Her eyes are narrowed, the irises the color of a washed-out sky rather than the crystal-clear blue I’m used to. “I need to know,” she says firmly.
“While I’m all for an angry fuck, I don’t use sex for revenge. Not my style.” Unlike your asshole dead husband. “There’s a mission. You’ll be an important member of the team. Maybe the most important.”
“The most important? I don’t believe—”
I nod, and hold a finger to her lips to silence her. “I realize it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to trust me. I might not answer all your questions the moment you want the answers, but I won’t lie to you.”
She pulls away and steps back. “But you have.”
“As have you.”
She winces at the words, perhaps from the realization that we’re not all that different. Our paths started out differently—mine paved in gold and hers in base gravel—but somewhere along the line, they converged.
“We can’t change the past, Delilah, only the future.”
“I want you to understand something.” She moves closer, until she’s almost near enough to touch. “I’m choosing to work with you as part of the team, but I reserve the right to back out if when we get to the beach, I learn it’s some harebrained scheme that’s not sanctioned through the proper channels.”
I’m not at all worried about her backing out once she learns more. Infiltrating a foreign power is a once-in-a-lifetime gig for most operatives. She’s not going to love every aspect of the preparation, but she’s going to relish the mission itself. “You’ll find—”
She holds up her hand to stop me. “Let me finish.”
I pause to give her my full attention, and to admire her pluck. She stands tall, head high and proud, like a fucking queen who isn’t going to bow to me under any circumstances. This is not an attitude I normally enjoy or tolerate, but right now, I’m enjoying the hell out of her.
“If, after hearing the details,” she explains, “I still choose to work with you, it won’t be because of those photos you took. I know you won’t really send them to the authorities. It will be because—”
“Because you miss the work,” I say quietly. “Because it was your dream.” I step closer. “Because you never had a real chance to experience it, before it was stolen away.”
She nods. It’s barely a perceptible movement, and I wonder if she’s even aware she’s doing it. It’s the truth, her truth, laid bare, without the usual masks and disguises she uses to protect herself. It’s far more intimate than any sexual act could ever aspire to be.
We’re both taking heavy, shallow breaths—her, grappling with the intimacy, and me, waiting for her retreat.
After several seconds, she blinks away the fog. “I thought we were going to the beach. What are we waiting for?” she asks in a sassy tone.
I’m not surprised she reached for that mask. It’s her favorite.
“Well?” she asks again, this time with her chin tipped up.
Her resilience is something to see. I both respect and loathe it at the same time. It’s the protective shell of a survivor, a retreat buttressed with pride. It appears strong and tough, and it is, but it’s built on a foundation of neglect and abandonment, the sides erected from bits of shoe leather left after she was kicked and stepped on.
It enrages me to think about all the ways she’s been hurt. Her scars gnaw at my soul, and have for some time. I could have made life easier for her—not all of it, of course, but some of it.
But I didn’t.
I gaze into her eyes. They’ve lost the gray clouds from earlier, but the sparkle that touches my soul is gone. I motion for her to lead. “After you, baby girl.”
She glares at me over her shoulder, with fire in her eyes. “You better find something else, boy, because mission or no mission, I’ll whoop your butt good if you even think about calling me that again.”
I smile and follow her out of the room, my eyes locked on her tight little ass. The next two days shouldn’t be too bad. The real challenge begins when we get back.
12
Delilah
“Have you ever been on the back of a bike?” Gray asks, as the elevator doors close.
“A motorcycle?”
“No, a Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat.” He peers at me, his eyes as sharp as his tongue, burrowing deeply, searching for answers that have nothing to do with bikes.
There’s nothing worse than someone trying to get inside your head—especially someone who’s good at it.
The elevator seems too small right now. We’re standing too close. Even as I fill my lungs with the stale air, I’m suffocating. I start to look away, but one edge of his mouth twitches, and I feel the nervous tug of my lips too. Nobody on this earth wears a playful smirk better than Gray. Nobody.
“Yes, a motorcycle,” he adds, when I take too long to respond.
“Many times. I’ve driven one, too. When Kyle and I were first married, it was our only mode of transportation.” I don’t know why I mention my marriage. I rarely bring it up. There’s something about being a widow—a young widow—that makes people uncomfortable. It always results in long, awkward pauses, so I’ve learned to avoid the subject. But today I needed something substantial to wedge between me and the man with the scruffy chiseled jaw and the panty-melting smirk.
Awkward did the trick, because after I mention Kyle, Gray says nothing more, even when the elevator pings and the doors open.
I follow him to the corner of the pristine garage, to where a Ducati and a Harley are parked. Who has a Harley and a Ducati? Not to mention three cars and a truck, that I know of. People with too much money on their hands, that’s who. This is just another reminder that Gray and I come from different worlds.
“Nice bikes,” I say, admiring the sleeker one. I’ve never seen a Ducati up close. “How about if you take the Harley and I’ll take this baby for a ride.” I’m only half-joking. I’d love to get it on the open road and see what it can do.
His mouth curls gently, and for a few seconds I forget I’m here to work, not to play.
“How about if you put on that jacket and try these gloves on for size.” He hands me a couple pairs of vented gloves from a drawer tucked under what looks to be a fiberglass shelf where several helmets are lined up in a neat row. Everything about Gray is clean and orderly—except for the way he fucks. Nothing clean about that.
“The helmets are equipped with Bluetooth,” he explains, “but occasionally it fails. If you talk to me and I don’t respond right away, it’s because I can’t hear you. If that happens and you need me to pull over, tap my left shoulder, twice. If it’s an emergency, grab my right shoulder. Understand?”
I nod as he lowers a helmet onto my head, adjusting the chin strap snugly. He’s careful with my hair, but focused on getting the fit right. Once he’s tugged at the rear of the helmet, and is satisfied with the fit, he puts on his own helmet.
The care he takes to make sure that I have protective gear and a secure helmet is touching—and seductive. I’ll admit it. This kind of behavior is difficult to reconcile with the man who pinned me against the car door and threatened to send me to prison for the rest of my life.