And damn him for making her feel that way. Again. Who was she kidding? She had never stopped feeling that way—excited, needy, anxious. Sweaty palms. Knotted stomach. Racing pulse. All of it. She had been so sure she'd gotten over it this past year—right up until seeing him again yesterday morning.
Right up until that gentle kiss last night.
If you could even call that a kiss. It had been more like a peck, more of a—
She pulled her thoughts away from that whole line of thinking. That way lie madness...and she was already dealing with enough madness, seeing hidden agendas and cover-ups where none existed. She didn't need to add to it.
Mac finally pulled his gaze from her, giving her time to catch her breath. "Does this have anything to do with that story you're working on that you won't tell me about?"
"No. At least, I don't think so."
He folded his arms across his broad chest. The sleeves of his black t-shirt pulled tight around his biceps and she briefly wondered how many shirts he stretched out every week simply by wearing them.
Then she realized where those thoughts were leading and quickly looked away, focusing her gaze on the emblem printed on his shirt. It was an elongated skull in white, with C.S.S. in block letters underneath. Cover Six Security, the name of the company he ran with Daryl Anderson and Jonathan Reigler.
She pointed to it with a questioning glance. "What does that mean, anyway? Cover Six?"
"Covering your six. Your back. If someone's covering your six, it means they've got your back. They're watching out for you."
"I didn't know that." TR forced a smile and nodded, like he'd been waiting for her approval all along. "I like it. Think I can get a shirt?"
Mac blinked, the barest hint of disbelief flashing in his eyes. Had she finally surprised him? Yes, she had. TR would have done a little happy dance if his surprise hadn't been so quickly followed by a growling frown.
"Think you can maybe stop changing the subject?"
"I wasn't changing—" She stopped midsentence and looked away with a sigh. Olay, maybe she was. Not deliberately, though. She simply didn't know how to answer, not without sounding delusional.
"Why are you asking about the SASC?"
"The what?"
"The Committee on Armed Services."
"No real reason." She held up her hands, waving off whatever he'd been about to say. "Honest. I'm just doing a story on the construction of a new training facility, that's it."
"The one outside Frederick?"
"Yeah. How'd you know about it?"
"Not exactly like it's top secret information."
"Oh." It was silly to be disappointed, silly to think that maybe Mac had some inside information she could use. But inside information about what? That's what she couldn't figure out.
Should she tell him about that cryptic email? Tell him about yesterday's odd interview with the Senator? No and no. He'd think she was losing her mind. Or worse than that, he'd figure out the real reason she needed him to go to the party with her was to provide cover so she could snoop around.
Somehow, she couldn't see Mac going along with that, so it was better not to say anything and simply change the subject.
"So. Can I have my gun back?"
"No." He turned his back on her and started cleaning up.
"Why not? I wasn't that bad."
"With the .25, no. But you need more practice with everything else."
"But I don't want anything else. I like my gun."
"The only thing that tiny thing would do is piss off whoever was coming after you, and that was if you managed to hit them. You'd have better luck just throwing the damn thing at their head."
"Hey, that's not very nice."
"It's the truth." Mac finished collecting the spent brass and placed them in a metal container, then locked both pistols in a black padded box. "If you're serious about learning how to use a weapon, then I'll teach you. We'll fire different types, find one you're comfortable with that's also effective."
"You'd really do that for me?"
"Yeah, I would—if you're serious."
"I am."
"Then we'll schedule more range time after the first of the year. At least twice a week, as long as I'm here. And if I'm not, I'll get one of the other guys to stand in for me if they're available."
TR nodded, momentarily stunned speechless. That he would offer to do that for her—
Probably meant nothing. She had to stop reading into every little thing Mac said or did. It hadn't helped a year ago, and it wasn't going to help now.
TR glanced at her watch then grabbed her coat from the bench behind her. "Thanks, Mac. I mean it."
"Yeah, no problem."
"I, uh, I have to go. I have a meeting in an hour. About tomorrow night—"
"I know: black tie. Meet at our office at nineteen-hundred-hours. Seven pm." He looked up, a scowl twisting the scars on the lower half of his face. "I still don't understand why you want to meet me there when I could just pick you up."
"Because I don't want you to have to drive out of your way."
"It's not out of my way—"
"I have to go." She cut him off before he could argue again. Then, on an impulse she didn't understand and didn't stop to question, she leaned up on her toes and placed a quick kiss against his cheek. "Thanks, Mac. I owe you one."
She turned away just in time to hide her smile, knowing that he was staring at her in open-mouthed shock. She hadn't missed the way his body had stiffened in surprise, hadn't missed the sharp inhale of his breath when her lips brushed against his rough jaw.
And she hadn't missed the furious color that had flooded his face before she turned away.
The party tomorrow night was supposed to be for work only, a chance to snoop around and learn something. Or even make a few new contacts she could use in the future. But maybe, with just a little luck, it wouldn't be all about the job.
Chapter Twelve
Nerves ran roughshod over her entire body. The fluttery apprehension wasn't a feeling she was accustomed to and a small part of her wanted to laugh. The only reason she didn't was the fear she wouldn't stop once she started.
It was ridiculous to be nervous. This was business, not a date. That didn't stop the tiny hope flickering somewhere deep inside her, though. No matter how many times she tried to quash it, it refused to go away.
Fine. She'd simply have to ignore it.
She pulled in a deep breath, wincing when the nipped waist of the gown pulled tight. She glanced down then swallowed back a groan at the expanse of pale flesh that greeted her gaze.
Why, oh why, had she thought this gown was perfect?
Because it looked amazing when she had tried it on, that was why. It was a simple black gown, the cut classic and elegant, the material holding just a bit of shimmer. The bodice crisscrossed in the center, the material twisting into a strap that tied behind her neck. The back was open, forming a V at her lower back before falling in gentle folds around her hips and legs. The only adornment was a simple brooch of sparkling crystals pinned where the material gathered in the center of the bodice—right between her breasts.
The gown wasn't low-cut, not by any stretch of the imagination. But her flesh was still exposed, from her cleavage up—something else she wasn't accustomed to. She had a matching wrap which she could use to cover herself, which eased that worry just a bit.
But there were other worries as well. How would the gown compare to others who'd be at the party? Would the sparkling crystals appear tacky among the glittering jewels that would surely be on display? Did her gown—which cost nearly an entire week's paycheck—scream discount knock-off?
And could she possibly do anything else to procrastinate getting out of the rental car and going inside to meet Mac?
Yes, she could—but only as long as it took to check her hair and make-up in the visor mirror. Once that was done, she sucked in another breath—not quite as deep as the first one—and forced herself to get out of
the car.
Cold air bit into her exposed flesh, causing her to shiver. She again questioned her choice of gown, but for more practical reasons this time: it did nothing to protect her against the below-freezing temperatures or the fine pellets of icy snow that had started to fall an hour ago.
She adjusted the wrap around her bare shoulders and cautiously made her way to the door. The ground wasn't slick—at least, not yet—but she didn't need to lose her footing, not in the four-inch heels she was wearing.
The heavy door opened before she could reach it and she stumbled, nearly fell before catching herself. The cold air cloaking her disappeared, pushed back by a burning warmth that started in her center and quickly spread.
She had only seen Mac dressed up once, when he wore a suit at Jonathan and Sammie's wedding almost a year ago. The sight had stunned her, filled her with a feminine appreciation that she tried to keep hidden. In a misguided effort to disguise her reaction, she had teased him about cleaning up well.
She had never been more wrong.
The image of Mac in a suit was a balm to any woman's eyes. But Mac in a tux? He was...breathtaking. An image of pure masculine beauty that would make any woman sit up and take notice—and immediately wonder what she could do to take him home.
Did he have any idea of the image he presented? Raw. Untamed. Powerful. Pure male, in the most basic sense of the word. No, he didn't know. Not Mac. Humble, quiet, reserved. Self-conscious. Convinced his scars made him some kind of monster, convinced that people only saw those physical imperfections instead of the man he really was.
God help womankind if he ever realized the truth.
God help her if he ever realized the truth.
How long did she stand there, simply staring at him? Long enough for Mac to appear at her side before she'd had a chance to realize he had even moved. He had an open umbrella in one hand and he positioned it to protect her from the falling pellets. She tilted her head back and met his gaze, knew she should say something or do something, but her mind couldn't focus enough to find any words. There were no words adequate enough to capture her thoughts, to describe her visceral reaction to him.
Mac was the one who finally spoke, his voice low and rough as he stared down at her. "You're beautiful."
"I..." Her voice faded. There was nothing else she could say. The words faded before she could even find them, her mind still whirling—not at the image Mac presented, not this time. It was the way he looked at her, appreciation warming his dark eyes, warming her.
And oh God, she was in trouble. So much trouble. How could she have made such a huge mistake? She had invited Mac tonight to serve as a distraction so she could snoop around if she had the chance. They hadn't even left yet and the plan had already failed miserably.
Yes, Mac was a distraction—for her. For her state of mind, for her well-being, for her safety.
Mac placed one callused hand in the middle of her back, gently easing her forward. "You're also going to freeze to death if we stay outside."
"I—" Oh God, what was with her that she couldn't even talk? It was too much, the sight of Mac in a tux that accented his broad shoulders and wide chest, his lean hips and powerful legs; the feel of Mac's rough hand, so gentle and warm in the bare flesh of her back. Her senses were overloaded, her mind struggling to make sense of it all.
It was the sight of Mac's truck, as large and looming as the man himself, that finally kicked her mind into gear. She hesitated on the walkway and shook her head. "We should take my car. I don't think I'll be able to climb up in that—"
"Already taken care of." Mac kept walking, guiding her around the back of the truck. A shiny black Mercedes S-Class sat next to it, the engine already running. He opened the passenger door then bent forward in a slight bow, one corner of his mouth curled up in a crooked grin. "Madam, your chariot awaits."
The bubbling laughter that spilled from her lips surprised her. Maybe that was what she needed, because the laughter also served as a cure of sorts. The crazy tilt her world had suffered these last few minutes disappeared as everything bounced back to the way it should be. She offered Mac a smile and lowered herself to the buttery-soft leather seat, sighing in appreciation at the warmth surrounding her.
Mac closed her door then moved around the front of the car, sliding into the driver's seat with a grace she had never noticed before. Or maybe she had noticed it and never truly appreciated it. Or maybe she had simply pushed it to the back of her mind, locking it away with the rest of her memories of him.
"Ready?" He tossed the question out, not waiting for an answer as he put the luxurious car in gear and moved down the long driveway.
Was she ready?
She had thought she was: ready for the night, ready for the chance to dig a little deeper, ready to learn something that would be useful.
And she was, as far as that went.
But was she ready for the resurgence of these old feelings and needs and wants? For the emotions she had ruthlessly pushed away for the last year?
Not even close.
Chapter Thirteen
Mac glanced at the GPS then deftly maneuvered the car to the exit ramp off 495. The weather here, just outside DC, was an annoying rain that would have turned 495 into a parking lot on any other night. But it was a holiday and the traffic, while still heavier than he had expected, was manageable.
He glanced at the GPS again then turned left at the light at the bottom of the ramp. They were entering an affluent section of Bethesda, filled with Georgian estates, old money, and even older power.
Mac stole a glance at his passenger, surprised at the physical blow he felt simply by looking at TR. He'd meant it when he told her she was beautiful, the thick words ripped from his throat before he could stop them.
But it was the truth. She was beautiful. He'd always thought so, even when she wore nothing more than jeans and sweater. Dressed as she was, in a shimmering gown that hugged every delicious curve of her body—she was more than beautiful. Her pale eyes, her wide smile, her infectious laughter and inner light—everything about her was beautiful.
But it was her hair that took his breath away, that robbed him of coherent thought and unleashed a desire he'd been trying to hide for too long.
Her thick hair was pulled up in a fancy knot at the back of her head that did nothing to contain the loose curls. They fell along her neck, framed her face, teased the curve of her jaw. Or maybe it had been styled that way on purpose. All he knew was that it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to bury his hands into that thick hair, to pull those sparkling pins out one-by-one and watch as the luxurious strands fell over his hands, his wrists, his arms.
He yanked his gaze back to the road, taking a deep breath to control his wayward thoughts—thoughts he had no business thinking. He counted to three, slowly released his breath, then turned back to TR. "This is a pretty exclusive neighborhood. Who's hosting the party? I don't think you ever said."
TR shifted in her seat, one hand smoothing the silky fabric of her gown. "Um, a Senator."
"A Senator?" Mac let out a low whistle. "I'm impressed. How'd you manage to wrangle that invitation?"
"I honestly have no idea. And don't be impressed just yet. For all I know, they might show us to the servant's entrance when we get there."
Mac chuckled, started to reach over to give her shoulder a reassuring pat, changed his mind at the last second. Touching her wouldn't be smart, not now. Not when she was dressed like that, not while his hand was still burning from the brief contact against her bare skin when he'd placed his palm in the middle of her back earlier.
No touching. No thinking about touching. No thinking about anything, period. That was the only way he'd be able to survive tonight.
The GPS guided them off the main street and through the twists and turns of an older neighborhood, the large houses set farther apart, hidden behind stone walls and mature trees. Mac turned the luxury car—a loaner he was even more grateful for now—int
o a long driveway that curved in front of a stately Georgian estate before circling back on itself. Black-suited staff hovered nearby. One man approached the driver's door with an umbrella as Mac got out; he noticed another man doing the same for TR, holding out one gloved hand to assist her from the car as he held the umbrella protectively over her. He experienced a surprising urge to break the man's arms for simply touching TR and ruthlessly pushed it away. What the hell was his problem tonight? This sudden protectiveness, this need to keep TR close—it made no sense. Just like the hairs standing straight up on the back of his neck made no sense.
He moved closer to TR, took her hand and draped it through the crook of his arm as they were led inside. Another black-suited staffer asked for their names then directed them through a doorway into a large room that had been transformed into a luxurious oasis of gold and silver and black. Men in expensive tuxes guided jewel-studded women around the room. A trio of string musicians played from a small dais in the far corner of the room, the music soft enough that it didn't interfere with the hum of conversation filling the air.
TR stumbled, her hand tightening around his arm for a brief second as she quickly caught herself. She tilted her head up, her eyes wide and filled with surprise—and the smallest hint of anxiety.
"Why do I suddenly feel like an imposter?" The words were nothing more than a whisper, meant for his ears only. He placed one large hand over hers, gave it a small squeeze as he leaned down, ready to reassure her.
He stopped, the hairs on his neck prickling in warning as someone moved behind him. Close, too close. Mac stiffened, slowly pivoted as he carefully tucked TR behind him—and came face-to-face with one of the devil's minions.
"Sergeant...MacGregor, isn't it?" The Senator stopped a foot away, his broad smile at odds with the coolness permeating his shrewd hazel eyes. The man was in his sixties, his thick hair more silver than blonde. He was of average height and build, with nothing about his physical appearance to make him stand out. But it wasn't his physical appearance that had allowed him to climb to such a position of power in a city filled with powerful people. That steady climb came because of his intelligence, his ruthless drive—and his connections.
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