The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  And, apparently, a distraction to her entire office, too.

  They'd only been here for three hours. Plenty of time to sit through the meeting and go over next week's assignments. Plenty of time for her to finish the current assignments she was working on. Two simple stories. Feel-good fluff pieces, the kind of stuff she was used to. The research was done and verified, the interviews completed. All she needed to do was write the stories. At any other time, the first one would have already been finished and the second one outlined.

  But not today.

  Today had been just one interruption after another after another. First came the questions about the fire. The same dozen questions asked by a dozen different people.

  What happened?

  Was she okay?

  Did they know what caused it?

  Did she know how lucky she was?

  Had she found a place to stay yet?

  She wasn't sure. Yes. No. Yes. And yes.

  Except that last question was always accompanied by a speculative gaze—not at her, at Mac. And she was fairly certain that most everyone who asked if she had found a place to stay yet couldn't care less, not when they were too busy mentally undressing Mac and imagining what lay beneath the layer of clothes he wore.

  Ha. As if they'd ever find out.

  And who was she kidding? She'd done her own fair share of casting hungry gazes in Mac's direction, mentally undressing him even as she wondered how any man could make desert combat boots, tactical pants, and a plain black polo look so damn sexy. Maybe it was the way those pants hugged the curve of that tight ass. Or the way his broad chest filled out the polo and how the sleeves of that soft shirt pulled tight across his arms.

  At least he wasn't wearing his shoulder holster. She'd seen that when she walked downstairs earlier this morning and almost threw a fit. She had stomped her foot—actually stomped it, like she was a five-year-old who hadn't gotten her way—and told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was no way he could wear a shoulder holster to her office.

  Instead of the argument she had expected, Mac simply shrugged and disappeared into his den, then came back out a few minutes later. No holster—and no gun in sight. But she wasn't stupid—she knew he was armed. She knew it. But she had no idea where he was concealing his weapon.

  And she had looked. Had really looked. Hard.

  Not that he gave any indication of even noticing.

  No, this was Mac. He noticed. He just wasn't acknowledging it.

  And how unfair was that? After last night, it took every ounce of concentration to even try to focus on work. Every single time she closed her eyes, she could see him.

  Hear him. His hoarse voice letting her know in graphic detail exactly what he wanted.

  Feel him. His rough hands gripping her, guiding her as he drove into her. Hard. Deep.

  TR forced her eyes open, forced herself to focus on the stupid computer screen in front of her as she swallowed back the need surging through her. Holy hell, she was never going to get any work done, not if she couldn't stop thinking about last night—

  "You okay?"

  TR jumped, a small squeak of surprise falling from her parted lips. The pen in her hand went flying, flipping end-over-end until Mac deftly caught it mid-air. He curled his fingers around it then looked down at her, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. Or maybe it was a silent question. Or maybe—oh hell, she didn't know. And she couldn't look at him, not without her face turning a million shades of red because she had no doubt he knew exactly what she had been thinking. The flash of amusement dancing in his dark eyes told her that much.

  She reached up and snagged the pen from his grip then turned away, avoiding his laughing gaze. "I'm fine."

  "You sure? You seem distracted."

  "I said I'm fine."

  "I thought you were writing that article."

  "I am."

  "Oh." A pause. "Then shouldn't you be typing or something?"

  TR squealed in frustration then spun her chair around and tilted her head back so she could glare at Mac. "I am. As soon as you stop hovering. I can't concentrate when you're hovering."

  "I'm not hovering."

  "Yes, you are. This—" She pointed up at him, wagged her finger through the air. "This is hovering. Standing over me like that, staring at me, is hovering."

  "But I've been sitting over there, working on paperwork." He pointed to the chair pushed against the cubicle wall behind him. A small portable desk was placed next to the chair, a stack of papers neatly lined up on its surface.

  TR narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not sitting there now, are you? No, you're not. Because you're hovering."

  Mac chuckled, the sound deep and rich and warm. "Are you always this cranky when you don't get enough sleep?"

  "And whose fault is that?"

  He chuckled again then leaned down, pressed his mouth against her ear, his warm breath sending tingles of awareness shooting over every nerve ending. But it was his voice—rough and hoarse and filled with harsh need—that made her melt in a puddle of desire.

  "Wait until tonight. When I slide my hard cock deep inside your tight pussy. When I drive into you. Hard and fast. Over and over until you scream my name. Until your hot cum coats my cock. My tongue. Until—"

  "Stop!" She pushed him away, took a shuddering breath and crossed her legs to ease the burning ache between them. And damn if he didn't chuckle again, the sound low and warm and so deliciously dangerous.

  She took another deep breath then turned toward him, shooting him a glare that should have made him wither in fear. Yeah, right. Like anything could make Mac wither in fear.

  He laughed again then stepped back with a slight grimace, reaching down to adjust himself. "Fuck. That backfired."

  TR's gaze travelled down to the bulge at the front of his pants then back up to meet his intense eyes. "Serves you right."

  The corner of his mouth quirked in sexy grin as he sat back down, adjusting himself once more. "It was worth it."

  "Hmm." She pulled in another breath, still trying to calm her racing pulse, then started laughing. Mac leaned forward, his brows raised in silent question.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. It's just—they always say it's the quiet ones you need to watch out for."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yeah. Definitely."

  He frowned, the first hint of worry shadowing his eyes. "You complaining?"

  "No. God, no. Not in the least."

  The worry lifted from his gaze and he sat back, a hint of a smile on his face. "Good."

  And damn if he didn't go back to his paperwork, looking calm and poised and totally focused, like their last exchange had never happened. How did he do that?

  TR rolled her eyes then turned back to her own computer, trying to clear her mind so she could focus on the words in front of her. It surprised her to realize she could. That instead of the continued distraction she had expected because of the man behind her, she could now focus on the story. On getting the words out.

  Thirty minutes later, she was sending the final copy to the proofreader. With luck, she'd have it back tomorrow for any needed corrections, go over it one final time, then be able to send it to her editor in plenty of time to make the deadline.

  One down.

  One to go.

  TR leaned back in the chair and raised her arms over her head for a much-needed stretch. A small ding announced an incoming email and she cut her stretch off halfway through with a groan. She nudged the mouse over her email program and clicked the tab to maximize it, frowning when she saw there was no sender listed for the new message.

  She opened it, her eyes skimming the message as her pulse kicked into gear. She read it again, just to be sure she wasn't seeing things, then turned in her chair. "Mac."

  He must have heard something in her voice, or maybe he could sense the excitement mingling with her confusion. Why didn't matter because he was suddenly next to her, reading the email over her shoulder.

&n
bsp; You should talk to Dr. Matthew Kettle. He might be able to share some insight on our mutual friend.

  "What the fuck?" Mac muttered the words, almost like he was talking to himself, but they were an exact copy of what TR wanted to say. She opened her mouth, ready to ask him what he thought of it, but he was already nudging her out of the way, his large hands flying across the keyboard with a smooth efficiency that surprised her.

  Then she realized what he was doing and tried to push him away. "Stop! You can't just forward my email—"

  "I'm sending it to Chaos. See if he can trace it."

  "But—" Her objection died before she could utter it. Wouldn't she have done the same thing? Yes. In fact, she already had, when she had given a copy of the first email to Chaos to see if he could trace it. Why was she so worried about protecting potential sources now, when she had already violated that principle?

  Because it still upset her. Sources were to be protected at all costs, no matter what. Journalists had gone to prison for doing just that. But was this person really a source? Or were they simply playing games? Was there something bigger here than even she could imagine?

  Maybe. What else could explain the accident? The fire? Was TR so willing to play games with her own life to protect the anonymous sender of an email that may or may not mean anything?

  Yes, she was. But it wasn't her life she was worried about—it was the man next to her, calmly straightening as he reached for his phone. The man she knew would do anything to keep her safe. The man who had already saved her twice.

  Yes, she was willing to gamble with her own life—but not with Mac's. And if that made her a hypocrite or untrustworthy or a hundred other different things, then so be it.

  Mac's voice droned in the background, low and calm, professional. She ignored the words, slid closer to the desk and clicked the email, expanding the header as much as she could. She reached for the thumb drive hanging from a hook, popped it into the computer, and quickly copied the email. Then she clicked the print button and waited while her printer spat out a single sheet of paper.

  "Try to reply."

  She looked over, saw Mac hovering by her side, his gaze focused on her computer screen. He looked down at her then pointed to the screen.

  "TR, try to reply. See what happens."

  She shook her head, her fingers already racing across the keyboard.

  Who is this?

  She hit send then waited. Ten seconds went by. Twenty. Thirty. Her computer dinged and she opened the incoming message, already knowing what it would say.

  Undeliverable. Invalid address. Recipient name is not recognized.

  Mac swore under his breath then stepped out of the cubicle, his voice too low to catch more than an occasional word here and there. That didn't stop TR from trying to listen, from trying to make out what he was saying.

  Her phone rang, the shrill noise startling her. Not her cell phone, which was still tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, but her desk phone. She lifted the receiver in the middle of the second ring, hesitated before answering with a professional, "Hello?"

  "TR Meyers?"

  "Yes. Speaking."

  "Ah, my dear, I'm so glad I caught you. Is this a bad time?"

  TR frowned, trying to place the voice. There was nothing about it that was familiar. "No. Of course not."

  "Splendid. Absolutely splendid. I was wondering if we could meet?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name. Who is this?"

  "It's me." The raspy voice chuckled, the sound almost child-like, as if the speaker truly thought the simple phrase clearly indicated who he was. "We didn't get a chance to really talk much at the party the other night, did we?"

  TR pulled the receiver away from her ear and frowned at it. She shook her head, certain she was losing her mind, and moved it back to her ear. "Senator?"

  "Yes, dear. I said as much, didn't I?"

  "I—I'm sorry, sir. I must have missed that." She launched from her chair, poked her head around the corner and snapped her fingers in Mac's direction to get his attention. "You said you wanted to meet with me again, Senator?"

  Mac's brows shot up and he spoke into his own phone, quickly ending the call before hurrying back.

  "That's the Senator?" He mouthed the question, the words completely silent. TR nodded then returned to her chair, scrambling for a notepad.

  "Senator? Are you still there?"

  "What's that, dear?"

  "You said you wanted to meet again?"

  "Again? No, of course not. We've never met. That's why I was calling."

  TR shot a glance at Mac, wondering if he'd been able to hear. Yes, he had—and he looked as confused as she did. He waved his hands, motioning for her to keep going.

  "Um. Yes. Okay. A meeting. Sure."

  "A meeting sounds like a splendid idea. We didn't really get a chance to talk much at the party the other night, did we?"

  TR scribbled a few words on the notepad and slid it toward Mac. He already said that. "Um, no. No, we didn't."

  "It was a lovely party, don't you think?"

  "Yes, sir. I—I had fun. Thank you again for inviting me."

  "My pleasure, dear. Although I am disappointed in the company you've been keeping."

  TR's brows snapped over her eyes. "Excuse me?"

  "That man you were with. He's really not the kind of company you should keep."

  TR opened her mouth, ready to defend Mac—but Mac nudged her and shook his head, an expression of warning on his face. He scribbled a note and pushed it toward her.

  Agree with him. Tell him it was just the one night.

  She pursed her lips and shook her head, tried to ignore the silent command he was giving her. "It...It was just the one night, Senator. I—I don't really know him."

  "I do hope you aren't planning on seeing him again. He's really not the kind of company you should keep."

  Mac underlined three words on the notepad, pressing so hard that the pen actually gouged the paper.

  Agree with him.

  TR clenched her jaw, glared at Mac then forced the lie from her lips, trying not to gag on the words. "I—I agree with you, Senator."

  "Lovely, dear. I knew you were smarter than that. And once I give you the information I have on him, you'll understand."

  "I'm sorry. Information?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "What kind of information?"

  "On Sergeant MacGregor, of course. On the kind of man he really is. I'm sure you'll be quite interested in it."

  "You have information on Ma—on the sergeant?"

  "Yes."

  TR waited, realized the Senator wasn't going to say anything else, not unless she spoke first. "Um, did you want to meet?"

  "Meet, dear?"

  "Yes. So you can give me the information."

  "That's a perfect idea. We can meet tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow. That works." Mac leaned forward, started shaking his head, mouthing the word No, followed by a few choice swear words. TR tightened her hand on the receiver and turned away from him. "What time tomorrow?"

  "After lunch? Maybe two o'clock?"

  "Two is perfect. Where should we meet?"

  "Meet?" The Senator's voice drifted off and for a few agonizing seconds, TR was afraid he'd disconnected the call. She heard rustling in the background, another voice, too faint to make out. Then the Senator spoke again, his voice a little stronger this time. "Yes, let's meet. Can you meet at my office?"

  "Yes, sir. Of course. Your office at two o'clock."

  "Two would be perfect. Until tomorrow, my dear."

  TR stared at the phone for a long minute after the Senator disconnected. Then she dropped the receiver into the cradle and wiped her palm against her pants leg. It was irrational, feeling as if she'd somehow been contaminated from a simple call.

  But the call had been anything but simple and irrational or not, she still felt dirty from it.

  TR finished wiping her hand then took a deep breath, steadyi
ng herself before facing Mac. Just as she'd expected, he wasn't happy. In fact, he looked pissed.

  Or maybe murderous was a more accurate description.

  He opened his mouth—no doubt to bark an order and tell her she wasn't going tomorrow. She interrupted him before he could get the first word out.

  "I think maybe it's time you tell me what happened between you and the Senator. And what kind of information he thinks he has on you."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tension hung in the air. Thick. Choking. Mac clawed at his neck, like that would somehow help him breathe. Like gouging the lump from his throat would clear his fucking airway so he could finally suck air into lungs that were filling with desperation.

  Not even that would help. Nothing would help—except for taking TR away from here. Far away, someplace remote and fucking safe, dammit. And keeping her there until this was over.

  But dammit all to hell, he didn't even fucking know what this was, had no fucking clue what was going on. All he knew was that he did not want her meeting with Senator Suck-ass tomorrow—under any circumstances. No fucking way. No fucking how.

  And fuck. Fuck it all, because that wasn't an option. Even if he knocked her unconscious and tossed her over his shoulder and carted her away to some safe, remote spot, she'd still find a way to make it back—and never speak to him again afterward.

  Fine. Fuck it. It was worth losing her if it came to that. It was worth anything if it meant keeping her safe.

  So what was stopping him? Not TR. She might kick and scream and bitch, but she wouldn't be able to stop him. Not physically. So why didn't he do it? Why didn't he just throw her over his shoulder and carry her off?

  No, TR wouldn't stop him.

  But the other men surrounding her might.

  And why the fuck were they even here? Once again invading the sanctity of his house instead of the fucking warehouse they had spent a fortune on renovating and retrofitting into what they needed. Mac still wasn't sure why everyone was here instead of at HQ. Why they were crowded into his office instead of the large conference room at the warehouse.

  Why every single one of them was watching him. Studying him.

  Waiting.

  He ignored them—Daryl, Boomer, Wolf. Even Chaos, who should be back at the warehouse tracking down that fucking email, finding out where the hell it had come from. Fine. Whatever. Let them all stare. He didn't give a shit about any of them. The only person he cared about was the woman perched on the edge of the leather sofa, her hands carefully folded in her lap, watching him with pale blue eyes filled with questions he didn't want to answer.