by Cat Johnson
If I’d done my job well, I was still under the radar of both the good guys and the bad. My name wouldn’t be on Moscow’s hit list of enemies who needed to be eliminated.
Even if I did have a target on my back, I was too close to my goal to leave now. Today’s message from my contact had been a setback, no doubt, but it was a small one. He’d be in touch. We’d reschedule. I was sure of it.
“I need more time,” I said.
“No.” The answer came fast and with an air that said there was no use in arguing, so I wouldn’t.
Jaw set, I drew in a breath. “I’ve got to go.”
The noise around me would serve as a reminder to Collins I wasn’t in a secure location. We really couldn’t discuss this in any further detail here and now.
“Call me when you’re back in the country.”
“I will.” I disconnected the call before my annoyance with my new orders became more obvious. I could lie with the best of them, but I was too bloody angry to bother now.
I tried to hide my mood as I strode back to the table and sat opposite Brent. “Sorry. Please, go on. You wanted my opinion on something?”
Brent tipped his head. “Two days ago, Zane stopped by my place in Alexandria and casually asked if I’d heard from his office manager Chelsea . . .”
Brent’s mention of Chelsea had my head whipping up.
He frowned at my reaction. “You know her?”
“Yes, actually. We’ve met.”
Met. Worked an assignment together. Spent the night together . . .
And judging by my reaction to simply hearing her name, that wasn’t enough to quench my thirst for the woman and get her out of my mind.
I cleared that memory from my head and asked, “And why was Zane asking if you’d heard from Chelsea?”
“Because she’s missing.”
For the second time in just minutes Brent had gotten my complete attention. “What do you mean missing?”
I needed him to give me fewer words and more facts as my concern grew. I knew Chelsea well enough to understand that her lack of fieldwork experience was equaled by an enthusiasm that made her dive in headfirst and unprepared. It was a dangerous combination.
“Zane hasn’t heard from her so I had Alex try contacting Chelsea. They’ve kind of bonded over being the only two females working out of the D.C. office, so after Zane’s revelation Alex texted and then started calling Chelsea’s phone.”
“And?” I asked, agitated now as genuine worry for Chelsea began to take hold of me.
“No answer. And now the calls go directly to voicemail.”
I set down the teacup I’d been about to raise to my lips. “And Chelsea didn’t give Zane any indication that she was taking some time off?”
Brent lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know of. But as I said, Zane likes to keep me in the dark on most things.”
That might be true. Brent was a civilian who just happened to get tangled up in an operation Zane had been working, forcing us all to work together a few months back. But I’d be damned if Zane treated me the same. I was no inexperienced civilian and I was not about to be kept in the dark.
“We’ll see what he has to say when I ask.” I stood and yanked my second cell phone—the one I used to call everyone other than headquarters—out of my opposite pocket and sat again.
I typed in a text to my good old friend Zane Alexander.
IS CHELSEA MISSING?!
In a move that was completely out of character for me I’d actually used all caps and an exclamation point.
I suppose I could have crafted the message a bit better but time was of the essence if Chelsea really had been missing for—how many days had Brent said? Two since Zane had mentioned it to him and I didn’t know how long he had taken to make the query.
What I wouldn’t admit to Brent or Zane, because I was having enough trouble admitting it to myself, was that the memories of the one night I’d spent in Chelsea’s bed months ago haunted me still.
That simply didn’t happen to me. During the too rare occasions I allowed myself to indulge in women and sex, unless the relationship was a required part of an assignment, I was a one and done kind of bloke.
I had to be, given the nature of my profession.
Chelsea made me want to change that—which was bad enough before and even worse now if she were actually missing. There was no doubt in my mind I wouldn’t rest until she was found.
The cell vibrated with an incoming text.
Who the fuck told you that?
I drew back as I read Zane’s reply, which had done more to reaffirm what Brent said and did nothing to assuage my growing fear for her safety.
“What? What did he say?” Brent asked, leaning forward, his eyes focused on me.
“Not much. The man’s very good at not answering questions.” But reading between the words told me one thing—Zane wasn’t as casual about this situation as Brent had assumed.
“Right? He does that to me all the time.” Brent leaned back in his chair again, scowling.
Perhaps he did, but Zane wasn’t going to get away with it with me. Not when it pertained to Chelsea.
I typed a reply of my own, this time controlling myself and turning off the all-caps.
Answer the bloody question. Is she missing?
I hit to send my message as my pulse sped, my mind spinning as I began planning, calculating how quickly I could get to D.C. and what I needed to do once I got there.
My gaze flew to the display on my cell as it vibrated in my hand one more time.
It appears she might be.
My pulse, impossibly, pounded faster. My reply was riddled with typos that thankfully auto-correct fixed before I hit send.
I’m coming down there.
When Zane’s reply came fast and contained no argument to my plan I knew he was concerned.
Okay.
I swallowed and raised my gaze to Brent.
“What did Zane say?” he asked.
“He agreed I should come down.”
Brent shook his head. “Shit. That means he’s worried.”
My thoughts exactly. This wasn’t just a girl skipping work to nurse a hangover or to jet off for an impromptu holiday. If a veteran, combat hardened SEAL said she was missing, however much he’d couched his words, then she was good and truly gone.
“I need to get to Virginia.” Glancing around, I looked for Marcus to get the bill.
Brent stood and in one smooth motion signaled for the waiter and pulled out his cell phone at the same time. He sat again as he punched in a text.
“I’m ordering the Hearst jet.” He glanced at me. “Can you leave tonight?”
“Yes, but—”
“Tristan, you’re worried. I can see it. That tells me I was right to be concerned. You need transportation. I have access to it. Let me do this. For Chelsea.”
Brent made sense so I accepted the help. “All right. Thank you.”
“No problem. So what’s your plan when you get there?” he asked
“I’m going to break into her flat.”
Brent’s gaze whipped to me. He swallowed. “Oh. Good plan.”
I thought so.
When Marcus arrived at the table with a black leather portfolio that contained our bill, Brent stood once again. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, drew out a credit card and slid it into the portfolio before handing it back to Marcus.
As we sat and waited for his card to be returned my mind continued to work—and where it landed wouldn’t let me rest.
Eyeing Brent, I tried to remain objective and evaluate the situation. I was having trouble doing so.
Finally I couldn’t control myself. “Mind if I ask you why you’re so concerned about Chelsea? Are you two . . . involved?”
The word I chose didn’t come close to the word I really wanted to use.
I suddenly desperately needed to know if Brent Hearst, American billionaire, was shagging the woman who’d somehow gotten so deeply und
er my skin it was starting to become obvious she could easily be a danger to my well being.
“I already told you, I’m with Alex.”
“Yes. And?” I asked.
Brent’s being with Alex definitely did not preclude his being with Chelsea too, either now or in the past.
Even so, why in the bloody hell was I asking him a question I was sure I didn’t want to know the answer to?
Was this jealousy?
If it was, I’d better squelch it and bloody fast. I needed one hundred percent of my concentration, not just to find Chelsea, but to keep myself and my informant alive. I was juggling too many very sharp knives not to have my head completely in the game.
A frown creased Brent’s brow. “No, there’s never been anything between me and Chelsea, but you’re not the first to ask that question.” I wondered who else had asked him as he continued, “I’m concerned, and I’m helping any way I can because if it were Alex who’d gone missing I’d want every resource helping to locate her.”
I nodded. I believed the man.
Worry might be twisting my gut but I still trusted my instincts and they told me he wasn’t lying.
I’d seen Brent with Alex. Even when she’d had him pinned on the ground with the heel of a deadly looking Louboutin poised to take out his eye, I could have cut the emotional and sexual tension between them with a knife.
“So, I’m going to assume that you and Chelsea are involved.” Leaning back in the chair with his arms folded, Brent pinned me with a stare.
I cocked a brow high, as if the notion were ridiculous. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He scribbled on the receipt Marcus had silently laid on the table. As Brent slid his credit card into his wallet, he looked at me. "You have a car here?"
"No." A personal vehicle was more trouble than it was worth in Manhattan. Instead, I kept my car in Virginia where I spent a good amount of time.
“I've got my Land Rover here. I'll drive." Brent stood. "Ready to go?”
I stood too and accepted my jacket from the ever-capable waiter. “More than ready.”
“It’s not going to be a problem for you with work if we leave tonight?” Brent asked as we headed for the exit.
“No.” I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
MI6 could bugger off. Chelsea was more important.
THREE
It took all of ten seconds for me to get into Chelsea’s locked flat in Virginia.
As much as the ease with which I’d entered disturbed me, the future safety of her home was something I’d have to deal with later. I was more concerned with something else—finding her. I could lecture her on security systems and decent locks after I’d ensured she was safe.
I closed the door as silently as I’d opened it and made my way inside.
The place was minuscule. Housing in the D.C. area reminded me of my first flat in London—small and expensive. I didn’t have to go any farther than the sofa in the living room to get a clear view of the attached open kitchen and what I saw there stopped me dead.
I froze as a new concern struck me—making sure this was indeed still Chelsea’s place, because on the counter was a coffee maker with a half full glass carafe and the ON light glowing.
Was Chelsea here and just not answering her calls? Or had she moved out and I’d just broken into a stranger’s flat?
Bloody hell, I’d been in such a rush, I’d never bothered to check if she still lived here.
That was something I just didn’t do. I didn’t forget details like that. Shoddy preparation cost lives. My error was further proof this woman had gotten to me.
As I berated myself, the bathroom door opened and a woman accompanied by a burst of steam emerged—a woman who wasn’t Chelsea. All it took was one look at her face to tell me that, even if there was a white towel twisted around her head obscuring her hair.
It only took her one look at me to have her eyes widening as her fear became palpable.
She drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth in what I knew would be a blood curdling scream if I didn’t do something, but I was all the way across the room and I didn’t want to frighten her any more than I already had.
I could spin a tale and lie like a champ, but sometimes a simple explanation and the truth was the best course of action.
Holding up my hands, palms forward to show her I wielded no weapon, I said, “I’m looking for Chelsea. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
She closed her mouth and I breathed in relief as an expression of recognition crossed her face. “Are you Tristan?” she asked.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Actually, yes. And you are?”
“Her roommate. Trina.”
Chelsea had a roommate? If I’d ever known that fact, I’d forgotten it.
It was hard to imagine two people living here, considering the place was barely large enough for one person, never mind two. But the fact Chelsea didn’t live alone could be a huge help to me now.
“How did you know my name?” I asked, intrigued, but also making conversation to get Trina to confide in me.
She smiled. “As far as I know there’s only one sexy Brit with an accent to swoon over who dresses like he’s in GQ who’d come looking for Chelsea.” As I felt my eyebrows rise at that statement she laughed and continued, “Her words. Not mine. But I agree. Her description was pretty dead on.”
That’s how Chelsea had described me? This conversation got more interesting by the moment, but I couldn’t let myself get distracted. I’d broken in here for a reason . . . and that Trina hadn’t questioned how I’d gotten inside at dawn while she’d been in the shower disturbed me even more.
Something else bothered me too. If Chelsea were missing, why didn’t her roommate seem concerned? I decided to find out.
“Do you happen to know where Chelsea is?” I asked.
“I assume she’s working.” She moved toward the coffee maker on the kitchen counter and glanced back. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” My heart thundered as I digested her casual answer.
If Chelsea were working, Zane would know her location—unless she had another job.
She poured herself a cup, stirred some additions into it and turned to face me.
Leaning against the counter, sipping her coffee, Trina looked completely unconcerned that she was dressed in a robe and alone in her home with a strange man. I got angry all over again as I added another point to the safety lecture I planned to deliver the moment I saw Chelsea again.
Perhaps not the very moment—being here again had brought back some pretty powerful visceral memories of that night. There were a few other things I’d like to do to Chelsea before the lecture. But I had to get to her first.
“Do you know where she’s working?” I asked, sounding more casual than I felt.
“No. But whenever she’s gone for awhile that’s what she’s doing.”
I wasn’t so convinced. Was this lack of concern a typical trait among young American women? If so, it was a wonder they all hadn’t been killed or kidnapped by now.
“Do you remember when the last time you saw her was?”
Trina frowned. Squinting her eyes, she stared up at the ceiling, as if the answers were written there. “I think it was Sunday. Yeah, it was, because I remember I was off that day so it was definitely a weekend. Chelsea was walking around checking her phone every five minutes because she was worried that her friend Morgan wasn’t answering her texts. So I told her she should talk to some of Morgan’s friends.”
At last. One solid clue from amid Trina’s babbling.
“And who is Morgan?” I prompted.
“The girl she used to waitress with at Camelot.”
“And Sunday was the last time you saw Chelsea?” I’d gotten more details with less effort out of people with far more critical—if not deadly—information than Trina was in possession of, but that wasn’t helping me now.
“Yup. I haven’t seen her since that
conversation. She said she was going to Camelot to ask around about Morgan. From what I can tell, she hasn’t been back to the apartment since.”
That meant she’d been missing for almost a week.
“And you’re not worried by that?” I asked.
“I didn’t think there was anything to be worried about.” Trina finally looked as if she’d noticed my concern. “Look, I’m used to Chelsea. We’ve lived together for years. When she’s lucky enough to land a modeling or an acting job, I’ve seen her grab a bag and leave for weeks at a time on five minutes notice.”
“Would she leave without telling her other job? Her boss, Zane Alexander, hasn’t heard from her.”
Trina pressed her lips together. “I know she likes her job and she needs the salary and the health care. I don’t think she’d do anything to risk getting fired, but I don’t know. I really can’t say. For the right gig, she might.” She lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
I didn’t know what to think but I knew one thing, I wasn’t about to be as complacent about Chelsea’s sudden disappearance as her roommate. “Would you mind if I looked around her room a bit?”
“Go for it. I have to get dressed and get to work so just lock the door when you leave.”
“I most certainly will.” As if the lock had done any good when I was breaking in . . . I kept that to myself since Trina still hadn’t asked how I’d gotten inside.
Shaking my head at that I made my way across the small room toward Chelsea’s bedroom as memories assaulted me with every step.
In my mind I could clearly see the image of her pressed against the wall outside her door as I brought her to orgasm with my hand. I remembered well her clothes scattered in a path that led to her bed and the narrow mattress where I’d first sunk deep inside her.
I drew in a breath and took in the details of the tiny room in a single glance.
She’d left her brush on the dresser in front of the mirror. I picked it up and remembered the silken feel of her long blonde hair.
Without looking I knew the top drawer of the dresser contained her lingerie. I recalled her purple bra with vivid clarity. As clearly as I remembered the taste of her, the scent, the feel and more—how she made me feel.
