Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  But I can’t help myself. Right now, sitting on Griff’s lap in the middle of one of the most iconic streets in Zurich, our connection is very much real, and I don’t want the illusion to end. Not yet.

  “Your glasses,” I mouth. “Off.”

  The look in his eyes when he removes the black frames and tucks them into his pocket? If I didn’t know better, I’d call it love.

  Griff

  The little cafe at the end of the Bahnhofstrasse is quiet, and I pull out Sloane’s chair for her. The artist’s sketch of the two of us is tucked safely in a plastic sleeve in her purse, and despite my protests, he refused the twenty-five francs I offered him.

  Between his accent and his very bushy mustache, his words were mostly unintelligible, but Sloane thought he said something about “true love being so rare.”

  My seat—against the wall and facing the door—allows me to keep an eye on everyone coming in or out, and that calms me enough to take my glasses off while we eat. I don’t want anything between us. It kills me to read her words on my lenses when she’s at her most vulnerable, and for the first time since I woke up in the hospital at Bagram, I wonder if I should start practicing my ASL in earnest.

  After the server brings our drinks—herbal tea for Sloane and a local non-alcoholic pear cider for me—I take a moment to study her. Cheeks flushed from the chill in the air, no makeup, her long blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, she looks free in a way I haven’t seen her before.

  “On the red carpet today, when you introduced me?” Concentrating on the movements of my left hand, I switch to ASL, “You know sign language?”

  “I know a little bit.” Her signs are slow—not that mine are much better—and she drops her hands before she continues. “I worked with a deaf photographer on a series of shoots five or six years ago. She was brilliant and patient and taught me a few sentences every time we took a break. I looked up the alphabet last night to learn how to spell your name.”

  “No one’s ever done that for me before.”

  The flush to Sloane’s cheeks deepens. “You said you don’t sign much. But…isn’t it easier sometimes?”

  “To understand? Yeah. I do pretty well if someone’s signing to me. But as great as my hand is, I can’t move my fingers fast enough or with enough control to carry on a conversation. I can sign one-handed, but every time I tried to learn, it just reminded me of what else I’d lost—besides my hearing.” Admitting my failings to this woman I genuinely like? Every word makes me feel less qualified to protect her. To keep her safe. “Lipreading was easy. I wasn’t half bad at it before the attack. After, I had a full week in the hospital with nothing to do but watch closed captioned YouTube videos. By the time they transferred me back to McLean, I could mostly carry on a conversation as long as the person I was talking to kept things slow.”

  We stick to lighter topics while we eat—Sloane’s favorite jobs, the worst outfit she ever had to wear, books and movies we’ve enjoyed. She’s easy to talk to, and I have to continually remind myself why I’m here. To keep her safe. I don’t want to tear my gaze away from her to check our surroundings. Or look up every time someone opens the door. But if I don’t, she’ll pay the price, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

  The walk back to the arched entrance of the Bahnhofstrasse takes us twice as long because we stop often along the way, Sloane window shopping while I use the reflections in the glass to check out our surroundings. More than once I spot a shadow ducking into an alley, but unless I want to blow my cover, I can’t investigate any further. All I can do is text Austin and Wren and ask them if there are any security cameras in this area.

  With my arm around her, Sloane’s bag rests against my hip, and her phone vibrates. “Let me check and make sure it’s not Marina.”

  With a nod, I pull out my own phone and snap a couple of pictures of the street—like any good tourist would—and then take a candid shot of Sloane. She’s beautiful with her head bent forward, her hair tucked behind one ear. Until her hands start to shake and the phone falls back into her purse.

  “What is it?” I’m at her side in two steps, both hands on her shoulders.

  All she can do is shake her head and whisper one word.

  “Him.”

  The red text scrolls away. I tip her chin up so she has to look at me and keep my voice low. “Listen to me, sweetheart. I’m going to ask you what’s wrong. Tell me it’s nothing. Get mad at me. Yell if you want. Sell it. Right now.” After a beat, I straighten. “Sloane, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. Really, Griff. I’m fine.” She’s anything but, and there isn’t a person alive that would believe her. But this is the act.

  “You’re not fine. We were having a great night. I know there’s something you’re not telling me. And I’m sick of it.” Stepping back, I shove my hands into my pockets. “You say you love me, but you clearly don’t trust me.”

  “I do!” Tears gather in her eyes, and she swipes them away. “This is a vacation for you, but it’s work for me. I have to be on all the time, and right now, I’m tired and cold and one of my friends back home is going through a hard time. I’m not hiding anything from you. I just don’t tell you every single thing that happens in my life.”

  I reach for her hand, but she refuses to budge. Her TD is back, and she’s going to chew right through her lip if I can’t calm her down. But damn. She pulled off the act perfectly.

  “Sweetheart? I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Forgive me?” At least a handful of tourists have stopped to watch our fight, and that’s when the truth hits me square in the gut.

  She’s so fucking good at acting because she’s been acting for fifteen years. Every single day. “Sloane, please. Come here.”

  Wrapping my arm around her waist, I brush a kiss to her cheek. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, and we’re going back to the hotel right now.”

  And once we’re behind closed doors, she’s going to show me her phone so I can protect her from whatever that asshole is threatening her with now.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sloane

  Marina isn’t back yet, but the Beauty and Style staff parties are notorious for going late into the night, and Jacob responds to Griff’s text in under two minutes with some code the two of them established before we left that means everything’s fine.

  While he puts his knife and gun back in the safe, I kick off my shoes, fish the panic button out of my bra, and set it on the nightstand. The last thing I want to do is pull out my phone, but Griff isn’t going to let me avoid it much longer.

  The whole way back to the hotel, he supported me, talked to me, tried to keep me calm. But he hasn’t seen the picture. He doesn’t know Dimitri.

  “Do not be stupid, shlyukha.” He punches me in the stomach, and I fall to my knees, vomiting all over the dingy bathroom floor. “Take off your clothes. Now. I want to see what I purchased.”

  “Sloane?” Griff shuts the bedroom door behind him, and now that we’re alone, maybe I don’t have to be so strong. Nudging my purse toward him, I wait for him to fish out my phone, then give him the security code and hold my breath.

  “‘The price just went up, Sophiana. One thousand dollars each week. Don’t make the same mistake you did with Max. If you say anything to your new lover, you will have more blood on your hands. Pay me $500 by the end of the night or you will regret it.’” With each word, the edge to Griff’s voice hardens, and when he scrolls down to the photo, something inside him snaps. We look so happy. Laughing, his arm around me, my head bent toward his.

  Seconds later, he’d kissed me, and I’d filed the moment away as one of those perfect, pure memories I’d hold on to forever. But now, it’s tainted.

  Griff forwards the message to his team, then deletes it, and, despite my fear I’m almost sad the photo’s gone. And that we didn’t take one of our own.

  Stop it, Sloane. There is no us. He’s your bodyguard and he’s playing a part. Just like you’re supposed t
o be doing.

  But when he sits next to me on the bed and wraps his arms around me, it doesn’t feel like we’re pretending. “I won’t let him hurt you. You were spectacular tonight. Our fight? I know senior officers with a dozen years of experience who can’t improv that well on a dime, and you didn’t miss a beat.”

  The pride in his voice is hard to ignore, and it calms me as much as his warmth and the sculpted muscles of his chest.

  “What do we do now?” I don’t want to know the answer. I’d much rather fall asleep in his arms and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Even if just for tonight. But I can’t.

  Tomorrow’s runway show has to be flawless, and after that, we have the unveiling of the Christmas Book at yet another cocktail party. At least with so much going on, I won’t have time to dwell on the danger I’m putting Griff and Marina in. But Saturday? I’m free all day until the gala celebration—a six hour lavish party where I’ll be expected to dance and mingle and pose for the press, no matter how terrified I am.

  “I have to call Austin and Wren. See if they’ve managed to track down Volkov. Or the asshole who faked his way into the press briefing. You should relax.”

  “Relax?” I shove at him, scooting back until I hit the headboard. “How am I supposed to relax? Someone was following us all night! What if they’d hurt you?”

  “They didn’t.” He sits up straighter and rubs his left shoulder. “I saw the tail. Four, five times. Whoever he is, he’s good. Couldn’t get a solid look at him. But I knew he was there.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” My eyes burn, the pain of his betrayal so much worse than my own fear. “I’m not that fragile, Griff.”

  “I didn’t say you were.” His eyes are so expressive when we’re alone, and the regret in them now? It’s enough for me to listen. “You were having fun.” After a beat, he adds, “So was I.”

  This strange and wonderful connection we’ve forged? It’s growing stronger every moment we spend together, and he feels it too. I’d bet on it.

  Reaching into my purse, I snag the drawing of the two of us. We look so happy. Staring at one another, looking like we really are in love. There’s only one problem.

  “I wish this was really me,” I whisper.

  “Unless I spent the night with your twin sister, and she’s currently hiding under the bed…” Griff smiles until he realizes I’m not joking. “How is this not you?”

  “In the picture, my eyes are blue.”

  Understanding dawns, and he swears under his breath. “Fuck. I’m such an idiot. But, Sloane…” He balls his right hand into a fist, his knuckles cracking, then eases the drawing from my hand and traces the lines of his arm wrapped around my waist. “This is you. The woman I spent the evening with? She wasn’t someone’s creation. Her laugh wasn’t for show. Her smile wasn’t forced.”

  He’s right. I hate having to hide my eyes. Not being able to speak the language Mama taught me. But even though this isn’t the life I wanted, it is a life.

  “What can I do?” he asks. “Tell me what you need right now.”

  You.

  To know when this is all over, you’ll still look at me the way you do now.

  To be seen.

  But I don’t say any of those things. I can’t. Because if I do and he rejects me? I won’t be able to pretend any more.

  Griff

  I ordered a fresh tea tray from room service and set it on the corner of the jetted tub while Sloane removes her contact lenses. She asked for time alone to take a long, hot bath, and that’ll give me a chance to talk to Austin alone.

  “Promise me one thing,” I say from the bathroom doorway.

  “What?” She doesn’t look directly at me, and there’s nothing I want more than to hold her.

  “Put your phone on do not disturb. Don’t look at your messages or your email. None of it. That asshole doesn’t deserve any more of your energy tonight.”

  “I have to pay him first.” She fiddles with the hem of her sweater, and dammit. I want to punch something.

  “Sloane, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me talk to Austin first.”

  A tear tumbles down her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice—or care. “I was two hours late with the first payment, and he sent someone to break into my house and hurt me. What if tonight, he comes after Marina? Or you? Let me do this. Then I’ll turn my phone off completely. Okay?”

  Agreeing goes against my every instinct, but Volkov’s willingness to hurt Sloane—and anyone she cares for—without a second thought is too dangerous until we know more about his whereabouts. “Okay. But this is the last time. We’re going to find him.”

  She nods, and I shut both the bathroom and bedroom doors. If our evening together showed me anything, it’s that my feelings for Sloane have gone beyond the casual. It’s easy to care about her. Easy to…

  Stop. She’s too scared right now for anything to happen. Even if you both want it to.

  Austin picks up seconds after I finish dialing. “We got a lead on Volkov.”

  “Thank fuck. You got the text? From Sloane’s number?”

  “Ripper’s on it. He’s going to send Sloane some link that’ll open a program to clone her cell. I don’t know how it works, but it’ll let us see any messages she gets simultaneously. Whoever’s on the ground there is smart. The threats each came from a different number, and neither of those SIMs are in use now. But Volkov left the U.S. the same day Sloane did, only his flight took him from Philly to Germany. He traveled under a fake name—Donny Vance—so he’s obviously got contacts. And money.”

  “And the guy at the presser?” I can still see the glee on that asshole’s face as Sloane fought against her panic.

  “The cameras around the Bahnhofstrasse didn’t get a single clear shot of your tail. There aren’t many of them, and they need to be cleaned. But facial recognition between those shots and the footage from the press conference? A seventy-five percent match. The man following you was Pavel Andrei.”

  “I’m assuming Wren—and Ripper?—are tapped into the hotel’s security system now?”

  “If Andrei gets within a hundred meters of the hotel, we’ll see him. You get a 911 from anyone on the team, you get Sloane somewhere safe. Immediately. We’ll take care of the rest.” On screen, Austin runs a hand through his hair, the exhaustion evident on his face. He and Ripper have been working Zurich time. Wren’s pregnant—three or four months, I think—and her husband, Ryker McCabe, called in Ripper for backup.

  “Fuck, Austin. You look like death. What does Mik think about you being up at all hours. Have you slept at all?”

  “You’ve been rubbing that shoulder the whole damn phone call. That and looking over at Sloane’s bedroom door.” He stares directly into the camera, frowns, and leans closer. “Fuck me.”

  “What?” The impulse to turn off FaceTime and switch to a text only convo hits me like a sledgehammer, but that’ll earn me more shit than taking whatever lumps he’s about to give me right now.

  “You do realize the assignment was to pretend to be her boyfriend, right? Not actually fall for her?” When I can’t figure out what to say to him after a very tense few seconds, he starts laughing. “Guess I’m going to have to put that in the recruitment packets from now on.”

  “I’m keeping it professional. You know I’d never fuck up a job.”

  Not on purpose, anyway. Because this one? Totally fucked. Up, back, and sideways.

  “Listen, Griff. This business? The stress, the emotional toll it takes on the protector and the target? It cuts through a hell of a lot of the crap you deal with in a ‘normal’ relationship. Forces you to zero in on what’s really important. If you feel something for Sloane—something real—don’t fuck it up. Her safety’s your top priority. Absolutely. That’s the job. But I’d be a Grade A hypocrite if I told you not to fall for the woman. That’s not my call. You’re the only one who can decide if she’s worth forever.”

  With a quick glance behind him,
Austin’s whole demeanor changes. The stress leaves his shoulders, and a smile tugs at his lips.

  “Mik’s home, and I only have two hours with her if I want to stay on Zurich time. Keep your girl safe.”

  “Not a girl,” I add, but Pritchard’s already ended the call.

  Keeping her safe, I can do. Making her whole again? Not sure I have a chance in hell at that. But I’m going to try.

  By the time I remove the prosthetic, wash the liners, and hang them up to dry, the hour I promised Sloane is just about over.

  I swap out my phone for its backup—keeping a phone charged in the field is damn near impossible, so I carry a couple of clones—and check in with Jacob. He sends me a picture of Marina dancing with some balding executive, having the time of her life.

  Jacob: She is not sober.

  As long as she’s not careless, Marina can drink as much as she wants. I snag a couple of the bottles of water from the large, silver ice bucket on the bar and tuck them under my arm before knocking on Sloane’s door.

  The scents of honey and coconut rush over me when she answers, and her skin is practically glowing. The red rimming her eyes, though, worries me. “Can I come in?”

  I left my glasses charging next to the spare phone, and her lips tremble before she steps back. “Did you find the guy? The one following us?”

  “Pavel Andrei. Austin’s certain of it. Didn’t get a full facial recognition match, but close enough.”

  The velvet bathrobe is already tied tightly around Sloane’s waist, but she double and triple checks the belt before sinking down onto the edge of the bed. “So he’s the one Dimitri is paying to threaten me?”

  “He’s involved. Still don’t know who’s sending the messages, but they’re using burners, and Andrei, at least, hasn’t stepped foot into the hotel since the press conference. If he does, I’ll get an alert, and Austin will have this place locked down in under five minutes.” Offering her one of the bottles of water, I use what’s left of my arm to hold the second bottle so I can twist off the cap.