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

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Sloane stares at me for a moment, then shakes her head. “I didn’t realize you’d taken off your arm. I would have opened that for you.”

  “You…didn’t realize? It’s pretty obvious. Big void on the left side of my body?”

  She’s so honest, so matter-of-fact some times, it’s almost unnerving. But also comforting.

  Frowning, she shoots me a look that says, “Well, duh,” before taking a long drink from her bottle. “I was looking at your face, Captain Foot-In-Mouth.”

  Fuck me. Even after tonight’s stress, after another threat from the man who made her life hell for—God, I don’t even know how long—she hasn’t shut down completely.

  “You remember that?” I ask, leaning against the door jamb.

  “I remember everything about last night in the bar.” Setting the bottle of water down, she nods at the bed next to her. “You can sit down.”

  There’s nothing I want more than to be close to her, but that’s the problem. I want it too much. “I should let you get some sleep.”

  Her brown eyes cloud over. “It’s a big bed. I was hoping…I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  Fuck. This is a bad idea. I don’t care what Austin says. I’m falling for Sloane, have been since I first laid eyes on her. But that doesn’t mean she feels the same. Or that she’s ready for anything more than what we’ve shared so far. A few hot-as-fuck kisses and comfort.

  “Do you have a side?” I ask as I shut the door. In less than twenty-four hours, we’ve gone from strangers to something more. Something real. I could screw it all up by staying in her bed tonight, but I want this—need this—as much as she does.

  Sloane fiddles with the belt on her robe. “I like being able to see the sky. Even if it’s just through a crack in the drapes.” Before I can grab the duvet, she reaches for my arm. “I don’t like the dark. There’s…um…a nightlight next to the dresser. Is that…okay?”

  I wish I could hear her voice. Because her expression? It’s like she’s expecting me to say no. Or to call her a coward. Or weak. “I’ll turn it on.”

  By the time I flip the switch, she’s shed the robe, only a soft t-shirt and pair of barely there shorts covering her body. I don’t know how I’m supposed to sleep next to her all night without a massive hard-on. Distraction? There aren’t enough baseball stats in the world to keep me from thinking about how good it feels to have her pressed against me. Kissing me. Smiling at me. I’m so far gone for this woman, it’s ridiculous, and we only just met.

  But Austin’s right. Protecting her? It cuts through so much of the standard relationship crap—all the shit that gets in the way of falling in love. We’re together twenty-four-seven, and that makes it impossible to hide so much. Like my arm. Her nervous tics.

  Before I get into bed, I slide the small vibrating button under the pillow, but when I reach for the light, the truth of what’s about to happen hits me like a sledgehammer, and I drop my hand, staring at the lamp like it’s my worst enemy. Until Sloane skims her hand down my arm.

  Turn around, idiot. Talk to her.

  But I can’t. Not even after she scoots closer and tugs on my right sleeve. But then she places her palm over my heart and moves it in a circle. The ASL sign for please.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks when I face her.

  Taking a deep breath is harder than it should be. Like my next words are tying themselves around my chest and squeezing the life out of me. “Once I turn off the light, we can’t talk anymore.”

  “Oh.” After a long moment, she presses a small button right next to the headboard, and tiny lights flicker on, set into the wood. “One advantage of fancy hotels. Reading lights.”

  The simple gesture makes my eyes burn. It’s nothing. Less than nothing. All she did was flip a fucking switch. But the idea of being able to lie down next to her and carry on a conversation? It makes me feel like I’m not so broken.

  But when we face one another? A dozen questions battle it out in my head, all scrambling to break free until Sloane silences them all by leaning in and kissing me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says as soon as she pulls back enough for me to see her lips. “I know this is just pretend. But you were right. I did have fun tonight. With you. And it wasn’t just because you make me feel safe.”

  Reaching out to cup the back of her neck, I pull her half on top of me and claim her lips with all the passion I’ve been holding back since this morning. No one has ever affected me like Sloane Sanders, and I’m starting to think no one ever will.

  One of her legs drapes over mine, and our position allows me to feel the vibration in her chest as she moans—at least I hope that’s the sound she’s making. She fists my t-shirt, and if I had the full use of both arms, I’d wrap them around her and hold her close all fucking night.

  Instead, I let my hand trail down her back until I reach her ass. Her entire body goes rigid, and she jerks, breaking off the kiss, and sits up.

  “Sloane? What did I do?”

  She won’t answer me, just covers her face with her hands as her entire torso shakes with the force of her sobs. Her fear and shame fill the room, and, by God, I’d do anything just to get her to smile again. Or even look at me.

  “Sweetheart, talk to me. Please.”

  Shaking her head, she swipes at her cheeks and turns away, burrowing under the covers with her back to me. Is she purposely trying to shut me out? Or is this just a defense mechanism?

  With no other option, I get to my feet, skirt the bed, and kneel in front of her. The pain etched on her face is enough to send me back onto my ass, and the puzzle pieces fall into place.

  “I haven’t kissed anyone in…a long time.”

  “I’ve never had a normal relationship.”

  “Have you ever had sex?” The question is blunt as fuck, but it gets her to look at me.

  Her eyes hold none of their usual warmth. “You know what happened to me when I came to this country.”

  “That wasn’t sex. That was rape.” She flinches at the word, and I want to apologize, but I don’t know how else to get through to her. “I won’t pressure you, sweetheart. Nothing has to happen you’re not ready for. But, I need you to trust me. Trust one thing.”

  “What?” Sloane’s gaze darts to the night stand where I placed the last four handkerchiefs that came with the tux. All with the same dark blue stitching. Her eyes well with more tears until she uses a fresh one to dash them away.

  I don’t dare move. The last thing I want to do is spook her. But eventually, she locks eyes with me, and I can tell her the one thing I’ve wanted to tell her since we had our first kiss in this room a little over twelve hours ago.

  “This isn’t just pretend for me. I care about you, Sloane. I don’t get involved on mission. It goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. But you’re special. You’re smart, incredibly strong, and brave as fuck. You learned how to spell my name. And you don’t care that I’m half the man I used to be.”

  “You’re not.” Sloane sits up, and her nipples strain against the thin t-shirt. “Griff, you’re amazing. I’m a coward who’s scared of everything. I have the best security system on the market, and the man Dimitri sent to hurt me back in San Diego? He disabled it like it was a child’s toy. I’ve been used by hundreds of men, and yet…our kiss this morning?” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she wipes them away with a hatred I save for scorpions and spilled scotch. “I lied to you. That wasn’t my first kiss in a long time. It was my first kiss ever.”

  Holy shit. I can’t continue having this conversation from the floor. I need Sloane in my arms. Or at least close enough to touch. If she’ll let me. Rising to my knees, I hold out my hand and wait for her to take it. Her warmth grounds me in a way I didn’t know I needed. “Sweetheart, this is going to sound like a line. But I swear on my right arm, it’s not. I want you. In every way. But if this is all we ever have? If we can’t go any further than whatever-the-fuck base we just slid into? I don’t care. This assignmen
t was the best damn thing to ever happen to me, and I’m not giving up on you—or us—unless you tell me to walk away.”

  For several long moments, neither of us move. I’m about to give her space and tell her I’ll sleep on the couch when she sniffles and peers down at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “Will you just hold me tonight? Please?”

  “I’ll hold you every night, sweetheart.”

  Sloane settles against me, and when I drape my damaged arm over her, she settles with a deep sigh.

  My brain and my heart are waging a battle neither can win, and if I’m not careful, they’ll both die trying.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sloane

  With Griff at my back, curled around me protectively, I slept until 5:00 a.m., but something woke me, and I can’t stop my mind from racing. Last night’s kiss, my panic, his understanding, Dimitri, today’s runway show, Marina’s safety. The last words I spoke to Max.

  An inch at a time, I ease myself out of bed and tiptoe to my suitcase. Between the moon reflecting off the placid lake and the reading lights we never turned off before falling asleep, I can see well enough to pull out my sketchbook and calm myself by drawing.

  For a moment, I think the lake would make a good subject, but then I focus on the man in my bed. At some point over night, he took off his shirt, and he’s a study in opposites. Hard muscles, relaxed in sleep, his face peaceful in a way I haven’t seen before.

  The lines and curves take shape on the page. His hair—long on top, shaved close on the sides—lips relaxed, stubble darkening his jaw. A tattoo arcing from just over his heart to his left shoulder is marred by several thick lines of scar tissue, but it’s still gorgeous. Lightning and sparks, pure and raw power.

  I don’t gloss over his injuries, adding the surgical scars on what remains of his left arm, what looks like it might be a long-healed bullet wound just above the waistband of his shorts. The sheet pooled around his hips, the way he sleeps with his bent right arm under the pillow.

  Drawing has always been my escape. When I pick up a charcoal pencil, I can pretend I’m anywhere. Times Square. Niagara Falls. On the beach in Mexico. Rarely do I choose to draw what’s right in front of me.

  Dawn breaks while I add the finishing touches. A small scar next to his right eyebrow. A hint of freckles sprinkled over his shoulders. Shading under each abdominal muscle—all eight of them. The v of muscle leading into his shorts.

  “That wasn’t sex.”

  “This isn’t just pretend for me.”

  Could this be something real?

  “Sloane?” Griff’s voice, rough with sleep, startles me, and the pencil hits the plush carpet without a sound. “Are you okay?”

  With a groan, he sits up and rubs his left shoulder, then squints at the sketchpad in my hand. My first instinct is to hide the drawing, but if I want this to be anything other than fake, I can’t keep hiding.

  “I couldn’t get back to sleep,” I say, but he shakes his head.

  “I can’t see your lips, sweetheart. The sun’s about to rise over the lake and you’re backlit. Can you come closer?” Griff holds out his hand, and though a part of me is terrified he’ll ask me questions I can’t—or don’t want to—answer, I’m not that much of a jerk that I’ll use his deafness to my advantage.

  Setting the drawing on the nightstand, I flip on the bedside lamp and climb back into bed with him. “I woke up a little over an hour ago. Couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “Any reason?” He’s not touching me, holding himself stiffly, his deep blue eyes searching my face for answers he’s afraid I won’t give him.

  I shrug. “All of them?” His chuckle makes me smile, and it’s easier to continue than I thought. “I worry about everything, Griff. The runway show today. What Dimitri is going to do next. You.”

  He arches a brow—just one—and it’s both cocky and funny at the same time.

  “Yes, you. What happens if Dimitri didn’t believe our act last night? Or if he saw you go into Max’s room with me? What if he’s just toying with me? That was always his thing. String us along with promises of McDonald’s or hot showers or a fix…” I swallow the sob desperate to escape. “If he wasn’t beating us or letting his men have their way with us.”

  Griff slides a little closer. “I’d ask if I could hold you, but my glasses are charging in the other room and I don’t want to read your words on my phone. I can’t stand not being able to touch you right now.” He’s not the only one, so I link our fingers. His strong grip grounds me, and I take a deep, almost steady, breath as he continues. “I was awake for at least an hour last night, wondering if I needed to know the details. What happened to you all those years ago. I’ll listen if you ever want to tell me, but Sloane, you aren’t that scared eighteen-year-old kid anymore. That asshole doesn’t own you. Not your body, your mind, or your heart. You get to decide what happens now. With your career, with your life… and with us.”

  “I want to be…normal,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t panic if you touch my ass. I walk into a shoot, strip down to almost nothing, and let strangers lift and tape my breasts, spray me with bronzer, and even sew me into skin-tight dresses on occasion. But last night—”

  “It wasn’t my hand on your ass. I know, sweetheart.” There’s so much understanding in his voice, it threatens to break me, and I hold my breath. “You were scared what would happen next.”

  I nod. Somewhere in the middle of sketching him this morning, I came to the same conclusion.

  “I don’t break promises.” Griff holds my gaze, the intensity of his stare impressing on me just how serious he is. “Which is why I don’t make many of them. You do what I do for long enough, you realize pretty damn quick that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Not for anyone. But I can promise you one thing. If you want to try again—at any time—and it gets too much? Just say the word and we’ll stop. I won’t be angry, I won’t pressure you for anything you’re not ready for. I might ask you to talk to me, but hell, I won’t force you to do that either. On my life, you’re safe with me.”

  Tears threaten, but I can’t let myself cry. Not if I expect to walk the runway in six hours. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat comforts me, steady and strong, and I think maybe I just might be falling in love with him.

  Griff

  I feel it the second Sloane’s breathing steadies and slows. It’s barely 7:30. With her runway show call at fourteen hundred, we have a little time, so I let her sleep, relishing in her trust, her strength, her honesty. Hell, I haven’t really opened up to anyone since the attack. Not even my CIA-mandated shrink. Not any more than I had to.

  Sloane’s been so honest with me—even through her fear—that anything she asks me? I’ll tell her. Shifting slightly to lessen some of the pressure on my left arm, I catch a glimpse of her sketchpad.

  For a full minute, I don’t think I can breathe. She said she’d won an art contest in school, told me about the private classes she takes, but I never imagined… This is how she sees me? Carefully, trying not to wake her, I reach for the book. There’s nothing broken about the man in the drawing. Nothing angry or frustrated or lonely—all the emotions I struggle with every day. He’s completely at peace, and though he’s definitely me, definitely missing most of his left arm, Sloane captured my bulked-up shoulder muscle, the surgical scars, and my tattoo with all its imperfections from the attack and the subsequent surgeries.

  Setting the book back on the nightstand, I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “You’re fucking amazing, sweetheart. I hope someday, you believe that as much as I do.”

  When the alarm goes off, Sloane jerks up, and her cheeks flush a bright red. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “You needed the rest. Don’t apologize.” When her gaze lands on the sketchbook, she covers her mouth with her hand and stares between me and the drawing. We’re close enough, I can almost hear her mumbling, and I reach out and touch her arm. “Are
you saying something, sweetheart? Because I can’t see your lips.”

  Sloane picks up the book and clutches it to her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I was going to draw the lake, but you just looked so…”

  “Asleep?” Cracking a smile, I expect her to laugh with me, but she levels a serious gaze at me.

  “Strong. And…content.” Her shoulders heave with what I think is a sigh, and she frowns. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

  The sketch is exactly what she just described—and the complete opposite of how I’d describe myself. “Sloane, is this really how you see me?”

  The question surprises her, and her brown eyes widen. “Yes. Of course. You don’t? See yourself that way?”

  The lump in my throat makes it hard to reply, so I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

  Subtle vibrations echo in the room, and Sloane rolls her eyes. “Marina. She says the coffee’s hot and she’s ordered breakfast. So if you don’t want her opening the door alone, you’ll ‘get your ass out there.’” She exaggerates the air quotes then reaches for her robe. “We’re not done with this conversation.” Leaning in, Sloane cups my cheek, her thumb rasping over my stubble. “Your injuries aren’t what I see when I look at you, Griff. They’re part of you, but they don’t define you.”

  The brief touch of her lips to mine settles me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

  Until she gets to her feet and shrugs into the robe with a sad smile. “I should warn you. Given the tone of Marina’s voice? She probably assumes we had sex last night. I hope you’re prepared for an interrogation.”

  “Wait.” Rolling out of bed, I find my t-shirt and struggle into it. “Marina doesn’t know? About everything you told me last night?” Marina is Sloane’s best friend. Don’t women talk about these things?

  Sloane doesn’t meet my gaze, and her fingers clench and unclench rapidly at her sides. “No one knows.” Sadness etches small lines of stress around her lips and eyes, and I wrap my arm around her waist. “When your whole life is a lie, it’s easier to keep everything real hidden deep down inside.”