Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  I’m half-tempted to crack open a bottle of bourbon from the mini-bar, but I need to stay sharp. By the time the water comes up to temperature and I fill her cup, Sloane has the blanket I used last night wrapped around her like a shield and her legs curled up under her.

  It’s her eyes that worry me the most. She stares out the french doors at the lake, but I don’t think she’s seeing anything. The tea will give her something to focus on. I hope.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.”

  Her shoulders jerk, but she accepts the cup and saucer, though they rattle a little as she straightens. I slide my fingers over hers, and though these pants are ridiculously too tight for this move, lower myself to one knee in front of her. “Sloane, you need to tell me all of it.”

  “I know.” After a sip of tea, she clenches her jaw so hard, the veins in her temples throb. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Would it help if I asked the questions?” I’ll do anything she wants. Anything she needs.

  A single tear spills onto her cheek, and she dashes it away. “Maybe.”

  I take a seat beside her and drape my left arm over the back of the plush sofa. The motion takes some of the strain and weight off my shoulder, and I blow out a breath. “When Dimitri was arrested, something happened with Rodney Carriger, didn’t it? The background check showed he was a cop. Retired now.”

  “Rodney was in on the raid of the house where Dimitri kept us. For a couple of weeks, he had been one of my regulars. He liked to talk. Always asking questions. I didn’t know until the raid that he was trying to figure out where Dimitri kept us, how many girls were in the house, how many enforcers.” Sloane takes another sip of tea, and her lips twitch slightly. “In Russia, we have mostly black tea. I hated it growing up. The first time I ever had chamomile was at the hospital in New York.”

  It takes me a beat to process her words, and a cold knot twists in my gut. “What hospital?”

  Setting the cup down, she turns to face me, emotionless, her face—even her eyes—completely blank. “When your entire existence is nothing but fear and pain, you lose hope quickly. No one can live for long without hope. Not unless you have…help.” Her fingers press to the crook of her left elbow, and for a second, shame flickers in her eyes. “Dimitri’s help? Came from a needle.”

  Fuck. I should have known. “Heroin?” Sloane nods, still rubbing her elbow until I stop her. “So, the hospital? That’s where you got clean?”

  Another nod. “That’s why I never take anything stronger than aspirin. Except for my anxiety meds. I don’t even drink. Max…he set it up. All of it. He gave me a new life. And in exchange, I signed a contract. Sophiana died, and I became Sloane.”

  She’s close to breaking down completely, and I can’t push her for more. Not right now. Instead, I gently ease her against me until she relaxes. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  The red text scrolls across my lenses, and I start rubbing her back. “We’ll head to the Bahnhofstrasse in a couple of hours. After we figure out who that asshole is and how he knows Volkov. Until then, why don’t you lie down?”

  “I…” she shakes her head and pulls away, giving me a single, desperate look before turning towards her bedroom. “Okay.”

  Shit. My inner voice screams at me to stop her, and I catch up to her at the bedroom door. “Wait. What were you going to say?”

  Sloane’s lips press together, pursing and flattening like she’s a fish struggling to breathe out of water. It isn’t until I rest my hand at the small of her back that her chest stops stuttering and she tips her head up to meet my gaze.

  “I’m terrified, Griff. For fifteen years, I thought I was safe. And that made it okay to be alone. But now?”

  Whatever she wants, I’ll give. Even if it scares the fuck out of me. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

  For two hours, Sloane sleeps, curled against my left side, her head resting on my chest. I wanted to hold her properly, but Wren messaged me just as we tried to get comfortable. A few minutes later, with the help of a couple of pillows, we found a compromise that lets me use my right arm to carry on a painfully slow text conversation with Second Sight’s hacker and still give Sloane what she needs most—a semblance of safety.

  The “reporter”? A Russian thug who did time at the same prison as Volkov. She didn’t find any evidence he was involved in sex trafficking, but though his only conviction was for assault, the police tried—and failed—to pin three separate murders on him ten years ago.

  The phone slips out of my hand, and instinct kicks in. I try to stop it from hitting the bed, but my sudden movement wakes Sloane, and her entire body tenses.

  “Shhh. You’re okay, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

  “Oh, God. How long did I sleep?” She wriggles up, and I wince as blood rushes back into my mangled left arm. “Griff? What is it?”

  Rubbing my shoulder, I force a smile. “Nothing a few minutes won’t cure. Pins and needles.”

  Sloane frowns, then reaches up and trails her fingers over the tingling muscles. “Can I…?”

  “Only a fool would refuse a massage from a smart, gorgeous, and brave model sleeping in his bed.” With a grin, I put my glasses on and turn so my back is to her.

  “Technically, this is my bed.” Sloane starts slowly, feeling for the straps that stretch across my upper back. “Are you sensitive anywhere? Will I hurt you?”

  “No. My shoulder is all good, so’s my back. The wall—big cement block monstrosity—only crushed my arm.” I unbuttoned my shirt before we lay down, and Sloane tugs it off me—mostly. The cufflinks were a bitch to fasten.

  “Shit.” With one of her hands flat against my chest and the other on my back—wait, are those her knuckles? Yep. Digging in along my shoulder blade.

  Oh, fuck. Her touch is better than any massage I ever got in physical therapy. Probably because she’s not trying to drive me to the breaking point.

  “You slept for two hours,” I say on a groan. “Marina’s back in her room, safe, and the SAS guy is due here in thirty.”

  “Thank God. I’ll feel better when she has protection.” After a few seconds, she adds, “Your shoulder’s hard as a rock. This might hurt a little.”

  Before I can tell her not to worry, that she I doubt she weighs more than a buck twenty, even at five-foot-six with perfectly balanced curves, she rises up on her knees and starts searching for my trigger points with her elbow. “Holy shit.” She freezes, and I hiss out a breath. “Don’t stop, sweetheart. I can take a little pain. Greater good and all that.”

  “Griff…”

  “I promise. I’m okay.” As she continues to work on my back, I fill her in on everything I learned.

  “So this man—Pavel Andrei—you said? Is he still at the hotel?”

  “Not that we can find. But I have a dozen photos of him from the cocktail party and the lobby security cameras the day you arrived. Before we go anywhere, you need to memorize them.”

  “We could order room service.” Sloane stops with the magic fingers and scoots to the edge of the bed until she’s right next to me. “If it’s too dangerous to leave the hotel—”

  “It’s not.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Griff.” Her eyes narrow, and she studies me. “You promised.”

  Scooting back, I take her hands. “I’m not lying. Not exactly. You’re in danger until we find any and all the men working for Volkov and figure out his end game. This is more than blackmail, Sloane. He’s doing whatever he can to keep you scared. Off balance. If we don’t sell this relationship—really sell it—he’s going to come after you again.”

  Sloane yanks her hands away, shoving them into the pockets of the well-worn hoodie she put on after a full fifteen minutes in the bathroom removing the low-cut cashmere. “He’s going to come after me anyway. His operation was so much bigger than just the dozen girls at his Philly house. He ran houses all over the east coast. I don’t know where they were,
and when I tried to tell Rodney about them, he refused to listen. All he cared about was keeping me to himself.” She shudders, and I try to touch her, but she slides off the bed and stands just out of reach. “When Max saved me, I couldn’t read or write English very well, though I could speak it. I had tutors, classes every day once I was clean, and after six months or so, I wrote down everything I could remember and sent a letter—no return address—to the District Attorney in Philadelphia. But even though I checked the news every day for months…there was nothing.”

  My watch buzzes, and I take a quick glance at the screen. “Marina’s bodyguard is here. Once I vet him, we’re going out to dinner.” Sloane starts to protest, but I hold up my hand. “Dimitri’s not going to come after us in the middle of the city. You—we—need a little fun. Plus, this is a chance for you to prove you’re doing exactly what he wants. Keeping secrets from me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sloane

  The hot former-SAS captain blocks the door, stopping Marina from leaving for the Beauty and Style staff party. “If anyone asks, we met at breakfast this morning and hit it off.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze.” Marina rolls her eyes. “No one is going to believe we are hooking up.”

  “We’re not.” Jacob—all six feet of him dressed in a dark blue suit—stares down at my best friend with an amused half-smile. “But with your former plus-one ‘hooking up’ with Griff, you were not keen on attending this party alone, and asked me to accompany you. We’re friends, nothing more.”

  Marina huffs, and some of her anger fades. “Fine. But can we go now? The appetizers are always the best part, and you wouldn’t believe how much the gaffers eat.” Draping her evening bag over her shoulder, she turns to me. “Be careful, okay? I don’t like the idea of you leaving the hotel.”

  Honestly? Neither do I. But Griff insists we need this—that I need this—and that we won’t be in any danger. “We’ll be fine. Go. Have fun.”

  Jacob holds the door open for her, and Marina ducks by him, the ruffled skirt on her bright red dress brushing his thigh.

  “I told her all those ruffles would be annoying,” I say. “But she fell in love with that dress the moment she saw it at Saks.”

  “It’s…interesting.” Griff unlocks the hotel safe, and my stomach twists into knots as he withdraws a gun, a very lethal-looking knife, and a second mobile phone.

  My palms go damp, and I rub them on my thighs. Since this isn’t an official event, I don’t have to wear anything Beauty and Style provided. As soon as I put on a normal bra and paired a soft green sweater with flowing black pants and my Sketchers, I felt like me again.

  Or, at least some version of me. After telling Griff about my past, I don’t have a clue who I am anymore. Or who I want to be.

  Griff drops to one knee and pulls up the right leg of his jeans. The knife—all five inches of it in a black sheath—straps to his calf, and I can’t look away. “Do you really think you’ll need that?” I’m not proud of the tremble in my voice, but at least he can’t hear it.

  Glancing up at me, his entire demeanor changes. The shift from all-business Griff to this-man-could-actually-be-my-boyfriend Griff is like a switch, and his blue eyes soften. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But I’m not taking any chances with your safety, Sloane. None.”

  After he smooths the denim back down and stamps his foot a couple of times, he holds out his hand for mine.

  “Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asks, squeezing my fingers lightly.

  “N-no. Please don’t ask me to.” Every man in my life who ever held a gun in my presence hurt me. Dimitri, all his men, Rodney…

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” His voice carries a rough edge, and I snap my gaze back to his and try to ignore the weapon on the table in front of us. “You shouldn’t have to touch it. Hell, it’s a last resort for me too.” He closes the fingers of his left hand around the holster and pulls the gun with his right. “I got top marks on the range for years before I lost my arm, but I’ll never be weapons certified again. Not by the CIA. Still, even with one hand, I’m better than most. So when we leave the hotel, I’ll be armed. Every time.”

  He shows me where the safety is, how to flip it on and off, and the special pocket in his jacket where he clips the holster.

  “You have your panic button?”

  I run my fingers over the inside of my right breast, the small, thin button taped to the bra cup. “It’s here. But you’re not going to leave me alone, right?”

  When he smiles at me, I want to believe everything’s going to be okay. That he won’t leave my side. That we’ll have a nice, maybe even normal night out. “Unless you want me following you into the bathroom—or you like hanging out in the men’s room—we might be apart at least once tonight. But otherwise, I’ll be with you the entire time. I promise.”

  Draping a plaid tartan around my shoulders, I take a deep breath. I can do this. Go on a date with a handsome man at my side, and maybe…have a nice evening.

  The Bahnhofstrasse is covered in a canopy of tiny lights, lending a warm glow to the shops lining both sides of the street. We left the cars behind two blocks ago, passing under a massive arch to a large pedestrian-only boulevard. Hand in hand, we take our time walking among dozens of tourists window shopping, taking photos, and milling around the various bars and restaurants.

  “Still breathing?” Griff asks. Despite the people all around us, it’s quiet, and so I don’t worry about looking up at him to answer.

  “Mostly. It’s beautiful here.” With a sigh, I press closer to him. “I wish we were on a real vacation.”

  He squeezes my hand, and though I know his fingers are made of silicone and titanium and various electronic sensors, there’s something so real about the gesture. “We are.”

  “Do most of your vacations involve someone dying? If so, you need a new travel agent.”

  His laugh is the most comforting sound. Rich and strong and one hundred percent genuine. “I don’t take vacations. Or, I haven’t. Not for a long time.” Guiding me over to an artist offering sketches for ten francs, Griff gestures to a stool positioned opposite the white-haired man.

  “You don’t have to—” He silences me with a tender kiss, and I melt against him. Every time I convince myself this isn’t real, that we’re only pretending, he does something like that and I think…maybe one day I could be happy. Not with him. This is nothing more than a job for Griff, and no matter how good he is at it, that’s all I’ll ever be to him.

  But with someone?

  Is there another man in this world who wouldn’t immediately see my damage? Who’d want me even though I’m not sure I’ll be able to have sex ever again?

  “Sloane?” A warm hand cups my cheek, and he’s staring into my eyes like he can’t find me anywhere. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. Just…thinking.” Before we left the hotel, Griff explained the plan. Ninety percent happy couple, completely in love, ten percent secrets, lies, and distance. Anyone watching us has to believe I’m terrified but keeping it to myself.

  The first part is easy to sell. The second? Griff is easy to talk to. And now that he knows everything? I don’t want to hide from him.

  Giving his fingers a final squeeze, I sink down onto the stool, cross my legs at the ankles, and fold my hands on my thigh. One of the first lessons I learned. How to sit. Chin level, a gentle smile, head angled slightly to one side. I can hold this for hours if I have to.

  “No good,” the artist says, his accent thick. “Together.” He turns the page to start fresh, and Griff offers me his hand. The stool is only big enough for one of us, and I’m not sure what he’s planning, but let him pull me to my feet.

  Before I even get my bearings, he’s perched on the stool, an arm around my waist, and my ass resting against his thigh. Now it’s my turn to laugh, and dammit. I want this. A life. Fun. With someone who understands me.

  “Tell me something no one else knows about you,” Griff says,
his lips close to my ear.

  “When I was eight, I won an art contest in school.” It’s so easy to be myself with this man. He doesn’t judge me, doesn’t doubt me, even now. “Where I grew up? It was such a small town. I think there were only twenty kids at my school. But the teacher entered one of my drawings in a contest…” Shit. I can’t tell him where. Not in public. “It went all the way to the capitol. I didn’t win the big prize. That would have been enough money for my family to eat for a month. But for a few weeks, my little picture of a mama duck and her babies was on display for thousands to see.”

  Griff gives me a gentle squeeze and brushes his lips to my cheek. “That’s impressive. I can barely draw stick people.”

  “Anyone can learn to draw. I…could show you later.” What am I doing? This is real relationship talk. He won’t be interested in learning how to sketch a tennis ball.

  “I’d love that.” The warmth in his voice makes me actually believe him. “Want to know mine? The thing no one knows?”

  “Very much.” Staring back at him, I find comfort in his easy, calm smile. “It’s only fair.”

  “I can’t sing. Well, that’s probably a given now. But even before, I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. Not even Happy Birthday.”

  His eyes dart left and right, checking out the passersby, yet he still makes me feel like I’m the most important person in his world.

  Sell it, Sloane. And maybe…enjoy yourself a little.

  Dipping my head, I press my lips to his. In a single day, I’ve gone from having my very first kiss to craving them like they’re my oxygen.

  “Beautiful,” the old man says with a chuckle. “New love, yes?”

  “Three months,” Griff replies. “Our first vacation together.”

  With a flourish of his green pen, he colors in my sweater, then nods at us. “Names?”

  I spell them for him, then notice he’s left our faces for last. “Griff? Is it okay if—” Stop it. This isn’t real.