by Leslie North
Damian allowed himself a moment to feel dizzy. Then he got out of his car.
The woman didn't shrink as Damian approached, though her slender arms fidgeted. He wondered what she was contemplating more—his nondescript outfit, or his towering, decidedly descript build. He didn't blame her for looking uncertainly to her escort for a confirmation of Damian's identity.
"Stone," said the man in black.
Damian took ownership of the name with a slight nod. He flashed the escort his credentials, but his focus never veered from Alexa’s stare. Eye contact was the first non-verbal to gaining her trust. Her Nordic-blue eyes, as breathtaking as the rest of her at close proximity, tightened to a glare.
Her escort took the hint and departed without further comment.
"You're a cop," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Retired," he acknowledged.
"You don't walk like you're retired."
She was observant, then, as well as being a knock-out. Damian wondered how her defenses would impact their shared situation. He had been on the receiving end of that mistrustful look a time or two before when he still wore the uniform.
"Why don't we get some coffee?" he redirected. "Have you eaten anything?"
"Shouldn't we be heading out? I mean, isn't it dangerous, now that I'm…?"
"You're with me."
Volkov’s perfectly-shaped eyebrows twisted in a not-so-perfect fashion, no doubt her brain working to process his meaning. He had used the statement to calm skittish clients before, but the words hadn’t struck him as odd until they left his lips in the presence of a beautiful woman.
"What I mean to say is that you're safe, Miss Volkov. You can trust me to make decisions. Patronizing the diner will make our visit to the premises less suspicious."
Her steady, contemplative blinks seemed to indicate a shift, a consent to delay judgment until more information presented itself. Lines at her forehead eased then disappeared.
Damian guided her to the diner’s entrance and held the door for her.
Volkov stalled in the doorway and looked up at him with a wan smile. "Tell me again how you're retired? Even your words are blue." She ducked beneath the pillar of his arm to enter.
In her wake, her fragrance wafted to his nose—something blossoms and vanilla and rain, rolled into one.
The scent soothed his jacked nerves. Always first-meet nerves.
The Sizzling Griddle diner was cramped, built like a long railcar with red vinyl booths lining the outer wall. Volkov took direction from him beautifully and didn't stop until they had sequestered themselves in a secluded corner. A cursory glance satisfied Damian that they were a good distance from the windows. He took a seat on the stool beside her, trying to assess how much he was allowed to study a woman under his protection while still retaining his professionalism.
Seeing her in poor lighting only made things worse. She might be anyone. He might be anyone. Their first meeting might be a thing of chance, rather than a life-preserving necessity.
"How was your escort?" he asked. If they were strangers in a diner, he certainly wouldn’t have opened with that line.
"Strong. Silent. He looked a little ridiculous. You, on the other hand…" She paused when Damian removed his baseball cap and place it on the table beside his wallet, seemingly changing her mind about what she planned to say at the last moment. "Your name is Stone?"
He didn't correct her. An adherence to last names was a good boundary to encourage. Instead, he nodded to a passing waitress, who obliged him by overturning his mug and pouring him a cup of coffee. Alexa declined a cup.
"How did you get into this line of work?" she asked after their waitress left.
Damian raised the mug to his lips.
"Were you discharged?"
"No."
"No offense, but you look too young to have retired by choice. And if you were injured in the line of duty, I doubt this would be your logical next assignment. You have to be able to protect me, right?"
Damian lowered his coffee without having taken a sip. Answers about his past could make or break her trust in him.
"Am I right?" she pressed.
"Miss Volkov, if the question is whether or not I am capable of protecting you, then I assure you that you are in safe hands."
She sat back from the bar and crossed her arms. Damian wondered if she was going to order anything to eat, or if this had been a wasted effort to appear unsuspicious. When the waitress returned, he took the liberty of ordering two stacks of pancakes. A possible overstep, but their first meeting couldn't derail much faster.
Volkov ate her meal dutifully, speaking little. Damian accepted a refill on his coffee. It was a long drive back to the safe house, and he couldn't afford to let last night's fitful sleep show. He paid in cash, and they quietly exited the diner.
A man watched them from a sidewalk, half a block away, half-concealed by a parked Jeep.
Damian’s hand seized her elbow. He kept the movement casual, overfamiliar for the benefit of anyone who might be looking, but the pressure his hand exerted left little question as to his intention.
Volkov stopped walking. "What is it?"
Damian leaned toward her, his body as close as a lover, his answer a whisper. “Trouble.”
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