The Closer

by Rhonda Nelson

  If that was the so-called power of love, he didn’t want any damn part of it.

  And, much as he genuinely liked Justin, he didn’t want any part of a relationship with him either. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. He would like to get to know him better, would even reluctantly admit to a bizarre bond with the boy. But he couldn’t afford to get to know him, couldn’t put his mother and sister through that emotional turmoil, and protecting them was too ingrained in him at this point to change now. Someone had had to look after them when his father left and that someone had been Griff. They counted on him, depended on him. Going through the surgery had been difficult enough—separate waiting rooms for the families, set visiting hours to avoid running into each other. A nightmare.

  It was over and done with, Griff thought. Six months post-op and all was well. Justin was healthy and out of danger, and his own recovery had progressed without complication. It was time to move on and the sooner Justin realized that, the better.

  As if merely thinking of his brother had prompted it, his cell vibrated at his waist. Griff frowned, steeled himself before glancing at the display. Another text from the boy. Need some advice re: the bro code. Can I get a call back when you’ve got time?

  He heaved an internal sigh. Not a demand, but a request. And a hopeful one at that. Damn...

  Jess shifted a little in her seat and her soft scent drifted to him once more. It was something mellow and sweet, and strangely familiar. “Everybody needs a hand once in a while and, in my experience, it’s usually those who need it the most who won’t ask for it.”

  “So you do this often?” he asked, thankful for the distraction. “Trade goods and services for repair work?”

  Her lips twitched with wry humor. “Too much according to friends, but—” she shrugged “—I enjoy doing it, and if it lightens someone else’s load, then all the better, right?”

  He nodded, impressed, and asked her the question that he’d been dying to ask for the past hour. “So...who is Lane Johnson and why has he been ‘running his mouth’?”

  She actually laughed, a light infectious sound that was pleasing to the ear. It was easy, that laugh, not the least bit affected. Her twinkling gaze swung to his. “Ah...I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

  Not if, but when. So she’d been certain? Had he tipped her off that thoroughly or was she simply used to the question? The latter, he hoped. He didn’t like being predictable. It was...disconcerting.

  She expelled a small breath, set her magazine aside, as though the explanation was going to require her full attention. She lifted her chin, her jaw firmed, and he perceived the slightest tightening around her eyes. “Lane Johnson is a fellow driver. He’s loud and obnoxious and has a grossly misguided perception of his own skill. And he doesn’t like it when a woman runs a better race than he does.”

  Ah... “Are there a lot of women who run a better race than he does?”

  The corner of her lip lifted and she shot him a look, self-satisfied pleasure lighting her eyes. “Only one that I know of.”

  He chuckled. “You?”

  “Me,” she said, nodding once. “I smoked him on the last race—beat him by three and a half seconds—and since then he’s credited the loss to a faulty carburetor and has been screaming for a rematch. He just can’t accept that I ran a better race, that I—a mere woman—beat him.”

  Griff grunted. He knew the type. The military was full of them, but considering that women had just been granted the right to fight on the front lines of combat, those guys needed to get over it. He’d admit to having an exaggerated sense of protection when it came to women—particularly his mother and sister—and imagined that the impulse harkened back to cavemen days, when men guarded their women and dragged dinner home every evening. But any man who didn’t appreciate a woman’s strength was sadly misguided.

  “He sounds like an ass.”

  “That’s because he is.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “And admittedly, there were a lot of them in the beginning. Stock-car racing is a predominantly male sport, so the resistance was there, of course. I was the butt of every ‘woman driver’ joke, I was bullied on and off the track. Typical chest-beating, ball-scratching guy stuff.”

  Startled by the ball-scratching comment, he felt his eyes widen and he choked on a laugh.

  “But I stuck with it,” she continued, darting him a concerned look. “I ran clean races—pushing back when I needed to—and I started winning.” She looked away. “Then I was not as easily dismissed.”

  “Not easily dismissed” pretty much summed up his impression of her, Griff thought. He’d been wrong when he’d pegged her as reckless—determined was a much better description.

  “So you earned their respect?”

  “Everyone but Lane’s,” she said. “But I don’t care whether I’ve got his or not.” She scowled darkly, her brows furrowing. “I just want him to shut his mouth. More than anything, he’s a nuisance.”

  There was a little too much bravado beneath that comment to take it at face value. Was she telling the truth? he wondered. Did she really not care what this Lane thought? Or was he the one person she wished to impress and couldn’t?

  For whatever reason, he found that thought less palatable than the first.

  “He thinks that all his trash talking has scared me off, that I’m too afraid to meet him on the asphalt again. That’s what he’s telling everyone, anyway, and though I know it shouldn’t—” she finished the sentence through gritted teeth “—it absolutely infuriates me.”

  “Really?” he deadpanned. “Because I would have never known.”

  The remark scored him a smile, which had been his intention, and as an a bonus he felt his own lips slide into a grin.

  “Tell me it wouldn’t make you mad,” she said. “He’s basically calling me a coward. I’ll admit to being afraid of a few things—tight spaces, bats and clowns—but him? Him?” She snorted indelicately. “Not in the slightest.”

  He swiveled to look at her. “Clowns? Really?”

  “Hey, don’t judge,” she scolded. “It’s called coulrophobia and it’s a lot more common than you think.”

  “You just made that up.”

  “I didn’t,” she insisted, laughing. “Look it up.”

  “So driving a hundred and eighty miles an hour around a track doesn’t scare you but clowns do?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulity from seeping into his voice. He shook his head, equally shocked and amazed.

  “That’s right. Speed doesn’t scare me—it’s thrilling, actually. All that power beneath the hood, responding to my touch, to my instruction,” she said, her gaze turning inward, her voice going low. “It’s...incredible,” she told him wonderingly. “The best feeling ever.”

  Right, Griff thought, feeling his dick shift at her almost sensual description. He swallowed, momentarily at a loss to respond. Thankfully, he didn’t have to, because she smiled a little self-consciously and looked over at him.

  “Sorry,” she said, a light blush moving over her cheeks and, for whatever reason, he got the impression that didn’t happen often. “I tend to get carried away.”

  “No apology necessary,” he told her. “Better to be passionate about something than apathetic.” And he admired that about her, that she’d risked the bullying and ridicule to do something that she so obviously loved. That took courage, a fearlessness that was becoming more and more extinct.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What are you passionate about?”

  Griff blinked, stunned and struck dumb by the question. What was he passionate about? Him? Honestly, he’d never really thought about it. There were many things that he liked—baseball, for instance. Alabama football—Roll Tide Roll. Getting sucked into a good mystery novel. John Wayne movies. Carrot cake, tuna casserole and naps. But was he actually
passionate about those things? In the same way that Jess was passionate about racing? He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

  No, he wasn’t, he realized with a sickening sense of self-realization he wasn’t eager to explore. He was not. He was not passionate about anything.

  He grimaced, deflated and alarmed as an unhappy insight revealed itself—dear God...he was boring. Had he always been boring? he wondered. Or had this been a gradual development?

  His gaze slid to Jess, her tall body practically shimmering with an inner energy, with an unmatched singular vitality. She waited expectantly for his answer, genuinely interested, it seemed, in his response. And suddenly he couldn’t bear to tell her that he didn’t have any passions, nothing that excited him—it was too damn pathetic—and he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

  “Bull riding,” he told her, startled at the inventive lie. It was impulsive and reckless—words he was certain no one had ever used to describe him—and insane. He’d never ridden a horse, much less a bull. Clearly he’d lost his mind, but it was too late now. He’d said it.

  Her smoky-gray eyes widened in surprise—obviously she’d already pegged him as boring and this purely manufactured news didn’t quite jibe with her estimation of his character—and she arched a slightly skeptical brow. “Bull riding? Really?”

  He liked knowing that he’d shocked her. It evened out the playing field a bit. “Oh, yeah,” he said, nudging the speedometer another five miles over the speed limit. What the hell, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. “Nothing makes me happier than climbing onto the back of a two-thousand-pound angry animal whose sole desire is to throw me off and put a horn in my gut. Talk about a rush.” Talk about bullshit, he marveled, amazed at himself.

  While the suspicion hadn’t completely faded from her gaze, an impressed smile had nonetheless turned her lips, making his ego high-five itself. “It sounds exciting. I hadn’t pegged you for a cowboy.”

  He’d just bet she hadn’t. “I left my hat and boots at the house.”

  “Yeah, you’re not likely to have a lot of bull-riding opportunities in New York.”

  Small favors, Griff thought, laughing softly. “Right.”

  “It’s a pity, though,” she continued, her keen gaze still observing him. “I’d have liked to see that.”

  Panic punched his pulse more swiftly through his veins at the thought, then he stilled, belatedly discovering the brilliance of his lie. “You couldn’t,” Griff said, feigning regret. “Rodeo clowns.”

  One bullet dodged, he thought, wilting with relief, but he grimly suspected this would be the first of many.

  5

  I’M SORRY. IT’S nothing personal, old friend. Rest assured, I’ll give it back.

  Payne read the note again, experiencing the same little burst of shock when his gaze landed once more on the notorious signature. It couldn’t be...could it? He shook his head, unexpectedly pleased even as unease curdled in his belly.

  The Owl, or to the very few who knew the legendary thief’s real name...Keller Thompson. An old boarding school friend, Keller had been frighteningly quick, excelled in absolutely everything and had often known more about the subjects being taught than the teachers themselves. Between the eidetic memory and the genius-level IQ, he always worked several steps ahead of everyone else and had made it look easy. Probably because it was, Payne thought.

  But even being a genius hadn’t spared him his father’s wrath. While the majority of the boys at Payne’s boarding school had had mean-bastard fathers, it was universally understood that Keller’s was the worst. His father had yanked him in and out of school all during the year, and when he’d returned, it had often been with poorly disguised bruises and the occasional cigarette burn. School officials were required by law to report the abuse, but if they did—and that was a big if—nothing ever came of it. And though Keller had never confided in him, Payne had always suspected that there was something much more terrible than beatings going on with his friend.

  Despite his unfortunate history, great things had been expected of Keller, so it was a bit of a shock when he’d basically dropped off the planet after graduation. Payne had tried to get in touch with him several times during college but had only succeeded once. The conversation had been as odd as it was brief and, beyond that, they hadn’t spoken since.

  He’d heard about him, of course, and had known instantly that whisperings of a notorious thief, whose calling card was a single owl feather, was his old friend. Keller had always had a thing for owls—the smartest predator, he’d always said—and the precision, ingenuity and bold way he went about his thefts had had his name written all over them. Or at least they did to anyone who’d known him.

  But knowing it and being able to prove it were two completely different things, which was exactly what law enforcement and special government agencies all over the globe had learned. Keller had never had a single charge brought against him.

  Not one.

  And if his old friend was sending him a note of apology it could only mean one thing, Payne thought grimly—he was after the bra. Why? Who the hell knew? But it was the only thing in Ranger Security’s protection that could possibly interest him.

  Oh, hell.

  Though most of their missions went off without a hitch, there were the occasional few that experienced unforeseen but manageable difficulties. Nothing that his agents had never been able to handle, of course—they were the best, after all. But Payne had a terrible suspicion that Keller’s interest in their cargo was going to involve much more than a “manageable difficulty”...and that problem was going to land right at Griffin Wicklow’s newly hired feet.

  He’d better warn him, Payne thought. Then he’d contact the others and bring them up to speed.

  Old friend or not, Keller would play hell stealing something under their protection.

  * * *

  ADMITTEDLY, MAKING SENSE of a one-sided conversation wasn’t easy, but Jess had been able to glean enough information from Griff’s increasingly scowling face and words like thief and warning to know that something was terribly wrong.

  A pity, of course, because it had cut short her fanciful imaginings of his splendid, powerful body on the back of an equally powerful bull with long, curling horns. She’d mentally redressed him in boots, tight jeans, leather chaps and one of those Western shirts with the pearl snap buttons. And the hat, naturally. A white Stetson, its only embellishment a braided leather cord.

  She would have never pegged him for a bull rider—it seemed too unpredictable a sport for Mr. Control—and she wasn’t altogether convinced that he wasn’t simply yanking her chain, but ultimately, who was she to judge? She doubted there were many people who would have pegged her as a race-car driver, even though she spent most weekends tearing around the track. To each his own, she supposed, and it was certainly fertile ground for her imagination.

  As if she needed more encouragement. She’d been practically squirming in her seat since the second her sizable ass had landed in it. He made her nerves jump and her blood sluggish, which was a very curious feeling. Not unpleasant, per se, but...different. Aware. Of him as much as herself.

  “Right,” he said. “Of course. I will not let it leave my sight.” A pause, then, “Even as it goes on the model,” he added grimly. “I agree, definitely the most critical time. In the interim, if you could send any information you have on him, I’d appreciate it. I’ll go over it when we reach the hotel. We’ve got a couple more hours on the road before we stop for the night,” he added. His blue-green gaze slid to her, making her pulse leap as it slid over her breasts, neck. “Well, so far. No, not an issue.”

  Oh, so they’d expected her to be an issue, had they? Jess thought, flattening a smile.

  “Right, then. I’ll be in touch later.” He disconnected the call and muttered a low, heartfelt oath t
hat betrayed what she imagined was the smallest fraction of his irritation. Intuition told her it was a rare occurrence and, for whatever reason, she suddenly felt sorry for him. It must be miserable being that tightly locked down, that unable to freely express oneself.

  “Problem?” she ventured.

  “A complication,” he said, his voice tight. “Not a problem.”

  He obviously didn’t allow “problems” in his world. “What sort of complication?”

  He was quiet for a moment, obviously debating the merit of confiding in her versus leaving her in the dark, which was no doubt his first impulse. He made the right choice, ultimately, which prevented her from delivering a blow to the side of his head.

  He studied the rearview mirror, hesitating. “My boss was just given advance warning from an old boarding school pal—who happens to be a notorious-but-never-caught thief—that he’s going to attempt to steal the bra.”

  Jess had caught enough to know the majority of that, so she didn’t linger on having her suspicions confirmed. Instead, she asked the most obvious question. She frowned. “Why warn us? What could possibly be gained?”

  Griff thrummed a finger against the wheel, his body otherwise a statue it was so still. “Your guess is as good as mine. A warning gives time for preparation. Payne reckons it was for his benefit, because they knew each other.” He laughed darkly. “And he’s so confident that he’s going to be able to take it from me that he’s assured my boss that he plans to return it.”

  Jess blinked, mildly taken aback. “That does sound cocky. And illogical,” she added. “Why steal something if you plan to return it? That doesn’t make any sense.” She felt her brow wrinkle. “Who is this guy again?”

  He grimaced. “Someone called the Owl,” he said dismissively. “I’ve never hear—”