by Debra Webb
“It was nice.”
“Nice? That’s the best you say about that glorious space?” She started for the stairs, but Jason led her in the other direction.
“Service access is safer.”
“Hello? It was service guys who just tried to kill us.”
“No, they were extras, hired on just to deal with us.”
She didn’t bother asking him how he knew this for certain. They started down the stairs, Jason carrying both suitcases while she had the computer bag. After half a flight, she slipped out of her heels. “Are we going the whole way like this?”
“I hope not. Do you still have your old room key?”
“Yeah.”
“Which tower?”
“This one.”
“Good.”
“You can’t be serious about staying here. Talk about long odds.” Funny, last time he was the one who wanted to leave this hotel. A few more attempts on their lives were required to get her there, but she was squarely there now.
“We have to stay. All the players are here.”
Duh. “And they know us now.”
“Exactly.”
“Jason.” She stopped and forced him to do the same. “That doesn’t make sense. Safety, regrouping—that makes sense.”
“Only if you want to keep playing defense.”
He winked at her and she sputtered, unable to think how to contradict him.
“How many more flights?” She was already getting dizzy from the fast pace. The man had a keen sense of balance as he somehow managed this with a suitcase in each hand. She, however, was likely dehydrated from the two glasses of champagne. And she was frustrated and flustered. She never got flustered. He did this to her. She was certain of it!
“Two more, then we’ll try for an elevator.”
“You know security is probably wondering what we’re doing.”
“They see plenty of weird stuff. By the time they catch up with us—if they even bother—we’ll have a story together.”
She hoped he was right. The etched treads of the cement steps bit into her feet, but as long as she wasn’t leaving a trail of blood—she looked back to confirm—she would make it.
“Behind-the-scenes Vegas isn’t so posh,” she decided, suddenly feeling utterly disillusioned.
“It’s a service stairwell, Gin. What did you expect?”
“I expected to stay on the pretty side of the hotel,” she admitted.
“You’ve worked in grittier places.”
“True.” Which was only one more reason she appreciated the luxurious jobs.
She stopped when he did and held her breath while he opened and peered beyond the door. He listened for a few seconds then looked around the corner to see if the way was clear. Easing the door closed, he took a deep breath.
“We’ll move out and to the left to the guest elevator. Take that to your floor.”
She nodded.
He opened the door and she followed him, grateful for the reprieve of the soft carpet under her feet. He pulled out both suitcase handles and rolled them along, like any other guests in search of their room.
“Keep your head down,” he muttered when they reached the elevator.
She leaned against his shoulder, doing her best weary wife impersonation. He kissed her on the top of her head. How many times was that now? He was so good at this married thing, she wondered if he’d ever done it for real. What she’d dug up on him said no, but there had to be a serious relationship somewhere in his past. In her experience men didn’t nurture women the way Jason had been doing it without prior on the job training.
She cultivated lust in her male targets because it blurred logic and served her better in the field. But there was an inherent kindness in Jason that had her longing for something different. Something more...personal. And no cultivation had been required with him. The lust came naturally.
For a moment she tried to imagine sharing so much with other men she’d used or targeted, and she couldn’t see it happening. Neither could she see it working out with men she’d worked with inside the agency.
Only Jason.
Must be the kisses, she thought, pressing the number for the floor where her alternate identity was still checked in. When they reached her room, they’d review the ground rules again. She was a big girl and didn’t need more tenderness from him. As for whatever that moment was in the penthouse before dinner, well...probably best if they avoided an encore performance of that, too.
“Do you have your keycard?”
“Hmm?” She looked up at him. “Oh, yes.” She fished it out of her clutch. Because he was in front, she handed it to him to slide through the lock.
The do-not-disturb sign was still on the door and she hoped it meant no one had connected this room to Ginger Olin, CIA.
He pushed the door open and they stepped into the room. Nothing had been tossed or damaged. Everything was just as she’d left it.
“Wait here.”
She stood by the door, humored by his gallant effort to clear the room of any threat. Hadn’t she just proved she could be an asset in a conflict? For that matter, hadn’t saving his reputation, if not his life, last night proved as much?
Of course he didn’t remember that clearly, but she felt they needed to get a handle on it soon. She couldn’t let her rash decision to drag him into her case prevent her from accomplishing her task.
“Satisfied?”
“Almost.” He turned on the television and tuned it to a music channel. Leaving the suitcases by the bed, he came back to join her at the door. His warm hands glided over her shoulders and down her back until he cupped her bottom and pulled her close to him. Oh, my, she thought, suddenly all too eager to toss out the ground rules. But when she met his gaze, she saw his eyes weren’t full of desire but rather sharp and focused. He was in business mode.
“The room might be bugged,” he whispered against her ear.
Why didn’t she think of that? Because it was all she could do not to melt into his touch. “Okay,” she murmured, nipping lightly at his earlobe. “Got any protection?”
“Always,” he teased.
She gave a throaty laugh, though it was tough to tell where the game stopped and her real hunger for him began. “How should we proceed?”
“Careful and thorough or fast and hot.” He trailed kisses down her neck. “Your choice.”
“Mmm.” She ran her bare foot up and down over his calf. “I like thorough.” Reaching back, she threw the dead bolt then twisted to push the swing lock into place.
“Me, too.” He pulled a signal jammer from his pocket and turned it on.
Together they searched the room for listening devices and cameras. Even though finding a camera might alert the party on the other end, no way was she going to let anyone watch what probably wouldn’t happen anyway.
Probably? Tempting as he was, taking this fake marriage to the next level of intimacy would be the worst possible thing to do.
Cases in the past had required the use of her every feminine skill. During some cases she’d met someone along the way and enjoyed a brief passionate affair. As much as her hormones shouted do it, her instincts declared he was a danger to her ability to focus and getting in deeper would change everything.
Done checking the vent near the bed, she hopped down to the floor and gave a soft cry at the hot bolt of pain shooting from her left foot to her knee.
“What is it?” Jason rushed to her side.
“Nothing. I bruised my foot in the fight and it’s mad at me.”
“I’ll go for ice,” he said.
She was going to protest, except she noticed the swelling along his cheekbone. “Good idea. I think we could both use some. I’ll find the aspirin.”
“Deal.”
Alone in the room, she looked around. What had seemed so fabulous when she checked in looked almost dingy compared to the penthouse they’d just escaped.
Maybe they should have locked themselves in up there an
d made a stand. Except they didn’t have a clear lead on his enemy and she could hardly follow the virus vial if she was locked in a room.
The more she played it through her head, the more convinced she became that the personal attacks were about him. There might be a few international guests in town who would rather she were permanently out of their lives, but none of them knew her well enough to target her.
She changed the television station to the news network, but she turned the volume down. They didn’t need all the local downers typical of news programs, but they did need to know if the local police had announced they were hunting a sniper.
Her foot was aching more as the adrenaline faded from her system. Adrenaline was more than a small factor in her attraction to Jason. Yes, he was gorgeous, and each time he was kind to her, every little touch that set her nerves reeling made it that much harder to remember this was temporary.
He returned with the full ice bucket topped with the liner bag full of more ice.
“It’s not champagne, but it might feel as good.”
“Probably better.” She remembered the heady sensation as she’d watched him at the blackjack table. “I’ve had enough alcohol for now anyway.” Vegas did enough to reduce the few inhibitions she still had.
He prepped an ice bag for both of them and smiled as she traded him two aspirin for one ice bag. He raised his bag in a toast. “To ease what ails you.”
She chuckled and tapped her ice to his. “Hear, hear,” she said, sinking onto the love seat while he took the chair.
* * *
JASON RELAXED AS the news anchor’s voice droned quietly in the background and they sat in a comfortable silence. It was strange to be so at ease with a woman he barely knew. Maybe it was as simple as being with someone who understood the unique challenges of covert operations. When you had a chance to rest, you took it. It was a rare thing to meet a woman who knew how to live in the moment as well as he did.
A face popped up in the corner of the screen and Jason sat up, the idea of rest momentarily forgotten along with the throbbing in his cheek. He reached for the remote and dialed up the volume to listen to the report.
Bullet points appeared on the screen, giving a brief overview of the known facts. The body of James Redding, retired military expert who was in town for a security conference, had been found under the convention center monorail station early this morning. “Redding told friends he felt poorly and planned to go to his room to rest, according to a conference spokesperson. The apparent victim of a shooting, his body was found by monorail personnel early this morning. If you have any information relevant to this investigation, please call...”
Jason muted the volume but couldn’t stop staring at the picture of Redding’s face as he carefully leaned his cheek against the ice bag again.
“Jason?”
“Hmm.”
“Did you know him?”
Jason nodded.
“Did you know he was here?”
“No.”
“But isn’t that conference your cover?”
“Yes, but I haven’t bothered to do more than check in and occasionally walk by the vendor booths.”
“Instead you’ve been waiting here to be contacted.”
“Yes.” He knew she was starting to draw the same conclusions about this being a setup. But only Holt knew he was here. Only Holt knew his orders and cover. The logical conclusion—that Holt was behind this—made him sick to his stomach.
She continued softly, “That shooting was supposed to look like your work.” Her gaze locked on the television screen, where shots of the area where the body was found flashed in sequence.
“Agreed.” Wasn’t much point in arguing it and definitely not with the only person who knew he was innocent.
“Drugged, you wouldn’t have had an alibi for that.”
“Are you fishing for more gratitude? Because I have plenty, believe me.” Jason rubbed the ice pack over his bruised knuckles, but it was Gin who shivered. “Were you trying to make a point?”
“Whoever wanted to pin that on you must know the blonde failed to contain you.”
“You’re saying all our recent fun is about killing me instead of framing me? The pool incident sure looked like it was all about you.” Calling it a shooting rather than a mere “incident” made it too real.
“If Frost is as good as you say—”
“He is.”
“—then you have to consider he missed me on purpose. Think about it. There were too many variables. You’re the expert in the field—could any innocent bystander have moved into the shot?”
“Not from that angle,” Jason argued.
“Exactly! He had no idea where we would sit, what we would do. But he had elevation and angle on his side.”
“That’s why he works with Wallace. To keep him informed, to stage the scene to misdirect the investigation.”
“Wallace tailed me? Us? I don’t think so. I would have noticed,” she rebutted.
“Or not,” Jason said with a shrug. “Makes sense. Whatever you’re working on, someone wants to stop you.”
“Then why not just kill me?” She gave an exasperated sigh. “Going way out on a theoretical limb here, even if he really was after me, he still missed me on purpose. It was either a scare tactic or part of a setup. Maybe both.”
“Tell it to the lifeguard,” he grumbled. He shifted the ice pack to his cheekbone, irritated he hadn’t dodged the elbow strike more efficiently.
“She’ll be back on the job in two to four weeks,” Gin said dismissively.
“You can’t really be that cold.” In fact, he knew she wasn’t that cold. She put on the master spy, cold, hard mask but underneath she was warm and soft.... Stop, Jason.
“I can be when we should be focused on who’s out to get you.”
He wasn’t ready to go there just yet. “How’s your foot?”
“Fine.” She moved the melting ice bag back over the bruise, which was turning the side of her foot red and deep purple. “Don’t try to distract me. I think you have a working theory about the sniper.”
“Contrary to popular belief, snipers don’t always stay in one place for days waiting for the shot.” He shook his head, his mind in the past. During his stint with Interpol, he’d been ordered to line up a shot on a woman who’d ordered the assassination of a British spy. She enjoyed sunbathing topless on the French Riviera. He had the clear shot and his finger on the trigger when he’d been called off. He’d packed up his gun and spent the rest of the day flirting with a lovely brunette farther down the beach.
He could count on one hand the people who knew about his involvement with that operation and numerous others. The logical conclusion was about as illogical as anything could be. Holt hadn’t reached his current position without being thoroughly vetted by more than one agency and undergoing extensive background checks and psych evaluations.
There had to be another answer. A mole in a nearby department somewhere. An undetected bug in Holt’s office. There had to be an explanation that didn’t involve his direct superior’s plans to put the blame on him for murders in Las Vegas. “How many covert operations do you think go down in Vegas on an annual basis?”
“Not enough of mine,” she groused.
“You like it here?”
“What’s not to like? The food is fabulous, you can dress up or down, there’s always something going on, and you can hide in plain sight.”
“Or get married, if all else fails.”
“I told you I was saving your butt. You’d remember that if your brain had been working properly.” She limped over and perched on the side of his chair, pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Worried I’ll take half of your assets in the divorce?”
“Nothing to take,” he lied. “Government salary, government car.”
“I don’t believe you.” She pulled the ice bag away from his cheek and brushed the spot with her lips. “Your ops are so black, there’s no way they’d risk a
typical government fleet contract. You shouldn’t lie to your wife.”
“Pot.” He pointed to her, then to himself. “Kettle.” He put the ice pack back on his cheek just to take away the heat that lingered from her touch. “Tell me more about your case. Any chance you’re the operative I’m supposed to escort out of this town?”
“I answered that yesterday.” She stood up and started to pace before her bruised foot stopped her. “CIA has no other assets here that I know of.”
“Technically you shouldn’t be working here.”
She turned, her grin positively impish. It shouldn’t amuse him, but it did. “Technically I’m not.” Her grin faded. “Months ago, I was tasked with following the virus. I’ve found two of the four known vials, but the biologist who created it is still out there somewhere.”
“Or dead.”
“That tends to happen when people cross the Isely family.” She slumped onto the couch.
He walked over and picked up her feet, propping them up with pillows to ease the potential swelling. Her level of pain made him worry she was nursing a hairline fracture. It was a common enough injury from the way she’d made the strike against the thug’s knee.
“If the biologist is dead, that makes the product more valuable.”
“Not necessarily,” she countered. “Only the wholesaler needs to know about the supplier or manufacturer. They can spread whatever lies work to their advantage to boost the market value of a product.”
“So what is the wholesaler saying about the virus you’re tracking?”
She frowned. “Nothing.”
“Why not?” He returned to his chair, needing the distance to keep his hands off her.
“Well, until you started asking questions I assumed it was because the stuff is so new and relatively unproven.”
“Relatively?”
Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline, and he realized he didn’t want to hear the answer. “Do you know the seller on sight?” he asked.
“Yes. But he isn’t really my goal. I’ve been tracking GPS tags on the vials themselves.”
“Can the seller identify you?”
