Page 3 of My Special Ops Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #4)

Y vette woke from a nightmare about gunfire and dead men in tactical gear.

She bolted upright in the unfamiliar bed, heart slamming against her ribs as the dream fragments scattered. Memory crashed back. Vincent's house, the safe room, two dead men in her bedroom. Early morning light filtered through the reinforced windows.

She pulled on yesterday's clothes and went downstairs, following the scent of coffee and the low murmur of voices.

Vincent stood in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, still wearing the same black shirt from last night.

The vest had been replaced by a shoulder holster, and his jaw showed the shadow of stubble around the bandaged cut.

"The federal investigators want to meet with her at ten," he was saying. "Have your people cleared the scene?"

Pouring herself coffee from the pot he'd left brewing, Yvette watched him work. His voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to managing complex operations, each question economical and direct.

"Understood. We'll be ready." He ended the call and turned to her. "That was Detective Serrano from last night. The crime scene team finished processing your house around four this morning. The two men are in federal custody."

"Did they say who sent them?"

"Not yet. But the weapons were military grade, and both men had extensive combat training." He assessed her up and down. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Some." Yvette had actually dozed fitfully, jerking awake every time the house settled or the security system chimed. "Bad dreams."

"I’m sorry I was spying on you,” she said. “I should have been upfront.”

He shrugged. “But what if I really was a bad guy? Don’t beat yourself up.

You were protecting yourself the only way you knew how.

Gathering intelligence, building a case.

" He leaned against the counter, studying her.

"Most people would have just called the police about noise complaints. You treated it like an investigation."

"I treated you like a suspect."

"You treated an unknown variable like a potential threat. That's smart analysis." His mouth quirked upward. "Even if your conclusions were wrong, your methodology wasn't."

That was surprisingly generous of him. Yvette had expected him to be angry about her surveillance, but instead he seemed almost impressed by her thoroughness.

"I don’t know how much you heard from the call, but the federal investigators want to meet with you at ten," he continued. "After that, we need to talk about keeping you alive until RareCore's leadership is in custody or the threat has been neutralized."

"How long are we talking?"

"Depends on how fast the feds move. Could be days, could be weeks." He straightened, and she caught the change in his posture from casual to business. "Either way, you need basic self-defense training."

"I don't think—"

"Two men broke into your house last night. They weren't there to rob you." His voice carried no room for argument. "Next time, I might not be close enough to help."

The memory of watching him fight with the deadly efficiency made Yvette's stomach tighten. "You want to teach me to fight like that?"

"I want to teach you to survive long enough for help to arrive." He pushed off the counter. "Basic defensive techniques. How to create distance, how to recognize threats, how to use whatever's available as a weapon."

"I'm a forensic accountant, not a soldier."

"You're a target. And targets who can defend themselves live longer." He headed toward what looked like a basement door. "Twenty minutes. Wear something you can move in."

Yvette stared after him, her coffee forgotten.

She wanted to argue. Federal protection could handle this, right?

But deep down, she knew he was right. You didn't survive fifteen years investigating powerful criminals by ignoring good advice.

Someone had tried to kill her once. They'd probably try again.

Twenty minutes later, she descended into the basement wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt, expecting to find a typical suburban storage space. Instead, Yvette walked into what looked like a serious training facility.

Rubber mats covered half the floor. Weight equipment lined one wall, while the other displayed an array of training weapons.

Padded sticks, practice knives, what looked like dummy firearms. He had changed into athletic shorts and a tank top that revealed the full scope of his physical conditioning, and she had to force herself not to stare at the way the fabric clung to his body.

"Nice," she breathed. "I mean your gym. You have an actual gym down here."

"I have a workspace." Vincent was stretching near the mats. His muscles flexed and she tried not to be hypnotized by the motion. "I test gear down here before shipping prototypes to the military."

That explained the body armor hanging from hooks, the tactical vests arranged on shelves, the helmets and equipment she couldn't begin to identify.

"We'll start with basic situational awareness," Vincent said, straightening. "Most people who get hurt never see the threat coming."

For the next hour, he walked her through scenarios that made her skin crawl but also hyperaware of his every movement.

How to scan a parking lot for ambush points.

How to position herself in restaurants and coffee shops to see exits.

How to recognize when someone was following her versus when paranoia was taking over.

" Again." His hands repositioned her stance without asking permission. "And this time, mean it. Half-hearted won't keep you breathing."

The principles felt familiar. The same systematic observation techniques she used when analyzing encrypted financial networks.

"It's like pattern recognition," Yvette said, studying the mock coffee shop layout.

"In digital forensics, I track data flows and identify anomalies in network traffic.

This is the same process, just applied to physical space instead of virtual architecture. "

"Your instincts are good," he said after she'd correctly identified three potential threat positions in a mock coffee shop layout. "You just need to trust them."

"I've had to develop strong pattern recognition skills," she replied.

"When you're breaking military-grade encryption or tracing money through offshore shell networks, you learn to spot irregularities that others miss.

It's all about seeing what doesn't belong.

" Yvette gestured toward the threat positions she'd identified.

"Same principle. Analyzing the environment for elements that disrupt the expected pattern.

But then again, I trusted my instincts about you being a criminal. "

"Your instincts told you I was dangerous and secretive. You were right on both counts." He moved to the center of the mats. "You were wrong about my motivations, not my capabilities."

The distinction mattered. Her brain had processed the available data correctly. She'd simply reached the incorrect conclusion about why.

"One more time," he commanded, didn't ask. When she hesitated: "Yvette." The single word carried enough authority to straighten her spine. "In combat, hesitation kills. Move."

His hands positioned her body with firm efficiency, no wasted motion. "Feel that?" His thumb pressed against her pulse point. "Your heart rate's elevated. Good. Fear keeps you alive if you use it right."

"Now we work on physical defense," he said. "If someone gets close enough to grab you, you need to know how to break free."

He demonstrated basic wrist escapes first, showing her the technique from a safe distance. But then he moved closer, his presence immediately overwhelming her senses.

"Give me your wrist," he instructed, his voice quieter now, more intimate in the confined space.

Extending her right arm, Yvette tried to ignore the way her nipples hardened when his fingers closed around her wrist. His hands were warm and calloused, strong enough that she could feel the restrained power in his grip.

""You're already responding to the threat. Your body knows what to do. You just need to listen to it."

"I'm listening," she managed, though what she was mainly aware of was how close he was standing, how his clean, sexy scent seemed to surround her.

"Now twist against my thumb," he instructed. "Use your whole body, not just your arm."

Yvette tried the movement, but her technique was sloppy because half her attention was focused on studying his grip strength the way she analyzed data encryption, looking for weaknesses in the system.

"In cyber security, we call it finding the exploit," she said.

"Every system has vulnerabilities if you know how to look for them. "

"Again," he said, repositioning her arm. This time his other hand came to rest on her lower back, ostensibly to guide her movement. "Don't think so much. Feel what your body wants to do."

The second attempt was better, but she still didn't break his grip completely. Now half her attention was focused on the way his muscles flexed as he held her.

"You're holding back," he observed, stepping behind her now. "In a real situation, someone grabs you because they mean you harm. You can't be polite about getting away."

His chest pressed against her back as he reached around to position her arms correctly, and her breath caught. Yvette could feel every ridge of muscle through his thin tank top, could feel the strength in the way he moved her body into the proper stance.

"Try again," he murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her neck. "This time, don't hold back."

She executed the move with more force, breaking free of his grip cleanly. But instead of stepping away, Yvette found herself turning to face him, suddenly aware that they were standing much too close.

"Better," he said. "Much better."

"What's next?" she asked, surprised by how breathless she sounded.

"Bear hug defense. This one requires closer contact."