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I fixated on the pulse in his throat beating firmly and steadily, not racing like mine. I wanted to even the score, send a shockwave through his veins, and pull him into my wild imagination where we were tearing off each other’s clothes.
I leaned closer to him and whispered, “Are you here to punish me?”
His pulse kicked up. He drew in a long breath, and his pulse returned to almost normal. It wasn’t that he was unaffected by me, it was that he was controlling it. Being the boss of it. Dominating it.
My little game had worked to draw a response from him, but the heat of embarrassment crept up to my cheeks. I cleared my throat and took an awkward step backward. I pulled out another weapon in my arsenal, having spent part of my childhood in the Carolinas while my mother, a dynamo chef, set up Michelin-starred kitchens in multiple restaurants there. “May I offer you some tea? I have sweetened and unsweetened.”
Those last words made him glance at my lips. He shook his head. “This isn’t a social call.”
“I’m not surprised.” I crossed my arms in front of me while I considered what to do next to set him back on his heels. Time to employ one of Daddy’s tactics. As a former Formula 1 driver and a NASCAR team owner, he believed in being fast and direct, on the course and in the rest of his life. “Why are you here, Mr. Russo?”
“Because we have a little problem.” He leaned closer. “I knew you would research me, Ms. Armand. The problem is, you don’t know when to stop.”
I stifled a laugh but couldn’t suppress my grin. “You asked—no, actually, you challenged—an investigative reporter to investigate you.”
He nodded. “And you did. I’m sure you know about my family, my early life, my career.”
I nodded and rattled off his official stats, which I’d memorized. “Father is Enzo, second son in a large Italian-American family, mother is Abena, who came here from Ghana with her parents when she was a child. They’re still married and living in upstate New York. Younger brother, Anthony, is a systems engineer and lives in Northern Virginia. You, Thomas James, excelled in both academics and sports, went to college on an ROTC scholarship and played hoops on your high school and college teams but were in no danger of going pro.”
He laughed at that and reached for my face, twining one finger in a curl beside my cheek, then letting it slide through his fingers. “Yes, I’d given up my dreams of being an NBA superstar by the time I was fourteen.”
I nodded. “But you were a star in the military. Eight years as a decorated officer, discharged with highest honors.” I furrowed my brow. “You could have written your own ticket, stayed until you were forty-two, probably would have retired as a full-bird colonel.” I used the Army slang for distinguishing the higher rank of colonel from the more common, lower rank of lieutenant colonel. “But you left to pursue a career as... What is it again?”
He was still smiling. “Has your formidable memory suddenly abandoned you, or are you testing me on my own history? Or maybe you have doubts about my position as a VP for a government contractor that hires more veterans than any other company in the country. Work I’m very proud of, by the way.”
“Oh, I believe you sit on the board and weigh in on their programs.” Emboldened by how well he was taking my deep dive into his history, I took one step closer to him. “And I’m familiar with the work you do with organizations that help vets and their families, like the one in Chicago.”
His face was neutral, unreadable, but definitely no longer smiling. “One of their lead volunteers is a good friend of mine.”
“Detective Evan Prescott of the Chicago PD.” I turned and walked slowly toward the living room, expecting him to follow me.
He did.
“Dating another friend of yours, if I’m not mistaken,” I continued. “Dr. Samantha Bond. She was a field surgeon in your unit. She’s now in private practice, doctor to the uber-rich.” I turned to face him again and smiled. “Like your friends, the Wilder brothers. Derek and Chase, owners of Bespoke Athleisure, an Inc. 5000 company. Chase Wilder’s date on Saturday night, the tall, dark-haired woman, is Mai Li, another vet. Her father is a well-known Navy Admiral. Li and Wilder were on the cruise ship the night before I was kidnapped, which is an interesting coincidence.” One I hadn’t yet reconciled. I was too smart to believe in coincidences that were nearly statistically impossible, so either TJ or his friends knew something about that fateful trip, and I’d be damned if I would drop this bone before finding out what it was.
I held TJ’s gaze, hoping there would be a flicker, a too-long blink, something to indicate he was surprised at how much I’d learned and how close I must be getting to the truth. Not a single hint. The man was a rock. “You run in interesting circles.”
He shrugged and leaned against my living room wall. I stood two feet away from him, close enough for him to catch me if he lunged quickly. I braced for it but didn’t get the usual hit of adrenaline-soaked fear at the thought. Something about his posture, or maybe his absolute calm, made me think he could be dangerous as hell if he needed to be, and yet, that same niggling feeling I’d had since the moment I’d met him still told me he wasn’t a danger to me.
“Vets are a tight-knit group, and people who support our causes—as long as they’re on the up-and-up, like the Wilder brothers—are of interest to me. But what interests me right now,” he took my hand and gently coaxed me closer to him, “is what else you’re looking for. What do you want to know about me, Ashlee Armand?”
I tensed. It was almost as if he knew what I’d been up to hours earlier, but that was impossible.
“Tell me about these FOIA requests,” he said quietly.
I looked away from him and struggled to keep the shock off my face. I’d just applied for more details about his military service and the government support work he’d done for the past five years through the reporter’s best friend, the Freedom of Information Act, better known as FOIA. I’d done that less than two hours ago. How the hell did he know about that?
I took a steadying breath and stared into his big, brown, lying eyes. “I want to know what you’re hiding.”
“In my military records?” He shifted, and suddenly my back was against the wall, and he was propped with his arms on either side of me, leaning close but not touching my skin. God help me, I wanted him to run his strong hands down over my body.
“Lots of black ink,” he whispered.
I was so caught up in the heat and scent of him, I nearly had to ask what he meant. My brain fog cleared momentarily, and I pieced it together. “Classified operations.” Of course. He’d been in military ops, after all. “But I’m sure there’s something of interest in your file that I could learn.”
“Doubtful.” His full, sensuous mouth curved into a grin. “But you’ll have to take my word for it, seeing as how your requests have gotten lost.”
I’d been staring at his mouth, so it took a few beats for his words to register. “Lost? As in, gone? What have you done? And how—”
