Sure, she’d been gone when he’d returned from searching the Harts’ room—vanished without explanation, the room empty.
Except then, just like that, she’d walked in from the balcony, a flush to her face. Looking . . . weirdly unnerved.
The open balcony door in the Harts’ room flickered through his mind. Sone had been sneaking through the hotel, climbing fire escapes, slipping through windows.
Had it been her?
Dakota drew in a breath and headed into the room.
She was asleep.
He eased the balcony door closed behind him, careful not to let it click. The room was dark except for the Melbourne skyline filtering through the curtains—city lights painting everything in soft grays and blues.
Jayden was curled on her side of the bed, dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her breathing, slow and steady, the deep rhythm of genuine sleep. She’d changed into something soft—a T-shirt, sleep shorts—and she looked peaceful. Innocent. Nothing like someone who’d just been doing something she needed to hide.
Dakota paused by the closed door, watching her breathe.
Multiple aliases. Intelligence services have her flagged. Professional-grade identity work.
Ham’s words played on a loop in his head. The profile fit. The circumstantial evidence was there. Any objective analyst would have her at the top of their suspect list.
But objectivity had abandoned him somewhere between Fiji and the Hunter Valley. Somewhere between the nightmare she’d talked him through and the kiss she’d let him steal. Somewhere between “build the wall” and “I believe you.”
He should sleep on the floor. Should keep distance, maintain boundaries, treat her as the potential threat she might be.
Instead, he toed off his shoes and moved to the bed.
The mattress dipped slightly as he lay down beside her. She stirred—a small sound, a shift of her body—then settled again, her breathing evening out. She didn’t wake.
Or she was very good at pretending.
Dakota lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t had a nightmare since Fiji. Not since that first night, when the storm had howled outside and she’d pulled him back from the darkness with nothing but her voice. Every night since—Cairns, the Hunter Valley, Melbourne—he’d slept either in the same room, or nearby, and the dreams had stayed away.
She’d given him that. Peace. The first real rest he’d had in years.
If she was the enemy, even that moment had been a lie. A manipulation. A tool to lower his defenses.
But if she wasn’t?—
He turned his head slightly, looking at her profile in the darkness. The curve of her nose. The softness of her lips.
If she was an assassin, she could have killed him at any time. That was the thing. They’d been traveling together for days. Sharing rooms. Sharing beds, even—with the Great Wall of Fiji. She’d had a hundred opportunities to hurt him if that was her goal.
She hadn’t taken any of them.
But then, why would she if her target was the president, not him? She didn’t know what his mission was.
Except, she’d had his suitcase . . . hello.
If she saw his blueprints, then she knew his mission.
An easy way to be one step ahead of him.
The thoughts spiraled, and he forced them to stop. Forced himself to breathe. In. Out. The rhythm matching hers, unconsciously synchronizing until they breathed together in the darkness.
Faith means trusting what you don’t know.
