“Does that mean I can have my pumps, dress, and necklace back? Not that I’ll ever want to wear that dress again, but the shoes . . .”
“That’s our Holly.” Julian grinned. “You’ll get them back.”
He drew out his cell phone, glanced down at a text message. “You’ve got company. McBride and Corbray.”
Holly walked to the door to find a whole lot of sexy walking up her sidewalk, Zach in front, Javier behind him, and Derek Tower in the rear.
Derek had been the head of a private security company until his biggest client—Laura Nilsson—was abducted by al Qaeda while doing a live news broadcast from Pakistan. Taller than Javier, he was as golden as Javier was dark. He and Javier had hated each other’s guts until the truth about Laura’s abduction had come out and Derek had turned his own life inside out to help Javier make things right for her. Now they owned a private security company together—Cobra International Solutions, or CIS.
Despite the heat, Zach and Derek wore suits, as if they’d just come from a meeting. Javier, on the other hand, was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. But all three had grave expressions on their faces, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and Holly felt a little jab of warning. Derek had been a Green Beret and had done classified work for the government. He had deep connections in the State Department and the Agency. If he discovered the truth . . .
Get a grip! You’re jumping at shadows.
There were few people in the country who had a high enough security clearance to access her Agency file, and Derek Tower wasn’t one of them.
She opened the door and stepped back as they entered. “I’ve got coffee in the kitchen. I can make iced tea, too, if you’re thirsty.”
“Nah, I think we’re fine, thanks,” Javier said, touching Holly lightly on the arm as he passed. “How you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
Julian and Chief Irving had come out of the kitchen, and the men exchanged greetings, then waited for Holly to sit on the sofa, Julian taking a seat on one side of her while Chief Irving settled his girth on the other.
“Okay, spill it,” Chief Irving said.
Zach spoke first. “Sasha Dudayev wasn’t a Russian art dealer, Holly, he was an arms dealer from Georgia—the country, not the state.”
God, did he think she was that stupid? It almost hurt her feelings. Apparently, she’d done her job a little too well.
“An . . . an arms dealer?”
Zach nodded. “Unfortunately, as soon as I started digging, every bit of intel I had on him disappeared.”
“We tried to work our contacts at all of the alphabet soup agencies and the State Department,” Javier said. “No one is talking, but Tower has a buddy at Langley who had something interesting to tell us off the record.”
Holly’s pulse skipped. “Langley? The Air Force base?”
“CIA headquarters,” Zach clarified.
He and Javier turned to Derek, who seemed reluctant to share anything.
Derek’s gaze fixed on Holly’s, his eyes so hard that she didn’t even notice their color. “This is off the record, do you understand? Deep background. Don’t tell anyone.”
Holly held up one hand, palm out, to stop him. “I don’t want to know anything that is going to get me killed.”
Javier glared at him. “See, man? That’s what I’m talking about. Why do you do shit like that? Now she’s scared. That’s not why we came here, bro.”
“I can’t afford to fry my contacts over this,” Derek fired back. “She’s a reporter. What’s to keep her from printing whatever I tell her?”
“She’s our friend.” Julian didn’t shout the words, exactly, but they filled the living room. “She won’t print a word of it or speak about it with anyone who isn’t in this room. You’ve got my word on that.”
Holly wanted to hug Julian, his faith in her putting an ache in her chest. “I won’t tell anyone. My lips are zipped.”
She made a lip-zipping motion and turned the imaginary key.
Derek pinned her with his gaze, seeming to measure Julian’s words. “Two years ago, Dudaev murdered an officer during an operation in Batumi, Georgia, and stole a cache of firearms, which he sold for more than a million on the black market. The Agency has had it in for Dudaev since.”
Holly already knew this. It had been part of her pre-mission briefing on Dudaev. “Sasha did that?”
“There are also rumors that there’s some kind of internal investigation in the top-secret Special Activities Division related to that operation, and that has everyone in the SAD running scared. Word is that the hit on Dudaev was an Agency job, possibly carried out by a rogue officer who is trying to silence everyone who was involved in that op in Batumi. It certainly has all the marks of an Agency hit.”
“Do you understand what that means?” Julian asked.
“It means I really suck when it comes to picking men.” Holly’s response was almost automatic, her mind racing.
If the killer really had come from the Agency, it could mean only one of two things: the Agency had gotten its wires crossed and had sent two officers with two conflicting missions—or someone truly had gone rogue.
Either way, she was lucky to be alive.
She looked from him to Chief Irving to Zach to Javier, trying to gather her thoughts, knowing they were waiting for her to respond. “Wait. Are you saying someone from our government killed him?”
No wonder her CO hadn’t contacted her. In either scenario, he would be doing all he could to protect her identity, to keep her ties to the SAD secret—not an easy thing to do if another operative from the SAD had seen her naked in Dudaev’s bed. He’d keep his distance, find a time when it would be safe for him to move in. Otherwise, she’d be compromised and worthless to them—and possibly a target. If the rogue officer found out she was an officer, too, and thought that she knew anything she shouldn’t . . .
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Derek said.
“If it’s true, it helps explain why both you and Dudaev were drugged,” Zach said.
Holly hadn’t known that. “Dudaev was drugged, too?”
“The ME got the results of the toxicology tests this morning,” Chief Irving said.
“The shooter incapacitated both of you before moving in, probably so that he could avoid having to put a bullet through your head, too,” Derek said.
“Nice.” Javier shook his head.
“Just telling it like it is, Corbray.”
Holly could have sworn she saw Zach roll his eyes.
“If it’s true this was a CIA hit, you can feel pretty certain he won’t come after you,” he said. “Whoever it was took steps to keep you out of the crossfire.”
“I’d like to kick his ass,” Julian said. “The drug he used almost killed her. At least it’s over.”
“Not necessarily.” Javier’s gaze shifted from Julian to Chief Irving. “Word is that Dudaev’s boys want payback. They saw their boss go into a room with Holly and come out dead. ICE has revoked their passports and is searching for them, but we need to put some serious security on Holly until the danger passes.”
* * *
By the time the men left a half hour later, after arguing about how to handle the security detail, Holly’s headache was back in full force. She took a shower, her mind busy sorting out the pieces as she shampooed and conditioned her hair, washed the hospital off her skin, and shaved her legs.
If Dudaev’s death had been an authorized Agency hit, it meant the computer with all its files were now back in Agency hands. It also meant that something had gone terribly wrong at the SAD. But if the hit had been carried out by an officer with a personal agenda, there was no telling where this might end.
Under normal circumstances, this kind of speculation held no interest for her. She operated independently, blessedly cut off from the Langley rumor mill. But this time, a job had put her in the center of it. And then there was Javier’s news about the Georgian mafia. If they blamed her, if they c
ame after her . . .
An image of Dudaev lying dead beside her flashed through her mind, almost making her knees buckle.
She sagged against the tile, her heart thrumming.
A gun.
She needed a handgun. She needed a way to defend herself in case someone broke through CIS security. Javier’s men were good, but no one was infallible. Though she knew how to use firearms, she’d never owned one. She’d never felt the need before.
She’d get something simple—a Glock 19 maybe—then she’d ask Julian or Marc to get her into the police range for some practice. At least then she’d have some way of protecting herself.
She turned off the water, dried off, stepped into her silk robe—and nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang.
Still in her bathrobe, she hurried to the door, hoping with everything she had that she’d find a brown box with a new pair of shoes waiting for her. She looked outside and instead saw a man holding a bouquet of flowers, his head turned away from her.
She glanced across the street and saw an unmarked police unit was already keeping watch on the place, Chief Irving’s men watching over her until Javier could put together a protection detail. She opened the door.
The man turned his face toward her, smiled. “Hey, I’m Nick, your new neighbor. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. The delivery guy left these with me.”
Chapter Seven
Holly felt the breath leave her lungs. She knew she was supposed to say something like hello, thank you, nice to meet you, come in—but the words weren’t there. Instead, she stood there staring up at him.
This was Mr. Creeper?
She’d seen handsome men before, hot men, sexy men, but looking up at him, she couldn’t remember any of them.
He stood well over six feet, with thick, dark hair, deep-set blue eyes, and his face . . .
Absurd cheek bones. Dark, brooding brows and long lashes. Strong jaw. Full lower lip.
He frowned, his gaze dropping to her wrist. “Are you okay?”
The hospital bracelet.
She’d forgotten to cut it off.
“I . . . Yes, I’m fine.” Snap out of it! “Sorry. I’ll take those.”
She reached out to take the bouquet, but he held it back. “They’re pretty heavy. Why don’t you just show me where you want them?”
“The coffee table is fine, next to the other ones.” Holly stepped aside, making room for him, and caught the scent of clean skin as he passed.
He bent down, set the bouquet of roses and waxflower on the table, faded Levi’s 511s moving over a perfect ass.
She shifted her gaze upward just in time to find herself looking into his eyes. She held out her hand. “Thank you. Nick was it?”
“Nick Andrews.” His shake was firm, his hand warm.
“Holly Bradshaw.”
“I saw on the card.” He smiled, glanced around, his hands coming to rest on his hips, a gray T-shirt that read “Get Belayed” stretching over the muscles of his chest. “Nice place. Sorry I haven’t been over to introduce myself before today. I’m slamming on a book deadline, and I’ve just been holed up alone in my cave.”
A book deadline?
“You’re a writer.”
That explained a few things.
He shrugged. “My agent thinks so.”
“I’m the senior entertainment writer with the Denver Independent. What kind of book is it—fiction, non-fiction?”
His gaze slid over her from her face to her bare feet before he jerked it back to her face. Holly remembered she was wearing only her silk robe, her hair a damp rat’s nest, her face bare of makeup.
“My book? It’s supposed to be a fictionalized account of my time serving with Delta Force in Afghanistan and Iraq, but I’m having a hard time figuring out how to take classified facts and make them fiction.”
Delta Force.
Something inside Holly purred—then went soft. She’d always had a great respect for the men and women who put their lives on the line.
“If you give me a second to get dressed, I’d love to hear more—if you feel comfortable talking about it, that is, which not all writers do, of course. I understand that. Can I get you a glass of iced tea or water or coffee or something?”
You’re babbling like an idiot.
Since when had a man affected her enough to make her babble?
“No. Thanks. I had some espresso that I made with my espresso maker.”
She realized he was nervous, too, and that made her relax.
She smiled up at him. “Thanks for bringing over the flowers. Sorry for whatever disruption they caused you.”
“It was no problem, really. It was about time I came over to say hello.” His eyes narrowed, then recognition dawned on his face. “You’re the woman from the hotel, the one who woke up next to . . .”
“Yeah.” All the warmth seemed to leave the room.
“Sorry. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Holly ought to have expected this. The news had been all over the papers, together with photos of her walking into the gallery on Dudaev’s arm. They were great photos, but they brought unwanted attention her way.
“That’s okay. I’m sure you won’t be the only one who recognizes me.”
“That must have been pretty terrifying.” The shadows in his eyes told Holly he’d seen more than his share of death.
“I will definitely think twice before I date another billionaire.”
Her joke didn’t make him laugh, didn’t make him so much as quirk a smile. “On second thought, a glass of water might be nice.”
“Okay. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back. Ice?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
She hurried to her bedroom and slipped into underclothes and a short, pale pink sundress, stopping at her mirror only long enough to work the tangles from her hair with her fingers, apply some tinted lip gloss, and remove the silly hospital bracelet. She wished she had time to do something about the circles beneath her eyes, but how long could a guy expect to wait for a glass of ice water?
She found him standing in front of her old Théâtre de l’Opéra poster.
He took the glass from her, his gaze sliding over her again. “Thanks. Have you been to Paris?”
“A few times.”
“I passed through once on my way back to the US. It’s a beautiful city. Full of tourists, but beautiful.”
“That’s Paris.” She took a seat on the sofa, her head still aching. “I was about ten the first time I went there. My dad was stationed in Germany. I remember not liking the long lines at the museums, but I really loved the fountains—and the Eiffel Tower.”
“An Army brat.” He sat in the chair across from her. “How did you end up here?”
She told him the truth. “I came to Denver when the Indy hired me, and fell in love with Colorado. How about you?”
“I came for the mountains.”
She pointed to the message on his T-shirt. “You’re a climber?”
He nodded. “I love to ski, too. Camp, hike.”
“I’ve got some friends you ought to meet, guys who live for that.”
“I’d like that—after I meet this deadline.” He glanced at his watch.
She knew he was thinking about leaving, and she didn’t want that—not yet. “Tell me about your book.”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head, grinning. “Once I start talking, I won’t shut up.”
Holly couldn’t help but smile. “Take that as a good sign. All the authors I’ve ever interviewed are like that.”
He set the water glass down on the coffee table. “I need to get back to work—and you need to rest and get rid of that headache.”
How did he know she had a headache?
Her surprise must have shown on her face.
“You keep rubbing your temple,” he explained, getting to his feet. “Do you have your cell phone handy or something I can write on?”
“Yeah. In the
kitchen.” She stood and walked down the hallway.
He followed, took the pen she handed him, and wrote his phone number down on her notepad. “If you need anything, just call. If anyone bothers you, I can be here in a second.”
“Thanks.” Holly was genuinely touched. On impulse she wrote her number on the lower half of the page, tore off the piece of paper, and gave it to him. “Here’s mine. If anyone bothers you, I can, um . . . call the police.”
He laughed, a broad smile lighting up his face. “Fair enough.”
She walked him to the door, the two of them talking about how hot it was.
He stopped on her front step. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”
After the news she’d gotten today, she wasn’t sure of anything.
“Yeah.” She willed herself to smile. “Whoever killed him didn’t kill me when he had the chance, so I doubt he’s after me now.”
He cupped her shoulder, his touch warm. “Get some rest.”
As Holly shut and locked her door, she knew it was only a matter of time before she and Nick ended up in bed together.
* * *
Nick dropped onto his sofa, let out a breath, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
I had some espresso that I made with my espresso maker.
“That wasn’t lame at all, buddy.”
Jesus!
Still, it had gone better than it might have. She’d swallowed every bit of bait he’d laid out for her—his military record, his life as a struggling writer, his athletic interests—and he knew she was attracted to him.
And you’re not attracted to her at all.
No, he wasn’t. He couldn’t afford to be.
What’s the last thing Bauer had said to Nick?
Watch your back, Andris. She’s good.
Hell, yeah, she was.
Nick had listened to her play her so-called friends. She knew what a suppressor was, and she sure as hell had understood that they’d been talking about Georgia the nation and not the state. But she’d come off as vulnerable, even fragile. She’d had every man in that room tripping over himself to make her feel safe.
Nick didn’t blame them. She’d fooled him, too. If he hadn’t seen proof that she’d downloaded the files from that USB drive, he would still believe she was innocent. Well, God hadn’t done men any favors when he’d given them balls instead of brains.