Page 61 of Nothing to Fear

He blocked her hand. “I need it.”

Nodding, she went to chuck the blood-soaked materials in the bathroom trash. Her cheeks burned, flames fanning down her chest. She looked in the mirror. Her face was berry-red.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You’re a mission. An assignment.”

Don’t confuse his kindness for something more. No foolish, trumped-up fantasy is going to happen. You’re still you, and he’s still amazing. And working.

Drawing a deep breath, she left the bathroom. Gideon sat in the captain’s chair, pants on but glorious chest on full display, steering the boat.

If she could call it a boat. You wouldn’t call a Maserati or Lamborghini just a car.

When he mentioned they’d travel by boat to the Cayman Islands, she’d pictured a little dinghy or a canoe with a motor. Silly in hindsight, considering they had to travel to the Caribbean Sea, but she wouldn’t have imagined something quite so spacious.

In movies, fugitives on the run slept in cars and hid out in seedy motels. He’d managed to steal a high-speed vessel outfitted with a cabin. But this was his job. Outmaneuvering. Improvising. Using his wits to survive.

“Look in the cockpit locker,” he said to her, pointing to a compartment by his leg. “Get the manual for the boat and find out the top speed. I bought maps. They should be in one of the bags. Calculate how long it’ll take us to reach Grand Cayman Island.”

Reaper was back, barking orders like she was a robot instead of a person. She was used to this side of him, the composed operative who never got rattled and rarely smiled.

The beautiful man cloaked in mystery she’d longed to know.

Today was the first time, though, she’d seen the killing machine up close. Steel and ice, too sharp to hesitate, too cold to feel. Necessary, of course. Someone wanted to nail her as a traitor. He was all that stood between her and death.

But with her life hacked into ones and zeros that no longer added up, she needed the gentleness he hid so well. Needed him, regardless of his motives. She could handle long work hours and a high-ops tempo. Caring for her sick father was taxing, but she’d do anything for him. Solitude recharged her batteries, and she enjoyed her alone time. More or less.

Around Gideon, it was definitely less.

She’d gone a long time without being touched, almost stopped missing the physical warmth. Almost forgot the healing power of an embrace.

Almost.

Then he’d kissed her, his hands running all over her body, gentle and full of heat, and her universe changed gears. Like that moment in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy was ripped from a black-and-white Kansas and crashed into a Technicolor world—vibrant energy and singing and dancing.

His affection was a salve. She could use a simple hug in this tornado of chaos. Something to let her forget the horrors wrecking her life for a few seconds. Her house had burned down. Her poor father was helpless in a coma. And it was her fault.

Her lack of friends, her isolated lifestyle, her difficulty passing a polygraph—something had painted her as the perfect person to frame, making her sick to her stomach.

“Willow.” The sharpness of Gideon’s voice brought her back to the task at hand.

Following his orders, she dug out the manual and maps from the locker and did the calculations. Although Grand Cayman Island was a short flight away, the number of nautical miles they had to cross was staggering.

She’d never ventured more than a five-hour drive from home. Breaking from her routine and doing it by herself was too unnerving. Every possible deviation from the safety net of structure unraveled a thread that held her life together.

Now everything was gone, and she was free-falling. She drew in a deep breath.

“If you run the boat at top speed, with no sleep, we could be there in thirty-two hours.”

He raked a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Eventually, I’m going to need sleep.” His tone and countenance were glacial. “I didn’t get any last night. The bank closes at two on Saturday afternoon, and we won’t make it in time. I planned supplies for two days on the water, so we’ll shoot for Sunday evening. It’ll give me time to scope out the bank and limit our exposure on the island before it opens on Monday morning.”

Glancing around, Willow looked for something useful to do. She unpacked the shopping bags and put away the groceries. The fridge already had butter, eggs, bacon, beer, and water. The owner must use the boat regularly. Gideon had bought a variety of foods, ensuring no threat of going hungry.

After rooting through the cabinets, she wiped out the cupboards, washed the dishes, and reorganized everything to stay busy—any out-of-band patch for a semblance of normalcy.

Whenever Gideon’s gaze fell to her, she sensed it—a trickle of heat running down her spine like warm syrup—but she never managed to catch him looking. Only the turn of his head while he radiated assassin on a mission.

By the time she finished alphabetizing the spices, her jitters were gone.

“Try not to worry,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can to help you.”