Page 62 of Nothing to Fear

Gideon was an army of one. Everything for a man like him would be nothing short of World War III. She stared at the bruises on his chest and the wound on his abdomen. “I couldn’t do this without you, but you’ve already done too much. If anything happened to you because of me, if you—”

“I’m hard to kill. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m going to keep breathing, because I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?”

She nodded, although she wanted to do the exact opposite.

“Get some rest. Once the adrenaline fades, you’ll need it.”

Her body was fatigued, but her mind was still restless. She trudged to the bathroom and flipped on the light. Her gaze raked the compact facility, bouncing from one spot of grime to the next. Most people wouldn’t label the bathroom filthy, but the dirt nettled her.

She scrubbed every inch until it gleamed and the scent of orange oil tickled her nose.

A hot shower loosened her muscles, and she was relieved to scour off remaining traces of blood. She wrapped a towel around herself and traipsed to the bedroom two feet away.

She took the clothes Gideon purchased to the closet. Inside, she found an extra life jacket, a folded blanket, a windbreaker, and a feminine sweater. She hung Gideon’s clothes and ran her hands over two dresses from the same bag. Both smelled of plastic and were the same mix of fabrics. The polyester blend chafed her fingers, and without looking at the tag, she could tell they were a size too small.

The good news was he’d chosen solid colors and the material wouldn’t wrinkle, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep in either dress, much less wear one for hours.

Tomorrow was supposed to be navy skirt and baby-blue blouse day.

She’d double-checked the bags. No pajamas. She didn’t wear any at home, but with Gideon vacillating between consuming her in a rush of sweet fire and freezing her out, the situation warranted jammies.

She ran her fingers over the thin cream-colored cardigan in the closet, baby-soft cashmere smelling like fabric softener. It was long enough to act as a robe but didn’t have buttons to close the front. If she also threw on one of Gideon’s T-shirts, the makeshift PJs would do. She adjusted the towel wrapped around her and padded around to the foot of the bed.

A beam of golden light fractured the darkness in the kitchen.

Gideon was crouched in front of the open mini fridge. His gaze collided with hers. Electric awareness arced between them in the charged silence.

She quivered at the tingle licking her spine, the erotic tease of possibility.

He rose, holding a beer, and kicked the refrigerator door shut, ensconcing him in darkness. She couldn’t see his eyes but felt his stare caress her bare skin. Her breath stilled. A languid ache snaked through her, twisting in her belly.

They were safe on the water, out of danger. He didn’t have to be Reaper anymore, just Gideon. It stung he didn’t want her in the same way she wanted him, but she did want him. The one-sided desire embarrassed her. Heat whipped over her face, trailing down her body. If only she could make it go away and be numb.

He sauntered toward her, his steps measured. A quiver shot straight between her thighs, and her toes curled against the smooth hardwood floor.

His darkening eyes burned, lips parted in a ragged exhale. The bottle of beer shook in his hand. Stopping in the threshold, he grasped the door handle. His gaze wandered along the length of her body in a slow perusal.

“You should rest.” The husky gravel in his voice stirred butterflies in her chest, but the words deflated her silly drop of hope. “I’ll sleep out here later.” He shuttered his eyes and closed the door.

Her heart hurt as if he’d dragged it across sandpaper. She was lost on how to fake her way through this. How was she going to bear two days on the boat with him?

Her fingers throbbed with restlessness and her mind spun. She pulled on a T-shirt and the sumptuous sweater. Climbing on the bed, she hugged her knees to her chest and rocked, wanting to shrink into herself. Being trapped in this box of a room for hours would drive her stir-crazy. If only she had her computer and the internet—an electronic lifeline to cling to.

With nothing familiar to buoy her, she had to figure out how to stay afloat and not drown.

24

Arlington, Virginia

Friday, July 5, 7:55 p.m. EDT

Sanborn strode into Rocky’s, gritting his teeth at being reduced to skulking around in a bar because his multimillion-dollar, state-of-the-art Gray Box facility had been compromised.

Not just by the mole conspiring in their midst. He suspected the walls had eyes and ears. Sybil Parker was gunning for Willow by any means necessary, including trying to twist any conversation or correspondence into a way to save her own hide. Not even the conference room was safe after the stunt Gideon had pulled.

Sanborn nodded his thanks to Rocky for arranging to shut down the bar under the guise of training to give him the place for a clandestine powwow with his tactical team. She waved and locked the door on her way out, leaving them alone. As the sister-in-law of a black ops member, Jagger—currently deployed to the sandbox—Rocky was family and could be trusted.

The team looked out for her and patronized her bar so frequently, they should have stools engraved with their names.