Strike Force

by Beth Rhodes

  Chapter Two

  His doorbell rang at almost eleven the next evening. He’d packed, run through a few of his programs, played Assassin’s Creed, and was in his gym—the only clean place in his apartment at the moment. His computer room had exploded with his latest project, and his living-room-slash-gaming-room-slash-bedroom looked like what it was…confused.

  He pulled himself over the bar one last time and dropped to the mat below. He grabbed the chamois off the hook on the wall and wiped his neck, face, and chest. His fingers bumped over the scar bisecting his pectoral.

  His wake-up call.

  He tugged a t-shirt back on. When he went through the confused room, he stopped to open the blinds. Stepping over the pile of movie cases, he scowled in disgust and then opened the front door.

  Marie. “Fuck. What are you doing here?”

  “Is that how you say ‘hi’ to all your friends?” Her brow rose.

  Speechless, he hesitated, not sure what to say. Friends. She’d said the word, but he still struggled to equate what they had with something he shared with…say, Craig or John.

  “I was thinking,” she began, as if sensing his dilemma, “maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  Forget feet—the sight of her and those big eyes had his tired body reacting…inappropriately, or appropriately if they were on a path toward being in his bed. He cleared his throat and thought about the last string of code he’d created for Tangent Media.

  Her hands fluttered to her sides and she shrugged, reminding him of how small she was, but delicate? No. “Look, if we have to spend the next few days together, I’d like to clear the air.”

  Malcolm couldn’t invite her in. The mess was embarrassing, a problem he’d been meaning to fix. He glanced over his shoulder. “Um…”

  “Oh my God. Do you have someone in there with you?” Her eyes had gone even wider. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. Of course you have someone over. You’re leaving town for a few nights. And—” She paled. “Uh, you know what? I’ll just see you at the airport in the morning. I’m sorry.” She leaned, as if to yell around him. “I’m sorry,” she called out into his empty apartment.

  She turned to leave, and guilt rode his conscience to stopping her. “It’s not a woman,” he called out, immediately second-guessing himself. He wanted the distance. He didn’t need her thinking about him as single or available or…fuck, a liar. He prided himself on being straightforward and honest. “It’s only… Fuck. Weeks of not cleaning up.”

  Marie turned back, a wary look on her face. “It’s a bad time.”

  “It’s fine. Come in,” he said. “For a few minutes,” he added pointedly. She might be the drop-by-and-stay kind of girl. Admitting the lust was better than ignoring it, he told himself, feeling like a total prick. No matter if she was a crook or a sweet girl who really did want friendship.

  She could have turned over a new leaf.

  Or she could be playing them all.

  “I’m going to go get changed. I’ll be right back.” He hesitated. “Don’t steal anything.”

  “Hey.” She pouted, her bottom lip sticking out.

  He pressed his lips together on the groan wanting to escape.

  And then she surprised him by laughing. “Okay, okay. No touchy.”

  Oh, that did it. And why did her voice sound sultry?

  In his bedroom, he picked up his jeans and stepped into them. He removed the sweaty shirt and wiped himself with it before he tugged the shirt he’d had on earlier over his head. Shower later.

  She’d made herself at home in his kitchen and pulled down his only package of Oreos. “How do you eat these?” she asked.

  “The usual methods. Sometimes, I pop it in whole. Sometimes, I twist it open and lick the cream filling.”

  She swallowed. “Oh.” Her cheeks flushed, in the same moment he realized how those words sounded.

  “That’s not— I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean… Shit. I would never purposely make you uncomfortable. Shit. Talk about a sexual harassment suit.”

  She waved him off. “What I mean is…they’re horribly unhealthy, have a habit of getting stuck in your teeth, and, overall, aren’t exactly adult cuisine.”

  “Oh, that.” Heat rose on his neck. He shrugged. His history with Oreos was long and complicated.

  Marie leaned against his counter and waited, at ease, as if she belonged right where she was, waiting for a friend to say something. A flyaway strand of her hair fell against her face. Her eyes showed a warm interest he hadn’t seen in them before.

  Then she took a bite of Oreo. A little crumble stayed at the corner of her mouth until she licked it off with the tip of her tongue. Fuck. He cleared his throat. Friends. If she was going to push and insist on a truce, they could be friends. He could handle that.

  “I never had any of the extras growing up,” he finally said. “My first night on my own, I had enough money for very little. I bought a small bunch of bananas and a package of Oreos—”

  “Did you sit and eat the whole package or ration them?”

  It was a personality quiz, and he might have avoided answering. But for some reason, he looked at her and knew the shaky friendship they’d developed over the past several months either needed to take shape or be cast off completely if he was going to move on.

  “I rationed, eating three a day for almost two weeks.”

  “A big package.” She laughed at her double entendre. “Sorry.”

  His laughter came unexpected, and he cut it off, covering his mouth as his shoulders shook. “Geez.” When he looked up at her, she was smiling. Was this the truce she wanted? It was working.

  “You ready for tomorrow?” he said.

  “Almost.”

  He nodded. “Anything you want to share about this trip? You did say you wanted to ‘clear the air.’”

  She moved then, pacing away from him toward the hallway, which led to his bedroom. “No. It’s hard enough to work with someone who I’m close to. I thought it would be good if we were at least speaking. You’ve been avoiding me, Malcolm.”

  Self-preservation.

  “You have an uncle that lives on the coast, near Portland,” he said.

  “He is my uncle!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Sure,” he drawled, egging her on for no good reason other than he liked to see the fire in her eyes…and that blush on her pretty little neck. Glutton for punishment.

  She scowled at him. “He raised me. He’s at least seventy-five-years old.”

  Malcolm lifted his hands in surrender. “There’s fucking something, though,” he muttered.

  “There’s nothing,” she answered, the look in her eyes challenging him.

  He conceded with a nod.

  “We going to be okay?” she asked, serious again.

  “Have you given up your pickpocket ways?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “For the most part.”

  He considered her, taking in her open sandals and the long skirt with lace on the bottom and pretty metalwork on the belt at the top, below her navel. “You like people to see you a certain way. You fill a stereotype.”

  “I am what I am. A Romanian by birth. I come from a long line of proud, sometimes arrogant, people. My family.” Her chin went up, and he wanted to run the edge of his thumb along the soft skin revealed beneath it. “I like the peasant skirts, and I love the jewelry. That’s being a woman, nothing to do with my roots.”

  She never admitted to being a thief. But she’d wanted something in Germany. And that was what bothered him. What had she wanted and did she want now?

  There was only one way to find out—by staying close to her. “Okay.”

  “Okay, we’re going to be okay? Or okay, whatever you say…?”

  “Okay, the air is clear, and I’ll be watching you,” he added.

  She’d said she wanted to clear the air, but as far as he was concerned, the smoke screen was thick between them. She had plans for something, and if she wou
ldn’t talk to him about it, wouldn’t he be a fool to trust her?

  Chapter Three

  The way she could picture Malcolm, all sweaty and bulked up from working out when he answered the door last night, was like she’d stolen a vision. She didn’t steal—often. Rarely anymore. The armband was the exception. Nowadays, she’d take small, useless tokens when she wanted to remember and hold something tightly to her heart. A few weeks ago, she’d gone with Liz Whitney to the coast to visit Emily. A girls’ trip. Marie had stolen a seashell from the beach because the whole time she’d had her eye on a pretty mosaic and also had Malcolm’s glaring gaze stuck in her head.

  Her first girls’ weekend—ever.

  Marie smiled. She never wanted to lose the feeling of being a part of something good.

  He’d checked up on her, though, when she got back. He never said as much, but she saw the look in his eyes when he’d come into her office. His gaze had moved around the room, as if looking for something in particular.

  Not that she would have been stupid enough to put anything she’d acquired on display.

  “We’re here, miss,” the cab driver said, startling her from her thoughts.

  She grabbed her bag from the floor in front of her, took the money sitting right on top, and handed it to her driver. “Thank you.”

  Her door opened. “Good morning.” Malcolm stood over her in his usual black jeans and flannel, with his black leather jacket covering his beefy build. His hair was tied up at the back of his neck—neat and out of the way.

  Scooting to the edge of the seat, she took his hand and unfolded herself from the car. When the trunk popped open, Malcolm stepped away to empty it.

  He was acting…nice. She shouldn’t be surprised, but since her visit last night, everything about Malcolm had been a surprise.

  She’d expected a neat, super-organized existence. Utilitarian.

  What she found, she wanted to dive into…maybe clean a little, but mostly just get comfortable in. The oversized leather couch. That huge recliner in the corner. She’d seen at least three different blankets—crocheted or knitted—with the richest, darkest reds and golds. Made her wonder where it all came from. An ex-girlfriend? Something he’d brought from his previous life?

  But he was like her, alone. No family.

  In Qatar, where he’d leaned on her and they’d actually worked as a team, she’d thought they could possibly get over the hurdle of how she’d become employed by Hawk Elite in the first place. And it had given her hope she could stay with the company on a more permanent basis.

  Of course, that was then…

  Now, she wasn’t so sure. Malcolm had done a one-eighty since Qatar, as if being back in Raleigh reminded him of why he didn’t like her.

  “Is this all you have?”

  Her small duffel, a messenger bag with her laptop inside, and her purse. “What more do I need?”

  “I don’t know. Most women I know over-pack. You aren’t planning to acquire things when we get there, are you?”

  “Hey,” she said, blowing off the hurtful jab—which she deserved—and then laughed. She had her pride, and he might try to goad her, but she wouldn’t allow it to bug her. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t even smile, and she wished he would. He did have a nice smile. Instead, he offered a grunt. She rolled her eyes. “I have to check my duffel.”

  He frowned, looking at her.

  “I’m carrying.” She went to the check-in counter, claimed her sidearm, and sent the duffel on the conveyer belt. When she turned, he was waiting for her, leaning near the doors. She stopped to look at him for a moment. Hawt. Hawt. Hawt. She didn’t like to admit to being shallow, but there were moments. His dark hair. Those broad shoulders. Great legs.

  He looked up as if he could sense her gaze and pierced her with his brown eyes, and then started for the security checkpoint. She followed, feeling even more like a tagalong than she had when she was eight and trying to keep up with her uncle at the Ocean City casinos.

  With a glance at her watch, she slowed. Plenty of time. She pulled her identification and her boarding pass out of her purse and got in line.

  “Fuck,” Malcolm said, and turned to her. No. He turned away from someone else. But holy moly, when he got close and hunched his shoulders—really broad shoulders!—he invaded. Total invasion of her space. He made her head swim, damn it.

  She straightened and looked up into panicked eyes. “What?”

  “Hey,” someone from behind him called out. Malcolm’s eyes closed shut on a little bit of agony. Marie peeked over his shoulder at the pretty dark-haired woman.

  Marie reached for his arm and gripped it. An ex? A stalker? She would do anything for him. And the realization made something in her heart turn over. “Do you want me to take care of her?” she whispered.

  He stifled a laugh, said, “Please don’t be mad,” and kissed her.

  He swallowed any objection she might have by pressing his lips onto hers and wrapping his arms around her. Her stomach dropped, and desire flared to life deep inside her.

  The footsteps slowed and then faded.

  The kiss stopped as quickly as it had begun.

  “Fuck.”

  Shock raced through her as she stared at him with his contrite little-boy look. He’d kissed her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as concern came into those warm eyes. “Fu—” He stopped himself. “You have been kissed before, haven’t you?”

  The horror in his voice shook her out of the incapacitated state. “Of course,” she answered, sounding way too defensive and way too breathless. “Who the hell was that?”

  Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and relaxed, obviously in the clear. “My ex.”

  “That’s a lot of faking for an ex-girlfriend. Is she a stalker type?”

  “Wife.”

  “What?” God, her brain must be failing her. She swore he said wife.

  “Ex-wife.”

  “Wow.” She stared again, taking in his almost sheepish look on his handsome face. “You were married?”

  “Yeah. Long time ago.”

  “Not long enough, apparently.”

  They moved forward in line a few steps.

  “Ten fucking years ago.”

  “Wow. You’ve been hiding from an ex for ten years? What? Were you married at sixteen?”

  He cleared his throat. “Eighteen.”

  “Wow.”

  “Do you think you could stop saying that?” He clenched his jaw, completely uncomfortable with where the conversation had turned. It surprised her when he continued. “I was young, getting deployed, and she offered what I thought would be stability and a family.”

  They moved forward in line and set their carry-on bags on the table to go through the scanners.

  She could see him that young and lonely. And her heart got a mushy feeling inside, one proving her a sucker. “Why do you hide from her?”

  “I would say I don’t. I didn’t expect to see her. She caught me off guard. And why the fuck would she approach me?”

  “’Cause you’re hot, and she probably wishes things hadn’t ended.”

  His movement through the framed detector stopped and he turned to stare at her.

  Heat rose on her neck.

  “No,” he answered.

  She went through next and caused the detector to beep. “Dang it. I’ve got nothing.”

  But she was waved aside to be wanded by the tenacious guard.

  Malcolm stood off to the side, putting his shoes back on, and watching with keen eyes. His serious eyes. Geez, her heart pounded a little harder, knowing he was watching, and she did her best to ignore him.

  When the wand beeped at her waist, she lifted her shirt. “Belt.”

  Dumb. She hadn’t been thinking when she put it on this morning. The guard cleared her and she took account of her stuff. “Ready,” she said.

  At the gate, Malcolm stood off to the side, with his back against a wall, scanning the a
rea. Sometimes he gave off a definitively IT vibe. Other times, he was pure predator.

  She wasn’t one hundred percent sure which façade she was more attracted to at this point, but she appreciated them both—equally.

  ***

  How had he not noticed before?

  All she did was talk. All. The. Time.

  Probably the result of years of stealing. Maybe she was trying to distract him. He patted his pocket and felt the square outline of his wallet.

  “And then I graduated from high school. Top of my class, mind you.” Her hands moved as she talked. “Of course, Uncle Bert immediately moved us to Ocean City. Maryland. He’d finished a job—”

  “Heist,” he said to rile her up, and hid a smile when she huffed. “So you never went to college?”

  At her silence, he looked over. She was biting the lip he’d kissed. The kiss that had short-circuited his brain for a moment. The electrical charge made him forget Heather and the reason for kissing her in the first place. He never would have kissed her if he’d known just how much he was going to like it.

  Because he’d really liked it.

  This was only a problem because there was no way in hell he was going anywhere with another lying, cheating, thieving female.

  Never again.

  She hummed then ignored his question, which was an answer in itself.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I like my life. And I don’t steal anymore—much. The only times I do are for really good reasons.”

  He lifted a brow and saw a blush rise on her neck.

  “Honest,” she said, raising three fingers in the scout’s honor way. Malcolm covered her hand with his. “Blasphemy, Marie. You should be more careful.” He pointed up and shook his head. “Lightning. And we’re in a plane, too.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. You were a boy scout?”

  “Fuck no. But I’m one hundred percent sure you weren’t one either.”

  She snorted a laugh, quieted, and turned to him, tucking a foot under her rear in the seat. “I like the way you kiss. You surprised me, but in the end, it worked out, because I like it.”

  Their time in Qatar flashed through his brain. Why was it that every time they were lip-locked, it was instigated by some emergency? Actually, the elevator hadn’t exactly been an emergency… “I’m sorry for—”