Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1)

by Nicole Edwards

  Sucking in a deep breath, Marissa fought the panic attack that threatened. She needed to keep herself in check. She damn sure didn’t want Trace to see how freaked out she was. Keeping calm on the outside was all that mattered. After all, Trace had risked his life to save hers, so the least she could do was not cause him any more problems.

  When the driver’s door opened, Marissa acted on instinct, swinging the gun around and aiming it directly … between Trace’s eyes.

  “Not a threat, Marissa.”

  Swallowing hard, Marissa lowered the gun, ignoring her itchy trigger finger. No sense in causing an accident—or death, as would be the case if she actually did pull that trigger. God, why had he given her the gun? Trace was trained for this shit. She wasn’t.

  Nor did she want to be.

  “Did they have two rooms?” she asked, her voice giving away the quivering that was happening on the inside.

  Trace smiled, transforming his already too-handsome face to what Marissa would call beautiful. Knowing Trace, he’d adamantly argue if anyone attempted to call him beautiful. She was half tempted to say as much, just to see his reaction.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t give her a chance.

  “And if you’d like, Tilly would be more than happy to keep us company.”

  Marissa snorted. “She might be your type but certainly not mine.”

  “I prefer my women with a little more meat on their bones,” Trace replied with a chuckle, putting the SUV in gear and pulling around to the back of the building, the Escalade maneuvering slowly through the unplowed snow before they returned to the main lot.

  Once they were parked in front of a door marked with a tarnished number nine—which was hanging crooked and very well could’ve been a six at one time—Trace climbed out.

  Marissa followed.

  After he had retrieved a duffel bag from the backseat, Trace joined her in front of the door, inserted a key, and pushed it open with his foot.

  Instantly, Marissa’s nose wrinkled. A musty smell wafted out of the room, but at least it was warm.

  “I’ll see you in—” Marissa didn’t get to complete her sentence before Trace was nudging her into the room, closing the door behind him, and engaging the locks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re sharin’ a room, darlin’,” he said simply.

  Marissa turned, surveying the small, cramped room while pretending not to have noticed the endearment. No, her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. “Then why’s there only one bed?” she asked, confused.

  “Our new friend Tilly said that’s all they have here.”

  Marissa frowned. Surely even a dump of a motel such as this could have a room with double beds. Remembering that she didn’t want to cause Trace any more problems, Marissa merely nodded and moved farther inside. Flipping on a floor lamp near the wall heater, she glanced around.

  Brown shag carpet, chipped brown furniture, a thin beige bedspread and a picture of—Marissa wasn’t sure what the picture was of, but it had orange in the background—provided the only color in the room. If bland could be considered a color.

  Unless, of course, she included the man dressed from head to toe in black still standing near the door.

  “You take the bed, I’ll take the floor,” Trace imparted, nodding toward the no-frills mattress and setting the black duffel down on the scarred dresser. “I brought you a change of clothes.”

  Marissa’s eyes flew up to meet Trace’s. “What?”

  Trace cocked his head as though trying to figure out if she’d hit her noggin and had knocked a few screws loose. Now that she thought about it … well, it had been a really foolish question.

  “Never mind. I heard what you said,” Marissa told him, shaking her head as she moved toward the bag. She wanted to throw her arms around him, allow Trace to wrap her in the safety and security of his strong arms, grateful that he’d saved her as well as thought about her well-being, but instead, she settled on asking, “Mind if I take a shower?”

  Trace merely grunted, and Marissa took that as consent. Grabbing the jeans and hoodie he’d brought her—clearly something he’d snagged from her parents’ house in Dallas—along with the white panties and bra (which made her face flame with embarrassment at the mere sight), Marissa searched around inside the bag to see if there were any … toiletries. Bless him. There was a travel-sized shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, a toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste.

  For now, Marissa could deal with this.

  Hugging her stash close to her body, she once again surveyed the room, her eyes darting to Trace briefly and then back to the only bed. Now, as for their sleeping arrangements…

  Ignoring the thought of being alone with Trace for an unidentified amount of time, Marissa made her way into the claustrophobia-inducing bathroom, closing the door behind her. The only positive thing she could say about the bathroom … it appeared to be clean. And that very well could’ve been an overstatement, but she was too tired to care.

  Finding the wobbly knob on the wall, Marissa turned on the shower and took a step back. Thankfully, a minute or two later, the room filled with steam as she managed to yank off her clothes, tossing them into a pile on the counter. Grabbing the toiletries, she climbed into the ugly yellow porcelain tub, hoping like hell yellow had been the intended color and it wasn’t from lack of care over the years.

  She allowed the hot water to pound down on her aching muscles, saturating her hair and warming her skin, as she thought about all that had happened in the span of a couple of hours. The longer she thought, the colder she got, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the now humid bathroom. The idea that someone had attempted to kill her … yeah, well, she was still having a difficult time digesting that.

  Marissa was no stranger to danger. It’d been front and center in her life and on her doorstep for the past twelve freaking months, hence the reason she’d been in hiding for the last year. During that time, she’d been the target of two unsuccessful kidnapping attempts, and now, evidently, the people who were after her weren’t satisfied with merely getting their hands on her.

  If the bullets and the explosion were anything to go by, they’d prefer something entirely different.

  It would be stupid for her to try and think why they’d be so hard up that they wanted her dead. She was pretty sure she knew the answer to that. Well, she had a good idea but lacked the necessary proof. The problem … no one else seemed to know the reason. Although her father, her four brothers, and the Kogans—all six of them, including Trace’s parents, Casper and Liz—were running the most successful security firm in the country, Marissa still seemed to be the only person who knew why someone would now want her dead.

  The dilemma of telling them the reason versus allowing them to continue on the wild goose chase they seemed to be on wasn’t getting any easier, either. In order to keep them all safe, Marissa had felt that staying as far from home as possible was her only choice.

  Obviously, she’d been delusional in thinking that.

  The people she’d stumbled upon—not necessarily the story—weren’t the type to simply look the other way. And Marissa had found herself knee deep in a world she absolutely didn’t understand. One that scared the bejesus out of her and left her wishing she could turn back time, pretend none of it had ever happened.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t do that.

  The threat was once again knocking loudly on the door to her life. Whoever wanted her dead knew where she was at all times, and that led Marissa to believe they were dealing with a very powerful man or—something she absolutely didn’t want to even consider—someone on the inside was feeding that man information.

  She was inclined to believe it was a little of both.

  A chill washed over her, and Marissa pulled herself to the present. She needed to get out of the shower and back in the room. Only then would she have a chance to interrogate Trace, get him to tell her what the plan was and how they were going
to nail this bastard once and for all. Because truthfully, Marissa was damn tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of not knowing, just freaking tired … of everything.

  After brushing her teeth and washing up, Marissa climbed out, snatching one of the threadbare towels folded neatly on a shelf. It took longer than expected to dry off, and she wasn’t sure if that was because the towel was useless or because her hands were shaking profusely. Either way, she managed to get dry enough to pull on her clothes, and when she was finished, she finger combed her hair—grateful that she’d taken to keeping it relatively short. Once she was presentable, Marissa grabbed the pile of discarded clothes and then stared at the closed door.

  Now, if she could be as successful facing Trace as she had been getting clean, she’d be doing a million times better.

  Three

  While Marissa was in the shower, Trace paced the shoddy little motel room, his gaze continuing to stray to the lone king-sized bed beckoning him with its emptiness. It wasn’t that he was tired. Quite the opposite, actually. Well, not so much now that he was inside and Marissa was safe.

  Nope. Trace wasn’t interested in making use of those puny fucking pillows for a few hours of shut-eye. Shit, he could care less if the pillows were even on the bed.

  But he wished Marissa was. And not because he was worried about her health and wanted to make sure she got a few hours of sleep, either.

  Damn it.

  Scrubbing his hands down his face, the two-day-old stubble scratching his palms, Trace didn’t bother looking at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser as he made another pass by. He knew exactly what he looked like, and best guesstimate, it rhymed with bell. Just as he was pivoting to make another round, his cell phone rang.

  “Kogan,” he grumbled into the phone after glimpsing the number on the screen.

  “Hey, man. Line’s secure. Y’all make it okay?” The familiar, gravelly voice made Trace smile.

  “We’re here,” he told his friend and co-worker, Zachariah Tavoularis—better known to his family and friends as Z.

  “Where’s here?” Z questioned.

  “Some crappy-ass motel room in Bum Fuck, Connecticut.”

  “Where’s Marissa?”

  “Shower,” Trace stated, doing his best not to imagine her in that bathroom, all naked and…

  Fuck. Not helping.

  Z chuckled. “I take it you’ve managed to keep your hands to yourself?”

  “Shut the hell up.” Trace had absolutely no intention of touching Marissa. She was far too much temptation for him, and he knew… Hell, screw what he knew. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  “Those blue balls are makin’ you prickly,” Z said with a rough laugh.

  “Did you have somethin’ important to tell me? Or you just call for a status update on the color of my balls?”

  “Neither. Just checkin’ on you. Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

  “Uh huh. What gives?”

  “Nada. Just don’t hesitate to call if you need somethin’. Feel me?”

  “Yeah. Got it.” With that, Trace disconnected the call and pocketed his phone at the same time the shower turned off. Still pacing restlessly, he forced himself to stop walking and found himself staring at the bathroom door as though Marissa was going to walk out of there stark naked and motion him to join her.

  He fucking wished.

  And that was the damn problem.

  Why the hell had he signed up for this anyway? Perhaps he had a fucking death wish? Because he knew, without a doubt, that if he touched Marissa, one or all of her brothers would string him up by his nuts. Blue or not, his balls were not interested.

  No, unfortunately, his involvement wasn’t that cut and dried. Trace had purposely signed on for this particular assignment because he had a deep-rooted interest in Marissa’s safety. It all came down to the fact that he cared about her, had for longer than he could remember, and he wasn’t willing to leave her safety in anyone else’s hands. He’d seen how well they’d fared when he’d done that over the course of the last year.

  But pulling her from a house that was rigged to blow and hauling her past gunfire to his waiting SUV had been the easy part. This … being alone with her … not so fucking easy.

  He wasn’t sure he was going to survive a night in close quarters with Marissa. It had seemed like a good idea hours ago when the only thing on his mind was getting her to safety, but he was quickly rethinking that plan. Despite the less-than-romantic décor, Trace was battling an intense hard-on that had little to do with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins and more because of the beautiful woman on the other side of that damn door, water dripping down her alabaster skin as she began toweling off.

  Damn it.

  Okay, so his mind was officially in the gutter.

  Time to get his thoughts back on track. Grabbing his cell phone once more, Trace pulled up his father’s number, but before he could hit the button to place the call, the bathroom door opened, and Marissa walked out, followed by a cloud of steam.

  Fuck.

  The good news … she was dressed.

  The bad news … she was dressed.

  Rolling his eyes at himself, Trace turned away from Marissa and punched the call button on his phone, listening as the line began to ring.

  Once … twice…

  “All good?” His father’s deep voice interrupted the annoying ring, successfully dragging Trace’s attention away from his thoughts of Marissa naked and pulling him back to the true reason he was there.

  “So far,” Trace told him. Let the man believe he was referring to the bad guys.

  “Any luck?”

  “Nope,” Trace said.

  Casper grunted, then followed with, “You pick up the gift?”

  That was code to let Trace know that the line wasn’t secure, so rather than go into details, he simply answered with a confident, “Yes.”

  “You’re stopped for the night?”

  “For a couple of hours,” Trace clarified. Morning was rushing in on them faster than Trace cared for it to, and as soon as the sun was up, they’d have to be on their way.

  “Good. Holler at me when you’re back on the road. You can fill me in then.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Trace…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You did good. Now get your asses home safely.”

  With that, Trace ended the call. He had plenty of information to give his father, but he couldn’t go into detail on an unsecured line, not to mention, he didn’t want to share the gory events of the night with Marissa in the room. She’d been through enough; there was no reason to shed light on the fact that there’d been a dead body in her house prior to their expeditious departure.

  When he turned back around, he found Marissa staring at the bed.

  “You okay?” he asked, realizing as soon as the words were out that he should’ve kept his mouth shut.

  Marissa was shaking. Her arms and chin were trembling, and he figured she was on the verge of a breakdown, perhaps going into shock. After all, she’d narrowly escaped death tonight, and Trace was pretty sure she knew that. Without thinking, Trace moved forward, sliding his phone into his pocket and then pulling her into his arms.

  When she buried her face against his chest, he cradled the back of her head and held her there, the wet strands of her hair sliding through his fingers. He tried not to think about how good she smelled or how soft her body was against his. He simply continued to hold her. Partly to reassure her that she was all right but more so to reassure himself.

  For the past week, Trace had been keeping tabs on Marissa, huddled in a conveniently vacant house directly across the street from where she’d been staying. He knew every single move she had made from the moment she woke up in the morning until she turned in for the night, right down to the fact that she didn’t turn off her bedroom light most nights.

  He was also aware that he should’ve whisked her away from that house long be
fore now, but he’d been following orders. Knowing there was someone else watching her, someone intent on getting their hands on her, Trace had taken on the task of observing, hoping like hell he’d be able to catch whomever it was who wanted her—dead or alive.

  Instead, he’d barely gotten her out of that damn house before they’d both been fried to a crisp.

  Marissa’s hands slid beneath his jacket, fisting his shirt as she held on tightly. He could tell she was crying, but he knew her. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry.

  So instead of saying anything, attempting to make things better with words while knowing it wouldn’t help, Trace merely held her.

  He just hoped Marissa didn’t know how much he needed this, the comfort that came with holding her, touching her, knowing she was all right.

  Or that he likely needed it more than she did.

  □«»□«»□«»□

  Trying to maintain her composure became downright impossible the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. And then, Marissa lost part of herself when Trace wrapped his strong arms around her and held her close. He’d never done that before. Never held her, never consoled her like this.

  Although she’d known him all her life, had known that if it ever came down to it, Trace—and the rest of his family—would be there for her if she needed them, Marissa hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be the one to come for her.

  He had added his name to the long list of people who had risked their lives to save hers. If she had to guess, he easily could’ve assigned one of the many Sniper 1 agents to come to her rescue, but no … Trace had been there. He was still there, his muscular arms wrapped around her, his scent infusing her with a sense of security she hadn’t known for so long.

  For the last year, Marissa had been shuffled from one safe house to another, trying to escape whatever danger was lurking in the shadows. It seemed that the bad guys—whoever they were—always managed to find her no matter where her family tried to hide her. And though she never argued with her father when he insisted on shipping her off in an attempt to protect her, there’d always been the sliver of concern that she wouldn’t make it back home one day.