Page 3 of Player

Clarissa

The man is a modern-day barbarian, and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, what I’m getting myself into. That the information I received was wrong. That I’ve ventured on some wild goose chase? My only experience with geese is the time I offered a half-eaten Pop-Tart to one, only to have it chase me around a lake for the better part of a half hour. Nasty birds, geese.

I’m not the type of woman who’s easily deterred. When I want something, I go for it, even if an entire flock of geese with a Pop-Tart fetish are nipping at my heels.

I hurried outside after him, thankful to be away from a bar that smells like a bullfight, where the matador’s bathed in raw sweat and great grandpa’s Old Spice. Before my mental list of “do nots”—do not pick strangers up in seedy bars, do not flirt with unpredictable, unbelievably daunting men, do not let ambition get in the way of self-preservation—stopped me in my tracks, I slipped into the passenger seat of the savage’s lime green Fiat and placed my fate in his big, bruiser-like hands. We drove a few blocks, and now he’s pulled into the gated garage of an apartment building, parked the vehicle, and, I suspect, is waiting on me to make the next move.

I’ve been called many things in my lifetime. Honey. Baby. Brave. Clever. Ballbuster. Bitch. Fired ... unemployed, but never foolish.

I mentally sigh. There’s a first time for everything.

You’ve never been called astoreen.Issued in such a deep, lilting tone, in a kind of whiskey-rich, A-list-actor worthy voice that could only come from the sexiest, handsomest of men. Right. And what does the word even mean?

I glance at him from beneath my eyelashes. The glow of the garage lights casts a yellow hue over his features, making him seem even more monster-like. His unkept hair, that bushy beard, and the horribly mismatched ensemble of clothing covering his large frame.

“Nice car,” I murmur.

“Like it?” His response is quick. “It’s the only small thing about me.”

Of course he’s well-hung, the man is a beast. I try not to react and instead deflect. “Tiny car, enormous ego.”

“Short ride in my car. Long ride in my bed.”

My lips part, and his blue eyes gleam mischievously.

“Or do I take you home? Your call.”

I feel a frown form. I’m tempted to say yes. Please drive me home and we’ll forget this insanity. I’m the last person to back down from a challenge, though he’s proving to be more of one than I anticipated.

He grins at me like he understands the dilemma I’ve placed myself in. Hideous to look at and intelligent.

A scary combination for sure.

My purse slips sideways on my lap, and I swear I can hear the small tin of breath mints rattle from inside. Whiskey to kill the germs, extra-strength mints to sweeten his breath. A few chaste kisses to loosen him up and get him talking, and then I can get this story locked, loaded and ready for prime time.

“How about you invite me inside for a drink?” I lift the whiskey bottle he dropped in my lap.

“I have to say you fascinate me. Tell me, is this your first dog and pony show?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this the first time you’ve picked up a stranger, taken a ride inside his car, placed yourself in a completely vulnerable situation, and stubbornly refused to take his advice and run like hell?”

I stiffen, uncomfortably. He’s suspicious, with good reason, of my motives. “If you’re asking me if I’ve been in less than predictable situations before, the answer is yes.”

Many times. It’s the nature of the work I do. Two years working as a war correspondent in Syria will wipe the blush off any novice journalist’s cheeks. That forward push to investigate a lead. The commitment to get to the heart of the story. To tell the truth. To get it right.

To get it aired, for the world to see.

Tonight is far from being the first time I’ve put myself on the line. Though it might be my first experience crossing the line.

I grind my teeth together. Time isn’t on my side; it never is.

“I know who you are,” I turn the conversation back onto him.

His eyebrows arch. “Who am I?” he bluntly says.

A barbarian and, more importantly, a CIA agent.