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

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Oh, fuck. I should have known. I’ve spent enough time in deep cover to know how hard it is to be someone you’re not. “You are the strongest woman—strongest person—I’ve ever met, Sloane. I understand why you never told her, but…she’s a good person. In my line of work, you learn to read people. Marina’s got your back. And so do I. You’re not alone anymore.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder for a long moment, and I worry I just said the wrong thing, but when she finally meets my gaze again, some of that bone-deep sadness has faded. “I know. Really. I do. But I’ve kept secrets so long…I don’t know how not to.”

  “You’ll learn, sweetheart. It’ll take time, but you’ll learn.”

  Sloane

  Marina hands me a cup of coffee, and I can’t even form words until I take a deep whiff. “You are a godsend.”

  “I,” she says on a yawn, “am hungover. That party last night was off the hook.”

  Griff snags his glasses, pours himself a cup of coffee, and heads for the bath off the main room of the suite. “I need to shave. Sloane? When room service knocks, come get me. Don’t answer the bell—either of you.”

  He doesn’t shut the door completely, and Marina takes a seat next to me on the couch. “So?” she whispers. “Did the two of you…?”

  “No!” The water’s running, and we’re far enough away that I don’t think Griff’s glasses will pick up what we’re saying, but I still keep my voice as low as possible. “He held me. That’s it. You know I don’t…do that sort of thing.”

  “Why not?” Marina’s bloodshot green eyes tell me exactly how much fun she had last night at the party, and I arch my brows. She wouldn’t…

  “You didn’t bring anyone back here, did you?”

  With a snort, she shakes her head. “As if Mr. British Stick-in-the-Mud would have let me.” At my horrified expression, she starts to roll her eyes, then winces. “Dammit. I need at least another couple of ibuprofen. But Sloane, even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have actually done it. Not with someone after you.” Scooting closer, she drapes her arm around my shoulders. “You come first, sweetie. Always.”

  I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding, set the china cup down and wrap my arms around her. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself right now. This whole situation...”

  Except it’s not the situation. Not being in danger, anyway. Griff’s right. I can’t let Dimitri and Rodney—or even Max—stop me from trusting everyone for the rest of my life. I made one bad choice when I was eighteen. And since then, every potential friend was someone who could—and would—betray me.

  Pulling back, I retrieve my coffee and take a fortifying sip. “Marina? I’ve never had sex.” My eyes burn, but I won’t let myself cry. “Not…after I escaped Dimitri. I don’t know if I can.”

  She chokes on a sip of her coffee, then lunges for a napkin and holds it against her nose. “Oh, God. I didn’t think…I’m an idiot. We’ve known each other for how long? More than ten years. We’ve never talked about your love life. I should have…I don’t know. Put the pieces together? Or asked. Something. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” The cup rattles in the saucer, and I take a deep breath to try to steady my nerves. I’ve taken more Xanax in the past week than I usually do in a month, and if I’m not careful, I’ll make my tardive dyskinesia even worse right before a show where all eyes—and all cameras—are on me. “I didn’t let anyone get close to me. I thought it was better that way. But I’m tired of being alone. Of not trusting anyone.”

  Marina rests her hand on my thigh and gives it a quick squeeze before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Does Griff know?”

  “I told him last night. After I freaked out on him for grabbing my ass.” My cheeks flush hot, and I cast a quick glance at the bathroom. I’m about to tell her this fake relationship isn’t so fake anymore when the suite’s bell rings, saving me from more “girl talk.”

  It feels good to trust someone. To confide in Marina. But it’s also harder than I thought it would be, and the distraction of breakfast is exactly what I need.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sloane

  When I emerge from the bedroom, Griff is down on one knee strapping the knife to his calf. He smiles, but something’s off.

  “What is it?” I tug at the sleeves of the loose black dress and chew on my lower lip. I just took a Xanax, but it hasn’t kicked in yet, and my anxiety is through the roof.

  “You look stunning,” he says as he smooths the leg of his dark gray trousers. “You always look stunning. But—”

  “This dress doesn’t look like me?” I laugh, and some of the tension gathered between my shoulders fades away. “I hate it. The shoes too. But I can’t wear anything that might leave a single mark on my skin.”

  Griff taps the temple of his glasses, then frowns. “No marks?”

  “No bra, only the smoothest panties on the market, no socks, nothing with elastic…” I wave my hand up and down my body. “I’ll have at least six outfit changes for the show this afternoon. I won’t see what they are until I get down there, but wardrobe could put me in anything from a skimpy negligée to a bathing suit to a ball gown. Since I don’t know what parts of me are going to be on full display, I can’t have any seams pressing against my skin. Those marks can take up to an hour to fade. Hence, this thing. I could cut a hole in a pillow case and feel more stylish.”

  He slides his right arm around my waist—gently, so he won’t crease the ultra-soft dress to my skin—and up close, he smells so good. A feeling I think might be arousal warms me from the inside out, and I sigh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” A smile tugs at my lips when he starts to argue with me, and I kiss him. Both to silence his protests and because I want to. It’s nothing compared to the heat of last night’s make-out session. Just a little flick of my tongue against his lips, but the half moan, half growl he makes? It sends goosebumps racing over my skin. “I like this. When you hold me, I feel safe.”

  “You are safe with me.” The rough edge to his voice comforts me even more, though he can’t promise me safety and he knows it.

  Change the subject. Otherwise, you’re going to end up having a panic attack before you leave the room.

  “How do your glasses work?” At his furrowed brow, I add, “You tapped the temple when I came into the room. Does that turn them on?”

  Griff releases me and removes the black frames. “There’s a touch sensor on each side. The one on the left temple turns the glasses into a camera. As long as I have my phone on me—and a signal—the video streams directly to the cloud. If I’m somewhere with no cell service, the recording maxes out at ten minutes. The sensor on the right switches between three different modes. Off, on, and alerts only.”

  “Alerts?”

  “The software recognizes sounds like alarm bells, fire and police sirens, someone knocking, even laughter and crying. Royce—he’s the hardware guy who came up with the idea for these things—is working on a version for the public that’ll identify all kinds of ambient noises. Things like approaching cars, footsteps, dogs barking, cats meowing, birdsong.” As he speaks, his shoulders straighten slightly. “The man is a genius. He designed the panic button too.”

  Oh, crap. I haven’t told him. “Um, about that. I can’t keep it on me today.”

  Griff’s casual, relaxed expression vanishes in an instant. “Then I’m not leaving your side.”

  “You can’t be in the dressing room with me. Only models and staff are allowed. Beauty and Style is very strict about their runway shows.” With every word, Griff’s deep blue eyes grow harder.

  “We’ll see about that.” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen half a dozen times. “Austin, I need Wren or Ripper to find a way to get me backstage with Sloane for today’s runway show. She can’t wear the tracker, and there are going to be over a hundred people going in and out of that room over four hours. I know it’s the middle of the night in Seattle
, but anything you can do…”

  The speech-to-text software translates his words, and he texts them to his boss. “Are you ready to go?” His easy, warm tone is gone, and in its place, the hardened CIA agent I met two nights ago right after I found Max’s body.

  “No. But we don’t have a choice. If I don’t show up, not only will I be in breach of contract, but Dimitri will find out—somehow—and he’ll know something’s wrong.” With a sigh, I run a hand through my long locks. Without any makeup, wearing a dress that’s two sizes bigger than I need, with soft, black moccasins on my feet, I look nothing like Sloane Sanders, the Christmas Book cover model and the global face of Beauty and Style.

  And when I take Griff’s left hand, I catch sight of the two of us in the large mirror on the wall. For a long moment, I can’t move, can’t tear my gaze away. His suit is just as smart and stylish as yesterday’s, and he slicked his hair back today, the longer strands on top reminiscent of James Dean.

  “Sloane?” Griff steps in front of me, breaking the spell that had me so entranced. “We have to go.”

  I’d give anything to hide out in the suite for the rest of the day. Or hell, the rest of the weekend. To pretend Dimitri had never found me again. To succumb to the magic I saw for just a moment in that mirror and be a “normal” couple.

  Instead, I plaster on my fake smile and follow Griff out the door.

  Griff

  “You can’t go in with her, sir,” the security guard says when I try to accompany Sloane into the dressing area off the main ballroom. “Only models and Beauty and Style staff.”

  “I’m Sloane’s agent, and I’m responsible for her safety and happiness at this event,” I say, leaning forward so I can get right in the man’s face.

  “If you continue to make a scene, I’ll have you removed from the hotel, sir.” The second guard pulls a handheld radio from his belt, an obvious threat to call in backup.

  “Griff.” The single word in red text scrolls across my lenses, and Sloane’s warm hand cups my cheek. “I’ll be fine. There should be a seat with your name on it in the front row of the ballroom.”

  Fuck. Austin hasn’t returned my text, and while I could take these assholes—they’re not much better than Rent-A-Cops—that would ruin the whole show for Sloane. “I don’t like this, sweetheart.”

  “I know.” She draws me away from the desk so one of the other models can check in, then wraps her arms around my neck and leans in to kiss my neck. “Can your glasses pick up my words if I whisper?”

  “Assuming that’s what you’re doing right now? Yes.” To anyone watching, we’re two people in love, and she’s doing her best to calm me down.

  “Good.” Another kiss and she scores her teeth over my earlobe. “Trust me. I don’t like this any more than you do, but this is my job, and I’m really good at it. If anything goes wrong, Marina will know, and she’ll use her panic button.”

  These pants are getting tight, and it hits me. We haven’t said the words. Hell, I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to say them. But the picture we’re painting for the world? It’s not a lie. Sloane has my heart, and she always will.

  When she draws back enough for me to see her lips again, I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “What’s one supposed to say to a model before a show? Is it like Broadway where you can’t say—”

  “Good luck?” She laughs, and for the first time since we left the hotel room, her smile is completely genuine. This is the real Sloane Sanders. The same woman who walked the Bahnhofstrasse with me last night. “You can say it. Or maybe just cross your fingers that all the tape stays where it’s supposed to.”

  “Make sure it does.” Threading my fingers through her hair, I slant my mouth over hers, and time stops. Kissing her is my new favorite pastime, and from how her body responds to me? She feels the same. Her nipples tighten into hard nubs, and it hits me. No marks on her body. Nothing tight. She’s not wearing a bra.

  Pressing closer, she slides her hand down my back, all the way to my ass. All the blood in my body heads south, and if I don’t stop this soon, I won’t be able to walk into that ballroom.

  “Sloane.” All I can manage is a single word, and thank fuck Marina pokes her head out of the dressing room door.

  “If you don’t get your butt in here right now, Sloane, you’re going to be last in line for hair and makeup, and you know what that means!”

  Her breathing not quite steady, Sloane sags against me. “I should go. Marina doesn’t make idle threats.”

  “Wait. What would it mean? If I kept kissing you for another five…maybe ten minutes?” I ask.

  Besides the biggest case of blue balls I’ve ever had.

  She throws her head back and laughs, and it fills her entire body with a lightness I want to see again and again. “The last time I was late for one of these multi-model shows, Marina put so much setting spray in my hair, I had to take three showers that night to get it all out. And even then, it was still crunchy.”

  “Ouch. You’d better get in there, sweetheart. And remember your promise.”

  She squeezes my fingers, then traces a line across my palm with her thumb. The sensation makes me feel alive and whole, and even in this cocoon of never-ending silence, I know I’m not alone. Not anymore.

  Sloane

  From the moment I walk into the dressing room, personal privacy goes out the window. Most of the models are half naked, given that they all have a turn on the runway before me. As the Christmas Book cover model, I get top billing, but that means I have more time for my nerves to take over.

  Thank God for Marina. In under ten minutes, she has my hair piled into a messy bun and starts on my makeup. The show runs for almost an hour—much longer than normal. Before every model’s appearance, one of the Beauty and Style executives will introduce us and share a personal tidbit or two about our lives, and after the first three rotations, the conglomerate’s CEO has a thirty-minute speech during which Marina will have to completely redo our makeup and hair as we switch from day to evening looks.

  I don’t know how Marina keeps everything straight given that her notes look like a doctor tried to scribble instructions while riding a roller coaster. But she always does.

  “Tonight, you need to eye mask for at least an hour,” she chides, dabbing concealer on the dark circles. “Between the stress and whatever you and McMuscles are doing behind closed doors, you’re going to look like you have two black eyes tomorrow if you’re not careful.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, best friend forever,” I mutter. “I thought you were always supposed to be on my side?”

  “I am.” She leans down to whisper in my ear. “I’m trying to help sell the whole relationship story.”

  “Thank you.” Meeting her gaze in the mirror, I smile and try to match her hushed tone. “But it’s not a story. Not anymore.”

  “Sloane!” Marina beams as she picks up her foundation sponge. “When this is all over, ” her expression sobers, “we’re going to have a nice long girls’ weekend where we can catch up on everything we haven’t talked about over the years.”

  Shame crawls up the back of my neck, and I reach back and rub at the rough skin where Dimitri’s tattoo used to be. “I’d like that. I’m sorry I haven’t been a great friend.”

  “Oh, hush. That is not what I meant. Eyes closed now, please.”

  As Marina dusts my lids with gold, I think of all the times I deflected, answered with half-truths—or even flat-out lied to her—and suddenly, I’m close to tears again. Dammit. I’m never this emotional.

  Because you never let yourself feel anything.

  My inner voice has always told me the truth, even when I refused to listen.

  “Sloane? Sweetie, take a deep breath for me. Right now,” Marina snaps. “You are not allowed to cry on me. This is waterproof liner, but no one’s going to be able to see it if your eyes swell up.”

  “I’m okay.” I reach up and clasp Marina’s hand on my shoulder a
s I count backwards from forty-seven, again. By the time I reach forty, I’m calm. “Really. Once this junket is over, everything’s going to change. It has to.”

  Standing just behind the curtain, I try not to destroy the shimmering golden lip gloss Marina touched up just seconds ago.

  Donna, the head of the Beauty and Style Christmas Book selection committee, stands at the far end of the T-shaped runway at the microphone. “Our next model has been the global face of our brand for the past five years. Her poise, dedication, and passion are unmatched in the industry, and we’re so very proud to feature her on the cover of this year’s Christmas Book. Please welcome Sloane Sanders!”

  The applause is enough to send my heart racing, but I school my expression into one of casual detachment as I stride slowly and confidently onto the stage. With one hand shoved into the pocket of the tailored “business” capris, the dark blue jacket reveals a fitted bralette in the same midnight linen.

  Donna goes on and on about what I’m wearing—the designer, the material, how I can go from a business meeting to a night on the town simply by unbuttoning the jacket—and I reach the end of the runway, turn, pose, turn, and pose again, desperately wishing the lights weren’t so bright so I could see Griff.

  But it’s no use, and when Donna concludes her little spiel, I offer up a demure smile, let a few more flashbulbs go off, and then make the long trip back up the stage until I’m safely back in the wings.

  Jill—the young model with the caffeine pill habit—is waiting for her second turn, and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “This is the best!” she gushes, reaching out to capture my hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Don’t you just love every freaking minute?”