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Gideon could go back to work at the FBI. Take up his old job as an agent. He’d get the closure his father had never had.
He stilled. Was that what this was about? Was he trying to make things right for his dad? It would make no difference to Frank Wolf. He’d been dead for more than ten years.
And did Gideon even want to go back to the FBI? He wasn’t sure.
He’d loved being an agent. Loved finding justice for people. But… he did the same thing here at Blackhawk Security. Was more involved in the cases. In the lives of the people he protected.
Huh. He’d never thought about that.
He walked to the end of the hall. Stood by the door of the second bedroom, listening for sounds from the room.
Heard nothing.
Was Alex asleep?
He couldn’t tell. But he and Alex needed to talk. If not tonight, tomorrow. He had to make this right. He didn’t want to lose her. He didn’t want to lose her trust, either.
He lay awake for a long time, trying to figure out the right words to use when he talked to Alex.
If she was even interested in talking to him.
* * *
Alex rose the next morning after a mostly sleepless night. She’d tossed and turned, missing Gideon and calling herself a fool. When she’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, her dreams had been haunted by Gideon. What they’d done together. How she’d felt about him. When she’d finally woken up, she tried to wipe her brain clean of those dreams.
But those memories clung like stubborn cobwebs, refusing to fade into the mist.
Sighing, she glanced out the window at the trees and mountains across the road from the compound. A beautiful sight she’d stared at for a long time yesterday after she’d stormed into this room. It brought her no comfort now, just as it hadn’t yesterday.
She’d made a mistake. Jumped to conclusions. She should have calmed down and talked to Gideon yesterday. Listened to him.
But her quick-trigger temper had destroyed her perspective.
As she dressed, she noticed her watch. She was too late for breakfast. Had that been deliberate? She’d dreaded facing Gideon in front of everyone else in the compound. Dreaded trying to pretend nothing had happened last night. Probably just as well.
Footsteps in the hall approached her door, and she stilled. Listened. Was it Gideon?
She couldn’t tell. She hadn’t known him long enough to be able to recognize his footsteps.
The thought that she might never get to the point where she recognized Gideon’s steps was another sharp stab of pain. There’d been too damn many of them since yesterday.
The footsteps stopped at her door. Then, as she hurried toward it, they walked away, fading quickly. Finally, she heard the tiny snick of the apartment door closing.
Squaring her shoulders, she moved to the door. Stopped when she spotted her purse on the dresser. She’d promised Gideon that she’d wear it all the time, just like the operatives wore their guns in the compound, so she slung it across her chest. Then she reached for the door. She’d go to the dining room and beg the chef for some toast and peanut butter. A bagel. Whatever he had.
But when she opened the door, she saw a tray, covered with a white and blue-striped towel. Swallowing the tears that threatened to fall, she picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. Set it down and removed the towel.
The tray held a plate of pancakes. A small pitcher of syrup. Two pats of butter. A glass of orange juice. A small carafe and a coffee cup.
And three strips of bacon.
Gideon must have brought it over for her. No one else would think to make sure she had breakfast.
Her eyes prickling, she slid onto one of the stools and poured the syrup over the pancakes. Crunched a strip of bacon and drank her orange juice. Poured a cup of coffee.
The food sat heavily in her stomach. Finally, she pushed the tray away. Poured a cup of coffee with an unsteady hand. Stared at the scenery across the street again. She felt weak. Vulnerable. Inadequate.
Exactly how she’d felt for those six months on the street in Seattle.
