"But all my stuff is at my apartment. I need my stuff." So what if she sounded whiny? So what if her stuff didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things? The sudden change in Mac's attitude and the tension rolling off him were both throwing her for a loop, confusing her and making her latch onto the most insignificant issue because she had no idea what was going on and her mind was afraid to focus on the bigger issue of what had happened to her.
Mac apparently thought her point was as senseless as it sounded because he turned to her with one eyebrow raised in surprise. "What kind of stuff do you need that I don't have?"
There were so many ways she could answer that but settled on the most basic for starters. Basic she could handle—for now, at least. She waved a hand from her head to her knees, motioning to the borrowed set of oversized scrubs she had been given to wear under the two blankets wrapped around her.
"My clothes." She sniffed and wrinkled her nose against the stench of dried pond water. "My shampoo and conditioner. My moisturizer. My toothbrush and toothpaste—"
"I have sweats you can borrow."
She almost laughed—until the image of cuddling in Mac's clothes sent a flash of warmth rushing through her. She pushed the thought away. "They'd be too big. And I still need my shampoo and stuff."
"I have shampoo."
"You have guy shampoo. Not the same." She shook her head, interrupting him before he could argue. "And I need my laptop. And my notes. I have two stories that are due and—"
"Then you can make a list and I'll have one of the guys pick everything up for you."
The idea of 'one of the guys' going through her things filled her with mortification. Then, to add to it, tears formed and burned the backs of her eyes. She turned her head to the side and swallowed. "I don't want anyone to pick up anything. I want to go home. To my place."
Mac swore, the words too soft to really make out. A few quiet seconds went by before he reached over and wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed. But he didn't say anything as he kept driving north, further away from her apartment.
TR wanted to argue with him, wanted to tell him she didn't want to go home with him, that she didn't understand why he wouldn't take her home—to her home. But she was afraid she did understand, and what she thought she knew terrified her.
Just like he didn't think her car being broken into last week was random, Mac didn't think the accident last night had been an accident. He hadn't said as much—not to her, anyway. But she had overheard him speaking in low tones outside that tiny curtained cubicle in the hospital, heard the anger lacing his voice as he argued about something with Daryl.
And she could sense his thoughts, could feel his worry. How was that even possible? Up until a week or so ago, she hadn't even seen him in almost a year—and that last time had been when he turned down her advances and told her they could only be friends.
No, it didn't make sense that she could sense Mac's thoughts and worries but she couldn't worry about that right now, not when she was trying to figure out why he thought the accident hadn't been an accident. That's what made no sense. Did he really think it had something to do with the Senator and the story she was working on? The idea was laughable—or rather, it would be, if not for that unsettled feeling deep inside her. Or was she simply reacting to Mac's personal feelings about the Senator?
Mac didn't care for the man. There was obviously some kind of history there—and not good history, either. That much had been evident last night at the Senator's New Year's Eve Party—a party she still didn't understand why she'd been invited to. She didn't have any political connections, didn't move in political circles. She didn't even cover politics for the weekly regional paper where she worked. So why had she been invited? And how could that invitation and last night's accident even be connected?
She pushed the thoughts—and the irrational fear—away. She was too tired, too drained, to think clearly. There was too much information whirling through her mind and none of it made sense. She needed to distance herself from everything, let her subconscious puzzle it out while she slept. Then she could sit down and sort the pieces out, make notes and try to fit everything together. And she wanted to be at her own apartment, surrounded by her own things, when she did it. It didn't look like that was going to happen, not when Mac was determined to take her back to his place instead.
Should she say something? Dig in her heels and insist? Why, when it would be nothing more than wasted breath on her part? Mac wasn't going to budge, not from this—the rigid set of his shoulders telegraphed that loud and clear. It would be easier to just go along with him—for now. At least until after she had a chance to clean up and maybe get something to eat.
A large yawn came out of nowhere, surprising her as much as the sleepiness that weighed down her eyelids. She fought it for a few minutes then finally gave in, letting her lids drift shut. Not for long, just until they got to Mac's place...
A rush of cold air woke her and she jerked up, surprised to find herself in Mac's arms. She stiffened then slowly relaxed against him—his hard body, the furnace blast of heat emanating from him.
"I can walk." The words were nothing more than a sleepy whisper spoken against his chest, empty of any argument. Yes, she could walk—but she didn't want to.
"You're not wearing shoes."
TR blinked, tilted her head and focused on her feet and the thin terry-cloth hospital booties covering them. Unexpected and irrational disappointment filled her and she almost pushed against him, almost insisted that he put her down and let her walk. She didn't want him to carry her because he had to—she wanted him to carry her because he wanted to.
So much for being an independent woman.
But she was too tired to argue—with him and with herself. She simply rested her head against his shoulder, her gaze taking in the stone walkway, the mature oak trees, the full covered porch at the front of the old farmhouse. Then he was opening the door, carrying her over the threshold before moving to the side and pressing a code into an alarm panel. She waited for him to put her down—they were inside now, there was no reason she couldn't walk. Instead of putting her down, he continued through the entranceway and up the stairs to a large bedroom at the end of the hallway, not stopping until he entered the attached bathroom. Only then did he release her, gently lowering her to her feet. TR stumbled, caught herself at the last second and braced herself against the wall.
Mac studied her with a frown. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine."
He made a soft grunting sound then opened the glass door of the walk-in shower and turned on the water. "Stay here while I get you something to change into."
TR nodded, her astonished gaze already moving around the room. It was bigger than the bathroom in her apartment, spacious but not frilly. Of course it wouldn't be frilly, not for Mac. But it certainly wasn't the spartan basics she'd been expecting. The room was tiled in warm browns and creams, with bronze fixtures on the sink, toilet, and shower. She stepped closer to the shower and peeked in, swallowed back a sigh of pure envy when she saw the pebbled stone floor and the built-in bench.
"Still doing okay?"
TR jerked back in surprise, heat filling her face at being caught peeking. Mac stood just inside the door, a pile of clothes in his hand. "I think I have bathroom envy."
One corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. He stepped into the room and placed the clothes on the counter, then motioned around him. "Soap and shampoo and shit are in the shower. Towels are clean. There's a spare toothbrush in the top drawer over there." He pointed to the large vanity, his mouth twitching in another almost-smile. "Brand new, still in the package. I'll be downstairs if you need me."
If you need me.
TR wanted to tell him yes, she needed him. Wanted to ask him to stay. But he was gone, the bathroom door already pulled closed behind him. She stared at it for a few seconds then shook her head at her own foolishness. Yes, he had kissed her last night. If they had made i
t back to her place, they may have done more than kiss. At least, that had been her hope.
But that had been last night—a lifetime ago. And the Mac from last night—the one that had held her close and rocked her world with a single kiss—was gone. In his place was the silent and wary Mac who kept people—who kept her—at a distance.
TR blinked against the unwelcome burning in her eyes then quickly undressed, tossing the hospital scrubs and blankets in a corner before stepping into the large shower. Hot water cascaded over her, pounding into tight muscles and weary bone.
Warming her.
Rinsing away the stench of pond water.
Rinsing away the regret of what might have been.
# #
The arrogant fool!
The man's hand clenched around the phone, fury burning deep inside him. The emotion surprised him with its strength, which only angered him more.
He didn't feel emotion.
He didn't feel surprise.
But that fool had caused him to feel both and for that, he would pay.
The man carefully placed the phone on the cheap nightstand next to the sagging bed and turned his attention back to the secured laptop. His long fingers flew over the keyboard, each stroke short and precise. Did the client think he could be so easily fooled into thinking the accident was nothing more than coincidence?
The man was nobody's fool.
And he didn't believe in coincidences.
He studied the report but it told him nothing. It was preliminary only, presenting nothing but the most basic of facts. The accident had happened only hours ago and was still being investigated. He made note of the investigating officer's name then backed out of the system, silently smirking at the naivety of departments that convinced themselves of the security of their systems. Nothing was secure, not if one knew where to look.
And it was his job to know.
His phone rang again—a different phone this time. There was no need to glance at the screen, not when the call had been expected. Not when he knew who it was.
He answered it with a quiet, "Yes" then waited, knowing he wouldn't have to wait long.
A distant voice, devoid of any emotion except superiority, came over the line. "The situation has escalated. What information do you have?"
"The client assures me it was nothing more than a coincidence."
A pause, filled with disbelief. "And you believe him?"
"I don't believe in coincidences."
"How fast do you think he's deteriorating?"
The man thought before answering. He was playing a dangerous game, precariously balancing between two worlds, manipulating the players into positions that would be most advantageous to him.
It was his favorite kind of game.
"There is no reason to believe the client is getting worse at this moment."
"And you're sure of that?"
The man's hand clenched around the phone. How dare he be questioned like that! He kept his voice quiet, neutral. "Yes." He hesitated, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit. "If you are worried, I can act now. Eliminate—"
"No, not yet. We still have time."
"Yes. Of course."
"Keep me posted. Contact me immediately if there are any changes."
"Of course." The man disconnected the second call and placed that phone on the scratched table next to the laptop. The insinuation that he could possibly fail to do his job should anger him but it didn't. Contempt kept the anger in check. Kept him calm and focused. Neither his client nor his patron truly appreciated his talents—or the danger he presented. Neither of them could ever be a worthy opponent. But they would both learn.
In time.
His fingers flew across the keyboard once more, accessing another secure system. He saw the file he wanted and opened it, unperturbed by the lack of anything but the most basic of information. This system—and the files he wanted to see—would take longer to access.
The man didn't mind. The simple lack of information told him enough. And he had time—
For now.
He stared at the name at the top of the file, something almost like a smile pulling at his lips.
Gordon MacGregor.
Now here was a worthy opponent. Someone who could challenge his skill and talent. Someone who's own power would strengthen his own.
The man sat back in the cheap chair and studied the grainy picture that accompanied the file, once again feeling that foreign tug pulling at his mouth.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Four
"You need to fucking stop and think about what the fuck you're saying." Daryl's voice was a low hiss, mingling with the sound of the crackling fire burning in the fireplace. There was just as much heat in the words, maybe more. Was he trying to get a rise out of Mac? Trying to force a reaction from him?
Tough shit if he was because it wasn't fucking working. Mac was already pissed off. More than pissed off. He was ready to go ballistic and rain hell down on everyone around him.
He was ready to commit murder.
The only thing stopping him was the woman upstairs in his bed. TR needed him here—at least for now. Until he was certain she was fine.
After that, all bets were off.
He tightened his fist, ground his back teeth together. Other than that, he didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. He just waited, his hard gaze never leaving Daryl's, silently daring him to say more than he already had.
They were in one of the back rooms of the old house, a larger one that he'd renovated and turned into an office. Not just him and Daryl—Boomer was here, too, as well as Reigs and Wolf. He still didn't know how the fuck the sanctity of his house had been breached and turned into grand-fucking-central station for this impromptu meeting. Daryl, he had expected. Maybe. But everyone else?
Fuck, no.
Daryl ran a hand over his face, muffling the heavy sigh that fell from his lips. He shook his head, looked at Mac one final time, then swore. "Fuck. You're not even listening, are you?"
"I'm listening."
"Yeah, but are you fucking hearing what I'm saying? You can't go around making accusations like that. Not without some really hard evidence."
"Then I'll get it."
Daryl slammed one fist against the rough mantlepiece. "How the fuck are you going to do that? There is no evidence. Are you going to march into his office and force him to confess?"
A slow smile crossed Mac's face. "If I have to."
"Bullshit. You have nothing to go on—"
"I have my gut. And my gut is telling me I'm right."
"Your gut. You know as well as I do that your gut isn't proof."
"Maybe not." Mac raised one hand and absently ran the tips of his fingers over the scars lining the lower half of his face. He dropped his hand and smiled that cold smile once more. "But we know what happened the last time I ignored my gut."
Silence greeted his words, as he knew it would. Daryl had been there that night. Jonathan Reigler hadn't been far behind. They both knew he'd had a bad feeling about that mission, knew he'd been sure something was off. And it had been—terribly, mortally off. The explosions still haunted him. The rock and sway of the Humvee as it hit the IED. The staccato burst of gunfire coming from both sides as their line was ambushed. The screams, cut brutally short. The heat of the baking desert and the stench of blood and death.
The dying whimper of PFC Sterling as he thrashed in Mac's arms, his tactical vest shredded like a dog's toy, the ceramic plates inside that should have protected him shattered. The sight of the kid's belly torn open, his eviscerated guts pulsing beneath the lights of flickering flames. The horror of being helpless. The hopelessness of knowing that, even if he'd been able to, there was nothing he could do for the kid. The gut-wrenching certainty that Mac was responsible—for the ambush, for the screams, for the deaths.
The kid had just turned nineteen. Nineteen-fucking-years-old with his entire life in front of him—a life cut short because Mac hadn'
t listened to his gut.
Because some fuckhead in DC wanted to line his fucking pockets at the cost of every nameless, faceless soldier serving in hell.
Boomer and Wolf—Ryder Hess and Sebastian Wood, two of the men who now worked with them at Cover Six Security—hadn't been there that night. Hell, Mac hadn't even known them back then. But they knew bits of the story. Had probably lived a similar version during their own stints in hell.
And they sure as hell saw the evidence on Mac's scarred face every damn day.
Reigs shifted in the leather chair—the son-of-a-bitch had plopped down behind Mac's desk like he owned the fucking place—his gaze bouncing between Daryl and Mac. He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back, silently studying Mac for a long second before speaking.
"You sure you're looking at this with a clear head?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Reigs shrugged. "It means you and the Senator have an ugly history. You sure that isn't clouding your judgment?"
"The son-of-a-bitch was guilty as sin. Everyone knows it."
"There was no proof—"
"The hell there wasn't. There was plenty of proof. Everyone just ignored it."
Jonathan narrowed his eyes, kept his gaze focused on Mac as he spoke, each word clipped and precise. "There. Was. No. Proof."
"Because they chose to bury it during the hearings." Mac's voice hummed with the pent-up fury he still retained from three years ago. "He was taking kickbacks from the contractor to favor their high bid when he damn well knew there were issues with the equipment. When he knew it was faulty and could cost men their lives. They all knew. Every damn one of them."
And the son-of-a-bitch had gotten away with it. The hearing had been nothing more than a token attempt at appearances six months after the ambush. Less than two days of testimony and nothing more than circumstantial evidence that was dismissed as being inconclusive. The entire thing had barely made a blip in the media, quickly buried beneath the sex scandals of several high-profile aides on the Hill. Mac still wondered about the convenient timing, still wondered how much those aides had been paid for the timely distraction. He never said that out loud, though, knowing he'd be accused of seeing conspiracies in the smallest things.
The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel Page 3
