“You’re really serious? You could quit right now, this very second?”
“Yeah.”
“And not look back?” she demanded.
“That depends.” He stopped tapping. “Would you leave too?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spiker sucked his lip into his mouth and hoped. Would she really quit? He refused to look away on the off chance that she might say, “Absolutely.”
His question hung heavy in the silence. Surprise, and maybe consideration, widened her eyes. Vanka’s lips parted, and the anticipation of what she might say made his pulse teeter on a razor-thin edge, ready to plummet or explode. He needed her to leave with him. More than that, he needed her. Every ticking second of silence made that realization crystal clear.
Pressure punched his chest. Each blow made breaths harder to take, and a heady thrill rushed to his throat. He needed to kiss her in a dangerous, mind-scrambling way. The desire shocked him as hard as his question had her—and scared him, too, as though he were a skydiver drawn to the edge of a plane’s open door.
Spiker moved closer. The urge to touch her and tell her to run away with him was a climbing high. “Quit with me.”
Her pupils constricted. Vanka moistened her bottom lip and her cheeks pinked. The addictive lure of a true first kiss was more than he could handle.
“You’re asking a lot.”
Hell, he was asking for everything. “I know.”
“I don’t think you know what you want.”
Her raspy hesitation rolled over his body like a tidal wave, making everything a thousand times more clear. Erasing her stress and uncertainty would be a gift. Spiker imagined the ways he could clear her mind. He imagined the ways he would touch her, bringing her to orgasm with his fingers and tongue until the moment that he could slide into her body.
Their phones vibrated. His daydream dissipated. Neither moved a muscle. Again, the buzzing called their attention to the incoming encrypted communication from GSI. Spiker pressed his lips together and waited to see if they’d ever answer GSI again.
Vanka jerked away from his gaze. “I’m not leaving this job.”
Disappointment slammed him against a brick wall.
She drew a deep breath. “And neither are you. Not right now. Do you understand me?”
Not right now . . . A foolish ray of hope seized upon her caveat.
The buzzing continued, and without a word, they agreed to ignore the incoming messages. The intoxicating moment had sobered. The urge to kiss her remained. They didn’t move for their phones, and he wasn’t sure what kept Vanka in place: that he’d asked her to quit or that she had sensed what he wanted.
Lust had never blinded their work. They had too much mutual professional respect to worry about a misstep like that. In the name of an undercover role or simply staying alive, they’d played the part of lovers more times than he could count. They’d kissed and touched and acted in various stages of undress. He was a red-blooded man, and couldn’t be accused of disliking those moments. Vanka’s sophisticated sexiness turned heads. Her full lips were soft and sweet, but the kisses had always been strategic, as the sweet nothings they nuzzled into each other’s ears whispered intelligence:
Target acquired. My nine o’clock.
Line of sight compromised. Pivot right.
UAV still hovering. Move your hand to a more convincing spot.
“Are we on the same page?” she asked.
Spiker hadn’t the slightest clue. Their phones signaled again.
“I will sit here with you as long as it takes.” She moistened her lips again and stared at a wall of framed pictures. “I have to keep this job. I can’t explain that in any other way. Please don’t leave. Not yet.”
“I need to . . .” leave. But he couldn’t walk away from her plea. When had Vanka become a part of life-altering decision-making? “I don’t know.” Spiker returned to the far side of the glass table, pacing as he skimmed his messages. “It’s from Buck.”
“Directly from him?” she asked.
“Yup.”
Vanka hummed. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“But it does prove my point,” he said. “Buck wants us to scout the attendees at a stockholder’s gala.” Spiker grumbled. Galas meant dancing and shoes that cramped his feet.
“When?”
He grimaced. “Tonight.”
“Well, now we have something to do. Who and where?”
“McLean, Virginia.” He scrolled through the encrypted messages and then showed Vanka an attached photograph. “This guy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That looks like Alec Oliver.”
“Who’s Alec Oliver?”
“If that’s who I think it is, he created a website called Monarch and made his first billion in Silicon Valley.”
“A tech bro.” Spiker snorted. “One of those guys.”
Vanka tapped her polished fingernail against her lips. “What are our deliverables?”
“Buck would like to know who’s there. Pictures, pictures, pictures. Names and details are required but secondary.”
Her brow furrowed. “How is this tied to the Robin Hood assignment?”
Spiker shrugged. “Maybe it isn’t. Buck wants the guest list evaluated—he’s either searching for Robin Hood or searching for new clients.”
“No.” Vanka shook her head. “We can’t operate as if ulterior motives are driving our assignment.”
“Sure we can.”
“No,” she chided. “We’ll miss something.”
Spiker lifted his shoulders. “What does it matter? We’re only scouting.”
“Either way, we have to assume Buck knows more than we do. Alec Oliver has a piece that would interest Robin Hood, and”—she gestured vaguely—“honestly, I’m curious. I want to know what it is.”
He scanned the messages again. They hadn’t been organized in any meaningful way, almost as if the idea had struck Buck seconds before he’d shot out orders. “He doesn’t specify what Oliver has or even if GSI has been retained to protect it.”
“Of course we have,” she countered.
“It’s as though you’ve heard nothing I’ve said.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If this isn’t a weak-link test—”
Two lines furrowed above the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think it is.”
This wasn’t worth arguing. Spiker relented. “We’ll put a request to the analysts. If they don’t know what we’re talking about, tonight is nothing but a search for new clients. If they do, you can ask all the questions you want.”
The next set of encrypted messages took forever to arrive. They interrupted what had otherwise turned into a quiet afternoon of Vanka reading in her window nook. In contrast, Spiker had gone for a run that had apparently turned into an hours-long marathon.
The messages confirmed they would attend a shareholder’s gala with a champagne reception and dancing at the home of tech billionaire Alec Oliver. Unfortunately, the reception required black-tie attire. “Oh, bugger.” She’d assumed that a gala at someone’s home would be relegated to cocktail dresses and sharp suits. Acquiring a tuxedo on short notice wouldn’t be a problem, but getting Spiker into it might be a fight. This was the kind of party Spiker would enjoy as much as a sandpaper hand job.