Page 7 of Covert Temptation (SEAL Team Blackout Charlie #4)

But the real win? Two bedrooms.

That discovery lifted a heavy weight off Dante’s shoulders. Sharing close quarters with Kennedy was a complication he didn’t need.

The house sat on a few overgrown acres off a backcountry road in the Hudson Valley, the kind of road where every passing car felt like a novelty. And though it was tucked away, they weren’t very far from a small town where they could get supplies.

Beyond the house, snow blanketed the fields in downy softness, soft and unbroken under the faint moon. The window by the desk overlooked what must be an apple orchard in the summertime. Now the trees looked like skeletons braced against the wind.

He sat at the shabby desk, surrounded by a worn but clean-looking couch with a coffee table that was probably dragged out of someone’s basement. In the corner loomed a blackened woodstove he had no intention of using for fear of blocked vents.

The laptop cast a weak blue light across his hands poised over the keys and made his eyes burn. This had been one hell of a long day, and he still had hours before he could fall into bed, but he couldn’t sleep if he tried.

Upon their arrival, Kennedy went straight into the bedroom and shut the door while he reinforced the front and back doors with extra locks and secured all the windows. As an extra measure, he set up a motion sensor camera on her bedroom door and connected it to his phone and laptop.

He wasn’t taking any chances that she might run again.

So far, all was quiet. No rattling doorknobs or attempts to escape out a window. Just calm silence.

Except he didn’t buy it. She was probably just biding her time.

He tried to ignore what Kennedy was—or wasn’t—doing and dragged his attention to the files on his screen.

At the top of his priority list was a deep dive into the life—and death—of the Red Cross worker in Syria named Miriam Sheen. A bomb had been smuggled in with a supply shipment, planted by a resistance group, but they knew little else.

More pressing was finding information about her son, Daniel. Another Red Cross worker gave him a tip about the bomb, and he tried to warn his mother. He even called the embassy for backup.

In the end, all parties failed to stop the bombing. The Blackout Echo team was on watch during a hostage situation, and the local US military base failed to respond as well.

Miriam died. Then after about a year of grieving, a witness saw Daniel jump off a bridge into the Hudson River.

His body was never found. Not surprising—the river was teeming with undiscovered bodies. But something about it didn’t sit right with Dante.

He opened a new document and began laying out the facts so he could pick apart every single one.

Miriam Sheen—possible involvement with terrorist group or extremists?

Her son—where was he staying during the year before his death? Job, home, relationship status, family?

Death by jumping off bridge—faked?

How: Bungee rigged to bridge? A pickup boat?

Dante knew a lot about faking one’s death. In Blackout, none of them existed on paper. When they signed on with Blackout, they were issued a death certificate, and they became ghosts. Dead men walking.

With these questions scrolling through his mind, he set to work, searching for other survivors in Miriam’s family who would have been motivated enough to take revenge for their loved one.

He ran a hand over his jaw. The woman’s death had been the spark that led to the demise of Echo team.

And her son could be holding the matches.

Behind him, he heard a footstep. Then another.

Dante froze, mouth drying out at the thought of turning to find Kennedy standing there in a skimpy nightie.

Another step…and another.

He twisted to see her walking into the kitchen. She was completely dressed and even wore shoes.

His gaze traveled over her from ankle boots to fitted jeans that hugged her perfectly, to the enormous, soft, white sweater that swallowed her slender frame, hanging off one shoulder and ending mid-thigh.

The thing probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

Somehow on her, it looked both elegant and cozy.

She didn’t turn to catch him staring at her, just continued into the kitchen.

Only she didn’t stop to pour coffee from the fresh pot he made to get him through the final hours of one hell of a long day.

She did something more unusual—she pivoted and walked straight to the entrance of the living room.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She stopped, dark eyes seemingly darker with the light bruises of fatigue under each one. She needed sleep too.

She didn’t respond.

“Coffee’s fresh,” he told her.

“I might have some in a little bit.”

He stared at her for another beat. He didn’t want to note the way her hair lay tousled over her shoulders. Or how the watery kitchen light highlighted her dainty features.

He especially did not want to notice the soft bow of her upper lip.

He twisted back to the laptop.

Kennedy’s boots tap-tapped out of the room. He was wearing shoes for the obvious reason—so he could hit the ground running at the first glimmer of a threat. But he could only guess that she had her shoes on so she could make a break for it first chance she got.

The thought unsettled him and made it difficult to focus on his work. Not to mention how damn distracting Kennedy was, prancing around in those jeans that clung to her sculpted legs in all the right places.

She blazed a new path to the window overlooking the snowy field with the apple trees before turning around and heading back to her bedroom.

He opened a secure connection but didn’t even type a request into the search bar before Kennedy exited her room and walked to his bedroom.

What in the hell was she doing?

He turned his head to watch as she paced toward him and entered the living room once more.

Wait. Was he imagining things or were her lips moving?

She was muttering to herself, probably a silent rant about how much she hated him. Or a pep talk to get through their forced vacation together. Hell, who could blame her for that?

She moved to the couch, then returned to the kitchen.

“Kennedy?” he called out softly.

She paused in her march. “Yes?”

“You’re wearing a track in the floor. What are you doing?”

“I’m counting. It’s twenty-three steps exactly. Living room to front door. One way.”

He arched a brow.

Her gaze skittered away. “Just a habit I have,” she muttered.

In his experience, habits were deliberate behaviors—rituals to control one’s environment.

The air in the room seemed to pulse.

“Good to know I’ve got plenty of time to drag you back if you try to run.”

She shifted her weight to one hip, sending it jutting out in an enticing curve.

That sweater looked really soft. Her hips were just right for a man’s hands to land on.

He jerked his attention away from her body and settled on her face.

Which wasn’t a damn bit better. Just-climbed-out-of-bed hair was as bad as just-had-sex hair.

“You think I’m going to try to run?” She pointed at the wedge of wood he’d stuffed under the front door.

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Hmph.” Her boots tapped the floor as she finally made her way to the coffeemaker.

He caught himself studying her every move—how she chose a mug from the shelf and wrapped her slim fingers around the handle of the pot. He definitely didn’t need to take any notes on the way her hair swung forward, partially concealing her pretty features.

When she straightened with the coffee in hand, he quickly turned back to his work.

The refrigerator door opened next.

She breathed a sigh.

“No milk?” he asked, though he already knew the only supplies in any safe house were shelf-stable. The refrigerators were rarely stocked.

She shut the door. “No.”

“There’s powdered creamer.” He turned in time to see her reaction to that news.

And damn if she wasn’t adorable when she wrinkled her nose.

Fuck. He had to put a stop to these wayward thoughts he was having. Get some work done. Get some sleep.

Get laid, his under-used libido told him.

But not by Kennedy, he firmly told it.

She leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “I’ll drink my coffee black until we can get some milk. We are going to get some supplies, aren’t we?”

“Tomorrow. I’m working tonight.”

“I thought your job was to ignore me while keeping me prisoner.”

He slowly pivoted to look at her again. “It’s hard to ignore ankle boots with three-inch heels tapping on the floor.”

Her full lips twitched at one corner, drawing his attention to the gloss swept over her bottom lip. “I’m impressed you know that.”

He snorted.

She looked past him at the screen. “Can I at least help with something?”

He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a stack of takeout menus.

With an extremely suspicious look, she drifted forward and took them from him. As soon as her gaze lit on the menus, she brightened.

“You’re telling me there are actually restaurants around here?”

“Not down the block, but yeah.”

She waved the menus. “This isn’t work, Dante.”

When she spoke his name in that husky voice, with those plump, glossy lips, his gut dipped. Now that she stood closer, he could see her skin had a natural glow like one of those models on a magazine cover, only they were photoshopped.

She probably has expensive spa treatments to go with her designer heels.

He filled his lungs with enough air to settle his rapid pulse. “You did a lot of pacing. I figure you probably worked up an appetite. I have to feed you before you get hangry.”

He knew how hangry girls could get. His little sister was a monster when she missed a meal.

Inwardly, he winced. Every single day he tried not to think about his siblings. Some days he succeeded—today he didn’t.

He faced his computer again.

Kennedy didn’t respond but tap-tapped her way to the sofa and set her mug on the old coffee table. “What kind of food do you like?”

“Order whatever you want, Kennedy.”