Page 7

The safe house was a nondescript structure in a quiet corner of a rundown neighborhood outside the city.

It looked like any other weathered building in this part of town—a faded fa?ade with crumbling bricks and shutters half open. Tommy eyed it through the windshield, shooting Tessa a you-can’t-be-serious look.

“I know, I know,”

she said. “It’s ugly and looks like a fire trap, but trust me, it’s safe.”

He shut off the car engine. “You have two places.”

A statement, but the question behind it was obvious. She was so, so tired, but she hid it behind irritation. “This one is for emergencies only.”

She’d made Tommy drive around for an hour, waiting for night to fall, before directing him here. She exited the car and stomped up the sidewalk, closely monitoring the yard and neighboring lots.

It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other, but she dug deep for the well of willpower buried under the layers of her resolute decision. Whether she wanted to be or not, she was in this now one hundred percent. There was no longer a way to go back, to return to her peaceful life. Whoever had shot her knew she was helping Tommy. That meant there was no path but the one forward.

She had to see this to the end.

He was nearly soundless as he trailed behind her. She wondered who’d trained him at The Farm. Why he’d chosen to become a counterterrorism analyst rather than an operative performing field missions like the swans? Or a hacker like Del. Maybe he hated undercover work like her.

Yet, he seemed efficient at it. Had Flynn recruited him to be a spy among spies? Had Tommy confessed it to Jessie--that he’d been running operations without any of them knowing?

Undercover work wasn’t something that clicked with everyone. Deep undercover work was a beast of its own.

Nor did just anyone, no matter how intelligent or skilled, have the talent for spying. It was a rare breed who embodied the imagination, abilities, and strategic thinking that made them good at such work.

Tessa flicked on the lights as they entered the house through the back door. She stopped in the tiny mudroom to reset the security system, wincing as she shrugged off her jacket. She dropped that and the backpack on a hook before going to the kitchen and filling the coffee pot with water.

“Why the hell didn’t we come here first?”

Tommy asked, kicking off his shoes before sidling up beside her and taking over with the coffee preparations.

She sagged into a chair. “Because I didn’t know if we were being followed. This is my safe house. It hasn’t been compromised—yet. I want to keep it that way.”

Tommy threw grounds into the coffee maker and flipped the machine on. “If it wasn’t Vasile and Sorina who gave us up, someone followed me to your apartment.”

He turned to face her. “But I’ve been staying there for the past week, and nobody disturbed us. Why wait to shoot at us until we were at the café? They had plenty of opportunities before then.”

Another piece of this puzzle that made no sense to her. “If they’d wanted us dead, they would’ve come for us in my apartment. To shoot at us in public and not continue to follow us and get the job done means they were making a statement. They took a risk to do it like that, and now we know they’re after us. That forces us to be even more covert. A professional assassin would never do that. First of all, they wouldn’t miss. Secondly, they would only do it publicly if there was no alternative.”

She rubbed her face with both hands and propped her elbows on the tiny table. She needed caffeine or a very long nap. “It’s just…sloppy.”

He paced the floor, the smell of the brewing coffee filling the air as he stripped off the silicone pieces she’d added to his face. “The Russians are never sloppy.”

“Neither is the CIA.”

She knew he still suspected Meg or Flynn might be behind it. “Which means it points to a new player in this game. Any thoughts on who?”

He shook his head, tossed the brow and cheekbone ridges on the table, and rummaged for mugs in the cabinet. “You said it was a woman.”

She rubbed her eyes. At this point, she wasn’t sure about anything. “It could have been a slender male.”

He handed her a mug of steaming liquid and sat at the end of the table, kicking back. “What’s next?”

She sipped slowly, the coffee too hot but soothing, nevertheless. “Shower, eat, and plan for tomorrow.”

She gestured behind them. “Bathroom is down the hall. Meg and Declan broke the bed when they were here, but I salvaged it. Go get cleaned up.”

He watched her with those dark, sullen eyes over the rim of his cup. “What about you?”

“I want to look at your new documents.”

She started to get up, but he stopped her with a hand. Without a word, he retrieved the envelope from his jacket and slid it onto the table in front of her. He resumed his seat, watching as she unpacked the items, scrutinizing each one thoroughly before handing it to him.

After his own careful inspection, he set the driver’s license and passport down and leaned back. “He does good work.”

She felt a slight sense of satisfaction. “That’s why I use him.”

The question in his eyes suggested he wanted to know how often she’d gone to Vasile and for whom, but he didn’t ask. “What’s the plan for tomorrow? If someone is after us, shouldn’t we get out tonight?”

“Panicking only leads to making poor decisions. I need to check train schedules and flights. Once I figure out plan A, I’ll develop plans B and C.”

Deliberate, tactical. Declan would be proud. She waited for Tommy to argue, but all he did was give a sharp nod. “Fine, but you’re showering first.”

Her protests fell on deaf ears as he coerced her out of the chair and onto her feet. Dizziness assailed her, and she had to grab his arm to keep from knocking into the table.

“Easy there, champ.”

He placed a hand on her lower back, giving her a moment to blink away the vertigo before he led her through the living room. Although the room didn’t swim, her legs were shaky. His grip was firm, his presence comforting. “It’s my fault, you know. “

“Huh?”

“You never would’ve been shot if it weren’t for me.”

Down the hallway they went, his hand never leaving her as he used his elbow to flick on more lights. “I chose to help you. You didn’t force me to.”

Why did she feel the need to argue with him? To relieve his guilt? “I don’t do complexes, so let it go.”

They reached the bathroom adjacent to the single bedroom. He took in everything, from the shabby bedspread to the small armoire and chest of drawers.

She shrugged. “It’s a safe house, not a five-star hotel.”

He released her in the bathroom. “I’ll grab you some clean clothes.”

“I can do it,”

she insisted.

Again, when she expected him to argue, he didn’t. He was such a conundrum. “I’ll dig up some food. If you get in a jam, holler.”

He left her standing there, and she was both relieved and disappointed.

The hot water stung against her wound, but she gritted her teeth and scrubbed away the dried blood. By the time she emerged, steam curling around her like a phantom, she felt marginally more human.

And found a pile of clean clothes waiting for her on the vanity. He’d even refilled her coffee mug.

No arguing, but defying her anyway.

She wiped condensation from the mirror and grimaced at her reflection. She looked like hell.

Felt like it, too.

She found him in the kitchen, a spread of food on the table. He’d found her hidden laptop—he was definitely more operative than analyst—and was scanning the screen. “Why are we taking a train?”

“To get to the nearest airport. There, we’ll fly to London and grab a flight to the US. We travel as strangers.”

When he glanced up, his assessment of her reminded her of the same scrutiny he’d applied to the passport and driver’s license. It started with her wet hair that she piled on top of her head, then her tank top, his gaze like a brand raking over her collarbone, her shoulders, down her arms.

His focus snagged momentarily on her stitches before drifting to the snug-fitting yoga pants and down to her bare feet.

Everywhere his eyes went, a fire lit inside of her. Not like the ache in her arm from the bullet, but from something very female. The part of her that was exceptionally lonely.

He took a moment to refocus on her face and seemed to need time to remember the gist of their conversation before he replied. “Why not go straight to the States?”

“Two reasons.”

She sunk into a chair and helped herself to crackers and dried fruit. “First, I want to make sure your passport works without raising any red flags. Secondly, we’ll draw less attention flying into the United States from the UK than from here.”

He rested his elbows on the table, continuing to study her. “What if the passport pings something?”

“That’s what plans B and C are for.”

“Which you’re going to let me in on, right?”

She stuffed her face and chewed, avoiding his eyes. She didn’t want to talk about plans at the moment. She wanted to force him to the bedroom to undress him. “Sure,”

she said around a mouthful.

“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

Like before, his voice held a trace of challenge, and she glanced up to see him smiling at her. That smile…damn. The spot between her legs tingled, and it was everything she could do not to push him away from the table and climb into his lap. “Not everything,”

she told him. I don’t have you and me figured out yet. “But I’m working on it.”

He asked for details. She didn’t give any. “You’re up for a shower.”

* * *

Her body betrayed her long before she admitted she needed rest. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving her limbs heavy and her mind foggy, even after the caffeine and the food.

Or maybe she was simply running away from her feelings. She tended to feel far too uncomfortable and exceptionally awkward around him.

However, she stayed at the kitchen table even after Tommy went to shower. It was better that she didn’t get too close to that door—in her state, she might do something stupid and walk right in.

What if she did? What if she stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower with him, only to find he didn’t want her?

The horror of that scenario kept her seated and checking flights.

Eventually, her eyes drooped, and she laid her head on the table. Just for a minute—when she heard the shower shut off, she would perk back up and pretend to be as lively as…

She fell asleep. The next thing she knew, Tommy lifted her from the chair and carried her to bed. He smelled and felt so good. She liked his arms around her and enjoyed the gentleness with which he laid her on the bed and covered her with the blanket.

She made noises of protest, but he patted her shoulder. “Get some sleep. You’re safe. “

She drifted off in dreams of strong arms and dark eyes.

Morning light filtered through the curtains when she stirred next. Her arm throbbed dully, but it was the familiar warmth beside her that made her ease deeper into the sheets.

Tommy’s arm draped loosely over her waist, his breathing slow and steady.

For a moment, she didn’t move, her mind scrambling to piece together how she’d gone from the kitchen to the bed—and why he was here with her. Then the memories flooded back, all except the part where he’d slipped in beside her.

They’d shared the same bed for nearly a week, but this felt different.

Her breath caught as he shifted, his eyes fluttering open. “Morning,”

he said, his voice thick and rough from sleep.

By the hardness pressing against her thigh, his voice wasn’t the only thing that was thick. What would he do if she wrapped a hand around his erection and squeezed it?

He stared at her, one corner of his mouth quirking. “You all right?”

“What?”

“You seem surprised to see me.”

“I, uh…”

Get it together, Tess! “I’m fine.”

She nodded vigorously. Was she trying to convince him or herself?

A finger traced her jawline. “Good. You were shaking during the night. I was worried you were going into shock again.”

Worried. Like a friend would be. Of course. She pushed his arm away and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. The room didn’t tilt. That was good. “Probably just a bad dream.”

She started to rise, but he slid two fingers into her waistband and stopped her. She glanced over her shoulder.

He sat up, drawing her close. A hand slid from her wrist to her elbow. “Let me see.”

The way his eyes locked on hers made her feel vulnerable. As if he were asking to see more than her injured arm. As he shifted to sit next to her, his touch was warm and gentle, his face only an inch from hers as he began to peel the bandage off her stitches.

He smelled like sleep and soap. His bare chest and his own recovering injury were on full display, tempting her to run her fingers over each peak and crevice.

As the latex gave way, revealing her red and sore skin, it felt as though he was uncovering more than just her wound. It was as if he were peeling away a layer of her shield.

“I’m fine,”

she repeated, the words coming out too soft and breathy to be believable. “It’s fine.”

His gaze rose to hers, holding it. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

The buttress she’d built around her emotions began to tremble. She tried to pull away, but he held her by the wrist. Not forcefully, but securely, as if suspecting something inside her was about to break.

She wanted to lean into that, to him. To let him hold her up, steady her. For the first time in her life, she wanted someone to tell her it would all be okay.

Even if it was a lie.

The old panic that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since she was nine began to bubble right under her breastbone. Her throat tightened, and her lungs wouldn’t fill. She searched for something to say. Anything. She had to get away from him. Away from his touch, those eyes that peered into her soul.

“Please,”

was all that came out. Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. Her internal buttress shook as if experiencing an earthquake. “I…I can’t.”

Can’t what? She wasn’t even sure what that meant.

His lips quirked. “I know.”

He replaced the bandage and let his fingers trace its outline. “Not yet,”

he continued. “But you will.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “And I’ll be here when you do.”