Gail Barrett - High-Risk Reunion

So he’d decided not to trust her.

Smart man .

“I said I’d be back.” And she would. She couldn’t run yet, not without that ring. And she couldn’t get that until Rafe slept.

She opened the door and stepped outside, then slumped back against the hut’s stone wall. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp night air, and tried to calm herself down. Cowbells clanked in the distance, the discordant sound doing nothing to assuage her nerves.

The diplomat was dead. She still didn’t have that flash drive. And now Rafe had a ring that might be connected to her case—which meant she had to steal it from him.

A fresh wave of anxiety tumbled through her, her conscience rebelling at the thought of deceiving Rafe again . He’d be furious when she took that ring. She would confirm every terrible suspicion about her he had.

She closed her eyes, fighting back an onslaught of regrets. She didn’t want to hurt him. She hated that he despised her, and that she couldn’t reveal the truth. But Ortiz had robbed her of choices that fateful night.

And nothing mattered more than revenge.

The soft swish of Gabrielle’s dress woke Rafe from a restless doze. He lay flat on his back by the fireplace, keeping his eyes shut, his breathing steady and slow to imitate sleep.

So she was finally making her move. He’d been expecting it for hours. He hadn’t missed the speculation in her eyes when she’d held that ring or the way she’d sidestepped his questions, never quite revealing why she was here.

He intended to get those answers now.

Her footsteps shuffled closer. He waited, his pulse accelerating as the erotic scent of her perfume mingled with smoke from the dying fire.

The swishing stopped. He felt her studying his face. Then she knelt beside him, her silk gown brushing his arm, her soft breath sweeping his jaw as she slid her fingers into the front left pocket of his jeans.

He gritted his teeth, struggling to regulate his breath as her fingers inched down his thigh. But his temper flared, his blood roiling at her gall. She’d accused him of being a thief—while here she was, trying to steal the ring from him.

Her hand came to a halt. For a minute, she didn’t move. Then she caught the velvet pouch between her fingers and started to tug.

He whipped out his hand and clamped her wrist. Her startled gaze flew to his. For several long seconds their eyes stayed locked, her pulse running ragged beneath his palm.

Then he relentlessly tugged her closer, until her face was inches from his. “Looking for something?” he growled.

Her gaze faltered. She nibbled her bottom lip, drawing his eyes to her sultry mouth. Then she relaxed against him, morphing into seductress mode, and shot him a sideways glance. “Can’t you guess?” she purred.

He took in her full pouting lips, the swell of her generous breasts, and his hold on his temper slipped. She was playing him, trying to manipulate him with her charms—just like she’d done to that diplomat.

His mouth thinned. “Nice performance. What’s next? Another striptease?”

Her eyes flashed. She struggled to jerk her hand free, but he squeezed her wrist even harder, unwilling to let her budge. He waited for several heartbeats, making sure she knew she couldn’t escape him, then pushed her away in disgust.

He rolled to his feet, then stalked to the door and back, trying to keep himself under control. When he reached the fireplace, he stopped. “All right,” he said. “Cut the crap and start talking—beginning with why you’re really here.”

She rose and brushed off her gown, her eyes not quite meeting his. “I already told you. I’m after information.”

“The hell you are.”

“I am,” she insisted. He waited, barely managing to restrain his temper, until her guilty gaze rose to his. “It’s just … I think the ring might be involved.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He shot her a scowl, and she lifted her chin. “I don’t. It’s … complicated.”

“Try me.”

She hesitated.

His jaw hardened. “That wasn’t a request.”

Her movements jerky, she retreated to the stool beside the fireplace and sat. The wind gusted, moaning through the caved-in roof, making the embers in the fireplace flare.

“I told you the truth,” she said finally, her voice subdued. “At least most of it. You know my company makes billing software for communication firms.”

He nodded, and she went on. “Whenever we install a system we keep a secret backdoor access in case we need to do repairs. And … we use that to monitor their calls.”

She spied on them? And she’d accused him of immoral behavior? “That’s illegal.”

She had the grace to blush. “I know. And our customers don’t know we do that, obviously. If people knew we kept track of their activities, they wouldn’t buy our products.”

Which they marketed to governments around the globe.

He leaned against the mantle, wondering where she was heading with this. “Go on.”

“I didn’t know about the backdoor access at first. It’s hardly something we advertise. But after my father died, when I took over the company, I started noticing irregularities. I finally figured out he was checking messages that way. And I think he found out something incriminating, something dangerous that got him killed.”

Rafe blinked, her revelation taking him aback. Whatever he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.

He swung his gaze to the glowing embers, searching his memory for details of the case. Her father had died at his office during a late-night robbery. His murder—and Gabi’s subsequent ascent to owner of the company—had prompted her to break off her engagement to Rafe.

“You’re saying he wasn’t robbed?”

“That’s right. The murderer just made it look that way.” Her gaze swerved back to his. “My father was spying for the government, running a secret operation Arturo Menendez—the prime minister—heads. We think he came across some information in one of those messages, something that someone didn’t want to leak out.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No.” She smoothed her long gown over her legs. “I couldn’t prove anything at the time. And except for the prime minister, I didn’t know who to trust. He suggested we get proof before we accuse anyone.”

Too bad the police didn’t do the same.

Rafe pushed his resentment aside. “So where does the diplomat fit in?”

“A few weeks ago I intercepted a message. He was supposed to deliver some top-secret intelligence at the summit about a traitor in the king’s inner group.

“I figured the information would be on a flash drive,” she added. “That’s what I was looking for in the room. I didn’t know about the ring. And the ring might just be a coincidence—a goodwill gesture like the police chief said. But if there’s any chance it’s connected to my father’s murder, I have to find out. I can’t let his killer go free.”

Rafe’s frown deepened, her revelation complicating an already unholy mess. If Ortiz wanted that ring, and if that ring was connected to her case …

His gaze sharpened on hers. “You’re saying Ortiz is the traitor?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you think he is.”

“I don’t have any proof.”

Hell . Suddenly feeling haunted, Rafe plowed his hand through his hair. This job was supposed to be straightforward—grab the ring, turn it over to the police chief and fulfill his end of the deal.

He wasn’t supposed to be framed for murder. He wasn’t supposed to be chased by the royal guards. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be embroiled in an espionage case involving his former lover—a woman he couldn’t trust.