But he was too stunned to do that, so he just stood there, locked in Hunter’s gaze, mouth gaping like a fish until Hunter rubbed his lower lip with a callused thumb.
“You and me have shit to work out,” Hunter whispered. “And we can’t work it out on the job. Be honest with me here if you need to call it quits. But don’t think this, you and me, is going to go away because your feet hurt too much to work.”
Grace swallowed. His feet throbbed, but his chest—that throbbed worse.
“Say something, Grace.”
“Feet are fine,” he lied weakly.
Hunter’s mouth lifted at a corner. “You’re a terrible liar. Good to know. But I’m going to take you at your word this time, because if I can’t trust you in this, why should I trust you with any other part of my life.”
Grace swallowed, and what he said next felt compelled, like someone summoning a demon.
“Fine. Feet hurt. I can still do the job.”
That corner lift became a two-corner lift and Hunter’s lips curved gently. “Better. We’ll take a Lyft over there—you’ll have plenty to do once we get out.”
Grace nodded and Hunter opened the door to the hotel room and the moment was over.
Sort of.
Hunter didn’t really leave his side until they got out of the SUV at the other hotel. He stayed close, the heat of his skin burning through Grace’s clothing, keeping him warm in the Vancouver damp.
Belling the Cat
HUNTER HAD to hand it to Grace—for someone who liked the entire world to look at him, sometimes he could disappear in plain sight.
He’d kept Hunter’s black hoodie but changed into denim leggings—stretchy like tights but looked like jeans—before they left. He’d put a sweet little fishing cap on his head so he looked trendy and adorable but not ostentatious, and he wore his earbuds. He slouched in an overstuffed chair in the gracious lobby of the Times Square and played on his phone, looking a little bored and a little self-involved—and very forgettable.
To everyone but Hunter.
Gah! He’d only known Grace for two months—two months when a little voice in the back of his head had been monitoring the little shit 24/7.
Grace is showing off again. Say something.
Grace is doing something risky—check him.
Grace is looking at you. Pretend you don’t notice.
It had only been two months since Josh had asked his friends for help in clearing up Felix’s reputation, and they’d become a crew. And the whole time, a tightly clenched part of Hunter felt like it had been cranked tighter by simultaneously saving Grace from himself and keeping the man out of harm’s way.
Hunter hadn’t realized how exhausted he’d gotten until he had carried Grace back to the hotel, had tended to his wounds, had allowed himself to be tender.
Grace’s wounded pride, the skittish way he’d allowed himself to be gentled, his final trust, had soothed something inside Hunter, had eased the chafing that Grace’s usual grandstanding left.
The little shit apparently needed him.
It was a stunning realization. Equally stunning was the gratification Hunter had felt when he realized Grace would allow himself to need. How did that happen? Grace’s independence was etched in every fuck-you gesture he made.
But then, Hunter had the feeling he’d been let down a lot—perhaps by everybody in his life but Josh and Artur. Hunter had always hated that poor-little-rich-boy crap: oh, boo-hoo, Daddy didn’t love me so now I’m a fucking prick to everybody I step on! Hunter had grown up having enough. Not a lot, but enough. His parents, though, had pulled him to the local soup kitchen one Sunday a month instead of church, and he’d seen kids from school there, embarrassed, afraid to take food because of their pride.
He’d been to the poorest parts of the world, where whole villages would wait up at night, anxious and weeping, for one relief box of food and water.
He’d seen real want and real pain, and he’d always figured the sadness of the rich was no big fucking deal.
But Dylan Li had a giant chip on his shoulder. His best friend, his best friend’s family, even his dance teacher had all tried to help him lift it off, but he was reluctant to accept their assistance.
It scared Hunter, thinking about that—that sort of unwillingness to grow, unwillingness to function with your team. It got people killed.
But Paulie had been killed anyway.
He was sitting at a coffee table on the second-floor overlook, sipping coffee and pretending to be immersed in the news on his phone. The thought of Paulie, though, that startled him. He’d purposefully pushed Paulie to the back of his mind for the past year.
A year, really? Yeah—a little more actually. He fumbled for a sip of coffee and restlessly scanned the room, seeing nobody. Artur had dropped the package off ten minutes ago—he’d seen it slipped behind the concierge’s desk, waiting to be claimed by “John Tazo,” and they’d all been in position for between five and thirty minutes prior, Josh first.
So far, nobody had bit, and Hunter’d had more than enough time to focus on Grace’s faux-casual sprawl, but he hadn’t been woolgathering until this moment.
Paulie. Jesus.
“Heads-up,” Josh said into his coms. “Two guys speaking a language I don’t recognize. What’s Sergei again?”
“Armenian,” Grace mumbled.
“Yeah, could be. Dammit—don’t know that one yet. I’ll learn it eventually. But they’re on their way in. Slick, wearing suit pants, vests, shiny shirts, and fedoras. See them?”
“Got ’em,” Molly said from the downstairs gift shop. “Want me to follow?”
“Stay put,” Hunter murmured. “Let’s see if they take the bait first and where they go with it. If they’re in the hotel, we’ll need to get a room.”
“Gotcha,” Josh said. “Molly, you and me follow them up. Stirling, be ready to give us a vacant room nearby. But let’s see what they do first.”
God, Josh was quick. Hunter had assumed when he’d first signed on that he’d be running point for most of these little adventures. He hadn’t been prepared for Josh Salinger, who’d been brought up at the knees of grifters and businessmen and knew what needed to be done to get results.
“What about Hunter?” Grace mumbled, and at that moment, Hunter saw their two guys.
“Hunter is making himself scarce,” Hunter said softly, standing and moving from the balcony toward the ballrooms, which sat behind the café. “I know these assholes.”
Fuck. John Tazo. Who in the hell would have guessed? His real name was Johan Tarkasian, but John Tazo would work. Hunter had worked with him right out of the military but did his best to avoid him later. He really didn’t like guys who left a body trail instead of taking a little bit of care with their planning, and that was Tazo—to a T.
“These guys are dangerous,” Hunter muttered from a recess by the restrooms in the ballroom foyer. He was lucky. There were no events this night, so the room was empty. Otherwise he’d be dodging people dressed super nicely for cheap champagne. “Don’t follow—”
“They made the pickup,” Josh said quietly. “Stirling, your tracking device on the box is a go?”