Page 35 of I Dream of Danger (Ghost Ops #2)

If they weren’t outlaws, and if Haven were a public place, the atrium would win a slew of city design prizes.

A huge, airy, plant-filled plaza, with terra cotta pavestone paths winding through unexpected small squares, with a flower bed here and an organic tomato patch there, the benches flowing metal and wood sculptures by the famous sculptress Kloe, on the run from her very rich and very abusive husband.

Overhead was an invisible arch of roof made of graphene, one molecule thick, studded with tiny solar panels that provided light in the evening and helped keep the atrium at a steady 72° all year round.

The atrium was ringed with balconies, behind which were offices and homes.

Some housed families, and some, like Nick’s pad and Jon’s pad, were glorified bachelor officer quarters, though more spacious and definitely better looking.

Whenever a space needed decorating, everyone turned to Nancy Parsons, whose decorating firm was destroyed by her husband and partner who ran off with every cent and the secretary, leaving Nancy holding a sackful of debt her husband owed the mob, no way to pay for it, and the mob on her heels.

On the third floor was their war room, and Nick and Jon made their way through the paths of bright vegetation. It was four a.m., too late for the owls and too early for the larks. Mac and Catherine would be up, though, waiting to debrief.

Even if there had been people, not many would think twice about Nick and Jon marching a hooded figure across the great plaza. At one time or another, many honored members of Haven had been marched hooded up to the war room.

Another elevator let them out on the third floor. Nick kept his arm around Elle to guide her and also…because.

Because he was still finding it hard to believe that she was here, with him.

Pissed at him, sure. She had every right to be.

But against all the odds she was safe and alive and that’s how she was going to stay.

He’d found her, he’d fought for her, he’d waited for her for ten long years. She was his.

Jon went ahead, his biomorphic profile opening the door. Elle’s wasn’t programmed in. Yet.

Elle sensed that there was a threshold and she stopped dead.

The war room was straight ahead of her, the corridor behind.

Her new life, her old life. Straight ahead of her Mac and Catherine were waiting, as Nick knew they would be.

They’d stayed awake all night, even Catherine, who was three months pregnant.

She wouldn’t leave Mac, who wouldn’t go to bed until his men were home.

Mac wouldn’t even have tried to convince Catherine to lie down because she wouldn’t, and he knew that.

To one side was a serving cart with a number of dishes with silver covers.

Stella. Bless her. She’d once been a world-famous actress, until a stalker slashed her face to pieces.

No one at Haven even noticed her scars anymore because everyone loved her.

She was smart and kind and ran the extraordinary communal kitchen with a lot of help.

No one ever wanted to get on her bad side, because access to Stella’s cooking was basically access to heaven itself.

On the run and hunted, the people of Haven ate better than most millionaires.

From here on in, Elle was his, and he was going to take care of her and that included feeding her. Before bedding her.

At the thought, his dick swelled.

Shit.

After long years of training, his dick had learned to obey him.

It didn’t get out of control any more. In fact, it had been so obedient the past couple of years it was practically dormant.

Ghost Ops had taken every ounce of attention and energy he had, when they were on the run and in hiding, so bedding a woman became this huge energy suck.

Not only because he had to plan the exit before the entry, as always, but now also because he had to work really hard not to leave a clue as to who he was.

That involved having fake docs on him at all time, it involved remembering his fake name and fake legend, exactly as if he were working undercover.

If anyone figured out a way to fuck without leaving DNA anywhere, he’d have been right on it.

It was exhausting and a lot of work for a one-night fuck, because two nights was pushing it. Jon didn’t seem to have any problems. From what Nick saw, Jon got laid a lot on a regular basis, and had no problem whatsoever with telling the women lies.

For Nick, it got very old very fast.

So, now his dick was waking up and smelling the roses. Or at least smelling Elle. Because over the smell of her fear and exhaustion was the smell of her . Something fresh and springlike and absolutely unmistakably her.

No other woman in the world smelled like her. Looked like her. Was her. Which explained the half-woodie in the presence of Jon and Mac and Mac’s pregnant wife, though he knew better.

Nick put his hand on the small of Elle’s back and she stiffened again, which was enough to take the starch out of his dick. She was disoriented enough without coping with his horniness.

Nick laced his hand with hers, ignoring the fact that she didn’t close her hand around his but kept it loose. He tugged and she walked forward, turning her head slightly at the drop in air pressure as the door shut.

Mac, Catherine, and Jon were standing in front of her, Catherine with a welcoming smile. Mac didn’t do welcoming smiles, but at least he wasn’t scowling, which was something.

Nick whipped the hood off Elle’s head, her pale hair lifting slightly with a crackle, then falling back down in light shiny curls.

“Honey,” he began, but Catherine gasped.

“Dr. Connolly! You’re the one Nick went out to rescue?”

“You know me?” Elle asked.

Three deep male voices echoed. “You know her?”