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CHAPTER TWO

F ine.

Maybe the kiss hadn’t been completely necessary.

Callan Templeton could’ve found an equally effective—and much less distracting—way to keep Alyssa quiet. Besides, didn’t a guy need some kind of signed permission slip to kiss a woman these days? He could probably be sued or imprisoned for that move.

No way would Alyssa ever give him permission to kiss her.

His college roommate had once called her the ice queen. She wore a veneer of toughness, but Callan had always suspected that warmth and passion hovered beneath her brittle surface.

He’d been right. He’d tasted both in her kiss.

And that was why he shouldn’t have done it. Because when he was surrounded by enemies, he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about her lips.

Alyssa was glaring at him with that familiar mixture of irritation and confusion. She’d pushed her blond hair behind her ears. Her large, honey-brown eyes were narrowed, her lips pinched, which made her high cheekbones even more pronounced.

It was an expression he knew well. At Boston College, they'd had the same major and often competed with each other—who had the better design, the better grades, the higher class rank? Whenever she lost, she’d wear that same look.

Irritation that he’d bested her. Confusion as to how she could possibly have lost. Determination not to let it happen again.

He’d lived his life to get that look.

He finished the melt-in-your-mouth, tastes-so-good-it-should-be-illegal lobster. If he ordered another, the restaurant would add it to Ghazi’s tab. Callan certainly couldn’t afford it, especially not now that he had Peri to worry about.

He put thoughts of her away. He didn’t want his daughter anywhere near this job, this life he’d built.

And there was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to solve.

Maybe a problem he should’ve considered before he’d hopped to do the bidding of a disembodied voice on the phone. But the voice had told him that Ghazi would be here. And that somebody would be in danger.

The somebody hadn’t been named, but surely whoever had tipped him off had meant Alyssa.

Callan hadn’t worked out who the man behind the voice was yet, but he would. Meanwhile, he was glad he’d followed his instincts and come to the restaurant. Alyssa was involved in something way over her head, and if he knew her—and he did —she wouldn’t ask for anyone’s help.

“Do you mind?” He nodded to the tomato dish, which she somehow hadn’t finished. Who couldn’t manage to eat four tomato slices and some cheese?

“I’ve lost my appetite.” She deadpanned the words, and he couldn’t help the smile he knew must annoy her to pieces.

He forked the last two slices onto his plate, plopped the remaining cheese on top, and ate.

Wow. It wasn’t lobster, but still. If he could afford to eat like this, he’d have to step up his workouts.

Alyssa said nothing else. Just watched him.

She wasn’t exactly playing along.

He swallowed the appetizer. “I can tell you’re stunned by my looks and charisma.”

“Stunned is a word.”

He swiped his napkin over his mouth to hide a chuckle, then pulled a couple of bills from his wallet, an additional tip for the waitress in case Ghazi was as stingy as he was evil. “You ready?”

“No. I was really hoping to linger and watch you eat a little longer.”

He grinned extra wide at her sarcasm. “You delight me, my bride.”

She scowled at him.

He definitely shouldn’t be enjoying this. He took her jacket—a practical black hooded all-weather design—from the back of her chair and held it out.

She slid her arms into it, flashing him a smile that might have looked genuine from afar.

After she grabbed an oversized leather purse—he spied a silver laptop inside—they headed toward the street-facing exit, avoiding the hotel lobby, where he knew at least one person was watching them. He guessed it was one of Ghazi’s thugs, but it could’ve been an agent, though from which three-letter agency, he didn’t know.

Callan pressed his hand to the small of her back.

She stiffened, but hopefully nobody noticed.

He’d already cataloged everyone in sight. There were at least four people watching, one at the bar, one at a table, ostensibly waiting for a companion, and two in the lobby, who were eyeing each other as much as watching him and Alyssa.

He wasn’t sorry to be getting out of that rat’s nest.

It was twilight in Boston, the sun low behind the old brownstones that lined Newbury Street, filled with upscale shops and restaurants that catered to the wealthy or wealthy-wannabes. The temperature had dipped to the fifties, though the day had been clear and unseasonably warm for April.

Sidewalk café tables that had been surrounded by diners earlier were deserted as people headed for home, zipping their jackets against the evening chill.

He took Alyssa’s hand and set a meandering pace.

She blew out an audible breath. He could feel her desire to speed up and squeezed her hand. “We’re in no hurry, darling. Let’s just enjoy the evening air.”

“I say we go to my apartment, sweetheart. ” That last word sounded more like an epithet than a term of endearment, uttered with enough saccharine to cause cancer.

He leaned close and whispered, “Are we headed in the right direction?”

“You don’t already know where I live? I’m shocked.”

“I’m just not that into you.”

She jerked back, but he wasn’t letting her go. He was having way too much fun.

He’d need to repent of the lie later. Though he really didn’t know where she lived. He was an admirer, not a stalker.

“Lead the way, beautiful. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Whatever it is you think we’re doing, I’m not playing along. You need to explain yourself.”

He bumped her shoulder as if they were teasing. “Just trying to help. You’re welcome.”

“I’m definitely not thanking you.”

“You should be.”

A couple of middle-aged women stepped out of a shop and turned toward them on the sidewalk. Alyssa angled toward him to let them pass.

He slid his arm around her, pulling her against his side.

“Charles is a client.” She tugged away, but Callan held on. “An entrepreneur.”

“Fine. Maybe I was jealous.” Lowering his voice, he added, “There’s no telling who’s listening.”

She made a show of watching traffic pass on the busy street. City noises were loud, but what kind of technology was being employed to eavesdrop on them?

“I’ve been working with Charles Sanders for months.”

Callan slowed to look at her. “You’ve met him before?”

“This was the first time we met in person, but yeah, I’ve done jobs for him all year. He’s never asked me to do anything suspicious or illegal. I’ve made those boundaries clear with all my clients, and I reiterated that tonight.”

Funny that she’d felt the need to mention her boundaries to the so-called Charles Sanders — and to Callan. That told him she wasn’t as certain as she was trying to make it sound that the man was aboveboard.

“You’ll need to tell me all about those jobs.”

“That’s between me and my client.”

Not for long, but he didn’t argue. “What did he hire you to do tonight?” He made the question conversational, the kind of thing a fiancé would ask.

“He wants me to find a name for him.”

“Who?”

“I haven’t found it yet, and when I do, I certainly won’t be telling you.”

Callan laughed, though he felt no humor. He shifted close to whisper, “It’s national security, darling.”

She ducked away and shot a glare.

They reached Hereford Street and turned.

“When we get to your place, you can tell me all about him.”

“I don’t know what you think is going to happen…”

Callan kissed the top of her head. “He’s a terrorist.”

“And there’s zero chance you’re wrong? You’re that confident?”

“Correct.”

She bristled. If she were a porcupine, he’d be headed to the ER.

“Fine. I’ll just return his money and?—”

“It’s too late.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We’ll see. My guess is it’s too late for that. We’re just going to have to wing it.”

“I’m not exactly a wing-it kind of woman.”

“You’ll learn.”

They crossed Commonwealth Avenue. Halfway down the block, Alyssa climbed the steps in front of an old brownstone.

He waited until she’d unlocked the exterior door, then followed her into the lobby. Small, octagonal black-and-white tiles stretched across the floor beneath gleaming woodwork and freshly painted cream-colored walls.

It wasn’t fancy, certainly not compared with the five-star restaurant where they’d just eaten, but it was out of his price range.

It was also too quiet. He assumed there was at least one listening device.

He followed her up the winding staircase.

“I have an idea.” His voice was bright and enthusiastic. “Let’s get out of the city for a couple of days. Take a weekend away.”

At the landing between the floors, she turned to glare. “I have a job to do.”

He nodded forward, telling her to keep going. “You can bring your laptop, darling. I can share you, a little.”

“No.” Though the staircase wound upward three more flights, she stopped on the second story and headed to the apartment straight ahead. She pulled out her keys to unlock the door.

A thump came from inside.

He gripped her arm. “Do you have a roommate?”

She shook her head, eyes wide.

He urged her back toward the stairway. “Up,” he hissed. “Go up.”

Without watching to make sure she did, he focused on the apartment. He was about to go in when a man barreled out, straight into Callan.

He stumbled back and crashed into the stair rail. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he ignored it, gripping the railing to keep from tumbling down.

The man wore a face mask and aimed a fist at Callan’s head.

He ducked to the side, then angled sideways and elbowed the guy in the gut.

An amateur would be stopped, at least momentarily, but this guy was no amateur.

He bent, spun, and jabbed flat fingers toward Callan’s throat.

Callan protected himself but, thanks to the awkward railing and close wall, couldn’t plant his feet. He gripped his attacker’s jacket, and they both fell to the floor.

They were wrestling, each fighting for the upper hand, when another man ran out of the apartment.

Callan didn’t get a look at his face but caught sight of a bag swinging from the guy’s hand.

Alyssa! Where was she? Had she gone upstairs like he’d directed?

His attacker was trying to scramble back, but Callan grabbed his ankles and yanked, pulling him off balance.

By the pounding of the heavy footsteps, the second man was headed to the lobby.

Callan’s attacker jerked away and bolted.

Callan popped to his feet. He wanted to chase, but…

Alyssa .

He waited until the heavy door downstairs slammed, then called, “Alyssa?”

She bent over the railing above, eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

She started down, but he stopped her with a palm. “Stay there until I get you. Scream if you need me.”

Again not waiting for her answer, he moved into her apartment, cataloging the space.

Small foyer with four doors, all open. One led to a living area/office, another to a bedroom. The one on the left opened to a tiny galley kitchen. The one behind led to the bathroom.

Pretty, pale blue curtains. Sand-colored walls. White furniture. Stunning landscape photographs on the walls.

Dumped drawers. Gaping file cabinet. Papers scattered. Computer tower lying in the middle of the floor, disassembled.

A whoosh of air had him swiveling, preparing to fight.

Standing in the open doorway, Alyssa’s eyes widened.

“What part of stay there?—?”

“This is my apartment.” She stepped past him and took in the chaos of her office. “What did they…? Why would anybody?—?”

He closed and locked her apartment door. “Pack a bag.”

She swiveled to face him. “What? No. I’m not?—”

“You’re not staying here, darling .” He couldn’t help the aggressive tone. Seriously, was she going to fight him on everything? He shifted close and lowered his voice, making it barely audible. “They could have planted a listening device.”

She looked around as if the intruders might’ve left a cassette recorder in plain sight.

He inhaled a deep breath for patience and blew it out, then reached toward her. When her eyes widened like it was Callan she feared, he let his hand drop. “You’re not safe here.”

She seemed to be taking in the magnitude of what had happened.

“For all we know,” he said, “they’re gathering troops and preparing to return. Please, trust me.”

She blinked and stared for seconds that felt like hours.

Then she swiveled and marched into her bedroom.

He stood on the threshold while she pulled a small suitcase from her closet. The intruders either hadn’t had time to search this room or had been certain whatever they sought would be in the office.

She opened it on her bed, then looked at him. “How long do you think?”

“Grab clothes for a few days. Jeans, sweaters. You should bring some business attire, just in case.”

“I know how to pack.” But there was no vinegar in her tone.

“Sometimes, it’s hard to think these things through.”

She didn’t say anything as she pulled items from her closet and bureau and put them in the bag.

When she paused, seeming confused, he said, “Toiletries, hairbrush.”

She slipped past him into the bathroom and returned with a fancy, feminine Dopp kit or makeup bag or whatever women called those things.

“Undergarments. Pajamas.”

She grabbed the items as he listed them.

“Leisure stuff—sweatpants, sweatshirts. You should change your shoes.”

She chose a pair of sneakers, tossing her heels into the suitcase. By the time she added everything she needed, her suitcase was nearly full.

She paused as if waiting for more instructions. A look crossed her face that he’d never seen on his tough-as-nails rival. Vulnerability.

She blinked, and her expression shuttered.

“You have your laptop, right?” He nodded to where she’d dropped her purse on the nightstand. “In your bag?”

“Yeah.”

“Charger? Planner? Tablet?”

“Oh.” She slipped past him and into the office, where she yanked a cord from an outlet. While she wound it in her hands, she scanned the space, then toed things on the floor aside. “My iPad’s…”

“Probably stolen.”

“And my planner.”

“I’m sorry.” He itched to pull her close to offer comfort, but stayed planted where he was. “Can you think of anything else?”

She shook her head.

“You won’t be back until…until we know what this was about.”

Again, he waited for her to argue. Again, she seemed to consider it. “Where are we going?”

He smiled. “Somewhere safe, darling.” Getting back into character. “Somewhere nobody will find you until we can figure out who would do this.”

“Why, though? They’ve already been here and gotten what they wanted. Can’t I just stay?” She returned to her bedroom and dropped the charger cord into her oversized purse. Then faced him, waiting for him to explain himself.

“What if they didn’t get what they wanted?” He gave her laptop a pointed look. “What if what they really want is on that? Or in your head?”

“But why would?—?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re in danger. What kind of fiancé would I be if I left you here alone?”

She pressed her lips closed, most likely barely keeping her argument inside. “Fine.” She zipped up her suitcase and shouldered her bag.

He grabbed the luggage, then urged her into the hallway, where they stopped so she could lock the door. Not that the flimsy deadbolt would keep anyone out who wanted in.

Now what?

He’d promised to take her somewhere safe. But where? His apartment was secure, but if they went there, then Ghazi’s people, who were no doubt still watching, would discover who he really was.

The fictional Caleb Thompson’s address was the size of a rented mailbox at a UPS store. Literally.

One step at a time.

Right now, he needed to get them away from here. And then away from whoever had tailed them without letting on what he was doing. Because he was playing the part of a salesman, not a CIA agent, and the last thing he wanted was for Ghazi to figure out that anyone was on to him.

And Callan had to do it all with a beautiful blonde he’d claimed was his fiancée—while she questioned his every move.

Were they having fun yet?