Page 5 of The Devoted Game
She fought the trepidation tugging at her composure. No more beating around the bush. “We’re wasting time. You’re either going or you aren’t. If you want to help that little girl, then I would suggest that you get dressed so we can get this done. Otherwise,” she added, her temper temporarily overriding her good sense, “get out of my way.I don’t have time for the toxic masculinity methods you evidently consider charming.”
He didn’t move. The fear that she had pushed too hard—that she couldn’t handle this man—welled ... clawed at her, but she kicked it back, refused to submit to it. She wasn’t about to let him see that he could get to her so effortlessly. If she gave him that inch, he would take a mile she didn’t have to spare. She might lack his experience, but she was the one with the badge. And the gun.
His haughty gaze dropped to her mouth. “I have to tell you, Grace, you have some great lips.”
Enough. She flattened her right hand against his chest, pulled her lapel aside with her left, leaving her weapon in plain sight. “Back off.”
One corner of his mouth tilted shamelessly, but he straightened away from her, his hands lifted in mock surrender. “No need to get testy.” He dropped his arms back to his sides, and all signs of any amusement or smugness vanished. “What kind of transportation do we have?”
The sudden turnabout had her grappling. She reached for calm, couldn’t find it handy, so she settled for quietly furious. “Private plane. It’s waiting at the airport in Marathon.”
Surprise lifted his eyebrows. “Well, that’s traveling in style.”
“Mr. Byrne insisted, considering the time crunch. The Learjet belongs to him, not to the Bureau.”
McBride considered her a moment, stretching her patience to the limit, then said, “I’ll need to shower first.”
He was going.
The overwhelming sense of relief was almost more than she could hold inside. She shored up her professional deportment by hanging on to a little of that fury he’d ignited. “Make it fast. Our time is limited.”
He acknowledged her order with a nod and walked away.
She wanted to kick herself for watching. For admiring the way his jeans gloved his lean hips. That he got to her on that level was not only infuriating but startling. No one ever got to her that way.
As if he had felt her gaze on him, he hesitated, turned back once more. “Just so you know, Grace, I’m doing this for the kid. Not for you. And definitely not for the Bureau.”
He swaggered off, leaving Vivian struggling with emotions she couldn’t begin to label—she was grateful for that small mercy. It was better not to know.
Keeping former Special Agent Ryan McBride under control wasn’t going to be an easy task. The man he had become was far more than a loose cannon.
He was dangerous.
Three
18hours remaining. . .
1000 Eighteenth Street
Birmingham, Alabama, 5:00 p.m.
Three floors. Bulletproof, sound-insulated tinted windows. Without a doubt, state-of-the-art security. Metal detectors, X-ray machines, maybe even facial and retinal scans. Gaining entrance to the building was more complicated than getting past the most stringent security measures at any of the nation’s international airports. Accessing the damned parking lot wasn’t even permitted without authorization.
Welcome to today’s FBI.
Ryan moved his head slowly from side to side. What the hell was he doing here?
Temporary insanity.
No more tequila for him. Better to stick with the devil he knew.
As Agent Grace’s silver SUV came to a necessary stop at the gate, he scanned the block. An iron fence contained the entire area, including the guard station. Though downtown, the location was somewhat isolated, giving the impression of a small upscale prison. He imagined some of the agents inside felt that way from time to time whether or not they said so.
So this was where Vivian Grace worked. During his decade with Quantico, he’d never had the occasion to consult with any of the Alabama offices. He turned his attention to her as she flashed her credentials for the guard, who promptly opened the gate and allowed her to enter the sacred compound. Even in profile those lips were something special. Seemed wasted on such an uptight chick.
A strand of glossy brown hair had slipped loose and draped against her cheek. His fingers twitched at the idea of touching that smooth skin. Grace had the kind of pale complexion that would age well, with those high cheekbones a woman either had to be born with or envied her whole life. Too bad she was one ofthem.
She jammed on the brake hard enough to engage the lock on his safety belt. “Do you have a question, McBride?” The glare she aimed at him provided a major clue to just how pissed off she was.