“Fine. Just tired. Long few days.”
“Stay sharp. We’re four days out. We can’t afford mistakes.”
The line went dead.
Dakota stood on the terrace, phone in hand, staring at the stars.
Gender-neutral name.
Jayden fit the profile. She was on a tour bound for Sydney. She had skills that didn’t quite match her cover story—the diving certification, the way she saw things. She’d been evasive about her past. She took phone calls she wouldn’t explain.
If he were running this operation objectively, if he were the analyst he used to be, she’d be at the top of his suspect list.
But he wasn’t objective anymore. Hadn’t been since Fiji. Maybe hadn’t been since Hawaii, when he’d sat down next to her.
He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. The woman sleeping in that bed, vulnerable and trusting—she wasn’t an assassin. She wasn’t capable of what Ham was suggesting.
Was she?
Dakota went back inside.
Jayden was sitting up when he came through the terrace door, blanket pooled around her waist, blinking groggily at the room-service tray.
“You got me soup.”
“And tea. And crackers.” Dakota closed the door behind him, sealing out the night air. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone stuffed cotton in my head and then hit me with a truck.” She reached for the tea, wrapping her hands around the cup. “But better than I did on the train.”
She looked terrible, honestly—pale, eyes slightly glassy, hair tangled from sleep. Smeared makeup, no armor, no performance.
And she simply took his breath away.
“You took care of me.” She said it quietly, like the fact surprised her. “Ordered food. Let me sleep. Handled . . . everything.”
“That’s what—” He almost said husbands, but stopped himself. “That’s what partners do.”
“Partners.” A faint smile crossed her face. “Is that what we are?”
“True love, according to the tour group.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her tea. “Gerald’s been telling everyone about how romantic we looked dancing.”
She laughed—rough, congested, but real. “The perils of cover stories.”
“Could be worse. Could be siblings.”
“Much worse.” She took a sip of tea, then set it down. The humor faded from her expression, replaced by something more serious. “Dakota.”
“Yeah?”
“You should know something.” She wasn’t looking at him now—was looking at her hands, at the cup, at anything else. “I . . . I’m not really built for long-term . . . well, whatever this might turn into.”
He drew in a breath and couldn’t tell whether it was relief or ache that sifted through his chest. “Jayden?—”
“I’m serious.” She looked up, and her eyes—those striking whiskey-brown eyes—were more vulnerable than he’d ever seen them. “My last relationship . . . he was in the same industry. Travel. We met at a conference, hit it off. He was smart, funny, understood the lifestyle. The constant moving. The weird hours. The way work always came first.”
She paused, and Dakota waited.
“We were together for two years. I thought it was real.” Her voice went flat. “Turns out he was using me. Getting information about properties, client lists, security vulnerabilities. Selling it to . . . I don’t even know who. Competitors. Maybe worse.”
