by Misty Evans
“An important, high-profile person who needs protection.”
“You need a security guard?”
“More like witness protection.”
“Since when is the Justice Team in the Wit Sec business?”
“We’re not. This is an unusual case, not one for U.S. Marshals. I was hoping you’d do the honors, but since you’re on light duty, we need someone else with the right skills. He, or she, needs to know their way around guns, have superior defensive driving skills, and have experience with personal security. Sound like anyone you know?”
Sounded like Tony Gerard’s resume in a hat. “I might.”
“Good. Reach out to him and see if he’s interested, will you?”
Grey retreated to the back. Brice pulled out his cell phone and called Gerard. When the man answered, Brice gave him the latest update on the Turner case.
“I heard,” Gerard said. “They’ve reinstated me, by the way, but I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to go back. Turner’s murder…still feels like my fault.”
Maybe Gerard wasn’t the right man for the job. “You ever think of doing something else?”
“Besides joining the Secret Service? Nope. Personal protection is what I’m good at, and in general, I like it. It’s just…Turner was my friend. I feel like I let him down.”
“You wouldn’t be a good agent if you didn’t feel responsible, Tony.”
There was a pause. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“So it’s the Supreme Court or the President? Those the only two security details you’re interested in?”
“I’m taking a few weeks off to figure that out. Like I told Hope, maybe I’ll apply to the FBI. Why?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Another pause, this one not as long. “I’m listening.”
Brice smiled up into the rafters as he rocked back in his chair. Similar to Hope with the promise of a scoop, Gerard liked a challenge. “I don’t know all the details, but I’d like to put you in touch with a former FBI agent and his people who do some good work. Behind the scenes, all in the name of justice. They happen to be in need of a protection detail of your caliber and I can vouch for them being stand-up people. You’ve met one of them already.” He let Gerard digest that for a moment. “What do you say? You interested?”
“Will Hope vouch for this group?”
Brice laughed. “She will indeed.”
“Good enough for me, then. Give the guy my number. No promises, but I’ll talk to him.”
They said their goodbyes. As Brice signed off, his phone buzzed with a text. Hope. Was he ready for PT?
Getting back on his feet, Brice grabbed what was left of the cookies and saluted Mitch. “I’m out of here. Tell Grey that Tony Gerard is willing to talk. I’ll text him Gerard’s number.”
Mitch saluted back. “Take care, Hawk!” he said in his imitation of Hope’s voice. “Hurry back!”
Brice flipped him the bird once more and hobbled to the door, already planning his revenge. “The next time you take one of my cookies, Robin, Caroline won’t have to shoot you. I will.”
The sound of Mitch’s chuckle followed him out the door.
Chapter Twenty-six
The drapes were gone.
Hope stood on Hawk’s—Brice’s—front walk, her mouth agape, most likely drooling, at the sight of the two front windows, normally cloaked in heavy drapes that had been shoved open. And not just open a little bit. Those bad boys weren’t even visible from the street. Access had been granted to streaming sunlight and nosey neighbors.
“Well, good for him,” Hope said.
Cliché or not, her heart swelled, just pumped right up in her chest because she knew, without a doubt, he’d done this for her. That he’d made an effort to open his mind to the idea that maybe, just maybe, a little bit of optimism—the bright side—didn’t mean naiveté.
Heaven help her she’d fallen for a fucking blogger.
She laughed to herself. Not only the swearing, but the blogger part. So much had changed in a matter of days. The biggest being, for once, she didn’t have a plan. Planning, she’d learned, was overrated. Mainly because the life map she’d had a week ago, the White House, falling in love with a man who saw the world as a stunning, exciting place, and yes, the picket fence, had fallen apart in extraordinary fashion.
What she’d wound up with was no job, a paranoid blogger as the man of her dreams and the realization that the world, although beautiful, contained dangers she’d been too stubborn to acknowledge.
Somehow, she liked this new worldview better.
The honest, realistic view that came with Brice. Hopefully naked.
At that, she smiled and decided going inside might be a good idea. Hormona agreed.
Her phone rang, probably Hawk wondering why she was four minutes late because God forbid he should actually look out the windows that were now not completely blocked and let the world see in as easily as he could see out.
He must have recently arrived because he’d phoned her an hour ago, letting her know he was just leaving his meeting with Grey and would meet her at his place so she could drive him to PT. Not that he needed a driver, but she liked the idea of it. The couple-ish part.
Her phone continued to ring and she checked the caller ID. Amy Ripling. Oh, this should be good. She tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hope? It’s Amy.”
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
Besides being fired for solving the murder of a Supreme Court Justice, getting kidnapped and almost killed? Doing just great thanks. The new Hope, the swearing Hope, begged to let off some sarcasm. No. Some things needed to remain. Her professionalism being one of them. She’d treat Amy respectfully and then she’d go inside and fuck her boyfriend blind.
Te-he. Swearing. Who knew?
Giant grin on her face, she glanced up at the window where Hawk stood peering out at her, head cocked as he obviously tried to ascertain what she found so amusing. He’d better be using that crutch to help him get around. If not, she’d kill him. Men could be so stubborn.
She gestured to the phone at her ear and then held up her finger letting him know she’d be a minute.
“I’m okay, Amy. Thanks.”
In the window, Brice nodded, but stayed rooted in his spot. He may have been making strides on Operation Ease Up, the open drapes proved it, but his paranoia would always be part of him and something told her, he’d continue to obsess about her safety.
But this was what men did for women they loved. They watched over them. Kept them safe. Even when standing in front of the house.
I love him.
And this time, it was the real deal, that pure and potent I-will-jump-in-front-of-a-bus-for-him love that she’d always craved and wished for, but somehow seemed just...out...of...her...grasp.
What she’d needed was Hawk. She just hadn’t known it. Of course, in true Hope fashion, he proved to be the reverse of what she’d planned. This relationship was actually pretty darned complicated considering their differences. The perky optimist and the brooding pessimist. With that killer combo there’d never be a lack of debating.
But one thing was for sure; this was the real deal. No forcing it or convincing herself that—yes!—he was the one. This time, she knew. Down deep, where it counted, she knew.
“I need to talk to you,” Amy said in her typical aggressive tone.
At one time, Hope admired Amy’s drive and ambition. Her ability to master spin control while manning three phones to keep the networks at bay.
Yep. At one time, Amy had been her hero. Now, after being fired without an opportunity to explain or defend her position, Amy’s aggression scraped her skin raw.
Hope glanced back at the window where Brice leaned against the frame, checking his phone. Watching, but not watching and managing to avoid looking like a controlling stalker.
“What is it, Amy?”
“I’ve spoken to th
e powers that be. Given all that’s gone on, we feel like you should come back to work.”
They feel. Fascinating. Once again, no one bothered to ask if she had anything to say or wanted to offer up an opinion.
But they wanted her back.
The road to her dream job would be open again.
If she wanted it.
If she wanted it?
A week ago, Hope would have happily waved goodbye to Hawk in that window and high-tailed it back to her office. To her job. The job she once thought made a difference in the world.
She needed to grow up. Pushing press releases wouldn’t satisfy her. Sure, it was important work, but she ached for the hunt.
The scoop.
She tilted her head back, warming her face in the morning sunshine. Something she normally wouldn’t be able to do this time of day because she’d be at her desk, grinding through a fifteen hour day.
Instead of standing on Hawk’s walkway watching him not watch her.
“Amy, I appreciate the call. But I won’t be coming back.”
“Hope?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
Hope laughed. “Yes. I’m fine. No head injuries, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I guess I’m surprised. I thought you liked it here.”
“I did like it there. Until you fired me.”
“Oh, hey, Denby, listen—”
“No, Amy. It’s okay. I actually understand. It’s politics and politics is brutal. I get it.”
“I’d really love for you to come back.”
Hope tilted her head away from the sun and focused on Brice, still in the window, still fiddling with his phone. After a few seconds, he looked up and pointed at her.
“You okay?” he mouthed.
Baby, I’m great. She gave him a thumbs up and he smiled. Not just any smile though. A fast, ferocious one that transformed him from a brooding, paranoid blogger to the hotness known as Hawk-slash-Brice and Hope’s heart swelled again. I love this man.
How had she gotten this lucky?
“Amy, I have to go, but thank you for the offer. I do appreciate it. But the truth is, I enjoyed chasing this story. Being out of the office, digging up leads. I’m not meant to be behind a desk writing memos and releases. I’m a journalist. It’s what I love. Heck, maybe I’ll even be able to finish my grad courses before I’m fifty.”
“You’re killing me here, Denby.”
She continued to watch Brice, who gave up on his phone and shoved it in his back pocket, then leaned against the window frame again. Patiently waiting.
Slowly, she walked toward the door, toward her future.
“Sorry, Amy. It’s time for me to move on.”
The front door came open just as Hope disconnected. She held up the phone. “That was Amy.”
“Your boss Amy?”
“My old boss, yes.”
“What did she want?”
Loving the protective insolence in his voice, Hope tossed her purse on one of the living room chairs, then dropped onto the sofa. “She offered me my old job back.”
He hobbled over to her, nursing the gunshot to his foot. “No shit?”
She nodded. “No shit. I told her I wasn’t interested. How’s the foot?”
“Huh,” he said, as if mildly surprised but not really.
“Are you surprised? I can’t tell. And, I will ask again, how’s the foot?”
“Please, Hope. You’ve got the killer instinct of an investigative journalist. You belong writing press releases as much as I belong on reality television. Get a job at one of the networks. You’ll be happy doing that. And the foot hurts like a mother fucker. I’m dealing with it.”
“I’m sorry you got shot.” She waggled a finger at the bandage under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “And that I filleted you.”
His mouth tipped up on one side. A wicked sexy half-grin. “Eh. You’ll make it up to me, I’m sure.”
“That I will. Don’t you worry.” She rested her head back and sighed. “You’re right about my job.”
“That had to hurt.”
“What?”
“Telling the blogger he was right about something.”
Ha. Funny man. “Actually, smart ass, it didn’t hurt at all. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll have time for that blog you’re so fond of. What with going to work for the Justice Team, you’ll be busy.”
“Not that busy. Grey said I can do both. But getting back to you, you don’t need your old job. You’re better than that. There’s something else out there for you. You need to find it is all.”
Hmmm. Where would she even start? She’d make a list of contacts at the news outlets. She had plenty of those from her old job. She might have to start as a grunt, but she’d be okay with that. With her skills, she’d move up fast. And after what she and Brice had just accomplished in solving the Chief Justice’s murder, something told her she wouldn’t be out of a job long.
Heck, she might even wind up working for one of the digital outlets. Wouldn’t that be a kick? The woman who hated bloggers basically becoming one.
Becoming one. She opened her mouth, drew a breath. “Oh.”
“What?”
She sat forward, raked her hands through her hair, considered her words. Once she said them, they’d be out there. An absolute option. She looked up at him, met his gaze. They worked well together. Very well.
But…
Blogging?
She cleared her throat, prepared for the teasing to come. “I was just thinking it would be a riot—considering my love of bloggers, aside from you, of course—if I went to work for a digital news outlet.”
“All the major metro newspapers have digital content now, Hope. There’s plenty of opportunities.”
Un-huh. “I’m not talking about the metros. I have a proposition for you.”
He quirked an eyebrow, blew her a kiss. “Oh, I like the sound of that.”
“Later, my love. I’m being serious here.”
He casually scanned her body, lingering on her chest. Hawk was a breast man. She’d figured that out early.
Hormona let out a whoop.
“So am I,” he said, dropping next to her on the sofa and running his hand over her torso.
She scooted sideways and turned to face him. “Focus here. I have an idea. You may not like it.”
“Then why are you ruining a great moment?”
She smiled. “With you being busy with the Justice Team, maybe I could pick up the slack on your blog.”
That certainly did the trick. He jerked his head back and drew his eyebrows in tight. “You want to be a blogger? You? The Queen of I-Hate-Bloggers.”
“We kicked butt on the Turner story. And your blog isn’t just any blog. You have credibility. That’s what I didn’t understand in the beginning. That all bloggers aren’t hacks.”
“Gee, Hope, thanks.”
She tweaked his nose. “You are quite welcome, Hawk. Now, what do you say? Want to give me a job?”
“Does it include quickies at lunch?”
She rolled her eyes. Such a man. “Stop it. I think I could be happy working for your blog. It’s challenging and energizing. I love the hunt and with the things you report on, I can have that. What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I think if you’re motivated, we’d make a great team. And, hey, you could cut your teeth on some big stories. Even if you wind up hating blogging, the Turner thing alone would definitely get you a job at a network.”
“Well, look at you all concerned about my future.”
“As long as that future includes me, you’re damn straight. I want you happy. And not perky, fake happy.”
She snorted. “You just like hearing me say mother fucker.”
“That’s true. It’s a twisted turn-on.”
She straddled him, ran her hands up the front of his T-shirt and kissed him. Long and slow, enjoying that buzz that came with his hands on her, holding her. Loving h
er. She pulled back, dropped another quick kiss on him. “Then, my love, you’re all mine. In every way. How’s that?”
“Sounds like you finally got your plans right, Ms. Denby.”
And now for a sneak peek at
STEALING JUSTICE
The Justice Series
by USA Today Bestselling Authors
Adrienne Giordano and Misty Evans
Justice “Grey” Greystone was fired from the FBI for insubordination. Now the FBI wants him to use his renegade skills to take down a serial killer who’s above the law. To trap the Lion, he’ll need to send the perfect woman undercover.
Sydney Banfield runs a women’s shelter and bends the law daily to help victims of abuse escape their painful lives. Three of the women she’s recruited for government jobs have become victims of the Lion. If Syd has her way, the vicious killer will never touch another woman again.
Grey and Sydney set a trap—with Sydney as the sexy bait—but the Lion adds a complex twist to his homicidal agenda. With Sydney’s life on the line, Grey must race against the clock to catch a killer who’s as unstoppable as he is evil.
Chapter One
Justice “Grey” Greystone stood in the shadows near the main staircase of the mammoth mansion, his ear bud in place, his security service badge in plain view, and his eyes roaming the crowd as senators, diplomats, and other male politicians moved past him. In a sea of navy, brown, and black suits, pops of red, pink, and bright blue caught his attention.
Beautiful women, their taut, young bodies dripping with diamonds, brushed seductively against the men, offering a drink, a snippet of conversation, a laugh. A private encounter behind closed doors.
Inside the Panthera, sixteen miles north of Washington, D.C., drinks flowed, deals were made, and powerful men ignored the fact that one of them was a killer.
A woman bumped Grey’s arm. “Oh, excuse me.”
Her dress, nails, and lips were a matching wine color. Her brown hair was twisted and pinned on top of her head. But those eyes, even with the makeup, screamed young. She couldn’t have been legal, and yet according to the Smoking Gun Escort Service, they never hired anyone under twenty.