Grayson’s fury surfaces more when his eyes lower to my midsection. A piece of tape is peeking out from the bottom of my shirt. “You’re meant to be on bed rest, not sprinting out of a building like you’re outrunning a fire.”
“I feel great.” I’m not lying. I am buzzing with anticipation and more than eager for a second dose. “She said yes, Grayson. She’s letting me in.” I peer past him to where I dumped my belongings a second after slotting into the passenger seat. “I need my sketchbook. It’s in my purse, right?”
He doesn’t answer me, nor does he move. He studies me with that quiet intensity I’ve always thought meant more than just two agents on opposite sides of a mission. “Sit.”
“I need to get back there before she changes her mind.”
“Macy.” His voice is low, firm, yet not unkind. “Sit.Now.”
I plonk onto the seat a techie agent’s backside would usually heat if this assignment weren’t personal, before peering up at Grayson. I believe his demand is solely about the tape, but he proves me wrong when he thrusts the meal I left Cameron’s residence with into my chest before his eyes silently plead.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Because I’m feeding off something better than food.”
With a glare, he peels the lid off the container, removes a plastic fork from a recently opened packet, then stabs it into a piece of chicken that’s so tender it splits in half. “Eat.”
I hesitate. Duty beckons, but Grayson’s gaze is unnerving, and his familiar eyes halt my protest. Even with Cameron alive, he’s still the Grayson he was yesterday. He is still the man who cares more about my welfare than a standard colleague would. Even with the ghost of his past swirling around him like smoke, he’s taking care of me.
I can’t fault him for that.
After spooning an overloaded fork of chicken and rice into my mouth, I chew mechanically. This is probably jealousy talking, but it tastes like cardboard. The chicken is dry, and although the garlic adds a nice aromatic flavor to the rice, the sauce is too salty to enjoy.
Grayson folds his arms as his backside rests on the console he used to spy on my exchange with his girlfriend. His focus only shifts when I’m forced to remember the pledge I gave him only days ago. “She’s hiding something.”
With an absentminded head bob, he acknowledges that I spoke, before he begins a patch job on the medical tape keeping me in this operation.
I should end our conversation, but I’m swimming in waters so out of my depth that I need the knowledge of a skilled profiler. “It isn’t the usual guardedness most women in this industry have. It’s deeper, like she is protecting something important.”Or someone.
I thank Grayson for his honesty with a smile when he replies, “I think so too. That’s why I let Cartwright order charcoal sticks and a sketchbook for you.” He flattens his hand along a section of tape, his touch warm, before he raises his eyes to my face. “That is thesolereason I’m letting you back undercover. She’s comfortable with you. Willing to talk. I doubt I’d get the same reception.”
Hating the pained whisper of his last sentence, I curl my hand around the one squashed against my stomach and gently squeeze it. “Maybe that something she’s protecting is you?”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound confident, but he masks his despair by focusing his attention on the stretched skin of my midsection. He tapes my baby bump like it’s seconds from bursting if I overeat, before he adjusts my holster so my gun digs into my ribs more than my stomach. “How’s that?”
“It’s perfect. Thanks.”
A moment passes between us, but before I can gauge its depth, a knock reverberates throughout the van. I almost giggle when I spot the confused expression on an Uber driver’s face. I’m sure he’s delivered food to a parked van before, but drawing supplies would be a little weird.
With the dish half eaten and my stomach defying the rules of gravity, Grayson doesn’t stop me when I slide the van door open and step back into the alleyway, but his warning follows me through the dark confines. “Be careful, freckles.”
I don’t look back, but I know he feels my smile. It is as heated as his, and it makes the cool winds whipping off the coast inconsequential.
Cameron’s apartment is cleaner than it was only minutes ago. Noticeably so. The entryway table is bare now, devoid of the addressed envelopes it housed earlier, and the mantel doesn’t hold a single frame.
In the ten minutes it took me to fetch my sketchbook and scarf down her food, she scrubbed her home clean of identifying marks. That isn’t normal. It is calculated, and it surges my assumption that she’s hiding more than years of terror beneath the surface of her seemingly innocent package.
After gesturing for me to come in, Cameron closes the door and then enters the living room, where she perches herself on the edge of the couch. She wears her hair in a sleek, pulled-back style that showcases her impressive bone structure, and she hasswitched her food-stained clothes for a non-maternity-approved dress. It squashes her stomach more than it caresses it.
She is a beautiful lady, so naturally, I feel envious. Even wearing scraps, she’d still outrank me in both beauty and charisma.
“Are you ready?” she asks, put off by my frozen stance.
Nodding, I remove my coat and sling it over an armchair before sitting across from her. Then I balance my sketchbook on my knee. It is bigger than the travel-size one I usually carry in my purse, so my movements are a little clumsy when I commence laying charcoal to paper.
In minutes, my love of art overtakes my nerves, and my sketch starts to resemble something more than shadowy outlines and ash drops. I focus on the sharp lines of Cameron’s cheekbones and the way her mouth curves slightly upward even when she’s aiming to display neutrality. I drink her in as I couldn’t hours ago because the thought of her being alive scared me as much as it flooded me with hope.
