Lara Lacombe - Fatal Fallout

She said nothing as he relayed this latest development to Harper, who agreed with the necessity of a rapid translation. “Bring them in,” he said. “I’ll get the translator lined up.”

He turned to find her standing next to him, her eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “We need to take these papers to headquarters,” he told her, reaching out to take them from her. “My boss is lining up a translator for us.”

“Fine. Just give me a minute. I need to change my shirt.”

She walked down the hall, leaving him holding the papers. He busied himself tapping them into place and returning them to the envelope, anything to keep his thoughts from drifting to images of her without a shirt on, that pale pink bra on display....

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Not an option. Yes, she had a delicate beauty about her—the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck, the graceful lines of her jaw and brow—and right now, she did have the whole damsel-in-distress thing going on, which had his protective instincts flaring. It had felt good—too good—holding her as she woke from her nightmare. She had fit so perfectly in his arms, her head naturally tucking under his chin, as if she’d been made for that spot.

She had rallied quickly, though, and he knew underneath her tears and grief was a core of steel. He had to admire the way she’d held it together this morning, only letting her emotions out when she had surrendered to sleep. He could relate to that. He understood all too well what it cost to project an image of calm composure when grief and sadness and rage were boiling inside. God knew he’d done it often enough for Jenny, Emily and his mother.

Thomas shook his head and released a small sigh. Why was he having these feelings now, after months of apathy? Roger’s death had left him reeling, and he’d had no desire to start a relationship. Of all the times for his libido to wake up...

His brain recognized he had no business thinking about Claire outside the bounds of his professional responsibilities, but his body had felt her curves and wanted more.

“Not gonna happen,” he muttered, taking a long sip from his glass of ice water. Probably would have been more effective to pour it down his pants, but this would have to do. Besides, he thought, trying to use logic to appeal to his baser nature, Claire was dealing with a huge shock. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to hit on a woman who was in the throes of grief.

She won’t be sad forever, whispered his inner sixteen-year-old.

Damn.

* * *

Claire stared blindly at the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, her mind back on the papers and the man in her living room. He was too much...everything, she decided, reaching up to pluck a white blouse off the hanger. Too tall, too broad, too warm, too hard. His arms had made her feel safe and secure, and the steady thump of his heart under her ear had been a comforting rhythm. And that smell—soapy, clean, with the faintest hint of starch from his shirt. She could get lost in that smell, stay pressed against his chest for days. It would be the perfect escape from the nightmare her life had become.

Except it wouldn’t solve anything.

Shaking her head, she stripped off her wrinkled shirt and shrugged into the clean blouse. She had no business thinking of Thomas—Agent Kincannon, she corrected—as anything other than a man assigned to a case. A blanket of guilt settled over her shoulders as she remembered why he was here in the first place. Ivan was dead, and she was now a target.

But I’m not dead, a wicked little voice inside her head proclaimed. And if I really am marked for death, why not enjoy the time I have left?

Firmly shutting the door on that line of thought, she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into her slacks. She wished, now more than ever, she was the kind of woman who could have a no-holds-barred affair, to simply enjoy the physical pleasures of a relationship without letting her heart get involved. But she had tried that tack once before, and it had been a disaster. No, she thought, shaking her head as she smoothed a hand over her hair. Agent Kincannon might be quite nice to look at, and his touch might set her heart racing, but she knew all too well how things would end between them.

She didn’t have the best track record when it came to the people in her life, starting with the death of her adoptive father when she was eleven. It hadn’t been his fault, of course, but growing up, she’d harbored a lot of anger toward him for leaving her in the care of an adoptive mother who had never really wanted her to begin with. Dena had viewed her as a burden, something to be tolerated but never embraced. Her new husband had followed suit, and their apathy had turned to outright emotional neglect when they had a child of their own.

“Don’t call her that,” Dena had snapped when she overheard Claire refer to Amanda as “my sister.” “You’re not related to her.”

Despite everything, she had still loved the woman, trying everything in her power to please her. Because Claire had been adopted as a baby, Dena had been the only mother she’d ever known, and her rejections had stung each and every time. Eventually, though, Claire had learned a valuable lesson—no one could hurt her if she didn’t let them get close.

Now she made it a point to safeguard her heart, never granting anyone the power to hurt her. It was a safe, if sometimes lonely, way to live, but it kept her heart in one piece.

So, as much as she might enjoy his company, Agent Kincannon was not a risk worth taking. She consoled herself with the thought that he probably wasn’t attracted to her anyway. After all, she hadn’t exactly been at her best today. First she’d blurted out any number of awkward statements, making her sound like an escaped mental patient. Then she’d woken up screaming, another strong moment for her. Finally, she’d snotted all over his clean shirt and argued with him, all while looking like a hungover college student with wrinkled clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Oh yeah, she was quite the catch. He probably couldn’t wait to hand her off to someone else and get back to his swimsuit-model girlfriend.

He was standing by the windows when she returned to the living room, his back to her as he peeked through a crack in the blinds. “Is everything okay?” Had he seen something?

“Yeah.” He gave the street another quick scan, then turned to face her. “Everything is fine,” he said with an absent smile. “Just checking to see if anything is out of the ordinary.”

She felt the corner of her mouth lift, amused despite her resolve to keep him at arm’s length. “And how would you know what ‘ordinary’ is for this neighborhood?”

He tapped his temple with his forefinger as he walked over, carrying the papers in his other hand. “My extensive training and lethal instincts allow me to spot danger before it has a chance to appear. Why do you think they chose me to protect you?”

“Because of your modest and humble nature?”

He grinned at her, dimples appearing on his lean cheeks. “That, too.”

He passed her the papers as he walked to the door, checking the peephole before opening it. “Stay close, all right?” he instructed, all traces of teasing gone.

Suppressing a shudder, Claire hugged the papers to her chest and followed him into the hall.

* * *

Where the hell is the package?

Victor rummaged through another drawer, his patience running low as he pushed the contents aside in a desperate search for the papers. The deliveryman had confirmed the package had been dropped off, and since it was no longer on the welcome mat outside the door, she must have brought it inside. Unless he was lying to me...

He quickly dismissed the thought. He had been rather...convincing with his interrogation, and the man’s screams and pathetic begging hadn’t been faked. He wouldn’t have considered lying, wouldn’t have seen a reason to. The package had been delivered, all right, but it was now gone.