up at him. His Indian princess. Her gaze fathomed the very depths of his soul, and when he began to wonder if she understood what she saw, she said, "Thank you.”
Chapter Four
Connie's gaze swept the familiar masculine landscape until it landed on a photo of a beautiful dark-haired woman, the same woman she had seen Damien with a few weeks earlier. In the photo, the woman stood between Damien and an older couple. Engraved on the frame were the words, "Spiros family. Crete 2012," confirming what she had already guessed to be true, what she had already taken on good faith to be true, what she had wrongly misinterpreted before.
When she spun, Damien stood in front of her, his
gaze cast in the direction of the photo before it rose to meet hers. He didn't say a word, but smiled with raised brows. Handing her a glass of wine, he clinked his with hers. "Here's to making up for a lot of lost time."
Connie giggled. She'd definitely drink to that. "And to whatever crazy, scary adventures the future may bring."
They both sipped, the heat blooming and expanding between them. No secret why they were at his house or what would be happening soon, had nearly happened in the stairwell. Five long hours had separated that interlude from the moment they were in, finally. The air sizzled with heady anticipation. A death-defying acrobatic event kept her belly in constant free-fall.
He took her left hand and raised it to his lips for a gentle kiss. Not quite what she'd been anticipating, but sweet and tender. "Just so you know, that's the last gentlemanly gesture I'll be making tonight, because from this point on the gloves are off. There won't be one single square inch of your body I won't have touched, kissed, licked, sucked, or fucked. We may make it to the bedroom. We may not. I won't promise you that the first time I take you tonight will be gentle. That would be a lie because I want you so bad right now I’m already crumbling around the edges. See?" He held out a large hand, covered in hairline white scars on all the knuckles and a larger one across the base of one thumb. For the hand of a marksman, it showed way too much unsteadiness. "But I will promise you that tomorrow morning, you won't be leaving me with anything less than a completely satisfied body—maybe a little sore, I won't lie—and a mind at ease for what the future holds. I won't let you leave with any doubts or worries about me and what I want."
The edges of her lips curled. "You'd kidnap me?"
With the soberest of expressions, he locked her in an unwavering gaze. "If that's what it takes, but that's the deal. Leave now if you can't handle it."
Connie set down her wine glass. She took Damien's from him and placed it next to hers. Meeting his gaze first—mostly to make sure he was ready—she launched herself up into his arms. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, she kissed him. "That's the first of many times I hope to take your breath away."
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