And he’d loved every minute of it. He’d loved the responsibility, and the knowledge that the pony would be there at the gate, every day, waiting for him. He hadn’t had a pet in all the years since, but always figured he’d get back to it. Someday.
He parked in front of the house, which was one of his few prides outside the job. Built in the late 1700s, it’d undergone a series of expensive—and often misguided—renovations over the years before he found it through a friend of a friend, who’d seen it as a good investment and nothing more. When John bought the place, it’d been covered in vinyl siding and faux Victorian trim, and had been inexplicably painted a weird blue-green.
Slowly, layer-by-layer, he was pulling back the changes and unearthing the charm beneath.
“Whose place is this?” Sydney asked as she climbed out of the car.
John climbed out of his side and crossed to her, but he didn’t feel the need to rush her inside, out of the open. They hadn’t been followed, and there was no way Tiberius could connect him to the farm. He’d made sure of that when he bought the place, needing to know he had a refuge if and when it became necessary.
“It’s mine,” he answered, using the remote unit on his key ring to disarm the perimeter alarms, which had started counting down from sixty seconds the moment he’d turned in the driveway. Once the motion sensors and alarms were deactivated, he reached into the car and collected the pizza, along with the plastic bag containing two six-packs of soda, one regular, one diet.
“Come on in.”
He headed for the side entrance, aware that Sydney hung back to give the place a once-over. He tried not to care that she’d see a house not unlike her own, with a bit of age on it, and a series of careful restorations designed to preserve the charm and character.
That’s it, he thought with a slice of self-directed mockery, charm and humor. He didn’t have much in the way of either, so he left that stuff up to his farmhouse.
He used his key to let them both through the side door, and quickly tapped his code into the security pad beside the door, telling the second level of protection to stand down.
When he turned, he found Sydney standing very near him in the small entryway, eyes shadowed with speculation. “Let me guess—this place has more surveillance gadgets than the average safe house.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying that I’m paranoid?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Guarded, maybe, but not paranoid. Besides,” she quipped, “you know what they say about paranoids having enemies.” Then her voice and expression turned serious, and she reached out to touch his arm, very fleetingly, through the material of his suit jacket and shirt. “What exactly is going on here?”
But he saw the heat in her eyes, and the acquiescence, and knew she felt the chemistry between them, too. “Don’t ask the question if you already know the answer.”
He very carefully, very deliberately, closed the distance between them and undid the straps of the Kevlar vest. After he’d stripped it away, he leaned in to kiss her.
She met him halfway.
Chapter Seven
It might’ve been the fear she’d lived with for so long that heated Sydney’s blood and had her diving into Sharpe’s kiss even though she knew it wasn’t smart. It might’ve been loneliness that had her pressing up against him so they touched everywhere. It might’ve been too long spent without a man’s touch, too long spent having to be in control, having to be on guard, that had her going pliant when he spun them and pressed her against the wall just inside the door.
Whatever the reasons, it was a hell of a kiss. And then some.
He filled her senses. Color and light burst behind her closed eyelids as she feasted on him, on the taste and smell of him, and the feel of his muscles beneath her fingertips. He was utterly, completely male, and as she felt him teeter on the razor-edge divide between control and wildness, she gloried in the knowledge that he felt the same way she did, needed the same thing she did.
The thought of Sharpe wanting her so badly he’d pull her out of the safe house just to have her to himself was as erotic as the kiss itself.
Blood thundered through her, knotting her muscles to needy fists as he pressed into her, grinding against her, all hard edges and raw male strength. She fought her way through the kiss, taking as much as giving, clutching his suit coat until the material crumpled beneath her grip, then letting go so she could run her hands beneath the jacket, along the crisp cotton of his shirt, and feel the man beneath.
When that wasn’t enough, she gave in to the slide of his hand down her thigh and lifted both of her legs, wrapping them around his waist and hanging on for the ride.
He said something, the words coming out harsh and low, their meaning lost in another endless, soul-searching kiss. She pressed herself against him, glorying in the sensations: the rasp of late-day beard shadow along his jaw and the crisp material of his clothes and the hot, hard flesh beneath. Even the catch of her fingertips on his shoulder holster, and the hardness of the weapon itself were a turn-on. Who knew she was a sucker for a guy with a gun?
But she wasn’t attracted to just any guy with a gun, Sydney knew deep inside. She was hooked on this one.
Sharpe had rescued her from Tiberius and his men. He’d sent people to help Celeste right away rather than using her sister as leverage. He was quick on his feet and even quicker with his mind; he not only kept up with her thought processes, half the time he was a step or two ahead of her. Even better, he was about a fifteen on a scale of one to hot, and he kissed like she’d fantasized he would, only better. What was not to like?
Warning bells sounded in the back of her brain, but they were quickly lost to a flare of heat as he banded a strong arm across her waist and spun away from the wall. He took two long strides—
And froze in place.
They drew apart and stared into each other’s eyes, both breathing hard. Sydney’s mind spun, and she imagined his was doing pretty much the same thing.
“Wow,” she said after a long, still moment. “Wow. That was…”
“Not very smart.” He relaxed his grip, letting her slide down his body as he fixed his attention on the wide-open door and the security panel, which he’d never reset. “I know. You’re right.”
“I was thinking unexpected, actually.” It wasn’t really; attraction had flared between them from the first. But she needed to say something other than Let’s lock the door and head upstairs, because he was right. What they’d just done—and what undoubtedly would have followed if they hadn’t pulled back—wasn’t very smart at all.
“Unexpected works, too.” But his attention wasn’t on her as he crossed the room, shut the door and keyed in the security code. He was staring at the night outside, scanning the scene for signs of company.
“Nothing bad happened,” she said, but knew that wasn’t the point. While they’d been indulging in a little one-on-one, the door had been wide open, the security field down. It was only thanks to luck and circumstance that none of Tiberius’s people had been outside to take advantage of the lapse.
His look said he knew she knew better, but true to form, instead of saying something redundant or unnecessary, he stayed silent.
He moved across the living room and looked down at the pizza. He picked up a soda, then set it down again. Without looking at her, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not normally so impulsive. This attraction…” He waved a hand between the two of them. “Chemistry. Whatever it is, it’s got me off stride. I’m all jumbled up, and I’m afraid I’m going to make a mistake because of it. I thought if we spent some time together, I could…I don’t know, work it out in my head or something.”
Suddenly, he wasn’t the aloof, polished agent who spoke in clipped, precise sentences. In his place was someone who looked as frustrated as she felt, as his body told him one thing, his head another. The realization kindled a dangerous warmth in the vicinity of her heart.
“I know what you mean. Not exactly ideal
circumstances for starting a—” she broke off and, correcting herself, said, “For getting involved.”
“Go ahead and say it. Starting a relationship. That’s where this seems to be headed, doesn’t it?” He looked at her, and she got the feeling that he was baffled, and way outside his comfort zone.
“I don’t know.” She took one of the sodas, not to drink but so she’d have something in her hands, something to fiddle with. “The circumstances aren’t exactly normal. Once you’ve got Tiberius in custody and have control of the viral sequence, and Celeste and I are cleared to start rebuilding our lives—and just stay with me on the optimism here, okay?—what’s to say we’ll still be interested in each other? This attraction might just be a situation-and-proximity thing.”
“Do you think that’s what it is?” His direct gaze caught her, forcing the truth.
“No,” she said softly, nearly whispering. “I don’t.” Hadn’t she been wishing all along that they’d met under different circumstances? Hadn’t she thought they would’ve clicked if they’d met at a bar, or a bus stop or someplace equally mundane?
“Me neither.”
They stared at each other for a long moment while the heat built and the urges deepened. Sydney’s heart beat the tempo of do it, do it, do it, but she’d been incautious before and it’d cost her job, and put her in the position to make the wrong choice by going to work for Tiberius. She was determined not to make the wrong choice again. Not with something that felt like it could be important, if she let it be.
“We should wait,” she said softly. “It’s all too complicated right now.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“But…?” she asked, hearing it in his voice.
His grin went crooked. “I don’t particularly want to wait.”
“Me neither,” she said, echoing his earlier words. But the tension lightened and the air between them thinned, and a bubble of nervous excitement expanded in her chest, because in agreeing that they were going to wait, they’d also agreed that there was something to wait for.
She didn’t know what shape it would take, or how long it would last when it did happen, but it was something to look forward to. Something that went beyond Tiberius, who had been the focus of her life for far too long.
“So what now?” She glanced at the pizza, which he’d set on the low coffee table, and the alluring length of a long leather sofa on the other side. “Should we eat? Head back to the safe house?” Go upstairs? she was tempted to add, but didn’t because she had a feeling he’d agree if she pushed, despite both of their better intentions.
Sharpe sighed. “It’s just been a long bunch of days and I don’t feel like getting right back on the road. I can hack the temptation if you can.”
He sat on the sofa, flipped open one of the boxes and worked a piece of pizza onto a paper plate. He set the plate on the coffee table for her, shoved a soda beside it and put together a similar setup for himself. When he was done, he stripped off his suit jacket and slung it over the arm of a nearby chair, then tossed his holstered weapon atop it.
Then, balancing his pizza on his lap, he kicked off his shoes, put his feet up and leaned back on the sofa. Letting out a long sigh, he closed his eyes.
He was inviting her to relax with him, to be with him. To get to know him in a way she had a feeling few people did.
The sight of him stripped of some of the professional hard-ass veneer fascinated her, even as the sad lines beside his eyes and mouth, which didn’t smooth out even in repose, tugged at her.
Telling herself that she could handle this—that she was an adult, they were both adults—she grabbed the plate and sat down beside him.
The couch gave under her weight, sliding her even closer to his warm bulk. She struggled for all of thirty seconds before she gave in, leaned against him and let her head fall naturally against the arm he’d thrown across the back of the couch.
After a brief pause, he sighed deeply and curled his arm around her.
They ate in silence as the old house settled in for the night around them. Unwilling to talk about what was happening between them, about Tiberius, or about how he planned to use the intel she’d given his teammates, Sydney finally said, “I like your house.”
“Thanks.” His smile held pure pleasure, along with acknowledgment of the neutral topic. “The previous owners ‘modernized’ and ‘improved’ the heck out of it,” he said, sketching the words with one-handed finger quotes. “I bought it four years ago and have been picking away at it ever since. I’m not going all the way back to original, by any means. Outhouses are so 1800s, you know. But I’m going for the period feel.”
“You’re nailing it.” She looked around, admiring the honey-toned wainscoting and wide-pine floors. They were king’s boards, she knew, so-named because they were over twelve inches wide, and thus should’ve been saved for export to England prior to the Revolution. The staining around the sunken nailheads indicated that the boards were original, but their unnatural smoothness and high-gloss varnish were familiar signs from her own house, as were the faint encrustations of paint at the carved edges of the wainscoting. “Let me guess, they put down wall-to-wall, added another layer of paint to the eight already on the trim and pulled down the horsehair plaster in favor of drywall.”
His chuckle transmitted to her from the places where they pressed together, with her cheek on his shoulder and their torsos aligned. “There had to be a dozen layers of paint. One of them, I swear it was creosote or something. It was this nasty black color, and it took a good four rounds of paint stripper—and a couple of layers of skin—to get it off.” He shuddered. “You can’t imagine.”
“Trust me, I can.” She grinned. “Our dining room had a quarter-inch-thick layer of this awful middle-green color, like baby vomit or something.”
Deep down inside she knew she shouldn’t let herself lean. But he was so warm and solid against her, the weight of his arm such a comforting drape, that she found herself weakening and settling in, letting his warmth transmit to her and ease the places that had been so cold for so long.
While she was busy convincing herself that she could handle the attraction, that she could handle him, she fell asleep with her head tucked into the crook of his arm and her body nestled against his.
JOHN WAS IN SERIOUS trouble.
He held her close, watched her sleep and told himself he’d dodged a bullet when they’d agreed to wait, because he’d veered way out of his comfort zone and was speeding up, heading in the wrong direction.
Despite having brought her home on a whim, a compulsion, he didn’t do flings, didn’t do attractions that clicked too hard and hot, relationships that made no sense when he looked at them rationally. Worse, he wasn’t doing much of anything rationally at the moment. If he was, he would’ve left her in the safe house. He would’ve stayed the hell away from her until it was absolutely, positively imperative that they share space, and then he would’ve kept his distance, interacting with her on a purely professional level.
Instead, he was in his own damn living room, cuddled up with her like this had been a date. And not even a first date, either. Their kiss might’ve had the passion of a new discovery, but their inconsequential small talk had been…
Hell, he didn’t know what it’d been, other than so natural he’d fallen into it before he’d had time to think it through, and then once he had, once he realized he was teetering on the brink of another decision that’d fall squarely into the ‘really stupid’ category, he’d been too comfortable to move. He’d wound up watching her sleep.
And in doing so, he feared he’d already come too close to falling for her.
He knew the warning signs. Hell, he’d been in that place once before, with a woman who was at once completely unlike Sydney and very like her, and in a very similar situation—one that should’ve taught him not to go there ever again.
So why had he?
Maybe he had a white knig
ht complex. Yeah, he thought, that was it. The others might think him too cold and unemotional, but somewhere deep inside he had a big old rescue fantasy that played out in his choice of women. Of course, being who he was, he couldn’t have a typical white knight complex, one where he fell for damsels in distress who needed a big, strong man to fix their problems. No, that would’ve been too easy. He had to be attracted to the ones who didn’t want to be rescued. Yep, that played. He was—and had always been—all about making his own life as difficult as possible.
Which didn’t do a thing to cool his ardor when Sydney made a small noise and cuddled closer.
His flesh tightened and his blood buzzed in his veins, and for a moment he imagined himself waking her up with a kiss, pulling her against him, rolling her beneath him, pressing them both into the soft, yielding sofa cushions. Worse, he could see himself with her a week from now, a month from now. He wanted to argue with her, trade barbs with her, sink himself into her and let the world go hang itself.
And none of those feelings were real, he knew. They were illusions, his own internal construct of what affection was supposed to feel like.
He’d thought he was in love once before, and had later learned it was all a lie.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered against her temple, his breath stirring the fine hairs that had fallen across her lovely face.
“Mmm?” She stirred against him, frowning as though fighting consciousness when fantasies were so much better.
He didn’t repeat himself.
“I said it’s time to get going.” He nudged her awake. “If we’re gone much longer, Grace is going to send SWAT out after us.” That was an overstatement—he’d checked in with the computer specialist an hour ago—but they couldn’t stay where they were.
His place might be safe from Tiberius, but he was quickly learning that spending time alone with Sydney carried other, equally dangerous risks.
Twin Targets Page 8
