Which was probably why she stood there, her mouth opening and closing like the catfish her father had loved to catch out of Old Man Miller’s pond. When she finally found her voice, it was to respond with an oh-so-intelligent “Huh?”
Dagan ran a hand over his beard, looking away from her into the middle distance before finally turning back. “For kissing you when you hadn’t invited me to and when you couldn’t push me away,” he said.
Aha. Well, that explains the look of horror on his face.
Did he really believe for even one second that she mightnothave welcomed his kiss? Before she could speak the thought aloud, words gushed out of him like the water that had rushed out of the backyard spigot when she was fifteen and accidentally ran into it with the riding lawn mower. Holy Moses, her mother had been madder than a wet hen. But her father? He had just laughed at her soaked hair and clothes before shutting off the main water to the house.
“It’s just that when you sent that Mayday, I was terrified what might’ve happened, what mightbehappening to you. And then to get to Morrison’s penthouse and find that you had not only managed to get yourself caught, but that you were foolish enough to think you needed to sacrifice yourself and—”
Chelsea stopped listening right then and there. Probably because she couldn’t hear over the blood pounding angrily through her ears.
“Damnit, Z!” she snarled. Her fisted hands landed on her hips as she thrust her chin up at his damnably handsome face. “Just once, just one friggin’ time in your life, could you, oh, I don’t know, say somethingniceto me?”
His chin jerked back. Or rather…the Beard jerked back. His gray eyes narrowed as he blinked at her. There it was again…his Clint Eastwood gunfighter squint. And he got very,verystill.
She braced herself for a verbal assault. Thankfully, it never came.
“Chels, I…” He stopped and swallowed. The expression on his face morphed from an impersonation of ol’ Clint into something he might have worn if she’d started growing a third nipple. On her cheek.
And, okay, so maybe she could understand some of his assessments. For most of her career, she had ridden a desk. She was only an inch over five feet tall, not an imposing figure. She was a woman in a man’s world. And she made sure to speak to her mother twice a day. No doubt, he saw all those things as disadvantages, as…weaknesses.
He was flat-out wrong. Riding a desk had taught her patience and had given her the ability to view situations and Intel from all sides. Her small stature made people underestimate her. Her sex meant she was naturally sympathetic, which had allowed her to put herself into the shoes of America’s enemies and accurately guess what their next moves might be. As for her relationship with her mother? Well, he might thinkTime to cut the apron strings, but the truth was that Grace Duvall made Chelsea a better person. She kept Chelsea honest. Made her strive for higher standards. But also reminded her to enjoy the little things in life.
Yup. Chelsea was stronger, smarter,tougherthan he had ever given her credit for. And as far as she could figure, him not giving her credit stopped here. Today. As Hagrid said inHarry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, “I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed!”
“Land sakes alive,” she said through gritted teeth when he seemed fine and dandy just standing there looking at her likeshewas the crazy one. “Are you telling me you can’t think of one single, solitary nice thing to say?”
“I… You’re…” He stopped, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It’s not that you’re…notone of the most courageous people I’ve ever worked with.” When the words were out of his mouth, he looked ridiculously pleased with himself.
She, on the other hand, was sorely tempted to slap him upside the head. Really? After everything she’d accomplished today,thatwas the best he could do?
“I’m sorry.” She seethed. “Was there a compliment buried somewhere in that double negative?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chels.” He lifted his arms impatiently and let them fall back to his sides. She did not notice how it made the halves of his thick leather jacket pull wide, revealing the broad expanse of his chest covered by a soft merino wool sweater. Okay, so maybe she noticed alittle. “You know what I think of you.HowI think of you. I’ve made it clear for years. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Just like that, every one of her hackles was standing stick-straight. If she’d been a cat, her back would be bowed and the hair on her tail all fluffed out. She took a step forward and shoved a finger into the center of his chest.
“You’re right,” she snapped. “You’ve made it crystal clear that you have no respect for me. You’ve gone out of your way to block me from doing the jobs I’m assigned. You tell me all the time that I’m not good enough. And why in the good Lord’s name should I think you might have the decency to come up with justonething that…that…that…”
She was so worked up, she was tripping over her own tongue. Then she nearlyswallowedthat same tongue when he grabbed her shoulders in a hard grip and ducked down so that he was on eye level with her.
“Christ, Chels.” His smooth moonshine voice had turned hoarse. “Is that what you think?”
She was tempted to shrug off his hands. But sweet Lord, shelikedit when he touched her. “It’s not what I think, you big, hairy jackass. It’s what youdo. It’s what yousay.”
He straightened and stepped back, running a hand over his beard and shaking his head. “You could not be more wrong.”
Ha!She rolled her eyes. “How in blue blazes do you figure that?”
“I respect the hell out of you, Chels. I think you’re…amazing.” Just like that, he had suffered another invasion of the body snatchers, and she was back inThe Twilight Zone. She looked around, half expecting to hear Rod Serling say,You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension…“You have steel in your spine, fire in your brain, and grace in your heart.”
Okay. Andthatwasn’t just nice. It was thenicestthing anyone had ever said to her.
Dagan had always been an overachiever.Damn him.
“If I’ve tried to block you from doing the jobs you’ve been assigned recently, it’s only because I know you weren’t given the right fuckin’ training for them.”
Dagan was a born-and-raised Midwesterner, which meant he had no noticeable accent—a trait she had spent years trying to mimic since having an accent was a tell in and of itself. But anytime he used the wordfucking, he always left thegsound off the end.
