Sweet One (Titan Book 8)

by Cristin Harber

  “We spoke before.” The caller’s opening was less a hello and more a reminder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You check out,” the Gianori lawyer said.

  Of course Billy did. “As does my information.”

  An uneasy pause hung on the phone line. “Easy on the phone lines, son.”

  “Right, right,” Billy mumbled. That was stupid. Get it together. “Would you like to meet in person? I can come to your office. I passed it—”

  “You’re in Boston?” the lawyer asked, and Billy wasn’t sure by his tone of voice that the man was as impressed as he would have liked.

  “Of course. I’m ready to—”

  “Go to Vito’s on—”

  “I know where it is.” Enough documentaries had detailed the Gianori’s hangouts. Billy had found the location online and then in person. “When?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Alright—” But the phone line was already dead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cash pocketed his phone and listened to Nicola wander around the first floor of the beach house. They’d spent three gloriously boring weeks in the sweet paradise of South Carolina. Each day, a therapist came over and put him through the wringer of the recovery process.

  Yeah, it was important. He got it. Really.

  But—shit. His hand spun the phone—the one he wasn’t allowed to stare at—in his pocket. The team was somewhere undisclosed, and that pissed him the hell off. He’d never cared where they were when he was on an off week having vacation, downtime, or whatever. But during an indefinite benching, Cash itched to get back into the field.

  But every. Single. Damn. Day. The lady showed up to help him with crap that he knew he needed work on. Like vision and balance.

  What the hell was a sniper without perfect damn vision and the ability to creep like a motherfuck, ghosting like a gust of wind? That there was even a question he might not be one hundred percent in the very near future stressed him out. Which caused a headache. Which made him angry. And the anger jumped his blood pressure, which made the therapist jot shit in her notebook and schedule a session for the next day.

  Cash growled and tossed the phone on the bed before falling face-first beside it. If he lost his job, he’d lose his mind. Maybe his woman too? Nah, never. Nicola wouldn’t walk away. He wondered what had made him think that.

  Christ. His mind bounced too many places.

  The thing was, though, she was perfection, and he was pretty fuckin’ cocky when it came to being her better half. If he couldn’t be the dude who jumped out of planes and could nail world-record-breaking sniper shots, who the hell was he?

  A daddy… Cash fisted his hair. He had to be a provider, a daddy. Which meant he needed to get his act together.

  Mind over matter. Concussions were bruises, the doc had said. Sleep them off. That was why he was stuck in a calm, soothing paradise with a beautiful woman and her slowly growing stomach: so that he could heal. Quietly. Without getting himself into trouble.

  No guns.

  No bombs.

  No sniper shots.

  No off-roading.

  Nothing fun. He wasn’t even supposed to go running yet. Seriously. He hadn’t even touched his wife… no extracurricular activities allowed. Where was the rule book on that one? He touched her; he just didn’t touch her… and at the moment, he could use a whole lot of touching her. Worshipping her body could melt any stress away.

  Cash rolled over on the bed. “Hey, Nic. What are you doing?”

  “I’m starving,” she called from what sounded like the refrigerator. “Want to go get lunch?”

  Feed the woman. He took a deep breath. Pregnancy had to be like a cold. Feed a cold, feed a pregnancy? No, that sounded all kinds of wrong. There had to be a book on this. The Field Guide for First-Time Dads: Sniper Edition.

  “Yup. Food sounds good.” Not as great as sex. But sate one need at a time. Man, did he feel like an asshole.

  He pushed off the bed, and by the time he lumbered down the stairs, Nicola was standing by the door, beachy-looking bag draped over her shoulder, her blond hair loose and wavy, looking like a sun-kissed beach princess. That was the first moment he noticed her glow.

  The girl had been a stunner their whole lives, but at the moment, she was just, like, whoa. He took two steps in one to get to her, slid both his arms under hers, and hauled her up for a kiss. “You’re beautiful.”

  Nic laughed and giggled then kissed him back, and when she was out of his arms and on her feet, that glow in her cheeks was tinged with pink. Cash did not want to leave the house. Their bedroom was screaming for attention. But a different kind of alpha protectiveness kicked him in the gut, and it came down to basics—feed his woman and child—to the point where he wanted to beat his chest like a caveman. The overpowering need to take care of her in this new way almost knocked him over; Nicola was going to have a South Carolinian feast of food as soon as he could get her to town. “Let’s go.”

  The pathway was sand covered until they hit the sidewalk. The beach house was far enough out of town that they didn’t have neighbors but close enough that they could enjoy the walk. Nicola set the pace, and Cash scanned the horizon. Sand dunes, waves, and grassy knolls. He could hide in a million spots and take out a target. He glanced over his shoulder—just habit—to check the house in the fading distance. It was Jared’s house. The security was maxed out. But just because security systems were in place didn’t keep people from doing stupid things.

  But this was paradise.

  Still, his eyes jumped as though someone was watching him. He saw no one.

  Nicola squeezed his hand. “Everything okay?” Worry colored her eyes.

  Damn, everything was about healing, recovery, TBI, and making sure he wasn’t cracking up, too tired, or losing his mind. “’Course, sweet girl.”

  Town came into sight, and still, he couldn’t relax, but he could fake it. But he felt guilty. He’d never had to fake a thing to his wife. The Spidey tingles crawled down Cash’s neck. Damn aftershocks. He couldn’t even take his wife for a walk into town with that hypervigilant feeling that he should be on the alert. He stretched to alleviate the paranoia, bunched his shoulders, and tried to relax away the tension.

  When his arms dropped and he fell back into stride with Nic again, her delicate fingers wound with his. “Don’t lie. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Busted. So maybe he couldn’t get away with lying to her. Cash rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, trying to shoo away the creepy crawlies. They were in coastal paradise. Nothing was wrong. If anything, he was bothered that the team was on a job that he knew shit about. “Just a tight muscle.”

  “Oh, that—oh!” She came to a standstill, staring down, and panic flooded him. “Cash, here. Feel this. Now. Feel.”

  “What?” All he could feel were the stabby vibes that told him he should be armed.

  “Cash. The baby.”

  Oh, right. Focus. Asshole. He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to hone in and control everything as if this was a job, and the baby was a target.

  “Cash?”

  His eyes opened to a beautiful, worried Nic. “Sorry, I was trying to feel the baby.”

  “With your eyes closed?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. That was how he’d concentrate before sighting a target. “Eyes open. Show me where.”

  Nicola moved her hands over his. “The baby’s not moving this second.” She pressed harder, and he could feel her insides. “Wait for it…”

  “Whoa!” He reeled back as though his itchy trigger finger had detonated an early explosion.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I touched the baby.”

  “You did not, silly.” Nicola pressed his palm to her stomach.

  The baby pushed back, and Cash jumped again but this time without taking his hands away. “Holy shit, Nic.”

  “This time the baby touched you.” Her eyes beamed.

  Cash dropped to his kn
ees in the middle of the sidewalk. “Can you hear me?”

  Nic nodded. “Absolutely.”

  With both hands on the side of her stomach’s swells, he glanced up at her. “That was insane. How often does that happen?”

  “Just started.”

  He ran his hands over her stomach to the top of her small mound, leaned forward, and cupped his mouth. “I am your father.”

  “Cash.” She tugged him up. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Parker would appreciate it.”

  “Alright, I want food. Time to feed us.”

  Damn if he didn’t like how she used us. But as they hit the main street, the tingle of awareness came back. There were eyes on them. Pivoting, he saw no one out of place. Tourists. Townies. Everything was as it should be. Was he that off his game? Paranoid much? And if he was getting paranoid, what the hell kind of dad would that make him? He’d be like a dad who cried wolf—or who didn’t see where the enemy lurked.

  Shit, his temples pounded.

  “Too much?” she asked. “We can head back. I can eat anything in the fridge. Literally, I can probably eat everything in the fridge.”

  Damn it to hell. His woman was questioning whether he was man enough to walk into town to grab grub. “Come on.” He powered them into a restaurant where he knew he could find a table in the back corner and watch every single person walk in and out.

  Paranoid? His eyes dropped to Nicola’s stomach. Hell yeah, he was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lunch had nearly put Nicola into a low-country seafood-and-grits coma, and the walk home seemed much longer than the one into town. Cash had gone from antsy to ecstatic to exhausted, all of which she’d been told to expect as they waded through the stages of traumatic-brain-injury recovery.

  Off he went to nap—per her orders, which she blamed on doctor’s orders—and she grabbed a book and went to the deck. The waves rolled on the beach, and the ocean-tinted breeze teased over Nicola, lightly blowing her maxi dress as she draped on the lounge chair. Off and on, she dozed while Cash was inside doing the same thing. But whether it was her stomach’s increasing size or the baby kicking or pressing on her bladder, she couldn’t get to sleep.

  She pushed her sunglasses up her nose, knowing that she was lying even to herself. It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep or get comfortable—both were true, but they were also lies. Something was off, and it wasn’t her body or the baby. Readjusting on the lounge, she didn’t want to be the crazy pregnant lady. But… Nicola scanned the vacant coastline beyond the deck. She didn’t feel alone.

  A few months ago, she would’ve grabbed her 9mm, woken her husband, and sought out the reason for her heebie-jeebies. But a baby in her tummy and a man whom she wanted to keep calm changed everything.

  “That’s it,” she mumbled, letting the waves wash out her unconvincing lie. “My subconscious is testing me.”

  She made another quick scan of the perimeter. She squinted. There’s someone over there. Nic didn’t move or act as though she saw that person, who was probably a tourist out for a long walk along the beach—close to the reeds, standing still.

  Nope. Red alarm. Something was wrong. Shit. Okay.

  Never one to give up her cover, she stretched, and with faux-carefree laziness, watched another wave, eyeballing the figure in her peripheral vision, before slowly making her way inside.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, she moved boots, running from one side of the house to the next. There was nothing like a Jared Westin beach house to keep things armed and dangerous. She hit the master bedroom, slamming to a slowdown, tiptoeing around a sleeping Cash, and grabbed the binoculars.

  What else did she need? Hell, right now she was on a fact-finding mission. Back around the bed, and she was—

  “Freeze.”

  Shit. Nicola turned around to face her very awake- husband. “Yeah?”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Had to get something.” And in a freakin’ hurry. “Go back to sleep.”

  “What?”

  “Binoculars.”

  “Why?” He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes or move.

  “Jeez. Bird watching. Can I go now?”

  Cash turned his head and opened his eyes. “Lie to me again, and see what happens.”

  Oh boy. “Go back to sleep.”

  “You ran through the house like you were up to something.”

  “I’ll explain later.” Telling him now would make his head explode, and that’d be bad for recovery and all. “My bird watching is time sensitive. Grill me later. Please?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have the Spidey senses too.” He pushed out of bed, feeling along the side of the nightstand until he retrieved a Glock 9.

  “Cash Garrison!”

  He stood up, pausing for what had to be a second longer than his old norm. “Let’s go.”

  “The doctor said no loud noise, no percussive forces. He stipulated no gunfire.”

  “Walk and talk, sweet girl.”

  “Shit, you obnoxious alpha man.”

  “You dangerous pregnant woman,” he grumbled. “Scoot your booty, baby.”

  She obeyed because he was already moving. “There’s a man a thousand yards away, posted in the sand dunes.” They moved smoothly, as though she weren’t pregnant and he hadn’t been in a TBI clinic. They were two of a kind. Without speaking, they intuitively flowed, taking the same path, taking their positions in the house, and looking out windows without being seen.

  She scanned the perimeter. The man in the dunes was gone. Cash did a walk-around with his weapon handy but out of sight. He flicked the lock on the door, giving Nicola an eye for not doing so when she’d opted to smoothly slip in then run like hell for the binoculars, and finished checking the inside of the house.

  Nicola heard the garage door open and close as he left her alone for twenty minutes, and then Cash reappeared, walking up the back-deck stairs. He knocked on the door, and she let him in. Both stayed silent; she put her binoculars on the kitchen table, and he placed the Glock there, within reach.

  “So…” she said, sitting down. There were a hundred ways this conversation could go. She was crazy. They were nuts together. Field withdrawal had made them insane, or her hormones and his concussion had joined forces to send them to the looney bin.

  “What’d he look like?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.”

  Cash pinched the bridge of his nose. “At least you got a look.”

  “Meaning?”

  He shrugged and ran a fist into his rumpled hair.

  Nicola rested her hand on her stomach. “People are going to think we’ve lost our marbles.”

  Cash’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “Nah, something’s up.”

  The determination in his face matched the fear in her tummy. He would maim, kill, and destroy whatever threatened his wife and child—even if it hurt him, which it would likely do. A simple gunshot reverb could set back his rehab. The idea of Cash in an altercation scared the hell out of her.

  “Do you want to go home?” she asked.

  His jaw flexed. “Do I want to run home because my wife saw a man in the sand who scared her?” He tilted his head. “How hard do you think I was hit in the head, Nic?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Want me to call Jared, see if someone can come down and protect you? Maybe Roman can come sit up nights and watch out for his little sis.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Cash.”

  He shook his head, glaring. “Seriously. Not like I don’t have shit to deal with. ‘Don’t shoot guns. Don’t get in fights.’ That’s what I do for a living!”

  Her eyes went wide. Okay. Mood swings. Anger. It was like a TBI checklist playing out live in front of her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “God. Damn. This is making my head pound.”

  “Maybe lie down. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  The chair scraped across the floor when he pushed back. “R
ight. Sure. Let my pregnant wife run around playing caped crusader to the man in the bushes. I’m the fucking father-to-be of the year.”

  “Cash, that’s not…”

  He stormed out of the room, leaving the 9mm and binoculars on the table and her in tears.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Parker,” Cash growled into the phone. “I don’t give two shits who you have to murder or maim to get me on the line with Boss Man, but make it happen.”

  “He’s—”

  “Right now, goddamn it.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Cash. Calm the fuck down.”

  “I am calm. You want to see me not calm? There will be a bloodbath in Podunk, South Carolina, and his perfect little beach house will be a crime scene. Get Jared on the damn phone.”

  “Is everything okay with you and Nic?” Parker asked as though proposing to crawl through the phone line and wage war to protect Titan’s pregnant spy.

  “Insinuate again that there’s a problem with me and my wife’s safety—”

  “That was a dick move,” Parker apologized. “Just explain.”

  “For fuck’s sake. It’s an unsecure line, asshole. You know that better than me. I have a problem. If I can’t talk to him, figure out how I’m supposed to talk to you. Shit.”

  Parker sighed. “You know what benched means? I have strict orders to not engage with you. At all.”

  “Someone’s sniffing around here. I’ve got the vibe, and before you say one damn word about post-traumatic bullshit, I am not wrong.”

  “Cash—”

  “Nic saw a guy—”

  “Cash—”

  “I’ve got the vibe.”

  “Dude, listen—”

  “It’s my motherfucking woman and child. So no, you listen. Get Jared on the phone now, or patch me through to a goddamn secure line, and you listen then relay what you need to. Do you understand?”

  Parker paused a beat. “Yeah. My bad. Hang tight.”

  Cash dropped his forehead to his shaking palm, noticing the twinge of perspiration, and then scrubbed his face. A garbled noise ate into the phone line.

  Parker’s voice broke the static. “Secure line.”