Trust in Me (Hawkeye Book 2)

by Sierra Cartwright

  “She thinks of everything.”

  He headed for the front door. “Be back in less than thirty seconds.”

  Aimee thought about locking him out, but the dark glance he shot her, combined with that set of his jaw, promised retribution if she crossed him. His way.

  Standing in the doorway, she watched him jog across the road to his ridiculously large badass SUV. It resembled a military vehicle, capable of climbing anything or plowing through a lake. Faded denim hugged his powerful thighs and showed off his long legs. But if she were honest, she'd admit she liked the way they fit his taut ass. It appeared to be as nicely shaped and as honed as the rest of him.

  Aimee mentally gave herself a shake. She shouldn't be having fantasies about her temporary jailer.

  After grabbing an army-green duffel bag from the passenger seat, Trace slammed the door. He gave a thumbs-up signal to a white Suburban parked down the street—Mallory and Riley, he assumed—before jogging back to her.

  Aimee took a step back to let him into the house.

  “Should I change in your bedroom?”

  “That’s off-limits, I told you.”

  Right there, in the entryway, he pulled off the black cotton shirt.

  She should have known better than to forbid him to do something.

  Carefully he wadded the T-shirt. Even though she tried not to look, she was mesmerized. As she’d already surmised, he was seriously one sexy man. He had no excess fat around the middle, and a smattering of dark hair arrowed down the center of his chest to disappear behind the brass button holding his jeans together.

  Her pulse easily reached eighty-seven, maybe eighty-eight, percent of her target heart rate. She didn’t need her fitness monitor to tell her that. “I’ll, uhm, throw that in the washer.”

  He handed her the T-shirt, then bent to unzip his bag.

  “Is that a freaking gun tucked in your waistband?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “No. No guns in my house. No way, no how.”

  He sighed, but he didn’t stop riffling through his bag. And heaven help her, she couldn’t help but cast a surreptitious glance at the contents, looking to see if he had underwear there. He pulled out a replacement black shirt, but she didn’t see any boxers, briefs, or tighty whities. That realization revved her libido into overdrive.

  “I mean it, Trace. No weapons.”

  He stood. “I appreciate that you don’t want me here. I realize having a gun in your house is uncomfortable. I know I’ll be invading your privacy.”

  “And?”

  “Tough.”

  “Tough?”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Tough.”

  When he released her, she slumped.

  How did everything get to be so out of control? She hated this, despised all of Hawkeye Security at the moment.

  Needing to do something useful, something she could control, she pulled away from him to head down the hallway to the bathroom that also served as a laundry room.

  A man in her house. Protective detail. A damn pistol. This morning, life had been blessedly normal, but now nothing was.

  She turned on the washer to the smallest load setting. In the nearby basket, there were some dark clothes that she could wash, but throwing their stuff in together seemed too intimate.

  When she was in college, she’d fallen madly in love with Jack Cotter, a man significantly older than her. He was a trial lawyer, confident and sophisticated, so different from the techie geeks she hung out with.

  He’d proposed, and she’d accepted and been swept into a world she didn’t understand. He bought her a new wardrobe and expected her to help him entertain his clients, sacrificing her school work for his ambitions. Within six months, she lost herself, cutting back the number of classes she enrolled in, no longer seeing her friends, always being available for Jack and his demands.

  When her sister returned from a long assignment, she’d been concerned about Aimee’s well-being, but Aimee hadn’t been ready to end the relationship.

  After Jack took her phone and changed the number to keep the sisters apart, Aimee was finally able to see what was happening. Her sister was the only relative she had, and she couldn’t imagine a life without her.

  Weeks before the wedding, while Jack was embroiled in the trial of the century, Aimee fled. Even though she’d gotten away, it had taken her months to rediscover who she was, and make up the work she’d missed to graduate on time.

  She’d vowed never again to allow a man to take over her life.

  Deciding to wash her own clothes later, Aimee dropped the lid on the machine, then returned to her office and closed the door. She was aware of Trace’s movements as he went through her house, coldly invading her privacy.

  Even though she’d banned him from her office, he entered after a perfunctory knock. Jaw locked to hold back her temper, she looked up at him. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Just need to have a quick look around.”

  “For what?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary. A bug, potentially. Something planted on your computer.”

  She hadn’t considered that possibility. More than anyone on the planet, she should have. A hardware hack was difficult, but not impossible.

  “You don’t have to stay,” he said.

  As if she’d leave. Aimee remained where she was, watching his every move.

  He was thorough. He flipped through her stacks of notes, shook her pens, looked under the desk, opened drawers and the closet doors, looked behind the curtains, checked the window. He pulled the cord on the drapes and said, “Leave them closed, if you don’t mind.”

  Since she liked natural sunlight, she did mind, not that it mattered.

  When he slid aside her Georgia O’Keeffe print, her hold on her anger began to fray. “Have you seen enough?”

  “Doing my job. We need to check your computer.”

  “I’ll do it myself.”

  After a nod, he left, and she remained where she was, breathing in his scent, willing away his lingering presence. A minute later, realizing she hadn’t moved, she stood and crossed the room to nudge the O’Keeffe print back into place. Then she checked her computer and ran a diagnostic.

  If she couldn’t run, she could work, or at least pretend to do something useful.

  Chapter 2

  Madre de Dios.

  Trace hadn’t been sure what to expect when Ms. Inamorata summoned him to her office a couple of hours ago. She was always composed, calm under pressure, which was why Hawkeye trusted her implicitly and had made her part of his inner circle. Whenever a situation got out of hand, she could be counted on to deal with local and federal authorities, smoothing over all the details. According to Hawkeye, she batted cleanup better than any major leaguer.

  So when Trace saw her, blonde hair mussed as if she’d dragged a hand through it, worrying a pen between her teeth, he’d taken a seat and never considered refusing the request to look after her younger sister, a part-time adjunct professor who was working on a top secret project for an unnamed Hawkeye client. Inamorata had declined to provide any further information, but added that she would clear Aimee to share details if she wanted to.

  Inamorata confessed she was perplexed by the break-in. Nothing had been taken, or so it appeared. Theoretically, no one knew who Aimee was. As far as friends and neighbors were concerned, she taught at the college and worked on educational software.

  Bad guys shouldn’t know of her existence.

  But still, Ms. Inamorata wasn’t willing to take any unnecessary risks.

  Despite Aimee’s protests that she didn’t need protection, it wouldn’t hurt to monitor the situation. Her routine was predictable. She rarely went out, except for her latte and daily exercise. This semester, she wasn’t teaching.

  He’d expected Aimee’s fiery protests when he arrived, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her sculptured body or his intense physical reaction to her. It was a force of its own
, startling and demanding, as unwelcome as it was unexpected.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he opened her bedroom door. Like the rest of the house, it was uncluttered. Her bed was made, and soft, feminine pillows adorned the bright pink quilt. With determination, he shoved aside the thought of taking her on it, exorcising the need that consumed him.

  Trace strode to her closet. It, too, was exactly what he expected. She had half a dozen pairs of running shoes, some dress sandals, lots of outdoor and sports gear, and a tennis racquet. She didn’t have many clothes hanging there, just a few pairs of slacks, several skirts, a number of blouses, and a bunch of sleeveless shirts. The slinky black dress tucked in the corner intrigued him, and he had to forcibly remind himself he was here for work. If he’d met her at the annual holiday party, things would have been different…much different.

  He crouched in front of her bookcase. Half a shelf of self-help titles. A couple of text books, a few bestsellers, and on the bottom right, an extensive collection of erotic fiction along with two respected how-to manuals about BDSM.

  Fuck.

  Aimee Inamorata had carnal interests that matched his own.

  Double fuck. This was dangerous knowledge. He had no business thinking about her in a sexual way.

  He moved to her dresser, checked beneath her jewelry box, behind picture frames. Then he went through her drawers. No surprises. Sturdy undergarments, workout gear, shorts and T-shirts, a few pairs of jeans, a couple of sweatshirts.

  The bottom drawer, however, contained frivolous panties and lingerie.

  An image of her dressed in the black scraps of material floated through his mind. He reminded himself she was a job, an assignment.

  After running his fingers along the sides and bottom panel, he checked out her nightstand, picking up a lamp to feel along the base. Satisfied, he tugged open the single drawer and discovered her personal toys—a vibrator, a pair of nipple clamps, and a small metal butt plug.

  Goddamn it.

  He shoved that drawer closed with far too much force, then got the hell out of the room.

  For a moment, he paused in the hallway.

  Then, demanding professionalism of himself, Trace went through every item in her living room and kitchen. An hour later, he headed for the back patio door, intending to take another trip around the exterior of the house. The crazy loro jumped down from the top of his cage and began a ridiculous waddle walk toward the opening. “Stay.” Did birds respond the same way dogs did?

  He closed the door and swept the backyard from left to right, looking for anything that was different from an hour ago. He hopped the chain-link fence, went to exchange a few words with the Hawkeye agents in the SUV, and then circled behind her evergreen trees.

  Everything checked clear.

  Since the front door was closed, he returned to the backyard, this time using the gate. It squeaked, which he appreciated. One more sound to be aware of.

  He entered the house, and Aimee stood in the kitchen, a glass of water in her hand.

  “You were right that you were going to invade my privacy.”

  She had no idea how much. In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and he checked the message screen. “Hawkeye is sending over a few techs to look for prints, examine the scene.”

  “The scene? You mean my home?”

  “Look, Aimee.” Impatience snapped through him. But when he looked into the cornflower blue of her eyes, an unfamiliar seed of compassion seeped in. She might be a fellow operative, but new recruits in accounting and IT were not required to go through physical or firearms training. She was working on a top secret project, but the break-in and the invasion of her privacy had to be stressful.

  Something in him softened, and he allowed his heart to lead. “Earlier, you were headed out for a run. Give me five minutes to change, and we can go.” Being out of the house while strangers picked through it—like he had done—might be easier for her.

  “I thought you were going to keep me imprisoned.”

  “Think of me as a companion.”

  “A companion?” She scoffed. “That’s adorable.”

  “Your call.” Her reaction annoyed him, but he tamped it down. “We can go for a run.” He shrugged. “Or we can discuss your reading material while we wait for the team to arrive.”

  “My…” She turned half a dozen shades of scarlet, and she wrapped her arms around her middle as if to protect herself.

  He cursed himself. He had no right to comment on her personal belongings or life. It was more than unprofessional, it was foolish.

  “My BDSM books? Perhaps you noticed the murder mysteries as well.” Her voice was cool, more controlled than he’d imagined it would be. “According to your logic, that must mean I know at least a dozen ways to kill a man and dispose of his body.” Her grin was wicked.

  “Touché.”

  Silence drew as they squared off. “I don’t want anyone in the house unless I’m here. Eureka’s had enough stress.”

  “And so have you. Let the team in while we’re gone. Can he go in his cage or something?” When she didn’t respond, he pressed again. “It has to happen. The sooner we get it over with, the faster your life returns to normal.”

  “I hate this.”

  “I don’t blame you.” His tone held sympathy, something unusual for him.

  Maybe she sensed that because she sighed and then relented. “Five minutes.”

  He grabbed his duffel and dug out his workout clothes. He considered where to change, opting for the bathroom.

  Within three minutes, he was ready to go. Less than thirty seconds later, she was closing Eureka into his cage, promising to return soon. Maybe as a peace offering, she gave the bird a piece of an orange.

  “He can’t escape, can he?” He eyed the menace.

  “So far, he hasn’t managed to figure that out.” She programmed her fitness watch. “Are you going to be able to keep up?”

  He regarded her. It didn’t sound like a challenge, just a question of interest. “How far do you plan to go?”

  “Seven-minute miles.” She inserted a pair of wireless earbuds, turned on some music, then grinned at him. “Less than an hour. You do the math.”

  It was a fair pace. “I’ll do my best.”

  He did well, until she started up the trail on Green Mountain. His last assignment had been at sea level. The altitude, combined with the elevation gain, kicked his ass. The perky Miss Inamorata continued to lead the way, ponytail bobbing, music thumping out a distant up-tempo beat, not breathing hard.

  Twice, she’d taught him not to underestimate her.

  Downhill was better, at least on his cardiovascular system. But it was hell on his knees.

  She arrived at the trailhead ahead of him, and she was jogging in place, wearing a triumphant grin when he stopped beside her, struggling to breathe.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Walk in the park.” His ego made him lie.

  On the way back, she slowed the pace a little. He didn’t let her see his gratitude.

  A few blocks from the house, she shut off her music, tapped the screen of her watch, studied the information, then glanced about him. “So tell me about you, Trace.”

  “Pretty boring life.”

  “Well, you’re damn nosy. I know that much. You dug through all of my belongings, looked at my whole life.”

  Not all of it. But enough to intrigue the hell out of him.

  “Fair’s fair. I should know something about the man who’s going to be sleeping under my roof.”

  “Not much to know. Been with Hawkeye about five years. Properly vetted by your sister.”

  “Any wife waiting for you to come home?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  The memory had lost its burn over the years, but the lesson remained. His need for adrenaline and a meaningful relationship couldn’t exist in the same space. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Was it the job? That happens.�
�

  “In a way. More than anything, I suppose, the problem was me.” The admission hurt. And it was the first time he’d made it aloud.

  “Ouch. But at least that’s some self-awareness. That has to count for something.”

  “Right.” When they turned onto her street, he made eye contact with Daniel Riley and Bree Mallory. Hawkeye had operatives everywhere on the planet, but Trace knew both agents and was glad to see them assigned to the job. Mallory was competent and checked her ego at the door, making her great with high-maintenance clients. Riley was young, and during his short tenure, he’d volunteered for a lot of high-risk assignments. He’d already earned a big promotion.

  Riley gave a slight nod, indicating everything was clear.

  Aimee had been right about the length of the run. They arrived back at her house in just under fifty minutes. His heart rate was no longer in the danger zone, and he was finally able to draw a full breath. His protectee had set a grueling pace, especially given the terrain.

  As she unlocked the door, he checked his phone to see a message from Lifeguard, their main contact at Hawkeye. The forensics crew had already finished their work.

  “Aimee!” Eureka called. “Aimee! Aimee!”

  “I’m back.” Her hips swaying in a way he couldn’t help but notice, Aimee crossed to the cage. “Let’s get you out of there. Wait.” She looked over her shoulder. “The team is done, right?”

  For a second, he considered fibbing so that she’d leave Eureka in the cage.

  Waiting, she drew her eyebrows together.

  “Yeah. They have.”

  Focusing on her feathered friend, she opened the door for him to climb out. More agile than Trace could imagine, the feathered terror pulled himself to the top of the cage, then glared at Trace.

  He kept a wary eye on the bird. And it was mutual. When Trace moved, the bird tracked him.

  In the living room, Aimee bent over in a long, slow stretch.

  His damnable heart rate slammed back into double time. He strode to the kitchen for a bottle of cold water and drained half of it in a single gulp.