by Misty Evans
Mr. Crabby didn’t just smile, he cracked up, a good, hearty laugh that made his face explode into sharp, sexy angles. Hey there, fella.
“Happy juice. You are a total pisser, Hope.”
She grinned back at him. Couldn’t help it. Being able to make this oh-so-serious man laugh gave her a rush. A warm, syrupy flood that took over her body. The fact that he looked the way he did, didn’t hurt. Mr. Crabby was hot.
Capital H.
Capital O.
Capital T.
Rah-rah.
“I like when you laugh,” she said. “You should try it more often.”
“I like when I laugh too. And you’re right, it doesn’t happen a lot.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” She threw her shoulders back, stuck out her chest and dropped her voice. “Hope Denby, your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to make Mr. Hawkeye laugh.”
The gravelly voice came out a little too creepy for her liking, but she’d try again some other time. Try to get it right.
“And?” he said.
“And what?” Normal voice this time.
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and gave her a massive dose of eye contact and...we meet again warm, syrupy feeling. She held her hand up palm out then whipped it around and fanned herself.
Hawk laughed again, shook his head. “Are you accepting the mission?”
“Oh, Hawk. I am most definitely accepting that mission. Bring it, big boy. First, you have to tell me your name. Although, I do sort of like Hawk, but since I’m sitting in your living room, maybe I should know what your mother calls you.”
“Jeez, you talk a lot.” He shook his head hard. “I think it scrambles my brain.”
“I listen a lot too. Makes me a good journalist.”
“Why?”
“Why am I a good journalist?”
“No. Why do you talk a lot?”
Easy question. “Middle child of seven. My mother likes to say I talk so much because I had to fight to the death for attention when growing up.”
He rose from his desk chair, walked over to the couch and dropped at the opposite end, his back against the armrest and his feet on the cushion. “See now that’s interesting. I’m a middle child too. Three older brothers and two younger sisters.”
Huh. He didn’t act like a middle child. Well, at least in her mind, but who made her the expert on middles? There had to be a study somewhere on classic behaviors of middle children. She’d look that up and see which one of them was more of a traditional middle.
“And yet,” she said. “we are so different.”
“I was an army brat. We moved a lot. Between the moving and all the kids, I got lost in the commotion. Fine with me. I learned how to fly under the radar and it made me a great undercover agent.”
“Probably why you like the anonymity of running a blog. No one needs to know who you are, but you still get to run around chasing scoops.”
He touched a finger to his nose. “Bingo.”
“On the scoops, we agree. I love it. I love that flutter I get every time I think I’m on to something. Unfortunately, I don’t get to do a lot of that in my job and I miss it.”
So, okay, she just said that. She’d blame it on fatigue because who told near strangers their job didn’t quite satisfy them.
“Then why not work as a reporter?”
“Because I have the White House in my life plan.”
He drew his eyebrows together, let out a long sigh. “Jesus. A life plan? Are you kidding me right now?”
She snorted. “Nope. Got it all figured out. Eventually, if all goes well, I’d like to be the White House Press Secretary. Who knows if I’ll ever get there, but,” she leaned over, tugged on the loose fabric that bunched at the knee of his jeans, “a girl can dream, right?”
He stared down at her hand, now moving away from his knee, then met her gaze with those panty-dropper eyes again. Whew. Mr. Crabby had a way.
“Hope, I think you can pretty much accomplish whatever you’d like. I think you’re enough of a pain in the ass to make it happen.”
“Well, look at you throwing around the compliments.” She fanned herself again. “I’m not sure I can take too much of this.”
“Damn, you’re cute.”
A heavy dose of steamy eye contact followed and the silence in the room, that weighty awkwardness that fell somewhere between what was good for her and what was catastrophically bad, forced her to look down and fiddle with an imaginary string on her blouse.
Eventually, she gave up on the not-there string and nudged him with her foot. “You’re not so bad yourself there, tiger. At least when you’re not being crabby.”
From the desk, his computer dinged and he glanced over at it. “I need to get that.” He got up, gave her foot a gentle pat and she studied his fingers, long, beautiful fingers with well-kept nails and suddenly she had a vision of those fingers doing things.
To her.
Naughty things.
Oooh-weee.
“Sure,” she said. “Let me know if it’s something good. Then we can make a plan about tomorrow and the next steps in our little investigation here.”
“A plan. Yep, you bet.”
Apparently, from the sound of his voice, he didn’t like plans. “Hawk?”
He turned back. “What’s up?”
“You never told me your name.”
“Caught that did you?”
“I’m a good listener, remember?”
“If you say so.” The computer dinged again and he hustled over and shook the mouse to clear the screensaver. Without looking at her, he said, “My name is Brice. Brice Brennan.”
Brice wanted to flog himself. He’d told Hope his name. His real name.
The urge to bash his head into his keyboard was strong. Too bad they didn’t make an emoticon for that. Complete self-destruction. A little smiley face that suddenly frowned and blew himself to pieces.
Speaking of smiley faces…
“Brice Brennan,” Hope said from behind him. “That’s a solid byline. I can see it in The Post…or think if you were on the news!” Her voice took on a serious, newscaster quality. “This is Brice Brennan, reporting from the killing fields of injustice and treachery in our nation’s capital. Watch your back out there, Patriots!”
The tension in his shoulders slacked a bit. He almost smiled. Her sarcasm was better than acting like he’d opened his soul and handed it to her. Which it most certainly felt like.
First, he’d brought her to his home. Now, he’d told her his name. What was next? He’d sign over his first born and let her run his blog?
Paranoia will destroy you. Brice focused on his screen, bringing up his personally designed search engine. The Kinks, Ozzy, and so many more angst-y bands had it right. What was the harm in telling goodie-two-shoes, Hope Denby, high school cheerleader and Girl Scout Extraordinaire what his real name was?
He typed the name of the bridge into the search engine and hit enter. Too many undercover ops and false identities had left their marks under his skin. Too many nights of sitting in the dark with his computer online with a bunch of conspiracy theorists with wacky ideas. All of them leaving their marks as well.
The ATF had made him suppress his name for years, becoming other men, other personas. And in the end, the government itself had branded him a traitor and tried to ruin him. They’d taken everything from him—his good standing as an agent, his reputation in the real world. His very life outside these walls.
He’d lost friends. His best friend, in fact.
Most of all, he’d lost faith.
That happened when your partner betrayed you, and the very essence of everything you stood for, in favor of drugs and money.
And the guns. Let’s not forget Wes and the guns...
All the criminal activities Wes—a man Brice had been closer to than his own brothers—had done and ATF had turned a blind eye to.
So yeah, Brice was paranoid about his ide
ntity for a good reason. It was the only thing he had left.
The sound of shifting on the couch brought him out of the muck in his brain. “That would be your worst nightmare, wouldn’t it?” Hope asked around a yawn. “Revealing yourself to the world. Standing in front of God and country and telling everyone your name.”
Her scenario was right up there, but his worst nightmare at the moment was wrapped in a five-foot-four-inch package of happiness and denial of all things bad.
His search engine came up with nothing pertinent on the day’s events. He typed in Chief Justice Raymond Turner and hit enter again.
And then from behind him, he heard a noise that sounded like the bleat of a dying sheep. Panicked that Hope had actually gone into shock, Brice whirled around, ready to jump into action.
But the brat wasn’t in shock. Another bleat issued from her half-opened mouth as she snored loud enough to rattle the window panes.
Snoring. She was snoring.
Falling back into his chair, he rolled his eyes and laughed softly, watching her for a moment. He considered grabbing his phone and videotaping her. After all, he might need blackmail material down the road if she ever threatened to expose him.
Seeing her sleep, though, after their long-ass day from hell, did something to him. This goofy twenty-five-year old who thought she was going to save the world with her cheery, upbeat attitude made him feel…well, damn.
Feeling anything but tense and paranoid was a minor miracle. He rubbed his head and let his hand fall back. How did this happen? He felt…happy.
Maybe he was a nutcase after all.
Another modicum of the day’s tension drained out of his muscles. He rose, snatched a blanket from the closet and gently laid it over her.
Her ponytail was a mess, hair falling everywhere. Kneeling beside her, he gently coaxed a strand away from her cheek where her snoring lips kept sucking it into her mouth. She was so out of it, her snoring never broke stride.
Watching her, being so close to her, eased that last smidgen of anxiety from his body. Like a switch flipped to off, it all rushed out of him in a wave. Leaning on the edge of the couch for support, he let one of his fingers caress her smooth skin.
He didn’t have this. Didn’t have a woman to be close to, to laugh with and tease. Hadn’t missed it either.
Enter Hope Denby.
The brat didn’t know all his secrets yet, but she knew the most important ones. And he didn’t mind.
For the first time since leaving the ATF, Brice relaxed.
Chapter Seven
Bbrrring. Bbrrring. Bbrrring.
Ringing.
Somewhere, her phone was ringing. Hope shifted and a pain shot down her neck into her shoulders. Holy cannoli.
Her phone rang again and she fought to open her eyes, the lids so heavy she wondered if her attempts would fail. Finally, she stared at a stark white ceiling that wasn’t hers. What the?
My name is Brice.
Hawk’s house. He’d brought her here after the bridge incident. She must have passed out on his couch. She shot to a sitting position. “Oh, no.”
Time. What time was it? She glanced at the window. No help there. The man had every visible window cloaked in heavy drapes. From inside, it would be impossible to tell whether it was dark or light outside.
How did he live like this?
She ran her hand through her tangled hair, snagging on a knot. “Ow.”
Had to be morning. Had to be. She glanced down where a blanket covered her lower half. Had she done that? She didn’t remember a blanket. All she remembered was something about a byline and then...nothing. But exhaustion had kicked in long before that so it shouldn’t have surprised her she’d gone comatose.
Her phone still sat on the coffee table and she checked the number in her missed calls log. A D.C. number, but one she didn’t recognize. No surprise there either. The generic ringtone—that classic bbrrring—that had ripped her from sleep was her default tone. Had it been one of her frequent callers, the person would have had an assigned ringtone.
No voicemail. Wrong number maybe.
At the top of the screen, she checked the time. 7:30.
She leaped up. “Crud. Seven-thirty!”
An hour to get home, shower, primp and get to work. No chance.
Terrific. Her office was in chaos over the tragic death of the Chief Justice and she’d overslept. Way to impress the boss. Woohoo! Yay, Hope.
She folded the blanket and draped it over the back of the couch, giving it one last fluff before she faced the dilemma of how to get home.
Her car, hopefully, would still be parked in the emergency area at the edge of the bridge. Assuming it hadn’t been towed. Which she hoped hadn’t happened. That fine wasn’t in her already struggling budget. She sighed. What a day that had been.
She glanced down the hall that led to the darkened kitchen. A clunking noise that could have been a furnace kicking on or an ice maker dumping fresh cubes came from that direction.
“Hawk?”
No answer. And given the darkness, she assumed any windows back there were covered as well. Did he ever let light into this place? Ever?
She understood safety measures, but this bordered on prison. Emotional and physical.
She glanced over at the staircase, considered wandering up there. Two steps in she halted. This was his house. One he’d invited her to, but really? She shouldn’t be making herself at home by wandering around.
She’d call a cab to take her to the bridge where she’d retrieve her car. Then she wouldn’t have to disturb him.
Excellent plan.
On her phone, she searched for the cab company’s number only to have the damned phone ring again—bbrrring!—the annoying blare shattering the quiet and making her flinch.
Fatigue did that to her. Made her a little jumpy.
Same number as before. Someone was looking for her. She tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hope Denby?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Anthony Gerard.”
“Okay.”
“I’m an officer with the Supreme Court Police.”
Oh. This didn’t happen every day. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
Above her the floor creaked. Footsteps. Hawk must have woken up. She tracked his footsteps to the right.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Should I, Officer Gerard?”
“I’m part of Chief Justice Turner’s protection detail.”
Kapow. Why was this man calling her? She wouldn’t bother wondering how he got her contact information. He worked for the United States Supreme Court. Somehow she didn’t think tracking a phone number would be a problem.
The steps creaked and Hawk’s feet came into view through the spindles as he descended. He wore track pants and a T-shirt and when his head finally dipped below where the ceiling opened for the stairway she furiously waved her hand. He tilted his head and listened.
“Oh,” she said to the officer. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was a good man.”
“I’ve heard that, yes. I never met him.”
“Which is why I’m wondering what your car is doing parked at the bridge. You’ve got thirty minutes to get here, Ms. Denby, and then I have this car impounded as evidence.”
The line went dead. Yowzer. Did he really think…? No time to ponder that, she cleared the screen and rushed back to the couch to grab her purse and shoes.
Hawk hit the base of the stairs. “What’s up?”
“That was one of the officers on Chief Turner’s protection detail.”
“Why’s he calling you?”
“He wants to know why my car is at the bridge. He gave me thirty minutes to get there and explain or he’s seizing it as evidence.”
“Shit.”
“Yuh.”
Hawk sprinted back up the stairs. “Give me two minutes. Quick shower and we’re gone. Get ready!”
&
nbsp; A shower! No time! She stared down at herself, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, no toothbrush, no clean underwear. Nothing. She’d have to meet with Anthony Gerard in this condition.
And Hawk wanted her to get ready? With what? All she had toiletry wise was a breath mint and hairbrush. Might as well put them to work and wash up as much as she could while she waited on Hawk.
Three minutes later, he knocked on the bathroom door. “Let’s roll,” he said.
She’d always known men were freakish, but how he showered that fast was nothing short of a miracle.
Totally impressive.
She swung the door open and there he stood, his short, damp hair slicked back, water droplets still darkening his shirt and a soapy clean smell sending the girls trapped in her uterus a wakeup call.
I need a man.
Maybe this one. At least that’s what one of the girls—from here on out known as Hormona—hollered.
Damned, Hormona.
Hawk swooped his hand toward the back door. “Are you going to stand there and stare at me all day. Get your sweet ass moving.”
“Sorry. I was...distracted.”
“I see that.”
“I’m jealous of your shower.”
“If we had time, I’d let you jump in.”
With you! This from Hormona. What a tramp.
“After I get my car and we talk to this guy, I’ll go home and get cleaned up. I need to call my boss. There’s no way I’m getting to work on time.”
He grabbed her arm, dragged her to the back door. “Do it in the car. We’re down to twenty-five minutes and who knows what kind of traffic we’ll hit.”
Twenty-eight minutes and a text to Officer Gerard later, Hawk parked next to Hope’s car in the emergency parking area, large enough for a few vehicles, at the base of the bridge.
A tall man wearing a black suit leaned against the back quarter panel of a black SUV. Dark seemed the operative word to describe him. Dark hair, dark sunglasses, dark expression.
He was also, according to every major network in the country, the man who’d tried to keep Justice Turner from bleeding out. The photos and video of him trying to smother the Chief’s chest wound, his face tense and focused and...agonized...would stay with her forever.
