Page 14 of Nothing to Fear

“I’m having the tow truck driver take your car to a mechanic I know, if that’s okay.”

The local garage she’d used had overlooked a problem, and she’d almost died as a result. “That’s fine.”

“I’ll finish with the driver and take you home.” He shut the door and hurried off.

Her skin was warm around her waist and on her arm where he’d touched her. She was surprised how a man capable of brutal but necessary things could also be so tender and kind.

She glanced around the Jeep. The inside further contradicted her expectations.

A faceted crystal ball, a beautiful prism of light, hung from the rearview mirror. Custom covers wrapped the console lid, steering wheel, and front seats in a striped mosaic fabric of blues, purple, and pink. The touch was feminine and the car tidier than hers, which was saying a lot, since she vacuumed her VW and wiped everything down every Saturday morning.

Even her glove box only held the essentials—a car manual, tire gauge, packet of tissues, and mini first aid kit. She opened his to see if it was similar.

A large manila envelope fell out. A rectangular label from a law firm was in the top left corner in bold red letters, and it was addressed to Kelli Stone, his wife, who had died in a car accident a year after Willow transferred to the Gray Box.

Sanborn had come across Willow at an NSA briefing, pulled her to the side, and asked her a bunch of questions. Next thing she knew, he’d added her to his Gray Box collection. That was what Sanborn did—collected those with special talents from across the board: NSA, CIA, Special Forces, DEA, even MI6, the British foreign intelligence service.

The driver’s-side door opened.

“What are you doing?” The harshness in Gideon’s voice made her jump.

Heart racing, she licked her lips. “Looking in your glove box.”

Gideon climbed in and snatched the envelope from her hand. He stuffed it into the glove compartment and slapped the door shut. “Were you going through my things?”

“Yes.”

He flinched as if the honesty had stung him like a bee. “Did you open it?”

“No.” In the chaos of the accident and the comfort Gideon offered, her guard had slipped, and she’d overstepped. If she’d been thinking, she would’ve remembered the rules she needed to follow to keep others relaxed. “Are you angry at me?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t like people going through my stuff.” His head dipped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to take you home. Where do you live?”

“I could put it in the GPS.”

With a nod, he started the car. She punched in her address, glancing at him.

“Sorry I went through your things.” Willow waited for a response to guide her in what to say and do, but silence reigned.

As her dizziness subsided, the time to reach her house on the GPS display counted down. She was used to the awkwardness at the beginning of the end. Not that they had ever begun.

Boys were chatty at first until they discovered she was different. Then they were quiet. Except for two. Michael Dutton in college, who had been in a rush to touch her as if autistic meant easy. She’d been overwhelmed and frightened by his groping and hit him, giving him a black eye. Afterward, autistic meant dangerous.

And there was Simon Peterson at the NSA. He had been nice and as nervous as her. The second he got her in his bedroom, everything popped off at lightning speed. Including him.

“I owe you an apology,” Gideon said, his fingers tightening and loosening on the wheel.

“Apology for what?”

“I was concerned about the cut on your face and tried to touch you at the office without thinking. It upset you. The card in your wallet said to avoid touching you.”

“No, the card is for the police. You can touch me.” Touch is good. It happened so infrequently since her mother died, she wasn’t used to it anymore and needed warning. There’d been a time when her parents had showered her in affection and she’d loved it.

She pulled on an uneasy smile, but he didn’t look at her or smile back.

Her heart sank. “I didn’t expect it at the office. I wasn’t prepared.” Tapping her purse, she lowered her head. I may be a bit sensitive, but I’m still a woman who likes to be touched.

Heat rose, flaming in her face, and she wrung her hands.