“Give me the contract.”
Earlier I’d left the job contract, along with my standard, ironclad nondisclosure agreement, beneath the laptop on the counter. I retrieve the paperwork and hand it to Tabby. She flips through it, quickly scanning the pages, her mouth tight, her face pale. When she gets to the end, she finds a pen in a drawer, scratches her name on the signature line, and thrusts the contract back into my hands.
“I’ll tell Miranda to wire payment into your—”
“I already told you,” Tabby grinds out through clenched teeth, “I don’t need the money. In this case, I don’t want it.” Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see entire cities burning to the ground. “And no more questions about S?ren.”
I keep my voice carefully measured to hide the unease I feel hearing her say that. “I need to know whatever you know about him. It’s critical information that could have a major impact on the success or failure of the job.”
“There’s a ninety-nine percent probability the job will fail, no matter what you know.”
Her lack of confidence is surprisingly painful. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”
Tabby stares at me, her chest rising and falling in irregular bursts. I feel the tension in her, the weight of it in her body, how much effort it takes to stand motionless when everything inside her is pure violence. I recognize it because it’s something I’ve felt myself countless times, on countless missions. Gun in hand, crouched low against a wall in the dark, counting my breaths as I lie in wait for an enemy.
Whatever happened between the two of them, she carries it with her like the lone survivor of a battle, standing in the middle of a field gory with bodies and blood.
She says, “The only thing you need to know about S?ren Killgaard is that he’s more clever than the devil, and not nearly as nice. If you show any weakness, he’ll exploit it. Whatever you think his endgame is, you’ll be wrong. He’ll always be five moves ahead of you, no matter how well you plan, and there’s only one way you’ll ever catch him.”
“Which is?”
Tabby smiles. The cold pragmatism in it sends a chill down my spine.
“By using me as bait.”
Six
Connor
We leave for LA at midnight. And for the next nineteen hours, Tabby doesn’t speak to me.
I’m comfortable with silence, but her silence is so loud, it screams. She’s furious about that kiss, but it goes deeper than that. I took something from her when I didn’t give her a choice. Worse, I suspect, is the way she feels about her own reaction to having my mouth on hers.
She liked it, which makes her hate me even more.
Women.
“Are we driving straight through to LA?”
Startled, I glance over at her. She’s staring out the window of the car, refusing to meet my eyes, the question asked in a tone that suggests she doesn’t care one way or another.
Her choice of travel wear raised my brows when I returned to her place after making a quick trip home to pack my bags, and I let my gaze rake over it once again, if only to satisfy my growing need to look at her. Tight black leather everything, including gloves, motorcycle jacket zipped up to her chin, and combat boots. The only thing she’s missing is a helmet. Except for her face, not an inch of skin is showing.
I recognize this outfit for what it is. Armor.
It’s a good thing it’s only March and the weather is cool, because August in that getup would be murder.
“No. Wanted to get into Tulsa before we stopped for the night.”
We’ve had three short stops so far at gas stations along the interstate, just long enough to hit the head and refill the tank. If I were alone, I’d push straight through, but then again, if I were alone, I wouldn’t be driving.
I know from my research that her parents were killed in an airplane crash when she was eight and wonder how much of her avoidance of flying is based on that.
I also wonder how much of who she’s become is based on those deaths, and the death of the uncle she went to live with after the loss of her parents. By eighteen, she was all alone in the world.
Except for S?ren Killgaard, whose relationship to her remains a mystery.
For now.
Suddenly she mutters, “I’m so fucking pissed off at you!”
I stare straight ahead at the twin beams of the headlights illuminating the highway and wait.
After a moment, she says, “I can’t think when I’m mad. When I can’t think, I feel out of control. When I feel out of control, I panic. Are you seeing the pattern here?”
I keep my voice low and calm, nonthreatening. “It won’t happen again.”
“You said that before,” she says crossly, “but the problem is that I think I want it to.”
I nearly drive off the road. This kind of straightforward admission is the last thing I expected, and I’m totally unprepared for it. I quickly decide the only way to handle it is in kind.