Page 7 of Baby Take Me Home
“That was a temporary setback. I was considering what I could use to smash the lock when I noticed you lounging in the doorway.” At least, I would have considered it eventually.
“And then there were the laser alarms that you didn’t even know existed. An expert on avoiding those, are you?”
Now he just seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Maybe I would have gotten caught, but I could have played it off as being lost.”
He nodded. “A very believable story, given your black raincoat. Nicedisguise—” he used air quotes—“by the way.”
“No need to be sardonic.”
“Good word. That’s your strong suit, Ms. Armand.”
“Ashlee,” I corrected, although I thought the moment for rapport building was probably gone.
He gave one curt nod. “Ashlee, your writing is your strength, your weapon, and your shield.”
That turn of phrase intrigued me. I leaned forward again, ready to capture any hints he dropped about his true identity.
“We should all play to our strengths,” he continued. “In case you need more encouragement to stay in your own lane, here are a few ways my team and I cleaned up after your one-woman crime spree.” He began ticking off points on his fingers. “My team remotely erased the footage of you sneaking through a foreign nation’s embassy hallways in your hoodie. They disarmed the office door alarm seconds before you tried and would have failed.” He fished my compact out of his tuxedo jacket pocket and laid it on the coffee table. “You should let your supplier know that the descrambler model he sold you is two generations old and wouldn’t have done a damn thing to open the cipher lock.”
Talking about my supplier felt uncomfortably close to discussing a source. I lied out of habit. “I ordered it online.”
“You did not. In fact, given the specs, I’m pretty sure I know who sold it to you. I’ll tell him myself.”
I read his implication. He planned to cut off my future access to spy gear. Luckily for me, I had other sources, so I let that one ride.
He resumed counting off my mistakes. “We disabled the laser alarms you tripped. I carried you to safety.”
“That one’s on you.” I sat up straight and stared him down. “You drugged me. I could have gotten myself to safety if I’d been conscious.”
He pointed to my stilettos under the coffee table. “Not in those, you couldn’t. It required running.”
“Well, obviously, not in—”
“Ms. Armand,” he interrupted me, his voice back to being sultry and seductive, “Ashlee, a few words of advice.”
I stopped arguing and waited for him to continue speaking. I wondered if that voice of his was some sort of secret government weapon. It made me want to listen to him. Touch him. Trust him. Then again, maybe my wandering thoughts had something to do with whatever he’d used to drug me. I decided that was likely and I couldn’t be blamed for my low impulse control. I gave in to the invitation of his voice and reached toward the tattoo on his chest. I traced the upper edge of it. His breathing remained even, but his pupils dilated. He covered my hand with his and trapped my palm against his warm skin. His heart pounded wildly.
He stroked his fingers over the back of my hand. “Sadly, any more contact than this isn’t in the cards for us.”
My pulse pounded in my throat as my lizard brain took over and flashed potential images of “more contact” to the rest of my body. I wasn’t alone in my sexual attraction. He was physically reacting to me, too, and he wanted me to know it. I allowed myself a few seconds to enjoy the adrenaline rush that accompanied the sexual magnetism between us. Then focused my mind so I wouldn’t miss the reason for his admission because if he was letting me see how much he wanted me, he definitely had a reason.
“Are you going to give me a word of advice, or will it be a demand?” I had the strangest urge to hear him make demands of me. Sexy, dirty demands.
He released my hand. I took my time removing it from his chest. My head cleared a bit when we were no longer touching.
“Advice, demand, whatever makes you listen,” he finally answered. “First, eat some breakfast. It will settle your stomach and lessen the sedative’s other side effects. Speaking of the sedative, it will make you drowsy for a few more hours, so second, get some rest. After that, call the person helping you—I’m guessing that editor friend of yours—and tell her your off-the-books investigation into your kidnapping is over. Then—and this is just advice from a reader who is also a fan—forget the fluff piece on Luka Kovac, drop the shrinking violet act, and get back to exposing corporate corruption.”
“Advocating as a fan?” I arched my eyebrows. “Nice touch, appealing to my ego. I’ll take it under advisement.”
He tapped his ear and started talking to his friends, who were still invisible to me but whom I no longer doubted were real. “I’m ready,” he said. “Pull into the garage.”
Electronic garage doors are surprisingly easy to hack, so when I heard mine roll open, I didn’t bother asking how they’d taken control of it.
When TJ stood to leave, I touched the back of his hand. He turned toward me and waited.
I glanced away from him. “It occurs to me I haven’t thanked you yet for rescuing me. So thank you.”