The Protector: The Complete C.I.A. Romance Series

by Lilian Monroe

  I shifted my pants, clearing my throat as I turned away from the window. Another light flicked on and I heard the shower start to run. Mercifully, I couldn’t see anything through that window. I shook my head, trying to clear the dirty, dirty thoughts that crept at the base of my skull.

  I didn’t remember the last time a woman had made me feel like that. That’s not true—I knew exactly the last time. It was my first mission with the CIA when I realized what women were really like.

  Sure, I’d slept with women since then—I was human, after all. I’d tried to date, but the job just got in the way. I’d settled for casual hookups, and they were enough. The women I slept with were happy enough with that, too. We’d both scratch an itch for a night, and then we’d never speak to each other again.

  But standing in Catherine Crawford’s backyard, watching her undress, did more for me than all those hookups put together.

  My throat was raw as I walked back toward the front of the house, leaning against the side of the home. I scanned the road for any sign of Finch or Gary. The classic suburban street was completely quiet. I touched the pen in my pocket.

  “Blue Jay is at home now,” I said.

  My earpiece stayed quiet, and I reached in my ear. My eyes widened. Somewhere between the car chase and now, it had fallen out. I groaned, wandering back toward the VW Bug. It was locked, and the last thing I wanted to do was bother Senator Crawford again.

  I only had a new cell phone for this mission, and the only number I had programmed was Crawford’s. I glanced at the street again and sighed.

  It looked like I was just going to have to wait. I walked to the side of the house and leaned against the wall. I didn’t want to sit out front—nothing was more suspicious than a man my size hanging around a woman’s front stoop.

  I took a deep breath, scanning the Senator’s neighborhood and trying to ignore the thoughts that pulled me back toward the image of her in the window. I thought of everything else—the Russians, the fisheries activists, Freddy, Gary—anything to get my mind off the thought of Catherine Crawford’s perfect hands stroking her perfect body.

  The more I tried to ignore the image, the more it invaded my brain. My cock wouldn’t go down, and I took a deep breath.

  This was bad. If there was one thing that could compromise this operation, it would be me feeling uncontrollably attracted to the main target.

  I jumped when the front door opened. Senator Crawford appeared with a steaming mug of something. She was wrapped up in a fluffy white bathrobe, her hair pulled back in a braid. She scanned the front lawn and took another step out.

  I cleared my throat and stepped out of the shadows. She exhaled and laughed nervously.

  “I didn’t know if you were still here or not.”

  “Still here,” I growled.

  She bit her lip, and my cock throbbed. The Senator extended the steaming mug toward me and took a tentative step. She was barefoot.

  “I thought you might want something while you waited. It’s just instant coffee.”

  I closed the gap between us and took the mug. Her eyes were so bright and blue it nearly knocked me back. All I could think of was her naked body in the window and I cleared my throat, shaking my head to dispel the image.

  “Thanks.”

  She bit her lips again and I nearly lost it. She smiled at me. “I tried the soap. What do you think?” She grabbed her braid, turning her head and leaning toward me. “Does it pass the sniff test?”

  I sniffed tentatively, my head spinning from her closeness. I grunted. “Fresh.”

  She laughed and nodded toward the house. “At least wait inside. You saved me a week of scrubbing the fish stink off me—I hate the thought of you waiting out here alone.”

  “It’s my job, Senator,” I said. She didn’t step away from me. Her big blue eyes stared up at me, pulling me toward her.

  “Call me Cat.” She nodded to the door and I had no choice but to follow her inside. I held the mug with a death grip as she brushed the bottoms of her feet on the welcome mat.

  “You can keep your shoes on,” she said. “Here.” She flicked the lights in the living room on and gestured to the couch.

  I nodded, perching myself on the edge. I didn’t want to get too comfortable—I was supposed to be her security. I wouldn’t be much use if I were asleep on her couch… or tangled up in her arms.

  I took a sip. She was leaning against the wall, staring at me.

  “How’s the shoulder?” I asked after clearing my throat.

  She sighed, taking a step toward me. “It’s sore.” She sat down beside me, her leg brushing mine. My eyes widened as she pushed the bathrobe off her bare shoulder. I could see the curve of her breast as she poked her mottled bruise.

  “What do you think?” She said, and my eyes flicked back up to her shoulder.

  “Looks nasty.”

  “It’ll look worse in a week.”

  I grunted and brushed my fingers over her rapidly-darkening skin. It was soft and warm. She glanced at me, that tongue of hers slithering out to lick her lips. My cock throbbed again.

  My fingers slid over her shoulder and I longed to slide them down lower and untie her bathrobe. Instead, I pushed it back over her shoulder.

  “You should put some ice on it,” I said, turning back to my mug of coffee. “It’s starting to swell.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. Then, she slid her hand over mine and I glanced at her. She took a deep breath and smiled shyly at me. “Thank you, Bennett. For today.”

  “It’s my job,” I said as my heart thundered.

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, but instead she just nodded. “I’m going to go to bed. The door locks itself, so just make sure you pull it closed when you leave.”

  I nodded. We looked at each other for a long moment, and then she took a deep breath and walked away. I heard her rummage in the kitchen for some ice. Her soft footsteps faded, and then the bedroom door closed. When everything was quiet, I exhaled.

  7

  Cat

  I was mildly disappointed when it wasn’t Agent Bennett who picked me up for work, and then I felt ridiculous about being picked up in the first place. Since when did a Maryland Senator need a protection detail? I’d have to look up the stats, but I had a feeling it wasn’t a common occurrence. My driver had glimmering green eyes and a persistent grin that tugged at his lips.

  “Freddy O’Neill.” He stuck his hand out for me to shake.

  “O’Neill—you Irish?”

  “Second generation—parents were from Galway.” He led me to the car parked outside my house.

  I nodded to the black sedan. “I take it you guys aren’t a fan of the old VW Bug? I believe Agent Bennett referred to it as a ‘clown car’.”

  O’Neill chuckled, shaking his head. We got into the black sedan and I settled into the back seat, pulling out my phone to check some emails. The car smelled like new leather, and it was spotless—almost sterile.

  I winced as I put the seatbelt on. Pain radiated from my shoulder down my arm, and I shifted the seatbelt over to avoid the worst of the bruise. O’Neill didn’t seem to notice.

  I thought of the look on Agent Bennett’s face when he saw my shoulder the night before. His eyes had darkened and he’d looked almost angry, but his touch had been soft. I could still feel the whisper of his fingers on my shoulder.

  I shook my head and cleared my throat. I needed to get a grip. I was a US Senator, and I had a job to do. Just because some big, burly man bought me some special soap and evaded some rusty old car didn’t mean that I had to swoon for him.

  Maybe I’d pushed men away for too long. Maybe I’d focused on my career too much, and I hadn’t put enough effort into my personal life. But then again… what was the point? Based on my grandfather and my mother, my DNA was a ticking time bomb.

  It was only a matter of time before I started seeing things, hearing things, forgetting things, and taking all kinds of medication to keep the demo
ns in my head under control.

  The doctors told me that they didn’t know what caused dementia—or most mental illnesses, for that matter. They told me not to worry, but to be vigilant. If I started hearing things, I needed to tell them.

  Hah! What kind of advice was that? How would I know if things were real or not? For all I know, this whole protection detail could be in my head, and at that very moment, I was driving myself to work in my old VW Bug. Maybe O’Neill and Bennett didn’t exist at all.

  Maybe I was already on the path to delusion, just like my mother and her father before her. I’d seen them in the midst of a psychotic episode—they believed their delusions as completely as I believed they were false.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I thought of Agent Bennett’s hand across my shoulder, of the bruise that the seatbelt had made. I thought of the de-fishing soap in my shower.

  Those things were real. O’Neill was real. The smell of the leather was real.

  Just because my mother had succumbed to her mental illness didn’t mean that I would, too.

  But it did mean that it was better for me to keep my distance. I couldn’t get too close to anyone. I’d seen what my family’s particular brand of mental illness did to relationships. It stripped all the love and affection back, leaving raw, open wounds that festered and putrefied.

  I wouldn’t subject myself—or anyone else—to that kind of torture.

  We pulled up outside the Hart Senate Office Building and I nodded to Agent O’Neill.

  “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Bennett will be in touch.”

  I shut the door and took a deep breath. I felt completely rattled. Between the fish incident, my grandfather’s phone call, and the appearance of the Secret Service, I was completely off-balance.

  It didn’t help that Agent Bennett had woken something up inside me—something I’d buried deep down in the pit of my stomach. He made the blood in my veins run hotter. He made me feel like a woman.

  I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, shoulder-to-shoulder with half a dozen other employees. They nodded to me, mumbling ‘Senator’ courteously and I struggled to keep my composure.

  Reaching my office was a relief. I closed the door and leaned back on it, exhaling loudly with my eyes closed.

  “Rough morning?”

  I jumped at the unfamiliar voice as my heart leaped into my throat. A man sat behind my desk, his fingers tented in front of his chest. One eyebrow arched in question.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out.”

  A chuckle rumbled through him and he pursed his lips. “Is that how you treat a guest?”

  “It’s how I treat an intruder who snuck into my office without permission.”

  “An intruder?” A mirthless smile stretched over his lips. He had dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. His skin was leathery, as if he’d spent years working in the sun and wind. His body was thin and wiry, and he pushed himself off the chair to reveal his towering height. There was something familiar about him that I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the curve of his nose, or the shape of his cheeks. He looked familiar, as if he tickled some dark part of my memory.

  The man walked around the desk toward me. I clawed at the door behind me for the doorknob.

  “My name is Tony Kowalski. You met my associate yesterday.”

  I frowned. His associate? Bennett? This guy didn’t look like the Secret Service—he was lacking the sharp black suit and the no-bullshit attitude, for one.

  He lifted his nose, sniffing. “I can just about smell him in here.”

  The activist.

  My eyes widened and my heart hammered against my ribcage.

  They say ‘fight or flight’, but they forget to tell you about the third option: freeze. That’s exactly what I did. Fear gripped me, holding my limbs back against the door. My heart bounced around my ribcage as nausea rose in my throat, but I was powerless.

  All I could do was stand there while the man took a step toward me.

  “Now, Senator Crawford, I knew your grandfather. He was a reasonable man. I’m hoping that you will be, too.”

  I narrowed my eyes. He knew my grandfather?

  “What do you want?” I managed to say, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

  Kowalski chuckled and shook his head. “All in due time, my dear.” He nodded to the door that I still clung to. “May I?”

  I backed out of the way, hugging the wall as I moved as far away from him as possible. Fear was quickly turning my legs to jelly, and I was losing motor control.

  I wished it was like the movies, where I had some quick retort, or I was two steps ahead of this guy already. Unfortunately, I didn’t even know who he was. And why would my grandfather be relevant? My grandfather made his living as a fisherman.

  The man gave me one last, lingering look and he disappeared out the door. I rushed toward it, slamming it closed and locking it.

  Then, I slid my back against it and sat on the floor, holding back tears that threatened to spill over my cheeks. My heart raced so fast that I thought I was going to pass out.

  Seconds passed, and my pulse slowed. The bile in my throat went down and I was able to take a full breath for the first time all morning.

  I clambered to my feet and dusted myself off. Then, I went to my desk and checked my drawers. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. My computer was off, and nothing had been touched. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat down.

  Leaning my elbows on the desk, I put my head in my hands and exhaled. My eyes swept over my desk one last time, and my stomach dropped.

  Propped in front of the photo of me, my brother, and my grandfather was another photo. I took it carefully between my thumb and index fingers, bringing it closer to my face.

  My grandfather stared back at me—probably in his thirties. He was laughing, with a cigar in one hand. A tall, skinny man had his arm around Gramps’ shoulder.

  Gramps’ foot was propped up on a stack of something—they looked like bundles of papers tied together in neat piles, stacked high on top of a pallet. I brought the grainy photograph closer to my face, squinting. It took me a few seconds to figure out what I was looking at, and then I dropped the photo and pushed it away.

  Money.

  My grandfather, the fisherman, was smoking a cigar with his foot resting on a tower of cash.

  8

  Chris

  At the beginning of the following week, Berkeley handed me a stack of files. “Everything’s approved to bug Crawford’s office and house. Can you get access?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I’ve got two more men on the operation, so you and Finch will have some relief. I’m briefing them this afternoon, and they’ll take the night shift on Crawford’s house.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, flicking through the files. We’d be putting cameras and microphones in every room of her house—even the bathroom.

  A week ago, I would have been fine with it. I would have told myself it was the job, and we had to make sure that there were no more threats coming from the Senator’s office.

  But now?

  Now, I wasn’t so sure. I just couldn’t see how Catherine Crawford could be involved with the Russians. It just didn’t make sense. The way she reacted the first day we met when we were tailed—that wasn’t the reaction of someone who was playing with fire. It was the reaction of someone who had no idea what was going on.

  Berkeley arched an eyebrow at me and I dipped my chin, then spun on my heels and walked out of his office. Finding Gary’s van, I slid inside and tossed the files in the back.

  “Everything okay with the pickup this morning?”

  Gary nodded. “Finch was fine. Said she went straight into the office with no problems.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Gary started the engine and we made our way toward Senator Crawford’s bungalow. The closer we got, the more uneasy I felt. I glanced in the back, at the surveillance equipment th
at Gary had gathered.

  I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to have eyes and ears all over Cat’s house. It felt wrong.

  I set my lips in a thin line. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake that I’d made before. The last time I had a ‘feeling’ like this about a woman, she turned out to be an undercover Turkish operative who nearly ruined my career—and my life.

  I couldn’t trust my gut. I had to trust the procedures. I had to trust the CIA.

  It was like we said in the Marines—amateurs talk tactics, professionals talk logistics. I had to focus on the logistics of the operation and make sure that we were doing it by the book. I couldn’t let a pretty face and big blue eyes sway me away from that.

  No fucking way.

  Gary pulled up outside Cat’s house and I took a deep breath. “In and out in ten, yeah?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fine.”

  He crawled into the back and retrieved the surveillance equipment. He tossed me a jacket and a hat with a logo for an HVAC maintenance company on it, and the two of us walked up to the front door. I glanced up and down the quiet street, and then nodded to him.

  It only took him a few seconds to pick the lock, and I made a mental note to tell Cat to improve her security. We walked inside and Gary went to work. He moved from room to room, installing the surveillance equipment as the unease in my stomach got stronger.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be doing this.

  As soon as we confirmed that Crawford was clean, we would remove the equipment and be on our way. It was for national security. We had a court order. It was the right thing to do.

  So why did it feel so bad?

  I wandered to the kitchen and saw a mug in the sink from Cat’s coffee this morning. She had no idea we were here, and she had no idea we would be watching and listening to everything she did. I sighed, turning away and stalking back toward the front.