“Oh, God. I’m sorry,” she says, her lower lip wobbling slightly until she starts chewing on it, then goes through the now-familiar pattern of unconscious movements that mark her stress levels rising.
“You could say everything that happened was my fault. I know that’s what I think. Doesn’t make it true, though.” My mouth is dry as fuck, and I reach for the bottle of water on the side table, draining half of it in a couple of swallows and trying not to let Sloane see my hand shake.
“You didn’t set the bombs.” Her words scroll across my glasses, and I look up at her.
“Exactly. And you didn’t turn Volkov into the worst excuse for a human being I’ve seen in a long damn time. I know he was charged and convicted for trafficking young women from Russia. The police report says he beat them, kept them locked in a basement in south Philly, and forced them to do unspeakable things. Your name isn’t listed among the victims, but…”
There isn’t a handkerchief on this earth that could dry Sloane’s tears now. Her foundation streaks, and she buries her face in her hands. Across my lenses, a single word flashes.
Crying.
“Sloane, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. If you were one of his—”
Her head snaps up, and though her tears are falling faster and harder than ever, there’s a fire in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “If? Why do you think he’s blackmailing me? I know the men he worked with. Both in Philadelphia and in Russia. I was not a dumb, naive child when I came to America, Griff. I was good with numbers. And art. But my family was starving. Mama worked fifteen hours a day to put food on the table. So when I found a man who promised to take me to America for twenty-five thousand rupees, I jumped at the chance. I was stupid. Desperate. And that choice took everything from me!”
Halfway through her admission, I tapped the temple of my glasses so I could focus completely on Sloane. And now? I’m in awe of her. Strong, ashamed—scared too, but not of me—yet desperate to stop hiding. To be seen.
“Listen to me, sweetheart,” I say, setting my glasses aside and linking our fingers. Feeling her warmth against my prosthetic hand? It grounds me. “You may be the bravest person I’ve ever known. Don’t think for a single second that what you went through changes how I see you.”
For several long moments, she stares at me, a few errant tears dripping from her jaw onto the gown. “Do you mean that?”
Easiest question to answer in the whole goddamned world. “Yes.” In case she has any doubt I’m sincere, I cup the back of her neck and pull her in for a hard kiss.
Putting on an act, my ass. I don’t have to pretend to care about Sloane Sanders. The challenge now? Pretending I’m not halfway to falling in love with her.
Chapter Seventeen
Griff
The look Marina shot me when she came back out of her room? I’m interfering in her precisely organized day, and she hates it. Rather than continue to be a distraction, I left Sloane with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder and hid in her bedroom.
Sitting at the desk, I prop the tablet up in front of me. The left side of the screen shows the video from Max’s room, and on the right, I have Austin on FaceTime with the speech-to-text program transcribing his words.
“The killer had to be right in front of him,” I say, zooming in on the body and the carpet surrounding the chair. “What do you think? Wearing protective gear? Arterial spray would have soaked the guy.”
“That’s my guess. Otherwise, he would have tracked blood out of the room and down the hall. The techs found nothing outside of that five foot area other than some odd smears of blood along the perimeter.”
“No defensive wounds either. Not obvious ones. Tell the coroner to run a full tox screen.”
“This isn’t the first investigation I’ve run, you know.” The former JSOC commander rolls his eyes and moves off screen. “Need more coffee. I thought civilian life would let me pretend 4:00 a.m. didn’t exist anymore.”
Laughing feels good, despite the seriousness of our conversation. Like I’m part of a team again. Part of something bigger than just me and my fucked up life. “You’re not the only one who wishes we could have done all of this in New York City. Or Boston. Or…anywhere in the States.”
He settles back down, cupping his mug like it’s the Holy Grail. “Dax just texted me. He’ll have a retired SAS guy at the hotel in time for dinner tonight. I’ll send his contact info and picture to you when we’re done here.”
“Good. That’ll take a load off of Sloane and Marina. I should probably apologize to Dax for the early hour too, huh?”
“Nah. He’s used to it. How’s Sloane doing with everything?” Austin leans closer and takes a sip of coffee. “Her manager’s death, getting a fake boyfriend, having to put on a show?”
I cast a glance at the door, wishing I could be out there with Sloane right now. “Not bad. She’s a model,” I say, shrugging my right shoulder. After yesterday, my prosthetic feels like it weighs a fucking ton, and though it’s not painful at the moment, the less I move my left arm, the better. “She’s used to faking it for the cameras. Said Max set her up with a couple of guys over the years for show. Keep the press from hounding her about her lack of a serious relationship.”
Austin’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “You have to kiss her yet?”
“You expect me to answer that? I protect my client’s privacy.” He wants to play that game? He’s going up against an expert. Staring right at his face on the screen, I arch a brow. “You still haven’t told me how you and Mik got together. Not in any detail.”
“That’s a story best told in person. With alcohol.” Austin rubs the back of his neck, then stifles a yawn. “I’m going to catch another couple of hours. Sent Carriger’s name to Wren and Ripper, and they’ll get on it as soon as it’s not the middle of the fucking night in Seattle. Stay safe, man.”
“As safe as I can.” Ending the call, I switch the video to full screen and go through it another half dozen times. Later tonight, I’ll have to show it to Sloane, even if all my instincts scream at me to protect her from the horrors documented in full color. Maybe by then, she’ll trust me enough to tell me everything. Like why her name isn’t on any of the police reports and what her relationship was with Rodney Carriger.
Sloane
“Look, he obviously knows what he’s doing,” Marina says as she brushes a light coat of setting powder over my entire face. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it when he throws me off schedule.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you don’t. But you do have to be nice. Now turn the iPad back on so I can keep going over our cover story.”
“So now it’s ‘our’ cover story?” she asks.
“Until this whole thing is over? Yes. And you better pay attention too. Some of those reporters know we’re friends. What if they ask you about me and Griff?” Frustration bleeds through my tone, and when Marina runs a brush through my hair a little more aggressively than necessary, I hiss out a breath. “Careful!”
“I’m running late. You’re lucky I have time for this at all. Go on. Tell me what I need to know while I finish this.”
Long, steady strokes of the boar bristle brush strain my neck, but it’s worth it when Marina spills a dropper of argan oil mixed with a touch of my favorite perfume—a special blend of ylang-ylang, white musk, sandalwood, and pomegranate—into her hands and smooths the mixture over my locks.
“The official story is that Griff was injured in a car accident in Dallas last year. A semi-truck blew a tire and t-boned his sedan. He was pinned in the car for several hours before fire and rescue could cut him free.”
“Shit. Okay. And you met because he works at the agency?” Pulling most of my hair up into a high ponytail, she secures it with a glittering silvery elastic, then adds a second, decorative tie of luminescent pearls.
“Yes. He’s a junior agent with five years of experience.” Swallowing hard, I tap my fingers against my thighs under the drape, struggling not to l
et my emotions show in the mirror. Once Marina’s done, I can take a Xanax, but she’s so late already, I can’t make her stop now. “The hotel and the Ulstrum Agency agreed to keep Max’s death quiet for now to avoid any bad press.”
Marina stops with the curling iron poised a few inches away from my temple. “Wait, do we know?”
“I do. Whoever killed him probably saw me go into his room. And come out of it. But you don’t. Neither does Griff.”
Wrapping a thick lock of hair around the hot iron, Marina arches a brow. “There’s no way you’d keep that from me.”
“Of course I would!” She flinches at the desperation in my tone and lets the hair release in a perfectly curled tendril. “Don’t look at me like that. You fell asleep in the chair last night, but that text message? Dimitri basically threatened to kill anyone I told. Said Max’s death was all my fault because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. There’s no fucking way I’d ever put you in danger like that. Not on purpose.”
Don’t cry. No tears. Not now.
I squeeze my eyes so hard, spots float behind my lids. If only I’d been able to hide that bruise. If only I’d paid Dimitri the moment I opened that letter.
“Stop it, sweetie.” Marina rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Whatever you’re stewing over? Regretting? It doesn’t matter now. We’re here, and we can’t change the past.”
It takes a few seconds for my vision to clear, and when I do, Marina’s standing behind me. My hair looks amazing, as does my makeup, and once I take a deep breath, my reflection in the mirror reveals nothing but a calm, confident Sloane ready to take on the world. Or at least the press.
“You can’t let on to anyone that you know what really happened. Max has the flu. You never talk to him anyway outside of hello and goodbye, so while you heard about his illness, you’re just glad Griff is here to handle all of the agency shit so I can focus on everything else.”
Talking about the man who saved my life—or at least changed it—like he’s a character in a book? It feels too casual. Almost…disrespectful. He’s so much more than that. But I refuse to let it show. This is the most important performance of my entire life, and I have to play my part perfectly. Otherwise, more people will die, and I won’t be able to live with myself.
At a quarter to twelve, I emerge from my bedroom, praying I used enough tape to keep everything in place for the next few hours. The sweater dips low between my breasts, exposing more skin than I’d like, but I twisted, bent, and stretched over and over again in front of the mirror without a mishap. Dotted with tiny pearls, the silver cashmere is unbelievably soft, with long sleeves that flare at the wrists. Paired with black, stovepipe pants and silver heels, the entire outfit is simple, even understated—except for the sheer amount of my skin on display.
Griff stands when he sees me, and his jaw drops. The feeling’s mutual. The man cleans up very well.
“Holy shit,” he says softly. “You look amazing.”
The sincerity in his voice brings a smile, and I glide over to him, tug on his gray suit jacket to straighten it, and reach up to skim my fingers over his cheek. He shaved, and he shucks in an unsteady breath as our gazes collide. “So do you.”
“These might be the nicest clothes I’ve ever worn.”
“Men’s fashion is so much simpler. Except, you’re not supposed to use all those buttons on your shirt.” Flicking open the top three, I soften the lines on the crisp white shirt and expose a sexy glimpse of his chest. “That’s better.”
Griff moves to run his hand through his hair, but I stop him. “It’s perfect the way it is. Don’t touch it.”
“Marina gave me a few tips as she was rushing out the door. Organized chaos, I think she called it?”
“Her specialty.” Griff even smells good. Like bergamot, and something oaky and mossy. “So…you don’t normally dress this well?” Thank God he can’t hear the change in my voice—the huskiness, the desire. Because what I’m feeling? It’s definitely desire. I may not have much experience in that department, but the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, the way my heart beats faster the longer I’m close to him, how I wish I’d skipped the shimmering lip dye? Definitely desire.
His laugh relaxes me by a fraction. “Hell, no. The CIA does have a dress code, though it’s pretty lax. Jeans or khakis. Polo shirts, Henleys, the occasional button-down for meetings with the higher ups. Deputy directors on up wear suits.”
“And that’s not you? I’m not sure you ever told me what your job really is there.” I have to put some distance between us, so I snag the silver leather clutch that goes with this outfit and add my room key, meds case, lip dye, cell phone, and a tiny mirror.
“I’m a Senior Operations Officer. Before…” he gestures to his left arm, “I ran ops all over the world. My last one was with Austin in Pakistan. Can’t really talk about the details beyond what I told you this morning, but…”
“It ended badly.” Turning to face him again, I square my shoulders. “Are you going to go back? When you’re done protecting me?”
He shrugs, an emotion I can’t read in his deep blue eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t made to ride a desk.” Clearing his throat, he picks up his phone and slides it into his pocket. “Where’s your panic button?”
“Taped to the bottom of my left breast.”
My matter-of-fact delivery combined with the intimate location throws him. Griff’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s…uh…really smart.”
“It was the only place I thought would be easy to reach and not totally obvious. This sweater doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
That’s the understatement of the year.
“It leaves enough that I probably won’t have to punch any of the reporters today,” Griff says with a smile. “But if any of them step one foot out of line, you just say the word, sweetheart. And I’ll take care of it.”
The conviction in his voice? It’s reassuring in a way I desperately need.
“Then let’s go. If I keep the wolves waiting much longer, they’ll be out for blood.” I hate press conferences. They’re the worst part of this job. I’d let a wardrobe person lift and tuck and tape me all day, every day, if it meant I never had to face the press again. But at least I can take comfort in one thing.
This will be the last one I’ll have to do. Whatever happens with Dimitri, I’m out after this trip. Even if that means I have to disappear without saying goodbye to Marina—or Griff.
Chapter Eighteen
Griff
“Stay on my left side, sweetheart.”
Sloane stumbles as she tries to change direction mid-step, and I steady her with my palm at the small of her back. “Your left side?”
“If I need to protect you, my right arm is a hell of a lot stronger than my left. Even if the prosthetic is practically indestructible. I can still feel you holding my hand, remember?”
She nods, and her lips purse and clench rapidly until I cup her cheek. “Relax. You’ll be fine. Wren hacked into the hotel’s security system last night and sent me a layout of the room we’ll be in. I’ll be standing against the wall to your right, less than thirty feet from you. If anything happens, you drop to the floor, cover your head, and wait for me to get to you.”
Shit. She wasn’t ready for that, asshole.
“Do you think…”
“No. Volkov and anyone he’s working with would be fools to try something in front of all of those cameras. But it’s my job to be prepared at all times. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
Sloane’s gripping my hand so tightly, the remapped nerves in my arm almost register pain.
“Breathe for me, okay? In and out. You took your meds, right?”
“Yes. Trust me, if I hadn’t, you’d know.” She laughs—or so the text on my lenses tells me—and continues. “When my anxiety started to get really bad…I refused to take anything. Until I had a giant meltdown at an evening gown shoot. I was in this huge dress with a dozen layers t
o the skirt and a full corset, and I just sat down on the floor and sobbed for a full ten minutes until the photographer called off the whole thing.” She stares down at her shoes as we traverse the long hallway toward the elevator, her cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink.
We’re alone in the elevator, and I press the button for the second floor. The rumbling of the doors calms me—one little spark of normalcy in my otherwise silent world. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. We all need help sometimes. Asking for it—that’s what takes true strength.”
Sloane doesn’t reply, but the weak smile touching her lips? It’s everything. Relief, connection, a moment between us that’s real. Her death grip on my hand eases slightly, though the way she keeps fluttering her fingers is a clear sign she’s barely holding on.
“What do you want to do after this?” Distraction might help. “Lunch? There’s this open air market half a mile away. The Bahnhofstrasse. Supposed to be great for walking and window shopping.”
Hope brightens her eyes for a brief moment, but it’s quickly snuffed out as she frowns and chews on her lower lip again. “Is it safe?”
“We’ll be in public. In broad daylight. Besides,” I nudge her shoulder with mine, “it’ll help sell the whole relationship angle.”
This time, the color in her cheeks has nothing to do with shame, and I will my body to calm the fuck down before Sloane—or someone else—notices how my zipper is straining against my erection. These pants are not loose by any stretch of the imagination.
Seconds after stepping off the elevator on the second floor, the words Crowd noise scroll across my lenses. Shit. Touching the temple a couple of times, I set the glasses to tune into Sloane’s voice exclusively and shift so my arm is around her waist.
Flashbulbs go off at regular intervals, and her little flinches against my side worry me. Yet, she’s plastered on a bright smile. Two uniformed security guards stand in front of a velvet rope barrier. Paparazzi line one wall, occasionally elbowing one another as the other models and the Beauty and Style executives walk a red carpet leading to the press room.
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