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She swung her head to look at him. “What?”
“Your toenail polish is chipped.”
“Oh no!” She twisted her knee inward in an even more sensual pose to peer at her toes. “Where?”
“Your pinky toe.” He never found toes to be cute. Most people’s feet disgusted him. But Lark’s feet? Were charming.
Sexy, even.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. If only he’d gotten those eighteen hours of sleep, he’d be handling this op better.
Lark dropped her legs and rummaged in her Bug-Out-Purse. When she extracted a bottle of blue nail polish, he wasn’t surprised.
Bending her leg, she placed her foot on the seat and uncapped the bottle. “Mind if I…?”
He waved a hand like he didn’t care what she did even as his gaze riveted on how she tucked the corner of her lip in her teeth and brushed the sky-blue polish over her adorable little pinky toe.
Jesus Christ. Get ahold of yourself, man.
He was ex-military, ex-cop, ex-bodyguard, current leader of a task force fighting terrorism. And he was completely mesmerized by a woman painting her toenails.
Lucky for him, his phone buzzed. As he whipped it to his ear, he noted how Lark’s device issued a little birdsong. She went for her phone too.
“Lexis,” he stated in a rough voice.
“It’s Livingston.”
“Livingston. What the hell happened to you meeting me with a team to take this thing off my hands?” He shot a look at Lark. She was madly texting.
He propped the phone against his shoulder and plucked the phone out of her hand. Gasping, she twisted in the seat, eyes wide and lips parted in outrage. With a pointed look at her, he shoved her phone between his legs—against his crotch—and gave her a do-not-even-reach-for-your-phone warning look.
She made a small, strangled noise that made his jeans tight.
Quaide Livingston’s voice filtered into his ear, bringing Clay back to the present. “Sorry, man. Shit went sideways here,” Quaide said.
“How sideways?”
“The FBI bomb squad was attacked.”
“Jesus. By whom?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re working on it, but there are plenty of people in the region who want to stop a bomb squad from reaching a destination. I’m organizing an alternative for you, but it’s gonna take a while. I trust you can get someplace safe and wait for my word.”
“You know I can.”
Livingston snorted, which made his image materialize in Clay’s mind. They’d gone to bootcamp together. Two kids playing at soldiers—until theybecamesoldiers. After the shit they’d seen and done, their bond was strengthened. Clay went to the police academy and Quaide split off to join the FBI. But they kept in touch via text and the occasional phone call, until recently when Quaide recruited him for Sentry.
Lark’s phone buzzed in his crotch with a text. He jumped, and damn if a soft giggle didn’t burst out of Lark. She quickly dipped her head, lips clamped, and he let out a heavy sigh through his nostrils.
The faint scent of nail polish reminded him of the things he didn’t want reminded of.
“I’ll drop you a pin once I’m situated,” he said to his friend.
“Do that. I’ll be in touch as soon as I figure out what the fuck’s going on.”
“Wait—any casualties in that attack?” Clay held his breath, waiting for a tally.
“One injured, that’s all.”
