He didn’t speak for a long time, and she fought not to cry or break down in front of this man. That might be too many emotions for him.
Finally he took a step closer to her. “You are strong. You shot me, remember? And when the panic attack hit you, Wren had already told you that you could trust me. I think your mind knew it and let you react like you did.”
She tilted her head at him because what he said…made sense. “Really?”
“Really.” He turned away, surge protector in hand. The conversation was over, since Jock deemed it to be. He was already next to her TV, pulling out plugs from the extension cords she’d rigged up. The more he worked, the angrier his actions seemed. Yeah, she knew that what she had set up was a fire hazard, and she had had every intention of fixing it but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Oops.
Finally he turned to look at her, eyes narrowed. “Rest of your rooms look like this?”
She twisted her lips to the side. “Uh, maybe my bedroom?”
He growled.
“Look, can you ease up on the electronic shaming? I haven’t had my breakfast, or coffee, and I’m out, so I need to run to the bodega.”
He pointed at a bag at the corner of the counter that he hadn’t unpacked yet. Just pointed and then resumed what he was doing. His avoidance of speech was both annoying and endearing.
She shuffled over to the bag and peered inside. In it were a can of coffee—the same brand she had on her countertop that was now empty—some fresh fruit, a small carton of eggs, and bagels with cream cheese.
And she was going to cry. Just bawl her eyes out right there in front of God and Jock and Sundance. He’d bought her coffee. And food. And was right now over in the corner of her apartment preventing fires like a boss.
She rubbed her chest, blinking rapidly as she pulled the coffee out of the bag, and began to make it. Her hands needed to be busy—even if her mind was going a mile a minute. Getting used to this care was dangerous. It wasn’t even about depending on someone else…now it was about depending on Jock. Big, silent, protective, attractive Jock. Jock who made sure she was safe, and noticed her coffee was low—he’d fucking noticed!—and thought to bring her a fresh breakfast, since she’d been subsisting on oatmeal in the morning for months.
She glanced at him. Had he eaten? A man the size of a grizzly needed to eat a lot, right? That muscle mass had to burn about five thousand calories a day.
“Can I make you breakfast?” she said, unsure what she’d make, but she could think of something.
He straightened and began to walk toward her smoke detector by her front door. “Already ate.”
“Okay, but second breakfasts are all the rage, you know.”
He stopped and turned to look at her. His eyes did that thing, the body scan most men did that usually left her feeling cold and objectified, but when Jock did it, she felt…protected, as if just his perusal was enough to cage her in a force field.
Even so, it struck her she wasn’t wearing much—leggings and a shirt that only came to her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra either, just a tank top. Her nipples pebbled beneath her shirt and goose bumps broke out on her arms.
From a simple look. Okay, so maybe it was a force field, but since Jock had made it, he could penetrate it.
He turned away before she could read his expression. “I’ll eat whatever you make.”
While he proceeded to take down her old smoke detector, she turned on her heel to face her stove. Right, food. She hadn’t made breakfast for someone other than herself in a long time. And when had she last made eggs? She had bagels, fruit, and some cheese in the fridge. Egg sandwiches. That was pretty much a luxury.
The coffee sputtered next to her, filling the room with its delicious scent, and feeling a bit lighter than she had in a long time, she pulled out a skillet and began to cook.
* * *
Jock tested the smoke detector, happy when the device beeped, loud and shrill in the small apartment. Her other one had been old enough that her landlord should have replaced it.
Jock was pleased with his handiwork so far. She had a new router and surge protector, and those damn extension cords were going in the trash. He’d deal with her bedroom later.
Now that he’d finished the tasks at hand, he had nowhere to look but at Fiona. She stood at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs in a pan, a steaming mug of coffee on the counter next to her. She took a sip, closing her eyes momentarily, and then set the mug down with a small smile on her face.
His heart beat loudly in his ears, and he willed himself to look away as she turned on a small radio by the sink and began to swing her hips to some pop song. Her pants were skin tight—obscene really—and her heart-shaped ass was right there. Protecting people wasn’t new to him; he’d done it before. He prided himself on focusing on the job, not the person. Getting attached didn’t work. It complicated things, forced bad decisions. Fiona Madden wasn’t the first beautiful woman he’d crossed paths with or worked to protect, so why was he so intrigued by her?
He’d never been a man who was controlled by his sexual desire for women. He could go without sex for a long time, and usually did. Getting into bed with someone, no matter who, took a level of trust he rarely felt. Maybe that wasn’t what most would consider the norm but he liked it that way. He was okay with his brand of normal.
So this thing with Fiona…he was unsettled. Visions from last night’s dream came to him in a rush—Fiona in his arms, Fiona under him, Fiona on top of him. Fiona calling his name in pleasure. And Fiona screaming his name in terror. That had been a mindfuck.
Fiona turned around and caught him staring at her. She didn’t say anything, only masked her reaction with a tight smile as she held up two plates. “Breakfast is ready.”
Angry with himself for being caught staring—and for staring in the first place—he grabbed a mug of coffee and took a seat at the small table across from her. Sundance lay on the floor near his food bowl, eyes closed and ignoring them.
She’d made them bagel, egg, and cheese sandwiches. Jock had only scarfed down a quick protein bar earlier so this hot meal smelled like heaven. She’d cut up fruit, too, and placed it in a small bowl on his plate.
“Thank you.” He popped a piece of melon into his mouth. “Didn’t have to make me anything.”
She shrugged as she picked up her sandwich. “I wanted to.”
The eggs were flavored with some type of spice he couldn’t place, but they were delicious. He’d eaten the entire sandwich before she finished half of hers. When he wiped his mouth with a napkin, he looked up to see her staring at him. “What?”
“You ate that in, like, less than a minute.”
“Did you time me?”
“No, but I’m good at estimation.”
He liked her rapid-fire answers when he questioned her. He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “It was good. Thanks.”
“Glad you liked it.” She slipped a strawberry slice between her lips and he had to will himself not to react. “Have you ever done an eating competition? I bet you’re good at it.”
“I think I did a wing-eating one sometime when I was active.”
She leaned back in her chair and deepened her voice. “‘I could eat fifty eggs.’”
He blinked at her, surprised at the movie quote. “Cool Hand Luke, huh?”
“Classic,” she grinned. “I’m just saying, you’re a big guy, you could probably win the Nathan’s hot dog one.”
“Not really into being on TV and shoving hot dogs in my mouth for ten minutes.”
She laughed, the sound pretty and soothing. “Yeah, I can’t really see you doing that.”
He drank the rest of his coffee while she finished her sandwich. When her plate was empty, he took the dishes to the sink and washed them. She didn’t say a word, but he felt her eyes on his back. When he turned around Sundance was up, sitting at Fiona’s feet while she ruffled his ears.
“Thought we could call Wren today,” he said. “She
can give you more background on what’s going on. If you want to.”
She nodded. “I would like that, yeah. Can I see her? Video chat?”
“Sure.”
He took her phone and dialed Roarke. When Roarke picked up he was rubbing his eyes and squinting at the screen. His black hair was falling in his face, and Jock could see he was sitting in a bedroom. Jock wasn’t sure where Roarke was now—maybe a tropical island or somewhere in Europe. A soft female voice murmured something in the background, and Roarke said something over his shoulder before focusing back on the phone. “Jock? Man, it’s early. Everything okay?”
“Yup. Fiona wants to talk to Wren.”
He held the phone out to her without waiting for a response from Roarke. Fiona took the phone, her slender fingers brushing his, and he bent to pet Sundance to hide the flush of heat creeping up his neck.
“Um, hi,” Fiona said into the phone.
“Hey there, I’m Roarke.”
“I guess you know who I am,” she said with a smile.
“I do. Everything okay? Jock using his words?”
She laughed, and Jock decided he was okay being the butt of the joke if it meant he got to hear her laugh like that. “He is. I’m glad he’s here.”
That made him feel warmer than it should have.
“He’s good, the best. Here’s Wren. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Fiona!” Wren’s voice echoed through the apartment then. “I was worried about you, but Jock texted you were okay.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Fiona turned from him, walking back toward her bedroom. Jock followed, and when she reached her bedroom door she turned around, frowning at him. “Can I talk to Wren alone?”
Oh right, he was following her—him and Sundance, her human and canine shadows.
“Girl talk,” she said, as her apology.
“Right, of course. I’ll just…” He gestured back down the hallway. “Got stuff to do.”
She smiled and shut the door. Her voice was muffled behind it, and Jock glanced down at Sundance, who panted up at him. Jock shrugged. “Guess we’re kicked out.”
Sundance didn’t say anything.
Jock went back into the kitchen to clean up a bit. He knew Wren would explain what they’d been doing the last month or so. After Roarke’s brother, Flynn, was killed, Roarke suspected that Flynn had been silenced because he had uncovered his boss’s criminal activity. With Wren’s help, Roarke, Jock, and their crew of hackers had ended up uncovering a black market sale that put millions of people’s personal data at risk. During all of that, Roarke and Wren had fought feelings for each other…until they stopped fighting.
The crew they’d cobbled together to avenge Flynn’s death had disbanded and were all getting back to their separate lives when Maximus found them, and they’d realized what they’d gotten into went much higher and involved Fiona. One of the men they’d taken down—Darren Saltner—had been involved in the kidnapping and selling of women, including Fiona. Maximus, they suspected, had helped bankroll the operation and wasn’t happy when Darren was arrested. When Maximus had threatened Fiona as a way to keep them all in line, Jock volunteered to watch over her.
Even now, as he stared down into the courtyard, surrounded by her things and aching over his feelings for her, he didn’t regret coming here. He didn’t trust anyone else with her safety. The problem? With the jobs he’d had, he hadn’t gotten away without enemies. They’d already hurt everyone close to him and cauterized that part of his heart, so that it was impossible to hurt him that way again. Their last task was to take him out…if they could find him. He’d had a bounty on his head for years—a long time, so long that the threat felt as if it had gone stagnant. Jock thought the men who wanted him dead either no longer cared or were biding their time. Didn’t matter to him. As long as the bounty was still there, he had to fly under the radar.
Finding out who was a threat to Fiona’s life was important. Then he would move on and get the fuck away from her before the people who wanted him dead thought they could use her to get to him.
His feelings for the woman in this apartment were new, and unwanted. Worse? He would never want to take advantage of her vulnerability. If he ever made his attraction known, if he ever made an advance on her, he worried that she would only reciprocate out of fear that he’d pull his support from her if she rejected him. Gaining her trust now was the most important goal, not how he felt.
“Shut it down, Jock,” he whispered to himself. “And focus.”
About ten minutes later Fiona walked out of the bedroom. She wore a distracted smile when she handed the phone back to him. “Thanks. It’s been a long time since I talked to Wren. After everything…” She waved her hand and turned away, biting her lip. “I lost touch with a lot of people.”
He knew she didn’t have family, really. Her parents had divorced when she was young. She’d never been close with her father, and he’d passed away from a heart attack when she was a teenager. Then her estranged mother had died from a stroke when Fiona was in her twenties. No siblings. No extended family she knew. Just her and this dog.
“After all this is over, I can take you to her,” Jock said, feeling around for something that would make Fiona feel better.
The offer must have worked because she flashed him a smile with watery eyes. “Yeah, I’d like that. We were close once.” She swallowed and blinked. “Anyway, I have work to do. I have a deadline coming up—”
Yeah, he needed to get out of here. “Sure, I’ll leave. You need me, just call.”
She nodded. “Right. Thank you. This morning was nice.”
It had been nice. Too nice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hit still active? Jock typed.
Yeah, came the reply.
Any activity?
No one wants to touch it, you know that.
Jock tapped his booted foot on the floor below his computer desk in agitation. While he was grateful no one was stupid enough to try to earn the bounty on his head, he didn’t like that the hit was still open. Well, actually, he hadn’t cared for a long time, confident no one would fuck with him. But now he had…Fiona. He didn’t want any of his heat to blow back on her. She had enough of her own.
I want it canceled.
Sure you do, doesn’t mean it’ll happen. Also doesn’t mean anyone’ll take it.
Jock curled his lips into a smile. Hitman ethics. What Jock’s enemies didn’t know was that when they’d ordered a hit on him, they’d ordered a hit on a mercenary for hire that no one wanted to fuck with. He was respected and well-liked within a community with blood lust. He had a dozen eyes and ears, including Tarr’s, who he was currently messaging with.
He had dirt on all of them—their real identities, their families…everything. If he died, all of that information would be exposed. They all had a vested interest in keeping him alive.
Tarr was a bit different. Tarr owed him. Tarr was not quite a friend, but the closest thing to one Jock still had from his former life. Tarr—a hitman himself, like Jock had once been—was one of the few who Jock trusted to watch out for him.
I’m keeping an eye on it. Always, Tarr typed.
Good, Jock typed back, and signed off.
His phone beeped with a text, and he frowned at it, his fingers stalled in their rapid tapping across the keyboard. He picked up his cell.
I’m making lunch. Roasted chicken salad. If you’re hungry.
He was hungry. Well, he was always hungry, and although he wasn’t actually sure what roasted chicken salad was, he was eager to eat anything Fiona cooked. In the last couple of days since he’d made contact with Fiona, he’d noted she was a good cook, even though she rarely had the money for decent ingredients. It grated on him how she lived, but she never seemed to complain about the simplicity of her life. It was just…her norm.
He had money. He hadn’t had money growing up—his mom wasn’t so great at holding down a jo
b—but Jock lived simply as an adult. He didn’t really have a home base. He had a couple of properties for investment purposes that a property manager looked after, but no place he called home. He was always working, and nearly every cent he earned went right into the bank for savings or went into investments. By now, at age thirty-eight, he had a nest egg that could take him well into the golden years of his life. It was why he had volunteered for this job. He wasn’t getting paid for it, but he had the time, and if he wasn’t working…well, then he had nothing. No friends, no family. Just his thoughts and his memories, and he didn’t want to spend time with any of that.
He locked his computer, slipped his phone into his pocket, and left his apartment. He was at Fiona’s door in a few minutes and rapped loudly. The door across the hall opened a crack, and he turned and glanced at it over his shoulder. The door shut quickly, and he frowned at it.
She had neighbors. Neighbors who might be curious why Fiona all of a sudden had a man visiting her apartment when she’d never had visitors before. Neighbors who would take note and ask questions.
He registered Fiona opening her own door just as he swiveled his head back to face her. He’d seen her a couple of times in the last few days, but didn’t want to overwhelm her with his presence so he tried to keep a bit of distance. He’d figured they both needed a break.
Now she stood in her doorway wearing shorts and a T-shirt dampened by her still-wet hair. Her eyes widened as she took him in. “Oh, I thought you weren’t coming. You didn’t text back.”
He hadn’t realized he’d had to text back. “I’m here.”
Her lips twitched. “Yes, I see that.” She stepped back. “Well, come in.”
He walked inside and immediately smelled roasted chicken. His stomach growled. Breakfast had been…wow, hours ago, and even that hadn’t been nearly enough.
Fiona walked past him on her way to the kitchen. “Chicken salad gets you out from that apartment of yours?”
“Any food, really.” He followed her into the kitchen and took a seat when she waved him over to a chair. She dropped a plate onto the table in front of him, and he stared at the sandwich. Chunks of chicken in a mayonnaise mixture, with pecans and grapes, all on a Kaiser roll with lettuce and tomato. A side of chips. Fuck, he was hungry. He waited until she made another sandwich for herself and sat down before he dug in. He had it polished off in under a minute and was munching on the chips as she stared at him.
Darkest Night Page 4