Page 10 of France Face-Off (Brotherhood Protectors International #6)

Striker was surprised when Alex agreed to stay the night in his room.

He’d really thought she would leave and look for someplace else to sleep.

Given the late hour and the fact that she’d have to let the desk know why she was moving from her room, he guessed she’d decided it made sense for her to stay with him.

He’d promised her he wouldn’t touch her, and he’d stand by that promise even though his groin tightened at the thought of sleeping in the same room with the beauty. He guessed it would be a long night with little sleep for either one of them.

Despite having told her she’d have to sleep in the chair, he found himself saying, “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He wanted to kick himself for offering, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll sleep in the chair. The floor is too hard for anyone to sleep on.”

He chuckled. “I’ve slept on much worse.”

She frowned in his direction. “I wouldn’t think that escorts would have to sleep on floors very often.”

Realizing his mistake, he backpedaled. “It happens,” he said.

His reference to sleeping on hard surfaces went back to his time spent sleeping on the ground or in the rubble of bombed buildings as a Navy SEAL on a mission.

He wasn’t there as a Navy SEAL, and she didn’t need to know that he used to be one. “Please,” he said, “take the bed.”

He dragged the comforter and one of the pillows off the mattress, made a pallet on the floor and stretched out to prove he was sincere.

She stared down at him on the floor, a frown denting her perfect brow. “This is your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to sleep on the floor.”

“Nevertheless, I am. So, somebody ought to sleep in that bed.” He laced his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes.

“How do you know I won’t try to kill you in your sleep?” she asked.

“I pride myself in being a good judge of character,” he said. “You don’t strike me as someone who would kill a man in his sleep.”

She snorted. “You are too trusting.”

He opened his eyes and stared into hers. “And you don’t trust enough.”

Alex crossed her arms over her chest. “How do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?”

“If I’d intended to kill you, I’d have done so by now. As I’m sure, if you’d intended to kill me, you’d have done so by now.”

Alex kicked off the slippers she’d worn during her escape from her room and crawled onto the king-size bed. As soon as she was settled, she was back out again.

“Did you forget something?’ he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I like to keep a light burning. Do you mind if I leave the one on in the bathroom?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I can sleep through anything and, at the same time, I’m a light sleeper.”

The bathroom light was still on. All she did was open the door a little, leaving just a crack to let light into the room. She returned to the bed and switched off the light on the nightstand. Then she lay down in the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

Silence stretched between them. A million questions ran through Striker’s mind.

He still didn’t know much about this woman, other than her parents had been killed in a house fire.

She might be telling the truth about being a translator, but she seemed to be more than that, and she wasn’t telling him what that other part of her was.

Then again, he wasn’t telling her who he really was and why he was there.

Still, the mission didn’t define him, and he suspected it didn’t define her either.

“You speak fluent Russian. Where did you learn it?” he asked into the shadowy darkness.

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Just when he’d thought she’d gone to sleep, she said quietly, “My parents. They were born and raised in Russia and immigrated to the United States shortly after they were married and barely out of their teens. We lived in the United States for the first few years of my life, where I learned to speak both English and Russian. Then we moved to Germany. For the next few years, I went to German schools. Immersed in the language, I learned it quickly. Then my parents moved back to Russia, where I went to Russian schools until I turned eighteen.”

“So, you speak fluent Russian, German and English?”

“Yes, and I learned a little Italian and French while I was in the Russian school. I’m not as fluent in either, but I can get by.”

“I’m impressed,” he said. “And it makes sense to be an interpreter with your skill set.”

“It does make it easy to find work,” she said. “What about you? Have you always been a male escort?”

He snorted. “No, but it seems to be the only kind of work I can get now.”

“What did you do before?” she asked.

“I worked in security,” he said. Which was as close to the truth as he could say without blowing his cover. And he had worked in security. The security of his nation.

“Security? Hmm,” she said. “You look to me like somebody who might have been in the military.”

Her words struck too close to home. “How so?”

Her head tilted to one side as she studied him. “It’s in the way you carry yourself with a certain amount of pride. And you appear fit.”

“You don’t get too many male escort jobs if you don’t remain fit,” he pointed out.

“True,” she said, “but it’s really your bearing that sets you apart from others and makes me think that you’ve had military service in your background. Am I right?”

With her point-blank question, he stumbled. “My father was in the military. He taught us how to stand tall and be proud of our armed forces and of our country. What did your father teach you?” he asked to deflect her attention from him.

She laughed softly. “He taught me to observe people and situations and to always be aware of my surroundings.”

“That’s a good thing for a woman to learn,” Striker said.

“Actually, it’s a good thing for anyone to learn. He also taught me how to learn from others and blend in wherever we lived. It makes it easier for me to assimilate into new surroundings.”

“Where are your parents now?” he asked.

She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then her voice sounded softly in the darkness. “They are deceased.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. “How long has it been since they passed?”

“Two years.”

He shook his head, frowning. “That’s not long ago. You must still be hurting.”

“I miss them,” she whispered. Then she squared her shoulders. “But life goes on. And you? Do you still have your parents?”

Striker nodded. “They’re alive and living in Texas. Although it’s been over a year since I’ve seen them.”

“What’s keeping you from visiting?” she asked.

He wanted to say pride. Instead, he said, “I’ve been busy trying to make a living.”

“Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “None of us knows how long we have on this earth. You have to appreciate those you love while you can. I know I did. And every day that goes by, I wish I still had my parents.”

“I do miss fishing with my father,” Striker said.

“I miss the peace and quiet, and then the excitement of catching a fish. We always ate what we caught or released them back into the water. He’s a quiet man, but in his silence, he teaches by example, showing me how to do things more than telling me, from baiting a hook to how to treat a woman.

He loves my mother and would do anything to make her happy. ”

“My father loved my mother, too, and my mother adored him,” Alex spoke softly in the darkness.

“How did they die, if you don’t mind my asking?” Striker said.

“They were murdered in our home.”

Striker’s chest tightened at the thought of Alex losing both of her parents so tragically. “Were you there?” he asked.

“I escaped.” Her lips tightened. “They did not.”

“Was this in Russia?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m surprised whoever killed them let you live.”

“They didn’t know I was there. I got out before they found me.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I know what it feels like to watch somebody you care about take their last breath. I can’t imagine that someone being one of my parents. I’m sorry.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “What do you have to be sorry about? You didn’t kill them.”

“No, but I feel your pain, and I’ve experienced it.”

“You say your parents are alive. Who have you lost?”

“My brother,” he said. It had been one of his Navy SEAL teammates.

He’d held him in his arms as he’d taken his last breath after he’d sustained a gunshot wound to his chest. Though Striker had gotten him out of the firefight and into the helicopter, the medic hadn’t been able to keep him alive all the way back to the forward operating base.

He’d died in transit, the wounds too grievous for the medic to stop the bleeding.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “You must have cared deeply for him.”

“I did.” His teammate had been his brother in the most important sense of the word. If Striker could have, he would’ve taken the bullet for him so that he might live. “What did you do after your parents’ death? Did you stay in Russia?”

“No,” she said, “I made my way back to the United States. It was a little over a year before I returned to Russia.”

“I’m surprised you came back to Europe at all,” he said. “Why did you return?”

“I was able to get work as a translator.”

“Couldn’t you have done that in Washington, D.C.?”

“Not as easily as I could in Moscow. And I guess I also needed to prove to myself that I could go back without fear.”

“You say you’re here as an interpreter for the German delegate?” Striker asked.

“Yes. Hans Sutter.”

“But you weren’t with the German minister at the reception last night.”

She nodded. “My primary duties are during the summit. I’ll be there tomorrow throughout the day.”

“Sounds to me like a long, boring day of blah-blah-blah.”