Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

He turned onto Ninth Street, heading for the bank. “Yup.”

She toed off a shoe, propped her bare foot on the dash, and started smoothing lotion onto her leg. Her very bare leg, left that way when her skirt slid up her thigh. “You asked him to run a background check on me.”

He dragged his gaze back to the street, tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “On all three of you.”

“I thought we’d started to trust each other.”

He laughed—it was either that or swallow his tongue as she shifted legs and started the lotion motion all over again. “You wouldn’t do the same if you were in my shoes?”

She let out a big sigh. “They won’t find anything.”

He laughed again, this time in relief, when she smoothed her skirt back down her thighs and slipped into her shoes. “Oh, yes. They will. Anything you want to spill before they dig up the dirt?”

She shook her head—more a gesture of disgust than a response.

“There’s parking over there.” She pointed toward the lot when they reached the bank.

“Wait here.” He held his hand out for the lockbox key. “Let’s play it safe, on the off chance someone followed you here when you rented the box and still has eyes on the place.”

“That’s not going to work. The bank will want photo ID.”

Right. “Then we go in together. They won’t be looking for a couple.”

His words stopped him short as it occurred to him for the first time that she may have hooked up with someone in the eight years since Ramon’s death. She was an outrageously attractive woman. Intelligent. Driven. Wore the hell out of a red bustier. And right now, she smelled like hot sex on a summer night.

“Or would they?” He looked across the seat at her. “Is there a Mr. Right Now in your life?” If there was, Mike disliked him already. Call him a chauvinist, but in his book a man who would let his woman traipse off by herself to hunt down a no-good like him wasn’t a man at all. Unless she hadn’t told him where she was going or what she was doing, which was totally her MO.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. No one would be looking for a couple.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if Ramon had spoiled her for any other man, but that would have been just plain tacky and maybe even a little mean.

He’d stopped feeling mean toward Eva Salinas somewhere over a half-eaten sandwich at the Bogota airport, when she’d told him Ramon was her dead husband.

Mike had checked the time on his phone when they’d walked through the bank’s front doors and he checked it again as they walked back out. In and out in eighteen minutes. No hitches. Not even a close look. In fact, he was fairly certain that if anyone had bothered to look at them, they’d have been as fixated as he tried not to be on the blatant sexuality Eva exuded with every move she made.

Well, hello . He grinned when he finally realized what she was doing. Eva Salinas knew exactly what effect she had on people. Knew it and used it. If questioned, no one in that bank would remember a woman doing business and accessing a safety deposit box. They’d remember a pair of amazing breasts, a blatantly suggestive walk, and off-the-charts sexuality. A trophy every man would go home and secretly fantasize about and every woman would want to forget because she felt inferior.

Once again, he appreciated her intelligence as they walked out into the sunlight and got into the SUV, the flash drive with the data on OSD tucked safely away in her bag.

And he let up on himself a little bit in the hitting-himself-over-the-head department. Sober, he might have had a fighting chance. But stone cold drunk in that cantina? Hell. She’d had him at spandex.

Green called again as Mike settled behind the wheel.

“Are you serious?” he asked after Joe told him where they’d be staying tonight and given him the address. This was the last thing he’d expected.

“As a heart attack.” The line went dead.

Mike grinned, picturing the former CIA, former Task Force Mercy, current Black Ops, Inc. operative. Green stood roughly six foot five, was tough as nails, and the word joke was not in his vocabulary. The man had seen and done things—for his country, for his team, for his woman—that would spawn nightmares for the rest of his life. But Mike had seen Green with his wife and knew that, like the wives of the other BOI team members, Stephanie would help keep those nightmares at bay. Never thought he’d see the day when those guys would all end up married. Very happily married.

Just like he never thought he would quietly envy them for the lapse in judgment that had prompted them to give up their freedom for the ball and chain of monogamy.

He squashed back an unexpected rush of melancholy. Fought the way he felt like a kid with his nose pressed against a candy-store window when he saw them all together, witnessed the love, the devotion.

Cripes. What was up with that? Domestic bliss was not the path for him.

Then why so blue, buddy boy? Damned if he knew.

File it under fatigue. File it under the anticipation of reading the contents of the OSD file. And yeah, okay, fine. Maybe point a finger at the woman sitting beside him in the SUV.

For whatever reason, she tripped triggers and rang bells he’d never heard before. Sure, he loved women. Lots of them. Just never singularly and never for more than a night or two. And never with any promises. Easy in, easy out, no hard feelings, it’s been good to know you. It worked for him. At least it always had.

“So… were you planning to sit here all day or do you have an address?”

Eva’s slightly bemused question snapped him out of his thoughts, made him realize how far he’d let himself wander down justification lane. He didn’t have to justify his relationships—or lack of—with women. Not to himself. Not to anyone.

And he sure as hell didn’t need validation for staying away from her. She was Ramon Salinas’s widow. Enough said.

He spit out the address Green had given him and shifted into gear. “You know how to get there from here?” he asked gruffly.

The startled and wary look on her face told him how cranky he’d come across. Not fair to take out his bad mood on her. Or hell, maybe it was. Twenty-four hours ago, life had been simple. Fucked up, but simple.

“Not precisely but we’ll find it.” She entered the address into the onboard GPS.

Feeling guilty but not really knowing why, he tried to make amends with a less abrasive tone. “Used to know my way around. Things have changed since I spent any time here.” When he’d been in D.C. a year ago helping Joe and Steph, all he’d seen was the airport and a nearby hotel before they’d gone wheels up again.

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled off the street and into the underground parking garage of a high-security apartment complex. He was about to tell her to wipe the GPS history clean—he didn’t want to take any chances on someone finding out where they’d been—when she leaned forward and took care of it. He wasn’t finished being silently impressed with her when she grabbed her shopping bags and opened the door. Not long after, Mike punched in a series of security code numbers that Joe had given him to get them into the building, then into the elevator and finally to the tenth floor.

They were walking down the wide, well-appointed hallway, peripherally aware of a zillion security cameras monitoring them, when the door at the end of the corridor opened up.

A big man with an imposing build and eyes that could drill holes through steel limped into the hallway to meet them. “Nice to know you can still follow simple directions.”