by Tiffany Snow
With an air kiss and a flurry of blond hair, she was past me and out the door, a cloud of flowery perfume left in her wake.
“Choosing bridesmaids already? I thought you had to say yes first.”
I glanced up at where Clark stood at the top of the stairs. He had a towel around his neck, another around his waist, and that was all.
Wow, was the first thought in my head, which was really the only correct response to a near-naked, damp Clark. The next thought was, Isn’t he cold? Which was the one I ended up voicing.
“Aren’t you cold? It’s February.”
“I take very hot showers.”
That provoked more images I didn’t need. Shaking my head, I firmly set my gaze back on the dishes that still needed loading. I had a boyfriend, maybe even a fiancé. I didn’t need to be drooling over another man, no matter how drool-worthy he might be.
“So, when you gonna talk to Coop?”
I jumped, startled. How he’d come up behind me without me hearing anything was beyond me. For a big guy, he could move as silently as a cat. I mean, I assumed cats were pretty quiet. I’d never owned one, but that was one of those idioms again.
“Um, I, uh . . .” I struggled to focus on what he’d asked. Clark was currently pouring a cup of coffee for himself, and he’d left one of his two towels in the bathroom. I had a brief flash of regret that it had been the one around his neck. “I mean, yeah . . . at some point. There are more important things on our plate right now.”
He was leaning against the counter, one hand braced on the edge, the other holding his coffee. The morning light dappled across his chest, and I suddenly found a pressing need to reorganize the utensils in the silverware drawer. Mia had put the soup spoons with the regular spoons, which was wrong wrong wrong.
“So you’re just going to keep him in suspense?”
Salad forks didn’t belong with dinner forks . . .
“I doubt he’s in suspense,” I said, moving cutlery. “Men don’t usually ask that question without knowing the answer. I would guess he assumes my answer is the affirmative.”
“But it’s not.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say yes either.”
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation I didn’t want to be having anyway. I hurried to look through the peephole. I jerked back and clapped my hands over my mouth.
“Mmph,” I mumbled.
“Who is it?” Clark asked, coming up next to me. He’d left the coffee behind and now held a gun. I had no idea where he’d gotten it. Not a lot else could possibly fit underneath that towel.
“It’s Jackson,” I hissed. “He can’t see you. Not here. And especially not like . . . that.”
Clark’s lips twisted. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
The knock came again, more insistent. “China? Are you there?” Jackson called through the door.
“You have to hide.” I grabbed Clark’s arm and pulled open the coat closet. “In here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groused.
Jackson knocked again, harder. “China?”
“Just get in!” I put my palms on his chest and pushed, which was a mistake. The minute my skin touched his, I sucked in my breath and froze. His flesh was warm and his muscles rock hard. I was standing too close and we were both inside the closet, shrouded in darkness. His eyes seemed to glow in the low light, his gaze locked on mine.
For a moment, I didn’t breathe. I could only think of how close he was and how very little he was wearing. There had always been an energy between Clark and me, but it had transformed into a friendship and partnership. Now it was morphing again, and I wasn’t ready.
Jerking away, I slammed the door in his face, then spun to open the front door. Jackson looked worried, then relieved, when he saw me.
“S-sorry,” I stammered, pushing my glasses up my nose. “I was . . . upstairs.” I took a breath. “What are you doing here?”
His brows lifted. “Seriously? After last night, did you think I was just going to let you go to work today?”
I stared at him, flummoxed. “What else am I supposed to do?”
“Come with me.”
“Come with you where?”
“Nebraska.”
Surely I’d misheard him. “Nebraska? What’s in Nebraska?” I asked.
“Your family.”
Okay, that shut me up. Jackson must’ve read the confusion on my face, because he said, “I thought, if we’re getting married, we need to meet your family.”
So much was wrong with that sentence, I couldn’t process it all at once. “I’m not going to Nebraska. I have to go to work.”
He sighed. “I figured you’d say that. Fine. I’ll take you. We’ll discuss it on the way.”
Yay.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my backpack and coat from the chair by the door. I followed Jackson out, leaving a nearly naked Clark hidden in my closet. I decided that my routine wasn’t just off today—it was descending into soap-opera territory.
4
“I can’t do this right now,” I argued with Jackson on the way to Vigilance. We were in the back seat of his car, and Lance was driving. “There’s too much to be done. The president’s . . .” BFF didn’t sound right. “. . . staff will want an update, and I have to have something to give them.” Anything to avoid the topic of marriage.
“Any thoughts on who might have done it?”
“Not yet. But I’m hoping the Secret Service and my staff will have more information today.”
Jackson pulled me over so that I straddled his lap. “I missed you last night. It wasn’t exactly how I’d planned on ending our evening. So, which fandom are you wearing today?” His hands were on my hips and he spread open my coat so he could see my T-shirt. “Team Moose,” he read.
“It was either this or my Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey one,” I said. “I went for simple. And Mia freaked over the glasses.” I laughed. “I think you’ve earned sainthood in her book.”
“That’ll be the only book where I earn that particular designation,” he said wryly.
Jackson looked good today, going casual with jeans and a navy sweater layered over a striped button-down shirt. His hair was a bit askew from running his fingers through it. Unlike Clark’s hair, which always fell perfectly back into place when he did that.
Clark. Not a good thing to be thinking about right now.
“You look yummy,” I said, forcing my thoughts to the here and now. Leaning in, I kissed him. A slow, sweet, good-morning kiss that smelled of his aftershave and tasted of coffee.
“Yummy?” he asked when we parted.
“Yep. I could eat you up. I mean, not literally, but I’ve been working on idioms and euphemisms.”
“Excellent work.”
“Thank you,” I said, pleased at the compliment on my progress. “So where are you going to be today? Cysnet? Or working from home?” His “real” company that did “real” work, as opposed to SocialSpeak, the social network he’d invented that had made him a multimillionaire.
“Yes. I have several meetings, and work that can’t be done remotely.”
“Okay. Text me later.” I kissed him again as the car pulled to a stop. I hopped out, but Jackson snagged my hand, stopping me.
“You forgot this,” he said. And before I knew it, he’d slid the diamond ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly. Jackson’s smile was brilliant.
“Right,” I said, forcing my fake smile. “Gotta go.”
Lance had dropped me off at the “official” entrance to Vigilance via the parking garage. I had to swipe my ID, my palm print, then be scanned for physical anomalies that didn’t match the profile on record before being allowed inside. Not wanting to answer anyone’s questions, I slipped the engagement ring into the pocket of my jeans.
Meetings and e-mail consumed my morning, though the reports were dismal. No one could find a digital footprint that led to the perpetrator, and the S
ecret Service wasn’t sharing any information that they had.
“So basically, we’re no better off than we were last night,” I said to the room at large. All the department heads were gathered around the conference room, and we’d spent the better part of three hours going through stacks of information that all led to the same place: nowhere.
“Sorry, boss,” Roscoe said, looking even more droopy than usual. Eeyore was his spirit animal.
It was frustrating to be in such a position and not know what to do next. Vigilance was a secret organization that had no public profile. We didn’t show up at crime scenes and investigate. We collected and analyzed data, then handed over what we found to those who took care of such matters. When Clark had worked there, we’d had a quasi-military arm that he’d directed. I’d closed that division down once he’d left, uncomfortable with replacing him, especially since the legality of those kinds of operations was rather dubious.
“Has the FBI discovered anything?” I asked Tessa, our liaison between Vigilance and other government offices.
“Forensics is working on it, but nothing yet,” she said.
“Okay, then, unless something else comes up, it’s business as usual.” I got up and everyone else began gathering their things as well.
I headed back to my office, hoping Scary BFF Kade didn’t call me again. Maybe I could earn my salary by helping Clark, starting with the list he’d given me.
It wasn’t much to go on. He’d written down six names. Logging on to my computer, I went to work.
Hours later, my searches came back with mixed results. They weren’t easy people to find, and it wasn’t as though I was just Googling. I had access to not only Vigilance, but FBI databases and municipal law enforcement, too. I stuffed my research inside my backpack so I could take it to Clark. Some of it wasn’t good and only increased my worry for him.
I rubbed my eyes underneath my glasses. I was tired and starving. I’d worked through lunch and hadn’t stopped except to snag a Red Bull from the break room’s fridge. Speaking of which, it was time for another one.
I was in the break room when it happened.
Loud noises, shouting, lots of booted feet on the metal staircase. People were here who weren’t supposed to be.
Instinctively, I yanked open the supply-closet door and tucked myself inside. It wasn’t big, but then again, neither was I. Crouching down amid the stacks of paper towels and cartons of coffee creamer, I listened and waited, my heart in my throat.
I could hear loud arguing, but no gunshots. Lots of footsteps went by, the steel mesh staircase and suspended walkways reverberating with the traffic. I pondered what to do. My cell was on my desk and there was no phone in the break room.
It grew quiet and still I waited. It had felt like forever, though the clock inside my head said more like twenty-three minutes. I couldn’t stay here all night. I needed to get back to my desk and my phone.
My office was one corridor away, but it felt like a mile. Every step I took had me wincing, waiting for someone to hear me. The normal hubbub of a full office was absent, giving the whole place the menacing quality of an empty high school at night.
Someone was already there, in my office. I could see the light was on as I hesitated at the corner. A man’s arm, resting on my desk, was visible from my vantage point, but nothing else. I stood for a moment, then made a decision. This was my department and that was my office. Whoever had usurped it and terrorized my staff would have to answer for it.
Stiffening my spine, I stopped creeping and marched to my door and swept inside. I faltered for only a second when I saw who sat at my desk.
“About time you showed up,” the president’s BFF said to me. He hadn’t even bothered to glance up from the computer monitor. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the two chairs opposite him.
“You’re in it,” I retorted, folding my arms over my chest.
He did look up then, and the coolness in his gaze made me rethink my minor rebellion. Kade Dennon wasn’t someone you crossed, I bet. At least, not twice. I sat.
“We have a bit of a situation,” he said.
“We were working on it, until your men cleared out my people.”
“I’m not a fan of kid gloves when dealing with terrorists.”
“We’re not the guilty party here,” I protested.
“No, but you employed one. Maybe more.”
That stopped me. I frowned in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“We have intelligence that Clark Slattery was behind the assassination attempt.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. “That . . . that’s impossible. Clark is military—”
“Ex-military,” Dennon interrupted. “The best kind for wetwork.”
“I know him,” I said. “He would never do something like that. I don’t know what intelligence you have, but I would seriously consider the veracity and reliability of your source.”
“Right now, you should be more worried about how reliable I find you.” He leaned back in my chair and folded his hands, surveying me, the look in his eye glacial. My mouth went dry.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you’ve had unprecedented access to a great deal of information. Just a few months ago, you were in a situation with a nation known for their hostile intentions toward the United States. How do we know you weren’t compromised?”
Anger surged inside me and I gripped the arms of the chair to keep my control. “The Chinese beat and threatened me,” I gritted out. “Now you’re accusing me of working for them?”
“Pain and threats work,” he replied evenly. “Or else no one would use them.”
I took a breath. “I see.” My voice was icy. “So now not only are you accusing Clark of plotting to kill the president, I’m under suspicion, too?” Nice to know I was valued.
“You’re dangerous,” Dennon said with a shrug. “And my job is to protect the president.”
“Isn’t that the Secret Service’s job?”
His sharp gaze narrowed. “I take a . . . personal interest in his safety.”
“I’m not planning anything, nor am I working for anyone who is,” I said.
He flicked a switch on the computer in front of him and swiveled the screen so I could see. It was grainy security footage. I saw the same figure we’d seen before, only this time, he turned and I got a glimpse of his face. The picture froze on the screen, then enlarged, showing someone who looked very much like Clark in the black-and-white footage.
“That-that can’t be,” I stammered, staring at the grainy image. “Clark would never do that. He’d never try to assassinate someone.”
“Then what am I looking at?”
“I don’t know, but that can’t be him. Or . . . the footage has been altered somehow. But Clark would never try to kill President Kirk.”
“Trust me,” Dennon said. “With the right incentive, anyone will do anything.” Something about the way he said that made me think he had personal experience.
“So, if you think Clark’s the sniper, why are you shutting us down? We can find him.”
“I don’t trust you, or that Vigilance hasn’t been compromised. Until we find out, you’re closed for business.”
“And how am I supposed to prove that I’m one of the good guys? Take a lie-detector test?” Which was beatable, but still.
He rolled his eyes. “Please. As if I’d trust that thing. No, you’re going to prove you’re not involved by finding Clark Slattery and handing him over. To me.”
I went still. “Hand him over to you . . . for what?”
“That’s above your pay grade. Just do as you’re told.”
“And I won’t get hurt?” I added.
Dennon smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “I didn’t say that. Just do your job.”
“How? You’ve taken away the best tool we have.”
“You’re a smart girl, China. You’ll figure it out.”
I left Vigilance through the “front” door, escorted by two men with guns. The locks clicked shut and somehow I doubted my ID card would get me back in. I had the heebie-jeebies. The Men in Black hadn’t exactly been friendly or chatty.
My phone buzzed with a text message, and I picked it up.
Meet me across the street. Usual place.
Okay, the number was one I didn’t know, and “usual place” was ubiquitous. I texted back, Who is this?
I used the Poo-Pourri.
Ah. Clark.
Okay.
The sun had long since set, which meant I went to work and came home in the dark. I jogged across the street to the little Italian eatery, grateful for the tomato-scented warm air that enveloped me when I stepped inside. Clark was sitting at the far-corner red-and-white checked table with his back to the wall. I hurried over, pulled out the spindly wooden chair, and sat down.
“I ordered for you,” Clark said. He was in his usual jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket. I wondered if he had several leather jackets that were all the same and he alternated, or if it was just the one.
“I haven’t told you what I wanted,” I said. “How could you possibly order for me?”
His eye roll was epic. “I’ve never seen you eat anything but the same kind of pizza. I took a guess.”
Just then the waitress arrived, setting a cola and a cannoli in front of me.
“I can’t eat this first,” I protested. “It’s dessert.” But she was already gone.
“Have dessert first,” he said. “Life’s short.”
I looked at him, then the cannoli, then him again. I picked up the fork.
“How’d the search go?” he asked. His eyes flicked beyond me, constantly moving and watching. His posture looked casual, but I knew he was tense and alert.
“I have some bad news, and some worse news,” I said through a mouthful of cannoli. “Which do you want first?”
“You pick.”
“Two of the men you listed are deceased.”
There was a moment before Clark replied, which I supposed was all the emotional response he was going to give.
