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No such luck. He opened his eyes and there stood Lara’s dog with its weird body and bug eyes.
“Lincoln, don’t do that.” Small hands with a pretty pink manicure scooped up the canine and carried him away. She knelt down and her face came into view. “I’m sorry. I thought he was in the kitchen with me. He seems to really like you. I’m making waffles. I have organic maple syrup. Do you like coffee? I have some fair trade beans.”
He was grateful he was on his side because if he’d been lying on his back, those probably organic cotton s
heets would have formed a massive tent. He needed a cold shower and a pound of bacon. He was only getting one of those here. “That sounds great.”
Even without a hint of makeup and wearing blue pajamas bottoms and a tank top with a dolphin on it, she was the sexiest thing he’d seen in forever. And that was just wrong because she was wrong for him. He liked his women sultry and overtly sexual. Not soft and sweet as freaking cotton candy. He liked women who controlled their emotions, not ones who sobbed in his arms over some idiot who had never existed in the first place.
He liked women who didn’t make him feel lust and guilt in the same moment.
And god knew he was all wrong for her.
“Great.” Her eyes were just a tiny bit red, like she’d cried again this morning, but now she was putting on a good face. “Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
She popped up and strode back to the kitchen, leaving him alone in her superfeminine bedroom.
He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling. He’d slept all fucking night. What the hell? He never slept for more than an hour or two at a time. He’d wake up and check out wherever he was staying, then sleep again briefly until the night was over and he rose to tackle the day.
He did some of his best work during those in-between times. What he did not do was sleep for eight hours peacefully without once waking up to do his flipping job.
Shaking his head, Connor rolled out of bed and headed for her bathroom. Just like the rest of the condo, it was decorated in sunny colors. The bathroom was predominantly a bright yellow with touches of white and blue. The shower was almost big enough for him. He shucked his boxers and turned the water straight to cold because his morning friend showed no signs of abating.
The chilly spray hit him, the temperature jarring his jaw to lock. Unlike most of the things in this town, that water was just as advertised. Cold as hell. He welcomed it as it forced him to focus on something other than his pretty pixie.
He had to figure a way out of the conundrum he found himself in. He needed to search her office, but the events of the previous day left him with no choice but to stay close to her. He might need to think about bringing in Dax. When he’d last talked to his buddy, Connor hadn’t been sure Lara had a true, credible threat. Now he knew better. The proof was in the bullet.
He would keep her close today, then scour her office tonight. The fewer people he had to bring in, the better. After he’d gone for good, she would need to forget he’d ever been here in the first place. That would be easier if her only real contact besides him was to a man she now thought of as a complete dick. Even if she tried to contact Niall in an attempt to talk to Connor, she would find Niall’s very leftie website and all his social media taken down.
Damn. He sounded like an asshole. He never felt guilt. He didn’t have room for it in his life. He did the things he must to keep his country and his president safe. He took the responsibility for whatever that entailed. If it meant lying, he lied. If it meant killing, he killed. If it meant breaking a silly girl’s heart . . . well, then he held her and slept beside her and acted like he was a fucking twelve-year-old with his first hard-on.
With a shake of his head, Connor finished washing off. The frigid water had done what he’d needed it to. His unruly cock had fled, practically burrowing back into his balls. At least that was a relief.
And then it was right back to hard as a rock when he heard her humming along to something she was playing on her sound dock. He groaned as he shoved into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Naturally she was playing something acoustic. Some sad dude on a weepy freaking guitar whining about his lost love. It was the type of music that was so full of estrogen it should shrivel his cock, but no. It pressed against his zipper insistently as though it had turned into a divining rod with one purpose—reaching Lara Armstrong.
Would that be so bad? He walked out of the bedroom, warring with a conscience he’d felt certain had gone numb long ago.
Damn it, he was of two minds. Well, he was of one mind and one dick. On one hand, fucking Lara would likely buy him an enormous amount of her loyalty. While he’d lain there watching her, he’d discarded the idea that she could be a con artist pretending sweetness and innocence. She wasn’t underhanded enough to pull that off. She had neither the street smarts nor the experience. Lara Armstrong was exactly what she seemed. She was naive enough to believe she could save the world. Hell, he’d seen her circle of friends. She operated with conviction and a strong core of loyalty, even when the person she was loyal to didn’t deserve it.
He wanted her loyalty for himself. All of it. Connor couldn’t exactly explain why. But like a greedy kid with a toy, he wanted to come first with her. The only way he could do that was to seduce her. Sex would mean something to her. Hell, a flirtation on the Internet with a fictitious guy had meant something to her. What would a real man in her bed, plying her body with pleasure, mean?
His dick was all about that plan.
And then he would picture her crying again. After this mission, he wouldn’t stay with her. He would move on to the next job and never look back. He couldn’t explain and he wouldn’t call her afterward. He would simply be gone. How used would she feel then? At least as Niall he hadn’t actually fucked her. A mind fuck, yes, but somehow it seemed kinder than actually taking her when he knew how invested she probably was before she’d go to bed with a man.
“I don’t think so, sweetie.” Lara’s words were soft over the sounds of a hipster caterwauling about his lost dick or whatever.
She’d better be talking to the damn dog.
“It’s the way he moves,” a masculine voice said back. “I was trained the same way. He watches everything.”
“Well, he was in the Navy. I suspect they train their sailors, too. And given his chosen profession, I’m thrilled he’s very observant. Otherwise, I would likely be dead. I didn’t notice that man on the motorcycle at all. I was too busy talking to Connor.”
Freddy. He caught sight of the man’s profile. He was likely in his early thirties. Red hair. Pale face. The guy had little tics that gave Connor pause.
“Yeah. But I find it interesting that no one tried to hurt you until he came into your life. Don’t you?” He spoke in a staccato rhythm, the words like rapid fire from a machine gun, and then he would halt on a dime as though he needed to reload. “There are no coincidences in life. None. The timing is too perfect. You get all those leads and he shows up? I smell a rat. We should look into—”
The man turned and spied Connor over the bar that separated the kitchen from the living/dining area.
Connor really wished Freddy had finished that sentence. What did the guy want to look into? And how bad did Freddy think he was? It was obvious Lara’s oddball pal had cast him in the role of the villain.
“Morning.” He tipped his head, staring Freddy down.
Lincoln barked and raced out of the kitchen toward Connor, his tail wagging.
Freddy frowned, his stare landing anywhere but on Connor. “I’ll go. Talk to you later, Lara. Call me if you need me.”
He shuffled out, giving Connor a very wide berth. Lara followed behind, but she didn’t hug the man. She didn’t touch him at all, which was odd behavior for her. He noticed the previous night that she often touched her friends. Each one got a hug as they left—except Freddy.
She would never withhold affection.
“He doesn’t like being touched, does he?”
She turned after locking the door. “He can’t stand it.”
Unlike the rest of her friends, Freddy was clean-shaven, his hair cut in a very precise military buzz. The khakis he’d worn had a perfect crease to them, as though the man got up and starched and ironed his casual clothes. There were a couple of kinds of people who might do that. Clean freaks by nature. People suffering from OCD. Neither of those fit. Connor came to the obvious conclusion.
“He was military, wasn’t he? Was he taken prisoner at some point?” The military wouldn’t have accepted him wit
h the tics, ergo the military had likely been the very place he’d gotten them. PTSD. It often came with an honorable discharge.
Lara nodded. “Yeah, how did you know that? He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“I’m good at deduction. I can also deduce that he likes you a lot, and he can’t stand me.” He’d watched Freddy all evening. Though Freddy didn’t like to meet anyone’s eyes, he damn sure got an eyeful. He watched Lara constantly when she wasn’t looking. He practically worshipped her with his stare.
Connor found that annoying.
She walked back into the kitchen and started pulling breakfast together. Connor noted she’d already set out two places at her little four top. “I wouldn’t take it too poorly. Freddy doesn’t like a lot of people. He’s suspicious of everyone. You two have that in common. Your coffee’s on the table.”
He would have to look into Freddy’s background. “Getting hauled into an enemy prison camp can certainly make you that way. Iraq or Afghanistan?”
It could also make a person obsessive if they already had that bent. Trauma like that could amplify all sorts of problems.
She returned with a plate of waffles. A big bowl of fruit and
