Locke and Key (Titan Book 12)

by Cristin Harber

  Skittish and ready to run! Cassidy pretended to be caught off guard, but her inner journalist was madly taking notes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. I just have to go. Can we drop this?”

  She stood and smoothed the little black dress. “Sure, sorry. I’ll call you later. Thanks for my thirty minutes. If the board has any follow-up, I’ll let you know?”

  Alex nodded, but it was as if he were a different person. One mention of his different job, and trigger—he became the person she’d had to deal with occasionally in Russia—angry, abrupt, and awkward.

  “Of course. Have a good night, Cassidy.” As fast as he rushed through the words, he left his chair, pushed from the table, and fled out the door without so much as a look over his shoulder.

  She waited long enough to finish her cup of coffee then grabbed her phone, tucking it into the clutch, and rushed out the door, her high heels click-clacking on the tile floor before the café door let her out onto DC’s somewhat busy street.

  Alex was tall enough that he stood out, and it was easy to keep him within her sight. He stood at a crosswalk then headed toward her Jeep, turning down Sixteenth Street, and jogged across to the other side. She ran into the street at the last second and made it before she became roadkill.

  Alex passed her Jeep, and—he stopped. So did her heart. Oh, okay. He was jaywalking to the cross street.

  Her eyes followed him, and that was the Russian ambassador’s residence. Coincidence, surely—both her unwittingly parking next to it and him crossing there.

  But Alex didn’t go right or left. He waited at the gate—then pressed the buzzer.

  She felt the adrenaline surge that came from watching a key piece of evidence surface, and her pulse rushed. She tried to get a better look, stepping behind a tree and dipping her head out. The gate opened, and there went Alex Gaev. Into the Russian ambassador’s residence. “Holy shit…”

  Every hair on her body stood on end as she slinked into her Jeep and decided to wait him out from her driver’s seat. What was he doing in there? Who was in there? Her mind spiraled with questions.

  Thirty minutes clocked by. No sign of him exiting.

  Forty-five minutes. Adrenaline morphed in antsy unease. Cassidy had now Googled the hell out of the building and learned nothing except for the historical factoids about how it came to be in existence. Not that she expected the Russians or Alex to have posted their business online and clue her in.

  If she could get a better angle and simply see through a window or something… Damn it. Cassidy tore off the too-high heel that had been digging into her backside and leaned over her steering wheel. Ugh, she couldn’t breathe with this cocktail dress cinched around her waist like it had been vacuum-sealed.

  She tore at the zipper—and oh, oxygen was a good thing, a nearly orgasmic thing, though she lately only knew about orgasms with the help of a vibrator fueled by highly inappropriate thoughts of a muscly man changing her tire.

  She pulled herself off the driver’s seat and shoved her face as close to the windshield as humanly possible. Its cold glass separated her from what she was investigating, yet she couldn’t see through walls, so it didn’t matter.

  The quiet click of the back door sent her tumbling before a deep voice softly echoed over every nerve ending in her body. “What are you doing, Shortcake?”

  Cassidy could have screamed in shock, but she managed to stop the awkward topple in her driver’s seat, swinging around. “Locke!”

  Smug, he leaned his full length back in her backseat while she lay on all fours across the front seat of her Jeep, her ass practically in the air. “What are you doing in here?”

  His ruggedly handsome face had a serious expression. “What are you doing outside the ambassador’s house?”

  “Why are you in my car?” She wanted to shake him, strangle him, throw him out as much as—wait. “What did you just call me?”

  “Shortcake,” he answered from the shadowy protection of her backseat.

  “Why?” As she found her seat again, she tried not to give away how much he got under her skin.

  Locke gestured to her loose hair falling over her shoulder. “Strawberry.”

  “Strawberry. Shortcake,” Cassidy spurted. “I’m not even that color redhead.”

  “Is there a Strawberry Shortcake color?”

  “What are you, four years old? God!” Her fingers went to her temples, rubbing in tiny circles. “Get out of my car.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so, babe.”

  “What? Are you working Russian security or something?” She reached to the passenger seat to grab her shoe—a cold breath of air ran up her side and stomach as her dress dipped loose. Oh God—her dress was unzipped. Was it dark enough that Locke could see if she flashed him her lacy lingerie?

  Judging by his hate-the-world expression, the guy hadn’t seen her breasts. Or maybe he had noticed, but he’d reverted to loathing her so much that he wouldn’t have dropped his eyes to steal a glance at her boobs. Who cared about this guy, anyway? “Get out of my car, Locke.”

  He tilted his head and gave a slow shake. “Get out of here, and I won’t have to do things like this.”

  She made pointed and dramatic glances at her car windows. “We are in the middle of Northwest. I can do whatever I want. Go wherever in DC. You knew I was coming to meet Alex, and I asked you to join me—not hop into my car unannounced.”

  “Two weeks ago, you were rescued from Russians shooting at you, and now you’re outside the Russian ambassador’s residence.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to be real honest with you, Cassidy. All nicknames aside, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She tried to zip the dress gracefully without drawing attention to herself. Which was impossible. The zipper made way too much noise. Who knew that little thing was like a chainsaw and the Jeep was so quiet? Any further attempt would only bring to light the fact that she’d undressed to get the job done. Classy. “I don’t want to be here either. I’d much rather be at home in my PJs, with a bowl of cookie dough.”

  “Good. Then go.” He waved his hand like a wand.

  “After you.” She waved back.

  “Where is Alex?”

  Cassidy nodded toward web images of the mansion. It was very historic and beautiful on the inside. Everything was gold and red. Maybe there was a reason Alex was there—maybe something to do with the exchange program—but then, why not bring it up when she was interviewing him? The board of trustees would love it.

  His eyebrows arched. “That’s some shit…” Then he glowered. “I’d like you to keep your sweet ass alive, and that means stopping you from poking around the Russians.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Why would I like to keep you alive, or why might the Russians not keep you that way?”

  She shrugged, pinning her arms to her sides to hold the dress in place. “Either.”

  “Those are people who don’t need the headache of a rogue reporter. They hate the press. They kill the press—on a regular basis. You know that, right? Putin kills journalists. Putin is the ambassador’s boss. You’re outside their house.”

  “You might have a point. I get it,” she grumbled.

  “Cassidy,” he growled.

  “If you want to keep slipping into my car, you get to listen to my spiel about Alex Gaev, who is a good-for-nothing wannabe spy or something—”

  “Whoa. Wait.” Locke recoiled, and finally, she could read one of his facial expressions. It screamed, What the fuck? “What did you say?”

  “I said that—”

  “Wait, no.” He threw his hands in the small space of her backseat, crossing them back and forth like calling a time-out. “Seriously, Cassidy. Stop.”

  She stopped talking, only then realizing that her pounding heart had climbed into her throat. She’d finally verbalized what had been bothering her, and Locke still wasn’t taking her seriously. He was either part of the problem
or oblivious to it.

  Semi-aware that she’d careened out of control but also not really giving two shits, she folded her hands together. “I’ll pause.”

  “Look around, Shortcake. If what you just said is an actual thing…”

  “It’s an actual thing,” she snapped. “What I’m trying to explain is—”

  Locke moved like the hurricane-force blast that had brought them together in the Krasnaya Polyana Mountains. Harsh and efficient, he catapulted from one side of her Jeep to the other and had his hands around her in a split second. His warm palm pressed against her lips, and his breath tickled her ear. “If that’s the truth, stay quiet, Riding Hood. You don’t know who’s listening.”

  Cassidy shivered. She couldn’t help it. She curled into his hold. The bastard. His lips drew pinpricks that cascaded down her neck, and her pussy convulsed as he held her in his powerful arms.

  Oh… Locke was potent. Solid as the mountain he had rescued her from, he was rugged and harsh, beautiful and deadly. Despite the layer of clothes, she could make out his expansive chest as he caged her to him with his hard arms.

  The whiskers on his cheek brushed her skin as he eased back. He lowered his hand. “Read me?”

  Cassidy blinked, trying to find words that could mask her natural aroused reaction. Silence had been his goal, but not for the first time, so much more blossomed, and she wanted to lean into his hand as it fell away.

  Instead, she licked her lips and questioned his choice of nickname. “Riding Hood?”

  Locke touched her hair. “Red…”

  “Red Riding Hood.” She should have hated it. Really. Their faces were inches away. The two of them were holding onto one another, the seats acting as a barrier, the ambassador’s house acting as an excuse. She stared at his lips. His hand moved away from her hair and dragged down the slope of her neck, skimming over the strap of the loose cocktail dress.

  “Locke.” She breathed his name—then movement outside the Jeep window broke her trance, and she shook herself away. He resettled in the backseat.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about with Alex, but saying those things in a location like this?” Locke shook his head. “That’s a no-go.”

  “I’m right.”

  “Even if you are, it’s the wrong place to air those thoughts. You should wrap it up.” He grabbed the door handle, shaking his head, letting the longish blond hair loose. “Have a good night.”

  “Bye.” But she said it to the slam of the back door.

  Maybe she had made leaps. But he was discrediting her nose for journalism. She had the ability to see the story form before she even knew it was there. All she had to do was follow the crumbs. The little scraps might not make sense, and they were scattered, but she could see how there were too many things that made her stop and wonder. Who the heck went to hang with the Russians after they ran from Russia?

  Cassidy’s phone rang, startling her. The call came from a blocked number. She answered, “Hello?”

  “Go home,” Locke said, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  Her eyes darted the length of the sidewalk even as her pulse picked up at the game of hide-and-seek, though her mark was another man entirely. “Are you babysitting me?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You haven’t moved.”

  Her eyes slipped shut. Why did he aggravate her? She wondered why she was trying to prove to him that she was good at her job when, up till that point, she’d only wanted to earn back her career.

  The answer wasn’t easy. A slice of light caught her attention. The ambassador’s front door opened. Alex, from behind the protection of the black iron gates, ambled out of the Russian residence.

  “Gotta go.” She slouched in her seat as he scanned the outdoors before he eased down the stairs, as confident as a man taking on the world, or maybe the United States, and strolled to a waiting car. He tossed an apple in the air and caught it again. As though Alex could feel her hard gaze drilling holes into the back of his head, he paused before getting into the car and scanned the perimeter again.

  He didn’t see her, no thanks to her not-so-stealthy parking job on the street. Alex took a bite of his apple and chucked it over his shoulder then ducked into the waiting sedan.

  “What kind of ESL teacher has a chauffeured ride?” she mumbled.

  A high-flying second later, a tinted Mercedes surged forward, and the gate swung open. Cassidy ducked into her seat, and appreciative that she had unzipped her dress—otherwise, that baby would have torn—and off went Alex.

  To follow or not to follow… Her phone buzzed and showed a message from Locke. His words screamed at her on the screen.

  GO HOME.

  “Is all caps really necessary?” She swiped the text message away.

  Things that should have bothered her: Alex was on the move, and she wanted to follow him, but Locke would know if she did. And Locke had slipped into her car while she was semi-undressed, and she’d barely heard him.

  Her mind rushed as she tried to formulate a plan. The Mercedes was too away far to catch up with, and Locke was likely still watching her. Giving a side-eye to herself, she made a big show of pressing the lock button and then held her middle finger up to her rearview mirror. “You’re locked out, Locke.”

  Not like that would stop him anyway. Her text message buzzed, and she glanced down.

  LOCKE: Jesus, are you a two-year-old?

  She should really block his text messages. Ha. Like that would ever happen. Because hadn’t she nearly hyperventilated when he wrapped his hand over her mouth? Oh yes, she had. Maybe her journalistic skills were right to be called into question. Or maybe she needed to get over Locke or stop running into him. Either way, he was the distraction that had caused her to lose Alex, and with Alex now in the back of a Mercedes, she was certain there was a real story to follow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Locke and several of the guys from Titan had accepted the invitation to test a new weapons prototype at GUNS. The place was a legendary, internationally known as a specialty weapons maker, and the facility was off the hook. The outdoor course was like a carnival with targets that exploded with colored smoke and fireworks, and the indoor range was classic yet automated. They’d spent all day there, and even though it was closing in on late afternoon, Locke could’ve done the entire day again.

  Sugar owned GUNS, and from the first time Locke set foot on the grounds and saw the raging bull sign out front and the polished wood floor inside, he knew she loved the place. But none of his teammates were paying attention to the fantastic firepower housed on these hallowed grounds. Their prying eyes had followed Locke around the range starting Saturday morning, and even now, standing in his firing lane, he could feel their questioning eyes behind him as he finished with the test weapon.

  Taking a deep breath, he flipped the safety, placed the 10mm down, removed his protective gear, and slammed his hand on the target button. The shot-up paper came whooshing forward. Not too bad. Direct hits to the chest and head.

  Locke turned, ready to talk about how Sugar had recently changed the 10mm’s aluminum frame to steel. That was the point of their outing—she wanted to test the difference in recoil. But with Rocco, Cash, Bishop, and Jax showing so much interest in him, it appeared that he was on the discussion block as well. Fucking spectacular.

  Sugar’s pointy-toed boots echoed down the hall before anyone saw her walk down the range. When she appeared, Thelma trotted beside her. “What’s the verdict? How’s my recoil?”

  “Better,” Rocco said. “I want one of these babies.”

  “I want, I want.” Sugar spoke as though she were annoyed, but having known Sugar for a few months, Locke knew she loved it. The aluminum-to-steel conversion on the 10mm was one of the first big projects she’d taken on since giving birth. Locke thought it was interesting to see Boss Man and Sugar’s dynamic in the business and then see them outside of work at company barbecues and get-togethers. They were both hard as stone in both settings, b
ut outside of work, there was another dimension to their relationship that Locke had to respect.

  “Let’s go into the workshop and tear apart one of the prototypes,” Sugar said. “I have another idea I want some feedback on.”

  They gathered their bags, stuffed in glasses, protective ear covers, weapons, and other junk, and some in the group began to make their way there. Cash hung back, waiting for Locke. He was intentionally avoiding Jax and Bishop, though maybe it was Cash he should stay away from.

  “Doing better?” Cash asked.

  Locke grunted. “Peachy.”

  “You haven’t knocked anyone out, so it seems that way. Just checking,” Cash added. “You see her lately?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Assume you haven’t knocked her out?”

  “Jesus, dude. I’m not a jackass. I wouldn’t hit a woman.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I should be disappointed in everyone else or worried that you all think I’ve fucking lost my mind.”

  Cash smirked and stood there, waiting. He had his bag slung over his shoulder and a worn cowboy hat in hand.

  Locke looked up. “Don’t test me. Ask me. All right?”

  “You making peace with everything?”

  “Yeah, I am. As a matter of fact, I’m going to see the reporter later this afternoon.” He wanted to make sure Cassidy wasn’t going to get herself killed… and he wanted to see if she was anywhere near the truth on her conspiracy-theory expedition.

  “Huh.” Cash tugged his hat down low. “Has this always been about her and not Sadr City?”

  “It was always about Sadr City. Two different things, jackass.”

  The sniper chuckled, his eyes hidden from behind the worn brim of the hat. “Roger that.”

  Two different things. They might have started as one thing but had become distinctly separate. Speaking of which, as Cash led the way to where Sugar was about to put them to work, Locke pulled out his phone. The last message he had sent to Cassidy was about as mature as the two-year-old he had called her. But she had sent him a message.