“Like…they can what? Help him hear? Like a hearing aid?” Curiosity bleeds through the worst of the fear, and I cast a quick glance back at the handsome bodyguard sitting on the sofa with his back to me.
He’s texting, and mutters something to himself that sounds a little like, “I knew this was a bad idea.”
Marina shrugs. “No clue. I didn’t ask. I was ready to call Clive’s mom and pitch a shit fit when he introduced himself to me at the party, but then he pointed around the room and picked out every single person in the industry, down to being able to tell who was there for the money, who was just interested in banging a model, and which models were into one another.” She frowns, her sigh full of regret. “He also told me those three guys fromBeauty and Style’saccounting department were making you uncomfortable. Clive knows his stuff. He wouldn’t have sent Griff if he didn’t think he was the right man for the job.” Marina won’t let go of my hands, and now that we’remostlyalone, her presence calms me enough to stare at the man in the main room.
He’s on his feet now, closing every one of the drapes, checking the door twice, and then heading for the far wall, turning a knob on the Murphy bed Marina was going to use, then exposing a panel in the wall next to it.
What the hell is he doing? After he enters a code on a keypad, the bed doesn’t pull down like it’s supposed to, itswingsoutward. Revealing an adjoining room.
“Hey!” I shout, completely forgetting that he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Stalking after him, I touch his arm, and he whirls around, the look on his face one of barely controlled rage.
It takes him a beat to get himself under control before he takes a deep breath. “Ground rules, Sloane. No sneaking up on me. If you need to get my attention and I’m not looking at you, stomp your foot. Clap. Slam a door. Something I canfeel. Don’t grab me from behind. Until my injuries, I was a CIA field agent, and you don’t want to know what I could do if I thought you were a threat. Even now.”
Taking a step back, I nod. “Sorry. I’m not used to being around someone who can’t hear.”
“That makes two of us,” he says with a half smile—one that transforms his face completely.Thisis the man from the bar. The one who gave me his handkerchief and tried to make me feel better. “I know it’s late. And that picture couldn’t have been easy to look at. But we need to talk while everything’s still fresh in your mind.”
The picture. Of Max’s body. Max’sdeadbody.
Whatever self-preservation mechanism allowed me to function the past fifteen minutes gives up, and my chest tightens, my breath catching in my throat. “Max…they…shit. I can’t…”
Griff wraps an arm around my waist and presses his other hand—the real one based on how warm it is—just above my chest. “Count for me. Backwards from forty-seven.”
“Forty-seven?” The odd number surprises me, but he repeats the order, this time with more force behind his words.
“Count. Now.”
“F-forty-seven. Forty-s-six. Forty…shit. Forty-five. Forty-four. Forty-three. Wow. No one’s ever been able to help me stop a panic attack this quickly before.”
“Starting from a random number gives your brain something to focus on,” he says quietly. “Take another couple of deep breaths for me.”
I do, feeling his palm rise and fall with my chest, and it’s so comforting, I don’t want him to let me go. But if we’re going to talk about everything, I have to take a Xanax or this is going to happen again and again. “I need a pill.” Searching for my best friend, I meet her gaze, and she nods.
“On it.”
“What do you take? How much, and when?” Griff hasn’t released me yet, and I take comfort in his warmth and the solid feel of his body against mine, even if I do think he’s being a little intrusive with all the questions.
“That’s personal.”
“Nothing’s personal anymore. Not until weknowyou’re safe.” He shifts, taking my hand and leading me back to the couch. After I sink down onto the cushions, he snags a silky throw from the back of the sofa and drapes it around my shoulders. “Get comfortable, take your pill, and focus on your breathing. I need my tablet and a couple of ibuprofen, then I’ll explain everything.”
Chapter Twelve
Griff
My shoulders ache, and my left arm—or what’s left of it anyway—feels like I jammed it into a light socket. I’d kill to take my prosthetic off, but Sloane barely trusts me as it is. Seeing me even more damaged? Not happening. Not yet.
With my tablet tucked under my arm, I snag a bottle of water from the ice bucket on the bar. This hotel is the nicest I’veeverstayed in. Despite what the recruitment brochures claim, the life of an undercover CIA agent isnotglamorous. We spend more time trapped in dank, dark spaces staring at a computer or video surveillance screen, in hot, sweaty cramped rooms waiting for our informants to show up, and catching a few hours sleep sitting up in a vehicle than we do in swanky hotels—or our own beds.
Pausing at the open door between our two rooms, I study the woman I held in my arms just a few minutes ago. Marina hands her a small plastic case and then pats her shoulder. Meds. But Sloane barely acknowledges her best friend. Shock has set in, and dammit. I shouldn’t have left her alone. She was still verbal when I left, and in the five minutes it took me to shed my tuxedo jacket and tie, she shut down.
“What does she take?” I ask Marina.
Clive’s cousin leans in, apparently forgetting I don’t care how loud her voice is. “Xanax for panic attacks. Zoloft daily. But she needs to eat something.”
“Can you order room service? Whatever you think she’ll eat.”
“You want anything? I need a piece of cake the size of Manhattan.”
