Colt looked up at her with a lazy expression. She could see the moment he realized something was going on, but she was too embarrassed to stand there while he scrutinized her. While he puzzled out all her secrets.
“I’m really tired,” she blurted. “I think I’d better get ready for bed.”
“See you in the morning. Let me know if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”
“I will. Thanks.” She hurried down the hallway and into the pink room.
Angie leaned against the door and gulped in air, willing herself to calm the fuck down.
Unfortunately, it didn’t alleviate the problem.
He said to let him know if you need anything. You need something all right….
“No,” Angie muttered. She got ready for bed and crawled beneath the covers.
Sleep was a long time coming.
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Colt was up early as usual. It wasn’t seven yet and Angie’s door was still closed. He hadn’t heard her moving around at all, so he figured she wasn’t awake. He’d had a hell of a time going to sleep with her so near, but he’d finally managed it. He could still see the way she’d looked at him when she’d jumped off the couch and announced she was tired.
Her face had been flushed, and her nipples stood out very clearly against her sweater. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have bet she was aroused. He wasn’t quite certain why though.
Now he wondered if he’d imagined that part. Maybe she was just tired, like she’d said. He knew her well enough to know that she blushed easily. Could have been because she was embarrassed about being tired.
He couldn’t explain the nipples. It was possible she’d been cold since it was still late January.
Colt made coffee and sat down to log onto his computer. His email contained nothing exciting, so he closed it and shut the lid. The guys would arrive in another hour. He decided to make breakfast before they got there. If the smell didn’t wake Angie, he’d knock on the door. He knew she’d want to get dressed before anyone showed up.
He pulled eggs and cheese and mushrooms from the fridge, then grabbed a pan and threw in a pat of butter. He was just starting to beat the eggs when Angie’s door opened. He heard her go into the bathroom. The shower started.
“Fuck,” he said as his brain immediately turned to thoughts of Angie standing beneath the spray, stark naked, water dripping down her body, caressing her ivory skin the way he wanted to caress it.
Thoroughly. Completely. Everywhere.
“Stop, dude. Your balls are gonna turn blue if you keep thinking like this,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Colt forced himself to think about other things—the old lady across the street who always frowned at him. She’d flipped him off the first time he waved to her. It still cracked him up. The neighbor next door told him not to worry when he’d asked if he’d done something to piss the old woman off—park in front of her house, walk on her grass, block her driveway.
“She’s always been that way,” Mrs. Williamson had said. “Been angry since the day she moved in forty years ago and not likely to change. Don’t you pay her any attention, sugar.”
He hadn’t. Though at Christmas he’d noticed nobody came to visit her, so he’d left a fluffy new bathrobe in a gift bag on her doorstep a couple of nights later. Since she always got her morning paper in a robe that had seen better days, he figured she might need a new one. He didn’t leave a card.
Sure enough, she’d started retrieving her paper in the new robe. God only knew who she thought it was from. He wasn’t about to tell her. He’d paid less than thirty bucks at Walmart and it wasn’t about being thanked anyway. It was about making an old lady a little happier, if that was possible, for a few minutes or hours. Or, hell, maybe days. He’d never know.
Colt put the mushrooms in the pan and sautéed them, then poured in the eggs and whisked them around until they started to set. He added cheese at the last, then folded the whole thing over and slipped it onto a plate. After he polished it off, he prepared to make another for Angie whenever she came out of the bathroom.
A short while later, she emerged dressed in brown leggings with brown suede ankle boots and a loose top that clung to the curve of her breasts. Her hair was freshly blow-dried and she’d put on a little makeup.
“Good morning,” she said with a sunny smile. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Sure do. Want a cup?”
“Oh yes please. I can get it though.”
“Sugar’s in the bowl and there’s cream in the fridge. Want a mushroom and cheese omelet?”
“Is that what smells so heavenly? I’d love one, thank you.”
She poured coffee, added a healthy dollop of cream, then came over to lean against the counter and watch him. He could smell her shampoo—something clean and flowery—and he liked it.
“So you cook the mushrooms first?” she asked, a puzzled frown on her face as she concentrated on what he was doing.
He remembered that she’d said she couldn’t cook. “Yeah, you sauté them in butter until they’re soft, then you pour in the egg and mix it around. Almost like scrambling, but not quite. Then you let it start to firm up.”
“I tried to make an omelet once. I burned the pan.”
He stirred and shook and flipped. Angie never left his side. He liked having her there. He imagined this is what it would be like to cook for her after they spent the night in each other’s arms. He hoped that would happen soon.
“I could teach you. It’s not hard.”
“Oh, I don’t think you quite understand my ability to fuck up anything on the stove. I will happily chop and slice ingredients, fetch and carry from the fridge, and wash the dishes. I can even kill my own spiders, lest you think I’m useless. But you really don’t want me cooking.”
He glanced at her as he turned off the heat and then plated the omelet. It was fluffy and yellow. He knew from recent experience it was delicious too.
“First, I would never think you useless. And second—that bad, huh?”
“Oh yeah. That bad.”
He put the plate on the table and she sat down to eat. He joined her, bringing the coffee carafe over for easy refills. Angie cut into the omelet, slipped a bite in her mouth, and closed her eyes.
“Oh, you are a catch, Colt. Cooks, cleans, and knows wine.”
He snorted. “You don’t even know the best part yet, Ang.”
She blinked. “What’s that?”
He arched an eyebrow. It took her a second. She nearly choked on her coffee. When she recovered, she glared at him—but it was a good-natured glare. “You nearly killed me!”
He held up both hands. “Hey, I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to.” She speared more omelet. “You implied, and I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Just say the word, and I’ll demonstrate that skill for you.”
She grinned at him. “I’m sure you would.”
He decided to leave it there since she was smiling and not running away. They’d made a lot of progress in a short time. Hard to believe it wasn’t that long ago, at New Year’s, when he thought she might never be ready to give him a chance.
“So how is it you never learned to cook? Nobody ever taught you, or you were a disaster from the beginning?”
She shook her head. “I think I could have learned, but by the time I came along, my mom was older. I was a surprise on her forty-second birthday—meaning she found out she was pregnant—and neither she or my dad really knew what to do with a kid. I don’t think they ever wanted any—or they’d given up. I’m not quite sure. Anyway, she was a school principal by then and she worked a lot. I feel like I was… not neglected, but just sort of ignored. I had everything I needed, don’t get me wrong—but I didn’t have the kind of childhood where my mom made costumes and cookies and took her turn as room mother at school. She couldn’t have done it because she was in charge. My dad worked at the GAO—th
e government accounting office—and he was also too busy to do those things.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is. I think that’s why Maddy and I bonded. Her mother was a disaster. Mine was distracted and tired. So who taught you to cook?”
“I learned from my dad and my grand-mère. They were very big into food. My mother taught me some things as well, but it was mostly dad and Mémé.”
Angie smiled. “I love it when you say things in French. It’s so pretty.”
“I’ll say everything in French if it makes you happy,” he told her.
“That would be lovely—except I wouldn’t understand a thing you say.”
“Oh, I imagine I could make some things understood.”
She stared at him. Then she shook her head. “There you go again, saying things you think will make me blush.”
“I didn’t say it to make you blush.”
“Maybe not, but it did.”
He reached over and skimmed his fingers over the back of her hand, up her arm. Her pupils dilated. “I like it when you blush, mon ange.”
“What did you call me?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
“I called you my angel.”
“I like that. It’s very sexy when you say it.”
“That’s what I was going for. Sexy.” He winked, then sat back.
She gaped at him before returning her attention to the omelet. “You like teasing me.”
“I like you.”
She didn’t say anything. Then she lifted her gaze, and he felt a jolt at the touch of her eyes on his. When she smiled, his chest tightened. Jesus, he had it bad for this girl.
“I like you, too, Colt.”
“I’m glad. I was afraid you didn’t for a while.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I told you why. I still feel like it was my fault—but I’m working on it. I mean I’ll probably always feel some kind of guilt over the whole thing, but it wasn’t me who did those things. It was her. Natasha.”
“That’s right.”
Colt thought of the last time he’d seen Natasha Orlova. It’d been on a mountain in Spain, and she’d had Tallie Grant with her. Not to hurt her, but to rescue her. Once she’d turned Tallie over to Brett, she’d disappeared. Colt hadn’t seen her since. He wondered if Ian had. There were undercurrents between those two, but Colt didn’t know what it meant. Or what Jace thought about the whole thing since Natasha was his sister. Still hard to believe that bit, actually.
Colt for sure didn’t care for Natasha, aka Calypso, since she’d shot him and left him for dead—though it’d been a hell of a shot that managed to miss anything vital and give him a fighting chance. He’d never know if she’d done it on purpose or if she’d just fucked up that day. He’d prefer if he never had to see her again, but it wasn’t likely in this line of work. One day, she’d turn up. Like a bad penny, as the saying went.
“I know she’s still out there,” Angie said. “I used to imagine her coming for me, imagine waking up and finding her standing over my bed. But Maddy said that wouldn’t happen.”
“It won’t.” And if it did, Colt would hunt her down and blow her away. “But Ang, you shouldn’t talk about Natasha. Don’t say her name to anyone who isn’t us.”
She nodded. “I know. Mads told me.”
“Good.”
She polished off the last bite of omelet and placed her napkin on the table. “That was delicious.”
He grinned. “Glad you think so.”
He loved that she wasn’t embarrassed to eat. He’d been around Angie during meals several times over the past few months, and with the exception of the first few when she was still tangled up over everything that’d happened to her with Tom Walls and Calypso, she’d always had a healthy appetite.
It was refreshing. He’d gone out with more than enough women who ordered salads and then pushed the lettuce around the plate while he ate steak. There was nothing wrong with eating a salad, even eating it as your main course—but for god’s sake, eat it.
There was a difference between being on a sensible diet and starving yourself into someone else’s idea of beauty. Angie wasn’t too thin, but she wasn’t overly plump either. She ate what she liked and she did yoga to stay trim. He knew because Maddy talked about going to classes together.
“What happens now?” Angie asked.
“We wait for my team to arrive. Then we’ll go over what we know and have a look at your spreadsheet.”
There was a knock on the door. Colt went to look out the peephole. It was Jace, so he opened up.
“Hey, man. You’re early.”
Jace frowned. “Sorry, dude, but the boss says we gotta bring her into HQ for this one.”
Colt shot into alert mode. He scanned the surroundings outside the house, looking for trouble. “Something happen?”
“Don’t know. He called ten minutes ago, said to come over here and fetch you both. Said he’d explain everything and hung up.”
Angie felt the tension rolling off Colt in waves. They were in his Yukon, following behind Jace’s truck as they headed toward Black Defense International’s headquarters.
“Why are we going there?” she’d asked when he said there’d been a change of plans.
“I don’t know, but when the boss says we go, we go. It’ll be okay, Angie. I won’t leave your side.”
She hadn’t argued with him, though she’d thought about it for a split second. He’d told her they could look at Charles’s spreadsheet at his house, but now they were headed to his workplace where somebody would no doubt try to take her computer and disappear with it.
She wasn’t letting that happen.
But what did it matter if they took the spreadsheet and got to work on solving the mystery of what it contained? Did she really care? Clearly, there was something wrong or Charles wouldn’t have split and a man wouldn’t have tried to break into her condo. The more distance she could put between herself and the Cardinal Group, the better.
Except handing it over wouldn’t automatically absolve her of responsibility. The Cardinal Group—or someone there—knew she was in possession of information that didn’t line up with the official figures. She didn’t think they were likely to forget it.
Colt pulled into an underground parking garage. He came around and opened her door for her. She smiled at him as she stepped onto the pavement with her handbag on her arm.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, baby.”
She shivered deep inside whenever he called her baby. There was no denying it. No matter how liberated and independent she thought she was—and she was—hearing this particular man call her baby sent little shivers of delight dancing up and down her spine.
When anybody else called her baby, it infuriated her. Not Colt.
Mon ange. He’d said those words to her this morning and she’d nearly melted. French was so sexy. Or maybe it was just sexy coming from him. What would those words sound like murmured in her ear while he was inside her?
Oh my…
Jace was waiting for them at the freight elevator. They stepped on and he pressed the button to take them to the fourth floor.
Angie tried not to gawk as the doors opened, but considering she’d just ridden in a freight elevator, she’d been expecting something a little less sleek.
They emerged into a hallway that led between offices and conference rooms. There was glass everywhere—glass walls, tinted windows that still managed to spill lots of light into the space, and a glass sculpture of an eagle perched on a pedestal at the end of the hall. Everything was high end, unlike her office at what used to be Barton, Barnes and Blake.
Things there had been a little timeworn, but in a good way. The building was—had been—old. The furnishings had been modern, because Triple B wasn’t broke or poor, but also kind of artfully shabby.
They didn’t have high-tech equipment with iPads that controlled all the electronics, or televisions that fl
ared to life behind what appeared to be mirrors. That happened when Jace led them into a conference room with a huge oval table lined with leather chairs. He picked up an iPad, tapped it, and a mirror turned into a television screen.
He didn’t turn the sound on, but it was an international news station with a crawl at the bottom. There were explosions on the screen and people looking both weary and terrified as they talked to the reporter.
Angie turned at the sound of voices. Four men entered the room. She recognized two of them, but the other two were a mystery. Ian Black stopped speaking to the men and gave her a big smile. He was a handsome man, tall and dark-haired with dark eyes. Though she swore he had blue eyes the last time she met him. Maybe she was confusing him with someone else.
“Hello, Miss Turner. How are you doing today?”
“I’m all right, thanks. Just wondering why I’m here.”
“Of course.” Ian gestured to a chair and Angie went to sit down.
Colt pulled out the chair for her and she sank down on it, murmuring her thanks. She was glad when he sat beside her. His presence was comforting in the company of all these seriously alpha men. Nobody had to tell her that’s what they were. She could feel it in the air. The strength and determination, the will to do good. The absolute unwillingness to sit back and let things happen.
These were men who acted. They did not wait to be acted upon.
“I think you know Tyler,” Ian said. “This is Jared Fraser.”
“Ma’am,” Jared said, nodding politely.
“And this is Dax Freed.”
Dax winked. “Howdy.”
Howdy? Was he putting her on? She took in his faded jeans and worn cowboy boots and thought, nope, he wasn’t putting her on. This man hailed from somewhere in the south. Or maybe the southwest.
Beside her, Colt shifted in his seat. “I’m going to assume you found something, or we wouldn’t be here.”
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