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The ice queen had returned and Isaac didn't give three shits. He'd taken his time at the diner, filling up on eggs, real bacon, hash browns, and more while she nursed her cup of coffee like it was ninety percent moonshine. By the time he put a wad of cash on the table that would cover the meal and a decent tip, the disdain in her eyes had gone from frosty to glacial to downright arctic-tundra-on-the-winter-solstice cold.
"Ready to go, darlin'?" He was too pissed to care that he was being a petty asshole.
She narrowed her eyes and slid out of the booth. "Don't call me that."
"Do you prefer wifey?" he asked, giving a quick wave to the waiter, a Crest Society lookout judging by his tattoo and the way he hadn't taken his eyes off him and Tamara since they walked in.
The waiter gave him a commiserating look as Isaac opened the diner's door for his fake bride.
"I'd prefer you tell me what the fuck is going on," she said, her voice clipped and cold.
"Why, we're on the road trip from hell and fighting like two alley cats with their tails tied together."
An answer and a warning. She wasn't a field operative and she was pissed, but that didn't excuse fucking up this operation by asking questions that were better left until they were alone. Tamara cut him a glare that showed all the fire underneath that frigid facade of hers before stalking past him. He barely made it to the door before she did to hold it open for her like his mama had taught him. Tamara barely acknowledged the gesture as she stalked past, her chin high and her ass just as abso-fucking-lutely perfect as it was two nights ago when he'd cupped it and driven deep into her while she writhed in ecstasy underneath him.
He followed her out into the bright sunshine, across the gravel parking lot, and into the Idaho Inn's lobby. Sure, he could have outtalked her easily, but the view wouldn't have been nearly as good, and he had enough testosterone in him to appreciate that fact even if he was an eight on the ten-point-pissed-off scale.
The tiny lobby was cramped and in about as good condition as the rest of the motel. An older woman with sun-dried skin and cast iron gray hair sat behind the desk.
Isaac put on his tourist voice. "Hi there. We have reservations under Pat Hargrove." He laid enough cash for the room on the counter.
The woman didn't blink at the money or ask for ID. Instead, she slid the registration log toward him. "Sign here." When he did, she turned and grabbed a pair of keys from the ten or so hanging on the peg board behind the desk. "Room twenty-three. It's around the corner at the end."
He scrawled “Pat Hargrove” on the log, took the keys, and strolled out the door. Tamara would follow. The stubborn woman wanted answers more than she wanted to make a stink. He wasn't wrong. She marched alongside when he grabbed their duffle bags from the car—although she snagged hers and slung it over her arm—and on to the room.
It was gloomy inside, even more so when he shut the door and locked it behind them. His first instinct was the open the shades, but he wasn't sure he wanted a better look at the room than the dim light from the bedside lamp offered. His eyes had just adjusted when Tamara flicked the overhead lights on.
She let out a relieved sigh. "It's not pretty, but at least it looks clean."
That about summed it up. He dropped his duffle on the turquoise and yellow bedspread and turned around to face her. "So let's have it."
He'd spent his life surrounded by women. He'd learned the hard way that ignoring the elephant in the room only made them more pissed off. He should have filled her in during the drive, but he didn't. He was an asshole. So what?
So you made a shitty situation worse, Camacho.
She dropped her bag on the small table by the window and strutted forward until she was inches away from him. Her anger vibrated off of her, pressing against his skin and setting every nerve ending on edge—not because he worried she'd strike out, but because he loved it when she lost her icy reserve. He really was a bastard—a horny one with a hard-on for bitchy blondes.
"When were you going to fill me in on the plan to have Marko and Elisa spend the night at the compound?" She jabbed her finger into his chest. Hard. "When are we going in?" Another jab as heat rose in her cheeks. "When are we getting Essie?"
He wrapped his fingers around her hand and tugged it down to the side. He could have let go of her. He should have let go of her, but he didn't. The sparks of awareness zipping up his arm before diving lower felt too good to let go.
"Marko and Elisa didn't have a choice," he said, trying his hardest to focus on the mission and not the woman driving him nuts. "The only way to get on the compound on short notice was to say they were passing through on a planned vacation. Fane's people offered to let them stay the night. Their cover story is that they are considering joining the Society and bringing a shit ton of cash with them. They had to say yes."
"The longer Essie is there, the greater the chance Jarrod is going to sell her off to one of his followers." She took in a shaky breath. "We have to get there before it's too late."
Damn. He hated that little hitch in her voice because he knew just how much it cost her. If there was anyone in the world who hated being vulnerable or needing help, it was Tamara Post. He wanted to pull her close, wrap his arms around her like he had at Albert's house, and reassure her that everything was going to be okay. But that wasn't the way things worked between them anymore. She'd made her wishes clear.
"We will." He let go of her and took a step back. He needed space, breathing room. The woman was making his thinking muddy. "The plan is for Marko and Elisa to get a full look at the compound. We need to know where everything is situated before we can do the extraction. They'll report back here tomorrow morning. The Feds are flying in tomorrow morning to act as as backup if we need it."
The pink in her cheeks turned to red. "What about me?"
He was ready for this one. "You’ll stay here. You're not an operative."
She opened her mouth to argue, no doubt, but closed it without a word. Isaac mentally marked it on his calendar. It wasn't every day that Tamara didn't have a lightning-fast comeback to something.
Finally, she harrumphed and paced a path on the worn carpet going between the door and the king-sized bed. "Waiting around until tomorrow doesn't seem right. She's my niece. I promised to protect her."
It would bust his chops if he was the one not going, too. He couldn't blame her for being frustrated, but nothing was going to change this.
