Danica Winters - In His Sights

“I get that we are leaving AMA and all, but why are you acting like we’re being chased?” she asked, stopping at the entrance to the second floor.

He wanted her to keep moving, so he made his way past her hoping it would urge her along.

“You don’t think whoever was behind this attack was coming after me, do you?” she pressed.

Her…him… Hans… He couldn’t be sure.

Maybe whoever had pitched the nerve agent was trying to take all three down in one fell swoop.

“Is there a reason you think that may be the case?” he asked, giving nothing away.

She looked away from him, but not before he saw the flicker of concern and fear move across her face.

She held secrets, but he was certain he could get her to loosen her grip and hand them over to him. All he needed was a little more time, a bit more pressure and an increment of fear. Maybe now was the time to talk of murder.

The Lyft driver hadn’t spoken to them, which was just fine by Mindy. She hated the formality and awkwardness that came with forced small talk with a single-serving stranger. It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice or didn’t want to be kind to others; it was just that with everything in her own life, giving any more emotionally—even ten minutes to a stranger—threatened what little control she had left. She was so tired.

As they arrived at her Upper West Side brownstone, Jarrod got out and walked around to her side, opening the car door for her. The gesture was as welcome as it was unexpected. It was a rare New York man who still had manners, or perhaps it was just that the prep-school kind of men she dated had let manners fall by the wayside. Maybe this man could finally bring a bit more civility and old-world charm into her life.

“Thanks,” she said, holding her hospital gowns in place like they were a Givenchy cocktail dress instead of the blue checkered fabric that had been worn by countless others.

She couldn’t wait to take a shower. Yet, if she left him alone in her apartment, she would be the one devoid of manners. Assuming that he was coming in. He probably had better places to be, including reporting back to his Swedish bosses.

“You are welcome, ma’am.”

Oh no, he didn’t … Old-world charm be damned.

“Ma’am? Really?” she asked, raising a brow. “What am I, eighty?”

He laughed, the sound rich and baritone, as strong and virile as the man it belonged to. “I’m sorry, I guess my upbringing is showing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She didn’t believe that for a second. Maybe he hadn’t meant to call her old, but he had meant to imply that she had the upper hand in whatever social hierarchy lay between them. On one hand, the feminist in her loved the idea of holding the power, but on the other, if they were to become anything more than friends… Well, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would be willing to have the woman in the driver’s seat. But he had yet prove he was the man she assumed he was.

She fished in the hospital’s plastic bag until she found her keys. “You’re fine.”

None of what she thought or felt about the man really even mattered. This was nothing, just a man being chivalrous after a near-death experience. She couldn’t project some kind of hero fantasy on him. He barely even seemed interested in her.

“I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to see me home,” she said, unsure whether or not she should ask him in or let him go.

The thought of being alone made her hands shake, and she struggled to put the key into the lock.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said, taking the keys and unlocking the door.

Damn .

She hated being this weak in front of a man like him. Her confidence was her armor, and up until the moment she’d met Jarrod, it had been seemingly impenetrable. Now here she was, so far away from her safe emotional space.

Yep, he had to go.

Still, she hated the thought of being alone.

If she had been the target of the attack, for all she knew, there could be someone waiting just behind these doors. The thought made chills tumble down her spine.

She had to be confident. She had to be strong. She had to let him leave and walk through the door alone. It was the only way she could fall back into her normal life.

“Do you mind if I use your restroom?” he asked.

Ugh . There went her mantra and any measure of self-control she had left. She could hardly let him stand out here on her stoop, but letting him in now wouldn’t be just good manners—she would be letting him into her life.

“Go for it,” she said, slipping off her Hermès flats, the only piece of clothing the hospital hadn’t cut her out of. She pitched them into the garbage pail inside the coat closet.

He watched her with curiosity as she closed the closet door. “You know, your shoes are probably fine to keep. Whatever they used on us, it’s worn off by now.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a shrug.

“They looked expensive.”

They had been, but it didn’t matter. If she kept them she would think of the attack every time she put them on. She would already have to pass by the street corner every time she went to her office. She didn’t need any more triggers—at least none beyond the man who stood in front of her.

“It’s okay, I have another pair just like them.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she wasn’t ready to completely open up to him. “If you’d like, you are welcome to use the shower upstairs. We can call out and get you some new clothes, as well.” She looked him up and down, trying to estimate what size he wore, but a flirtatious expression forced her eyes away.

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great. You’d save me from going back to my hotel room in a hospital gown. Did you see the way the Lyft driver looked at me when he came to pick us up?” He chuckled.

“We really did look like two escapees, didn’t we?” She waved down at her gown. “This is one look that I’m happy to see go. In fact, I may take a shower in my en suite when you take yours.”

He raised a brow. “How big is this place?” He stepped into the living room, and his gaze moved to the original Picasso that hung over the mantel.

She’d always loved that piece, a bit of surrealism in a traditional world. In a way it reminded her of herself, a woman working in a man’s world. Sure, it wasn’t unheard-of to have a woman hold a seat on a board, but a woman at the seat of a gun manufacturer’s board was unusual.

She shrugged. “Big enough?” She gave him a half grin in an attempt to downplay her elaborate dwelling.

“Is that a real Picasso?” he asked, pointing at the colorful painting.

She nodded. “He was a friend of the family’s in the 1930s. He made it specifically for my great-grandfather, but he never particularly liked it so it sat in storage for years until I took over the place.”

Jarrod walked across the room, staring at the painting. “Beautiful.” He looked back at her. “Why don’t you have security staff?”

The thought of hiring security had crossed her mind many times, but she rarely spent enough time here to concern herself. She’d have to start looking into changing things. “I’m new to living completely in the public eye and drawing all the scrutiny that comes with it. My father was the former CEO for Heinrich & Kohl. That is, until he passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father’s death. From what I’ve heard, he was a good man.”

She was surprised that, working for the Swedes, he had heard even a single good word about her father. “So, you know about my family?”

“A little bit, but not much. Just what I could glean from the meetings I’ve attended.”