“Good,” he surprises me by saying, his eyes lighting with approval. “You shouldn’t accept things on my word. You should make me prove it’s true.”
“Then prove it,” I say. “Right here. Right now. Prove to me that I can trust you and that you are who you say you are. Prove to me that you want what you say you want…which actually, what do you want?” My mind races through the conversations we’ve had. His way of getting what he wants. His past in the FBI. The familiar way he called my sister by her name. “Because I think there is more to your story and I want to know what it is right now.”
“Quid pro quo, sweetheart,” he repeats. “I’ll tell you my secrets, if you tell me yours.”
Chapter Seven
Myla
I blink at his inference that I have secrets, but I do not stumble. “This is about you this time. Prove to me I can trust you.”
“Trust doesn’t work that way. It’s earned. It takes time.”
“I don’t have time. Why did you leave the FBI?”
“It took a toll.”
“What kind of toll?”
“I was burned out.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head in rejection of a too generic answer. “There’s more to it than that. You were FBI and now you’re here. Now you work for Michael Alvarez.”
“We’re repeating? Myla. I told you. I work for me. Alvarez doesn’t own me.”
“Why are you here?” I whisper, not sure what I am looking for or need him to say.
“You. I’m still here for you.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You want more?”
“Yes. I want more.”
“I’m here because when I first saw you, when I first looked into your eyes, you on the arm of Michael Alvarez made no sense to me. I’m here because I see the fear in your eyes and I don’t like it. Do you still want more?”
Yes. “No. Yes. I’m not your business.”
“I made you my business.”
“I don’t know if you are my friend or enemy-”
“Friend. I am your friend.”
“Then I don’t want you to die. And even if you’re my enemy, Kyle, he’ll turn on you. You’ll be the man that got me into your-” I stop myself before I say bed which would be telling in so many ways, and the look in his eyes says he knows it.
“Into my what, Myla?”
“He’ll turn on you, Kyle. Get out while you can.”
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” His hands settle on his knees, “Except to go get something I have for you.” He stands. “I’ll be right back.” And then he’s walking away, and my fist is balled against my chest, my heart racing so fast I think it might explode from between my ribs. I’m confused. I’m worried. I’m feeling like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time, and that terrifies and excites me in equal portions.
Standing, I gather our trash because I have so much energy and adrenaline and no place to put it. I carry it all to the kitchenette just off the dining room, where I dispose of it all, and by the time I return to the living area, Kyle is returning too, and we both stop mid-way into the room. And we stand there. Just stand there, looking at each other, and I think that in itself, if caught on film, would have destroyed us with Michael. There is something between me and this man, a charge in the air when we are together that can’t be created by choice. It’s not something any man could create to set a woman up, unless she was just panting over him, and that simply isn’t me. But that doesn’t mean he’s a friend. That doesn’t mean he won’t use whatever is between us against me.
He crosses toward me and I stand my ground, showing the strength that has allowed me to prosper in Michael Alvarez’s world. He stops in front of me, a step away, not touching me, but what scares me is that I want him to touch me. I want that hero I just got mad at myself for wanting, and I want that hero to be him. “Let’s sit, sweetheart,” he says softly.
“I don’t think I want to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Of course, you should. Come on.” He motions with his head and when his hand just barely brushes my waist, I step away from the instant fire in me, walking back to the couch, where I welcome the support of the cushion. But it seems there is no escaping Kyle in this moment. He joins me and bypasses the chair, sitting down next to me, close enough to be in my personal space.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, setting a small handgun down in front of me, along with a case and a strap.
“A Sig,” I say of the tiny gun. “I used to carry the cheaper Ruger version.”
“Used to?”
“Michael won’t allow it.”
“You’re carrying it,” he insists. “In your purse or on your person. I prefer on your person.” He holds up a strap. “This will allow you to wear it-”
“At the center of my bra. I know. I have a sister who’s an FBI agent, remember?”
“Actually she’s not.”
I blanch. “What?”
“Kara took a leave last year and then eventually resigned.”