Page 126 of Only the Wicked

He downs about half the bottle, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Getting there.”

As I say, “Howard from your team is here,” the man exits the bedroom.

“Mr. MacMillan.”

Rhodes clocks Howard with a degree of surprise, but there’s no alarm. He recognizes him and knows who he is, but the formality in his posture and greeting tell me he doesn’t work often with Howard.

“Roger’s downstairs,” Rhodes says.

“Right,” Howard replies. “It’s all clear here. Have a good day, sir.”

After the suite door clicks closed, Rhodes crushes the now empty water bottle in his hand and scores a perfect shot into the circular gold bin at the end of the credenza.

“Do you run with security?”

With one hand, he lifts the hem of his soaked shirt up and twists it over his shoulders. Fine golden hairs stand on end, most likely a reaction to the air conditioning. He’s lean, and the faint lines of a six-pack dimple his abdomen. Thinking about touching him last night, about how those muscles felt strained and corded above me, gives rise to a visceral reaction.

“Not when I can avoid it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m pretty unrecognizable in D.C. But…these guys I hire here…they’re pretty cautious.”

“You should listen to them. They’re experts, right?” His eyes narrow, questioning. “I assume you hire the best.”

“Did you get to know Howard?”

“No,” I half-laugh. “I’m just assuming?—”

There’s something about the way his dark eyes penetrate me that has me altering my course, shifting from light to serious.

“You have access to an extremely valuable tool—it might threaten dangerous people. There are those out there who might have ideas on how to force your hand. And snatching you off the street might sound…” I know how it sounds, but it’s not at all inconceivable. He doesn’t have a wife or children, and that means his body parts might be the leverage a sick individual might choose. Images from training flash and my throat tightens. He needs to be cautious.

“No one’s coming after me. There’s no need for concern.” His tone conveys it’s a preposterous notion.

If he knew what I do—about how aggressors can treat a human being, about the techniques I’ve studied—he’d be concerned. I’ve seen what happens to high-value targets when they’re cavalier about security. The images flash unbidden: the photographs of business executives taken in Moscow, Seoul, Beijing. The ones who thought they were untouchable. Some never made it home.

I meet his gaze head on. “You need to be careful.”

My concern is genuine, surprising even me with its intensity. Somewhere along the way during this op, Rhodes himself has become something I want to protect. The professional part of me recognizes this as a classic sign of operational compromise. The woman, or well, the human in me doesn’t care.

I step closer, but he stops me with his hand. “Let me shower.”

“Want company?”

His gaze roams my body, possibly looking for sweat. “Did you already work out?”

“No,” I admit. I intended to work out, but after further conversations with the team, ended up back in the suite so I’d be here when Rhodes returned.

“We can fix that.”

This time, when I step closer, he pulls me in, flat against him. When we kiss, once again, it’s demanding. Controlling.

And while my body reacts with tingles and goosebumps, the pungent scent of sweaty male threatens to overwhelm me. I push against his shoulder, breaking the kiss with a laugh. “I think we should head to that shower.”

He smirks and slaps my Lycra-covered ass.

“Let’s go.” He interlaces our fingers, tugging me along. “We’ve got to be quick. I’ve got a tuxedo arriving shortly.”