by Jodie Bailey
She was dangerous, stealing the control he’d always prided himself on. Taking away the authority he’d always maintained. Challenging him the way no one else ever could.
His emotions swirled and threatened to pull him under until he had to break the kiss or risk drowning in her. He slid his lips from hers, lingering in the tender place beside her mouth, then pulled her closer, resting his chin on her hair, never wanting to walk away from this moment. They could stay here like this, in the safest place he’d ever been. In the one place where he’d ever felt as though he actually belonged.
In a sharp rush that nearly ran him over, he knew. The restlessness he’d been fighting, the moments he’d felt off sync with her. It wasn’t because they’d grown apart; it was because he wanted them to grow closer. He was in love with this woman who released her death grip on his shirt to slip her arms around his waist so she could stand with him in a way he’d never imagined she would. He closed his eyes, blocking out everything else.
This. This was home.
What just happened was about to change every game they’d ever played in. Boy, did they need to talk. A lot.
Meghan didn’t seem any more inclined to pull away than he did, so he held her close, planted a kiss to the top of her head and gave them both the time to deal with whatever this was, with all the answers falling into place. Answers to questions she might have had all along, but he was just beginning to form.
Questions she might have had all along...
Suddenly it all made sense. The way she’d pulled away in those last few months on the job, had changed the way she talked to him, had limited the amount of time she’d spent with him outside work. “You left the army because of me.”
Her body went rigid in his arms; then she pushed away, gaze planted firmly on his chest. “We both need sleep. We’re letting ourselves get—”
“If you say something as cliché as ‘that never should have happened,’ I promise you, Meg, I’ll...” Kiss you again. He shoved his fists into his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
Maybe she was right. Maybe exhaustion was dogging them both and wrecking their judgment. Or maybe exhaustion was battering walls that never should have been built in the first place. All he knew was, it might be a cliché all on its own, but he was definitely colder without her in his arms.
But he didn’t reach for her. He knew better.
Meghan opened the distance between them, raising her face to his. She was no more ready to end this than he was; it was clear by the way she looked at him. “We’re both out of the reserves it’s going to take to use our heads right now.”
He puffed out a breath. She was right, and he should have thought of it first. It was his job to protect her not only from people who wanted her dead but from himself, as well.
Still, no part of him wanted to put the brakes on what was happening. He wanted to drag her to the truck and get her far away from danger. To find a preacher and...marry her?
Oh, yeah. She was right. Reason was a goner.
Reason said this was a road they needed to stay far away from. He’d walked it once before, and the fact he’d become a believer and Stephanie hadn’t had wrecked their marriage.
As much as he wanted to push everything else aside and kiss Meghan again, this had to stop here. Her ideas about God were muddled at best, and flat wrong at worst, and he couldn’t risk wrecking the two of them, no matter how much he knew he was falling in love with her.
He balled his hands into tight fists. For her, he’d throw experience away and risk everything, but he couldn’t. When he lost her—
His phone vibrated in his pocket, the device pulsing the staccato rhythm identifying Ethan on the other end. He couldn’t ignore the team leader, not now, no matter how much he wanted to.
Meghan had backed into her room and was watching him with concern, as if she could see his internal struggle playing out on his face. She pointed toward his phone with a tight smile. “I can hear your phone buzzing. Answer it. I’m going to grab a shower and then try to sleep.” She pulled farther away, then stopped, a small smile teasing the corners of her mouth, making Tate want to forget all reason and dive in for another kiss. And another. “Go ask the manager if you can vacuum the lobby. It’s almost like mowing grass.” She gave him one more long look and shut the door between them.
Nothing in his life had ever seemed so final.
Pulling the phone from his pocket gave him something to do other than beating through the wood to tell her common sense didn’t matter.
Tate pulled the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” With the uneven tone in his voice, Ethan was bound to know something was up.
But the other man was all business. “We need to talk.”
“Give me a second.” He snapped the demand as if it were a dry twig, not ready for Ethan to pile more onto him. He needed time to think, to clear his mind. He’d finally realized he loved Meghan McGuire. He’d held her in his arms.
And he couldn’t have her.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall. Never in his life had he wanted anything as much as he wanted to throw himself all in to life with her, even though it was ill advised. Never.
He cast one more look at the door between them, the tug toward her almost too much to bear.
He’d been right before. She was dangerous.
“Let me know when you’re clear.” Something in Ethan’s voice reached through the phone and slapped Tate to sensibility. There was a mission boiling hot, and they were smack in the center of the fire. He could never forget the urgency again, not if he wanted to get Meghan out of this alive with her reputation intact.
All exhaustion and emotion fled. He paced to the window in the corner farthest from the wall adjoining Meghan’s room. “Talk.”
Ethan exhaled heavily. He’d been on this mission a whole lot longer than Tate had. Tracking Phoenix had taken a toll on them all, and the entire team was ready to end this and stop the murder and the madness. “You guys made the local news, and it’s not good. I’ve sent you a link.”
That wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It was coming, expected even. “We can deal with—”
“That’s not all. The program, the one Meghan sent to Ashley this afternoon. What did she tell you about it?”
This was about Meghan’s software? Pride for the work Meghan had done with him and the work she’d done since she left him swelled. He may have to bury what he felt for her, but that didn’t mean he could kill the feelings. “She wrote it. She’s been working on it since she got out. Her plan was—”
“Tate.”
Gravity dragged Tate’s respect for Meghan to the ground with a thud.
“Did anyone else work on it with her?”
“I doubt it. She’s the same loner she’s always been.” Tate gripped the phone tighter. “What are you not saying?”
There was a long silence, so long it left Tate holding his breath until he saw spots dancing in his vision. When Ethan spoke, he sounded as though he’d rather be saying anything else. “Ashley was digging through the code, pretty impressed with what Meghan put together. It’s a tight program. It’s an untraceable tracker. The software can pinpoint a user to the way they dot their i’s.” The words were flattering, but the tone? The tone was entirely different.
“Stop beating around the bush.”
“It started to feel like déjà vu to her, so Ashley started digging. The program—line for line—was used in the hack on Staff Sergeant Jessica Dylan’s machine in Kentucky.”
Tate sagged against the wall, his injured shoulder protesting the pressure. Phoenix had followed their every move then, had aided and abetted a terrorist who was killing soldiers in order to steal their identities. They had been in Kentucky when they’d realized they were pitted against a hacker who scared even them.
It was possible Tate might be sick, right here. He might not be as tech savvy as Meghan or Ashley or even Ethan, but he knew it was impossible for two separate people to write line-for-line identical code. Monkeys were more likely to type Shakespeare.
“Tate.”
“Don’t say it.” Every dream he’d ever had, every desire he’d let loose standing in Meghan’s room and holding her in his arms crashed into a million pieces at his feet.
“Ashley, Sean and I have all hit at it from every angle.” Ethan charged on as though Tate had never said a word. “There’s no way around it. You have to find out if Meghan McGuire is working with Phoenix.”
TWELVE
Tate drew back his arm, ready to throw his phone against the wall and watch it smash into pieces, but then he dropped his arm, his hold on the device so tight his entire arm ached.
There was no way Meghan was the enemy. Ethan had to know that. He knew Meghan almost as well as Tate did. Although Tate was fairly certain his team leader had never shared a kiss with her.
Feeling for all the world as if somebody had sucker punched him in the gut, he let the phone clatter to the floor. Dropping to the edge of the bed, Tate gripped his head in his hands, wishing he’d skipped the burger from a drive-through a couple of hours ago.
Their kiss never should have happened. His emotions never should have happened. But they had, and now they filmed his judgment, a hurricane between his heart and mind. The clear thinking he’d always prided himself on got lost in the mess, making it hard to study the evidence objectively, to grasp onto what might be true...and what might be false.
Scooping up his phone, he shoved it into his pocket and stalked for the door between their rooms, stopping at the entrance. He could charge in there demanding answers, but it would get him nowhere. She’d continue with the lie if she was guilty.
She’d hate him if she wasn’t.
In his whole life, Tate had never felt so helpless and out of control, not even when Stephanie took off. When it came to this case, everywhere he turned was a mistake, everything went from bad to worse. When he cleaned up one mess, a worse one surfaced. He felt as though God had taken him to the end of himself and left him there, reminding him there was nowhere else to turn but up.
Lord, tell me what to do.
A soft sound from the hallway brought a halt to the prayer.
Slipping to the door, Tate stood to the side, back to the wall, focusing everything on the slight shuffle filtering through the thin wood.
The shuffle that came from next door.
Here was the whole problem with the past half hour. He’d let Meghan get to him the way no woman ever had before. She’d managed to steal his edge, made him forget they were being pursued and the stakes were too high to drop his guard. Now someone lurked outside. It could be a maid working late or another hit man sent their way.
Only one way to find out.
Steeling himself for whatever might come next, Tate turned the knob and threw the door open.
A man jumped away from Meghan’s door, eyes wide, startled by the sudden movement. He was about Tate’s height and had all the marks of one of those guys who loved upper-body strength and forgot to do leg work. The cocky gym-rat type who was always arrogant enough to think they could win because they’d watched a little MMA on TV.
And their arrogance made them somewhat predictable.
Tate edged into the hallway, watching the other man’s body language, sizing him up, not quite ready to make the first move. He balled his fists, ready for whatever came, still not able to believe he was about to go into a fistfight for the second time in two days.
If this went Tate’s way, the other man would run when Tate didn’t retreat. Unfortunately, there was about a fifty-fifty chance of this ending well, because the guy appeared to be muscle-for-hire, the same way Isaac and his crew had been.
Which meant Phoenix was still outsourcing his brawn, and Muscles here might be foolish enough to try anything.
The guy telegraphed his first punch, edging his shoulder back and shifting his sights to Tate’s jaw before he launched his fist.
Shifting his weight to the side, Tate threw out an arm and blocked the punch, then launched his weight forward, using his attacker’s momentum to force the man past him and farther down the hallway.
With a thud that shook the thin wall, his opponent cracked his shoulder into the Sheetrock and stumbled, not quite falling. Instead of turning and coming at Tate, he took off running, headed for the stairs.
Tate glanced at Meghan’s door, hesitating half a second about leaving her alone before taking pursuit, bursting through the heavy door into the stairwell.
His assailant’s feet pounded the stairs, and the downstairs door burst open.
Tate couldn’t let this guy get away. They were rapidly running out of options. Even though this was probably another Isaac who knew little about the inner workings of Phoenix’s organization, Tate would take anything at this moment, even the number to yet another burner phone. Anything to clear Meghan and to keep her alive one more day.
The door was still swinging shut when Tate hit it, catching a glimpse of blue jeans and navy blue T-shirt rounding the corner of the building.
Tate pushed on, his chest heaving, the ache deeper than he could ever remember it being. He caught the guy around the corner and with one last burst dived into his lower back, driving him into the ground with Tate’s weight added to the fall.
They hit the ground hard, Tate’s blow cushioned by the bigger man’s. He scrambled up enough to dig his knee into the other man’s back, pressing his face into the ground with all the weight he could muster. He leaned low. “Who are you working for?” His voice carried all the anger rushing in with the adrenaline ebb. Whoever this guy was, he’d gone after Meghan. Tate ground his back teeth together, trying hard not to rear back and beat the guy into submission with ten years’ worth of pent-up emotions.
“Not telling you.” The dark-haired wannabe bucked, trying to throw Tate off, but Tate had the advantage.
“I think you will, or you’re going to have bigger things to worry about than getting beat by somebody smaller than you.” He ground his knee into spine harder, eliciting a groan. “You were doing what, just now?”
“Being neighborly.”
Tate could feel his blood pressure spiking. He needed answers. Needed to know what it was going to take to save Meghan, because if he didn’t do something, the hits would keep coming and, one of these times, he wouldn’t be able to stop it. “You’ve got—”
Tires squealed and a car screamed into the rear parking lot near their position, the driver’s window lowered.
Tate exhaled, suddenly even more aware of the labor in his own breathing. This was not going to end well. He’d been on the weak end of this scenario before, more than once. He was about to lose this round or die trying to win it. With his pistol in the hotel room, he had no choice but to walk away.
And the thought made him nauseous with anger and frustration.
As soon as the car ground to a halt, the shadowy form of the driver came into view, his pistol aimed straight at Tate.
Jumping backward and onto his feet, Tate edged for the corner of the building as the punk he’d had pinned to the ground jumped and ran for the car, blocking the driver’s clear shot.
Tate edged around the corner out of range, then ran for the front door as the tires squealed around the back. He had to get to Meghan and get her out of here now, before those two decided to play cowboy and comb the building, if it wasn’t too late already.
* * *
Meghan fluffed her damp hair, ruffling the ends and trying to make it at least somewhat presentable. If she’d been a girlier girl, she’d have thought to stash mousse or gel in her go bag along with the essentials like clothes, cash and ammo.
And she’d have packed pajamas.
She flicked her bangs one last time, then shoved her things into her backpack, slipping her holster over her belt reflexively. Having it near made her feel less helpless.
Dropping to the edge of the bed, Meghan stared at the wall, exhausted and fully convinced climbing into bed in her jeans and a T-shirt wouldn’t be a bad idea as long as sleep came along. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so desperate to shut her eyes.
But she knew sleep wasn’t going to come yet, not while she had no idea what to do with their kiss. She could still feel him, the sensation of true safety, the sense of belonging he’d brought her... Meghan had had a taste of what she’d once dreamed of, and it was more than she’d expected it to be. It was a completeness she hadn’t realized she was lacking. It had also done nothing to cool the fires Tate had kindled years ago, relit with his reappearance and now fanned into flame.
She loved him. Loved him with the kind of settled joy that was more right than she’d ever imagined.
It had all fallen apart when he’d pulled away from her, looking as if he was a man shocked by what he’d done, regretting it from the moment he broke their kiss.
Tate had seemed almost relieved when his phone pulled him away. Almost.
Meghan was nowhere near relieved. She was restless and antsy, torn between the urgency of their flight and the Tilt-A-Whirl of Tate’s kiss. It had solidified her feelings for him, and they scared her more than anything, because if he left her the way everyone else had, where would her security lie?
With God.
Meghan paced to the window but didn’t pull back the curtain. All her life she’d been cast aside. As a child, she’d scrambled for love, tried to be good enough, tried to please her mother while the woman did nothing but ignore her. Her early years didn’t qualify as a childhood, more a small child taking care of her mother. No toys or stuffed animals, no family vacations or movie nights. When her mother had finally vanished for good, she’d locked away her heart, had become a terror in foster home after foster home. All she needed was herself, right?