by Paula Graves
He just didn’t like losing. And so many dead embassy employees was a loss. No way around it.
He hadn’t seen the black SUV in fifteen minutes. He’d backtracked, raced through yellow traffic lights, taken quick turns without signaling and broken about a dozen traffic laws trying to shake his followers, but there was still a vehicle behind him, about a hundred yards back. He couldn’t make out much about it, except it was a lighter color. He couldn’t even be sure if it was the same vehicle he’d spotted earlier, before he lost the black SUV.
Just in case, he whipped left down a side road that led toward Deception Lake and parked near a lakeside cabin. The place looked closed up for the season; April in the Smokies was still cool enough to dissuade tourists and part-time mountain dwellers from opening up their cabins until the advent of summer.
He got out of the Land Rover and hiked deeper into the woods, settling behind a large mountain laurel bush that offered both cover and a decent vantage point to watch the road.
After ten minutes with no sign of a following vehicle, he returned to the Land Rover and settled behind the steering wheel, letting his racing pulse return to normal before he pulled his phone from his pocket and called Bragg’s cabin again.
McKenna answered on the first ring, her voice tight. “Where are you?”
“On the road,” he answered. “Listen to me. I still don’t think it’s safe for me to come straight back to the cabin, but if you haven’t seen any sign of intruders, you’re probably safe enough for now. Try not to worry. I’ll be back there as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?”
He started the Land Rover, his muscles bunching with tension as the engine roared to life. “I think it’s time I go talk to an old friend and find out just what the hell he’s up to.”
* * *
“I’M NOT HAVING you followed.” Quinn kept his tone calm, though the man pacing the floor in front of his desk was anything but placid.
Nick Darcy halted suddenly, bending forward and slapping his hands on Quinn’s desk. Though a lean man, he was tall and broad-shouldered, big enough to be imposing when he wanted to. If Quinn had been a different sort of man, he might have felt intimidated.
Instead, he mostly felt annoyed. And curious.
“You had a GPS tracker attached to my vehicle.”
“I had them attached to every agent’s vehicle.”
“Without our consent?”
“Technically, I do have your consent,” Quinn answered calmly. “Perhaps you should have read the fine print on your contract more closely.”
Darcy’s nostrils flared. “I’m on administrative leave.”
“Doesn’t negate your contract.”
“Perhaps not. But I removed the tracker. And I’ll be checking my vehicle every time I leave here in order to be certain you haven’t attached another. Is that clear?”
Quinn ignored the question. “Why do you think I’m having you followed?”
“Because it’s the sort of thing you’d do,” Darcy snapped.
Quinn quelled an unexpected flicker of dismay. He hadn’t started The Gates to be anyone’s friend. Everyone he’d hired had been brought into the company because he believed they could be valuable assets, not because he liked them personally or cared to be thought of as a friend.
He wasn’t Darcy’s friend. He wasn’t anyone’s friend.
But he valued Darcy’s opinion, nevertheless. He supposed their long and often-colorful history together had made Darcy the closest thing Quinn had to a friend. He knew Darcy’s thoughts on most subjects because the former DSS agent had been relentlessly honest with him, for good or for bad.
He didn’t like hearing the disgust in Darcy’s voice.
“I’m not having you followed,” he said bluntly. “If I were, you would never have spotted the tail.”
Darcy’s lips flattened to a thin line.
“I am curious, however,” Quinn continued, “why you spirited one of my agents out of here this afternoon for a private chat.”
“Did she tell you?”
Quinn shook his head. “No.”
“But you know about it.”
“Of course.”
Darcy sighed, dropping heavily into one of the chairs in front of Quinn’s desk. “Do you know what we were talking about?”
“No. Would you like to tell me?”
Darcy was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes studying Quinn with disquieting intensity. Whatever he saw in Quinn’s face seemed to answer some unspoken question, for his tense shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. “I wanted some information on an FBI agent named Cade Landry. Ava used to work with him at the FBI’s Johnson City RA.”
Quinn kept his expression carefully blank. “What did you want to know about him?”
“What kind of agent he was. Whether he could be turned.”
“Did Trent have an opinion on the subject?”
“She shared her impressions of Agent Landry. We didn’t come to a concrete conclusion.”
“You know if you want my help, you need only ask.”
“If I want your help, I will ask.”
Quinn wasn’t going to hold his breath. “If you care to know, the internal investigation into your activities over the past few months has nearly concluded. We should have something to share with you in a week or two.”
“Kind of you.” There was no warmth in Darcy’s tone as he rose to his feet and started toward the door.
“I’m not your enemy,” Quinn said, though he’d had no intention of speaking.
Darcy turned in the doorway to look at him. “But you’re not my friend, either. Are you?”
Quinn had no answer to offer.
Darcy turned and left Quinn’s office, letting the door click shut behind him.
Quinn sat in silence for a long moment, trying to clear his head. It wasn’t like him to be thrown by the doubts of one of his agents. He knew most of them weren’t certain they could trust his motives. They were probably right. He’d been working angles for so long, he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.
But he wasn’t dealing Darcy an unfair hand, no matter what the agent thought. He was playing it straight as a board, giving Darcy all the leeway he could spare out of respect for their shared history.
Sooner or later, he hoped, Darcy would see what the truth really was. And while he might never earn his cautious agent’s friendship, he hoped he might earn back a measure of respect.
Three sharp raps on his door drew him out of his speculations. Before he could speak, the door opened and Olivia Sharp entered. “Was that Nick Darcy I just saw leaving?”
Quinn sighed. “You may enter.”
Olivia made a face and dropped with easy grace into the chair Darcy had just vacated. “What did he want?”
Quinn was tempted to tell her to mind her own business, but he was becoming very curious about Olivia’s connection to Cade Landry. “He spoke with Ava Trent about someone she used to work with.”
Olivia’s blue eyes went diamond hard, but that was the only change in her carefully schooled expression. “Why?”
“He wanted to know if Ava thought the man might be corrupt.”
Olivia didn’t blink. Her facial expression never changed. But most of the color leached from her cheeks, and her eyes went positively glacial. “It’s Cade Landry. Isn’t it?”
Well, Quinn thought, isn’t that interesting?
* * *
TRY TO RELAX.
McKenna almost laughed aloud at the thought. Darcy hadn’t shown up yet, though he’d called to reassure her she was probably safe. She’d been sitting there in the cabin’s small front room, fondling her Glock and watching the minute hand on her watch go around the dial.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever
relax again.
The sound of footfalls on the porch steps sent a rattle through her nerves. She picked up the Glock from the coffee table and rose, willing herself to remain calm and focused.
The steps outside seemed to belong to only one pair of feet. She had nine rounds in the Glock. She liked her odds.
The door rattled and started to open. She settled in a shooter’s stance and lifted the Glock.
The door stopped moving. Darcy’s voice came cautiously through the narrow opening. “Rigsby? Are you aiming your weapon at the door?”
“I am.”
“Please don’t.”
Unable to quell a nervous smile, she lowered the Glock, though she kept it gripped in one hand, ready to aim again if Darcy wasn’t alone.
But he was. And he was bearing two large canvas bags that looked full of—
“Groceries,” he announced, kicking the door shut behind him.
“You amazing man.” She followed him to the kitchen and pulled up a chair while he started putting food away.
“I detect a hint of cupboard love in that declaration,” he said with a smile, waggling a chocolate bar in front of her. “Your sweet tooth still in working condition?”
She grabbed the bar and set it on the table beside her. “It is, thank you. What else did you get?”
“I went for packaged frozen meals and canned foods. I know fresh would be better, but we may not have time to cook, and we might as well put the microwave to good use.”
“Good point.” She looked through the selection of meals he’d chosen, spotting several of her favorites. She and Darcy had shared lunch together dozens of times while working closely in Tablis; had he remembered her food preferences after all this time?
“However, since I was in town and the place was right there, I did stop and get this for our dinner.” He pulled a large paper bag from one of the canvas totes and set it on the table between them. “There’s a place in Purgatory called Tabbouleh Garden that serves the best falafel wraps I’ve had since I left the Middle East.”
She opened the sack, breathing in the spicy aromas. In an instant, she was starving. “Definitely the most amazing man in the world. Though my hips may not thank you for the extra pounds they’re about to pack on.”
While she crossed to the sink to wash her hands, he put away the last of the groceries, finishing by the time she dried her hands and returned to the table. He turned to gaze at her, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms as he gave her a look warm enough to make her spine tingle. “Rigsby, here’s something you may not know. Most men—myself included—enjoy curves on women. And as delicious as yours clearly are, you’re in no danger of ‘packing on’ too much flesh anytime soon. So indulge yourself.” He smiled. “I used to enjoy watching you eat.”
She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or self-conscious. She settled on a little of both. “So that’s what you were doing. I just thought you were grading my table manners on a scale from redneck to royalty.”
He smiled at her lame joke as he turned to wash his hands at the sink. “Middle Eastern food is meant to be eaten with the hands. With gusto and appreciation for the flavors and textures.” He dried his hands, pulled up a chair and reached into the bag, coming back with a container of hummus. He removed the top and set it on the table in front of them.
“You’re right,” she agreed. She looked in the bag and found something wrapped in aluminum foil. She set the packet on the table in front of them and peeled off the foil. “Mmm, pitas.”
He took one of the pita rounds, tore it in half and handed another piece to her. He took his half, folded it into a scoop shape and dug right into the hummus. “So, how are my table manners now?”
“As much as I want to say closer to redneck than royalty, you somehow manage to look regal no matter what you’re doing.” She copied his actions, dipping hummus onto her half of the pita. A dollop of the spicy chickpea puree started to fall from the makeshift scoop. She caught it with her mouth, but not before some of it plopped onto her chin.
As she reached to wipe it away, he caught her hand, his dark eyes glittering with a dangerously sexy light. “Allow me,” he murmured, releasing her hand and reaching up to slide his forefinger across her chin, catching the drop of hummus on the tip. He offered the tip of his finger to her. “Don’t want to miss a drop.”
Heat flooded her core and spread like wildfire along her nerve endings. Her heart pounding, she caught his hand in hers and drew his fingertip to her lips. Tentatively, she licked the creamy dip from his finger, then sucked lightly to catch every bit.
Darcy’s eyes darkened as she finally released his hand.
“What are we doing?” Her voice came out hoarse and strangled.
Darcy rose slowly from his chair, sending it scraping back across the tile floor. McKenna found herself on her feet, as well, without quite remembering how she got there. As Darcy moved around the table toward her, she felt the tidal pull of him, drawing her relentlessly closer, steel to his magnet.
“I don’t know,” he answered her question as his head bent toward hers.
Then he kissed her, and she was lost.
Chapter Ten
Maybe it was the residual adrenaline coursing through his body. Or his growing sense of frustration at being relegated to what bloody well felt like house arrest. Or, if he was being perfectly honest, it might be his rather lengthy recent drought when it came to female company in his bed.
Whatever the cause, deep down he knew, even as he swept McKenna more tightly into his embrace, that kissing her was the absolute wrong thing to do.
Except it felt right. So right. She fit against him so perfectly, smelled so enticing, kissed him back with such a heady combination of honey and fire that he wanted to surround himself with her, breathe her into his lungs, taste the sweet heat of her mouth on his until she consumed him.
Was this how it would have been eight years ago if they’d given in to the temptation that had tormented them both? Or was the reward that much greater for having denied themselves so long?
Her tongue slid against his, tasting, testing, and he drank deeply from the well of her passion.
When she withdrew from him, tugging free of his embrace, the sudden loss of her soft heat felt like a jolting shock to his system.
“We can’t do this, Darcy.”
“Clearly, we can,” he disagreed, reaching for her again.
She dodged his grasp, crossing the kitchen until her back was pressed against the refrigerator door. “Listen to me. We can’t do this. Too much is at stake to be taking chances like this. This is why we stayed away from each other all those years ago. You know it is. It’s just the business we’re in.”
Frustration burned in his gut. “People in this business have sex all the time. They take lovers. They take wives and husbands. They have flings, one-night stands, lifelong passions. They don’t stop living. Why should we?”
“Which is it, Darcy?” She took a step toward him, her hands on her hips. Her unruly curls undulated around her head like Medusa’s snakes, making him wonder if she was about to strike him dead with her crystalline gaze. “Is this going to be meaningless sex? Friends with benefits? Is it supposed to be a real relationship? What’s it going to be?”
He stared back at her, at a loss for an answer. What was he expecting from her? Did he even know?
“That’s what I thought.” She pushed her hands through her hair and the auburn coils calmed beneath her touch, making him wonder what those magic hands could do to his body. Would he, too, grow gentle and compliant under her caress, or would she set him ablaze with every stroke?
He wanted it all. The tranquillity and the chaos. But he saw from the wary, rigid set of her posture that telling the truth would only drive her further away.
He coul
dn’t risk it.
“So you’re saying we can’t touch each other?”
“I’m not sure we could avoid that, living in the same small cabin,” she murmured, looking away as if the directness of his gaze was more than she could bear. “We just need to be professionals.”
“Not friends?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “We’re friends. That’s the one thing I’m sure about. You—” Her voice broke suddenly, and to his surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She cleared her throat and started again. “You got me through one of the scariest, most traumatic experiences of my life. And the fact that I didn’t trust myself to stay in touch with you doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you in my life every single day.”
Her words were so stark, so brave, so true to his own experience that he felt tears prick his own eyes. He blinked them away before they could fully form. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.” A smile curved her lips, and she knuckled away her own tears. “I worked damned hard not to let you know.”
“I missed you, too,” he admitted with a smile of his own. “Part of me wonders if I didn’t take the job with The Gates so I could be surrounded by hillbilly accents like yours.”
“Not a hillbilly.” Still smiling, she rolled her eyes and returned to the table, opening the sack from the restaurant to dig inside. Her gaze rose to meet his as he took his own seat. “Oh, Darcy. You bought baklava, you wicked, wonderful man.”
Pleasure flooded through him on a wave of warmth. “You loved that baklava you used to buy at that little sweetshop near the embassy. You even shared once in a while.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up this time, hotshot. I’m starving.” She tugged the sticky layered squares closer, flashing him a bright grin.
Too bright, he thought. She was trying to behave as if everything was fine. But she knew as well as he did that nothing was fine. She was in trouble. He had barely shaken a tail that afternoon. They had suspects but no proof that she’d been set up by people in her own bureau.
And they’d come damned close to going straight from tentative friends to reckless lovers in the span of a few minutes.