I could have walked away years ago. Should have. Would have, if not for the amber-eyed federal agent who refused to stop hunting me.
Mariana makes a soft sound in her sleep, something between a sigh and a whimper. Her brow furrows, and I realize she's dreaming. Probably reliving the assassination attempt. Probably seeing those masked figures bursting through her bedroom door with professional precision and lethal intent.
Because of me.Because Harrison knows there's a connection between Ghost and the federal agent hunting him. Because saving her in that warehouse exposed us both.
I should regret that decision. Should wish I'd stayed hidden, let events play out without interference. Should prioritize mission security over personal attachment.
Instead, I'm grateful I was there. Grateful I could pull her from those flames. Grateful she's alive and breathing and safe in my guest room instead of buried under tons of burning concrete.
You're in deeper than you realized.
The admission settles in my chest like lead. Somewhere in two years of watching her hunt me through federal databases and crime scene reconstructions, she stopped being a professional interest and became something more personal. Something dangerous.
Something that could get us both killed.
Morning will be awkward.
Because morning means domestic intimacy I'm not prepared for. Shared coffee and bathroom schedules and the kind of casual proximity that assumes trust. It means navigating the space between protection and attraction, between necessity and choice.
It means pretending I don't want her when every instinct I possess screams otherwise.
7:30 AM
Mariana emerges from the guest bathroom wearing clothes I provided - dark jeans that fit her curves perfectly and a gray sweater that brings out her eyes. Her hair is still damp from the shower, and she smells like my expensive soap instead of smoke and sweat.
The improvement is both relief and torture.
"Morning," she says, accepting the coffee I offer without asking how she likes it. Because I've been memorizing details about her for two years like they're classified intelligence.
"Sleep well?"
"Better than expected." She takes a sip, and something like surprise crosses her face. "This is perfect."
"Good. You'll need the energy."
"For what?"
I gesture toward the dining table, where I've spread out printed materials and electronic devices. "Research. If we're going to prove Harrison's corruption, we need evidence. Real evidence, not speculation and circumstantial connections."
She moves to examine my setup, and I try not to notice the way her jeans cling to her ass as she bends over the table. Try not to imagine what those curves would feel like under my hands.
Professional. Keep it professional.
"Where did you get all this?" she asks, studying the documents I've gathered.
"I have resources."
"Criminal resources."
"Effective resources." I join her at the table, careful to maintain enough distance that we're not touching. "The difference is academic when you're hunting corruption."
She picks up a photograph, and I watch her face change as she processes what she's seeing. "Is this Harrison?"
"Meeting with Viktor Kozlov six months ago. The same Viktor Kozlov who was supposedly in federal witness protection at the time."
Her amber eyes snap to mine. "How did you get this?"
"I told you. Resources."
