Sharron McClellan - Mercenary's Honor

Instead, she died for a story and a stupid award.

“Is winning the biggest prize all you people think about?” he asked, lashing out and not bothering to hide his contempt.

Fiona took a step back, her small smile fading. “I was making a joke. Kidding.”

“There’s truth in every joke,” Angel said. “Who are you trying to fool? Me or yourself?”

Her cheeks turned pink again, and she returned his glare. “Forget I said anything,” she said after a few seconds.

“Forgotten,” he said, knowing it wasn’t.

“Whatever,” Fiona said, breathing so hard she trembled. “You know what? I don’t need you, your mental baggage, or your attitude. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Despite her brave words, he didn’t miss the fear and uncertainty beneath her anger. She couldn’t do this alone, and they both knew it. “No. You won’t,” Angel said.

“Watch me,” she said. Her eyes darkened, and she turned on her heel.

Angel sighed. Damn, she was determined to make him pay before she gave in to common sense. He watched her walk toward the door. He didn’t think she’d actually try to solve her situation on her own, but when egos were involved it was hard to judge what someone might do.

Especially a reporter with a reputation at stake.

Still, if she wanted to play head games, he’d be happy to oblige. “I can’t say that I’m surprised that you’re a selfish pain in the ass,” he commented when she was halfway across the room.

“Selfish?” She stopped midstep and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “How can you say that?”

“You’d put the only evidence that we have against Montoya in danger because I’m not nice to you? Because I pissed you off?”

She bit her lower lip, thinking, and the unexpected urge to kiss her full, defiant mouth overwhelmed Angel. This was going to be harder than he thought, he realized. Much, much harder.

He followed her steps, not stopping until he was in her space. “We don’t have to like each other to do this, do we?” he asked.

She tilted her head upward until her mouth was inches from his. The tension between them grew with each beat of Angel’s heart. He crossed his arms over his chest, putting the barrier between them for both their sakes.

“I suppose not,” she said.

“Good.” Angel breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back.

“Yeah, good.” She rocked back on her heels then forward again. “What now? We have hours to kill before nightfall. What do we do until then? Hide? Drink? Banter? Try not to kill each other?”

“We go to my apartment,” Angel said. “And we go to bed.”

Fiona’s jaw dropped as she stared at Angel, unable to believe he’d suggest sex after all she’d been through. She wanted comfort, but screwing a virtual stranger wasn’t the path to solace. “I am not having sex with you,” she squeaked.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything about sex. I said go to bed, and that’s all I meant. We’re going to have a long night ahead of us. We need to sleep when we can.”

Once again, Fiona’s cheek flushed with heat. Angel brought out the worst in her, and a part of her wished she had the option of walking away.

But she wasn’t going anywhere. He might be irritating, and there were questions as to his sobriety, but Tony trusted him to protect her and that was enough.

Besides, there wasn’t anyone else.

“Okay, sleep it is,” she said. “Where to?”

“My place is a few buildings down.”

“Fiona, here.”

Fiona turned to see Juan toss her a bundle. She caught it in midair. She unrolled the cloth. There was an army-green floppy hat and a tan jacket. She put both on. The jacket reached past her thighs and helped hide the bloodstains. She tucked her hair inside the hat. “I’m ready,” she said.

Angel assessed her from boot-clad feet to the top of her head. “It’ll do,” he said.

Like she had a choice.

“And this,” Juan said, holding out a white bundle wrapped around a few clunky objects. “It’s some bread and cheese,” he explained. “A few bottles of water.”

Fiona clung to the package, grateful for the gesture. It warmed her to know there were people out there who supported her. Who trusted her to do the right thing.

It was unfortunate that Angel thought so little of her, but she suspected it would take an act of God to convince him to trust her. She wished she knew why.

Fiona kissed Juan on the cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered in his ear.

“Don’t worry about me.” Juan said. “I’m closing up for a few weeks.”

Fiona nodded. “Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure. But there is little doubt that Montoya will track you here. It might be today. Perhaps tomorrow. Either way, I will not be here when he arrives.”

Juan squeezed her hand. Hard. “And you need to go, as well,” he said. “The longer you stay in the open, the greater the danger.”

“He’s right,” Angel said.

Fiona nodded and broke away, following Angel out the door. The lock clicked after Juan shut the door behind them. She turned to see him glance out the window. She waved.

He flashed a small smile then put a sign in the window. Cerrado. Closed.

“Will he be okay?” she asked. She didn’t know Juan, but she knew grief.

“He’ll survive,” Angel said, taking her arm and pulling her into motion. Fiona walked fast to stay by Angel’s side as he led her down the sidewalk.

Though the street wasn’t crowded, it wasn’t empty, and Fiona lowered her head, trying not to call attention to herself.

“We’re here,” Angel said, stopping at the gate to his apartment building.

More like a condemned building, she thought when he opened the iron gate and let her in. Flaking yellow paint covered pitted stucco walls. The small courtyard was a riot of half-dead plants, and the dirt-filled fountain looked like it hadn’t contained water in a decade. “Lovely,” she said.

“It’s a place to sleep,” Angel replied. “And it’s safe. Mostly.”

That was all that mattered, she told herself. Keeping close, she followed Angel up three flights to a hallway lit with twenty-watt bulbs and smelling of burnt tortillas, sweat and mold. His door was the third down on the right. As he opened it, she dreaded what she’d find on the other side.

To her surprise, it was sparse but neat and smelled better than the hallway. She scooted inside and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not horrible,” she said.

“Gee. Thanks,” Angel said, obviously not pleased with her comment.

Fiona scrubbed at her face, mentally kicking herself for being rude. What was it about Angel that gave her foot-in-mouth syndrome? “I’m sorry. That sounded ungrateful, and I’m not. You didn’t have to do this, any of this, and I appreciate the chance you’re taking in helping me.”

“It’s okay. We’re both a little punchy.” His expression softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Just don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying.”

“Why not?” A shiver of goose bumps ran up Fiona’s spine. “Were we followed?”

“No, but this is Bogotá. We’re staying in another room. One that backs up to a fire escape.”

“Won’t the occupant notice?”

“No. It’s mine. I rent it under another name.”

He kept an extra room for escape? And she thought she was paranoid. “Why stay at all?” she asked. “If it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t we keep moving?”

“We will when it’s dark,” he explained. “Even with the hat, you stick out. So for now, we minimize risk, get rest, and hope we get lucky.”

He went to the dresser, pulled out military-perfect, folded navy-blue T-shirts and black cargo pants. “Wearing those jeans is like wearing a bull’s-eye,” he said, handing her the clothes.