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The relaxed, loose-limbed man in the chair had been replaced by a tense one, vibrating with alertness, every muscle in his body primed for action.
Her gaze dropped from his face to the newspaper open in his lap. He must’ve read something about her, something bad.
“Oh, you’re taking all those?” The clerk held out her arms for Claire’s finds.
“Y-yes. These’ll do. I also need some underwear.”
“Long underwear?”
“Yes, and panties, bras.”
“In the back.”
Mike had folded the paper and joined the clerk at the counter.
Claire rushed to the back of the shop and scooped up several pairs of underwear and a couple of bras in her size—they’d have to do. She couldn’t spend one more minute in this store.
The clerk bagged her purchases while Mike pulled out a wad of bills. They clearly hadn’t needed the money from the safe deposit box, since Mike carried oodles of what he called untraceable cash.
He couldn’t get rid of it fast enough as he paid for Claire’s clothes.
If the friendly clerk had noticed a change in Mike’s demeanor, she was too polite to react to it. “You two have a great day, and stay warm.”
Mike nodded and Claire said, “You, too.”
When they hit the sidewalk, burdened with bags, she spun toward him. “What happened? What did you read in that newspaper?”
“In the car.” He popped the trunk and they tossed the bags inside.
When they got inside, Mike dropped the folded-back paper in her lap and jabbed his finger at an article, poking her thigh in the process. “Look at this.”
She glanced at the black print in her lap, heaving a sigh. At least her face wasn’t plastered there.
She held up the paper to the light coming through the window and read. “‘Gathering to honor fallen CIA director. The White House announced plans to pay tribute to Gerald Haywood, the director of the CIA, who was killed in a car bomb on Tuesday in Georgetown, with a gathering of his friends and colleagues, both domestic and international, on Christmas Day.’”
She trailed off. “So? Isn’t that to be expected?”
“Don’t you get it?” He grabbed the paper from her hand, crumpling it in his fist. “The attack on the White House is back on—and this is the venue.”
Chapter Ten
Mike paced the living room of the small cabin. He’d already contacted Jack, and Prospero was formulating a plan to infiltrate the gathering.
Even though Tempest knew Prospero’s agent, Liam McCabe, had uncovered its plans for an attack at the White House, it hadn’t deterred Tempest. They were going forward with the attack—Mike was sure of it.
When he passed by Claire for the hundredth time, she grabbed his arm. “Sit down and relax, Mike. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe they’re going through with it. They have to know Prospero is going to pull out all the stops to foil them.”
“That’s good, then. They’re so single-mindedly crazy, they’re not thinking straight.” She squeezed his biceps. “Have one of those beers we picked up.”
His eyebrows collided over his nose. “It’s lunchtime.”
“You know what they say—it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
He narrowed his dark eyes. “You’re calm about this whole thing.”
She stepped back from him. “I’m not happy about it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
His eyebrows jumped to his hairline and then he took her in his arms, wrapping her in a warm embrace. “I didn’t think that for a minute. Nobody could blame you for feeling satisfied on some level that your gut instincts were right.”
“I don’t care about that right now.” She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and tugged. “I’m going to get you that beer.”
“Okay, you win.”
He dropped his arms, and a chill flashed across her body. She shouldn’t have been so eager to break that clinch. Whenever Mike held her, or even touched her, he gave her a sense of safety and security.
If she was honest with herself, Shane had never given that to her. He’d been all about the thrill first and safety—his and hers—second.
