“The official story is that Griff was injured in a car accident in Dallas last year. A semi-truck blew a tire and t-boned his sedan. He was pinned in the car for several hours before fire and rescue could cut him free.”
“Shit. Okay. And you met because he works at the agency?” Pulling most of my hair up into a high ponytail, she secures it with a glittering silvery elastic, then adds a second, decorative tie of luminescent pearls.
“Yes. He’s a junior agent with five years of experience.” Swallowing hard, I tap my fingers against my thighs under the drape, struggling not to let my emotions show in the mirror. Once Marina’s done, I can take a Xanax, but she’s so late already, I can’t make her stop now. “The hotel and the Ulstrum Agency agreed to keep Max’s death quiet for now to avoid any bad press.”
Marina stops with the curling iron poised a few inches away from my temple. “Wait, doweknow?”
“I do. Whoever killed him probably saw me go into his room. And come out of it. But you don’t. Neither does Griff.”
Wrapping a thick lock of hair around the hot iron, Marina arches a brow. “There’s no way you’d keep that from me.”
“Of course I would!” She flinches at the desperation in my tone and lets the hair release in a perfectly curled tendril. “Don’t look at me like that. You fell asleep in the chair last night, but that text message? Dimitri basically threatened to kill anyone I told. Said Max’s death was all my fault because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. There’s no fucking way I’d ever put you in danger like that. Not on purpose.”
Don’t cry. No tears. Not now.
I squeeze my eyes so hard, spots float behind my lids. If only I’d been able to hide that bruise. If only I’d paid Dimitri the moment I opened that letter.
“Stop it, sweetie.” Marina rests a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Whatever you’re stewing over? Regretting? It doesn’t matter now. We’re here, and we can’t change the past.”
It takes a few seconds for my vision to clear, and when I do, Marina’s standing behind me. My hair looks amazing, as does my makeup, and once I take a deep breath, my reflection in the mirror reveals nothing but a calm, confident Sloane ready to take on the world. Or at least the press.
“You can’t let on toanyonethat you know what really happened. Max has the flu. You never talk to him anyway outside of hello and goodbye, so while you heard about his illness, you’re just glad Griff is here to handle all of the agency shit so I can focus on everything else.”
Talking about the man who saved my life—or at least changed it—like he’s a character in a book? It feels too casual. Almost…disrespectful. He’s so much more than that. But I refuse to let it show. This is the most important performance of my entire life, and I have to play my part perfectly. Otherwise, more people will die, and I won’t be able to live with myself.
* * *
At a quarter to twelve,I emerge from my bedroom, praying I used enough tape to keep everything in place for the next few hours. The sweater dips low between my breasts, exposing more skin than I’d like, but I twisted, bent, and stretched over and over again in front of the mirror without a mishap. Dotted with tiny pearls, the silver cashmere is unbelievably soft, with long sleeves that flare at the wrists. Paired with black, stovepipe pants and silver heels, the entire outfit is simple, even understated—except for the sheer amount of my skin on display.
Griff stands when he sees me, and his jaw drops. The feeling’s mutual. The man cleans upverywell.
“Holy shit,” he says softly. “You look amazing.”
The sincerity in his voice brings a smile, and I glide over to him, tug on his gray suit jacket to straighten it, and reach up to skim my fingers over his cheek. He shaved, and he shucks in an unsteady breath as our gazes collide. “So do you.”
“These might be the nicest clothes I’ve ever worn.”
“Men’s fashion is so much simpler. Except, you’re not supposed to use all those buttons on your shirt.” Flicking open the top three, I soften the lines on the crisp white shirt and expose a sexy glimpse of his chest. “That’s better.”
Griff moves to run his hand through his hair, but I stop him. “It’s perfect the way it is. Don’t touch it.”
“Marina gave me a few tips as she was rushing out the door. Organized chaos, I think she called it?”
“Her specialty.” Griff evensmellsgood. Like bergamot, and something oaky and mossy. “So…you don’t normally dress this well?” Thank God he can’t hear the change in my voice—the huskiness, the desire. Because what I’m feeling? It’s definitely desire. I may not have much experience in that department, but the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, the way my heart beats faster the longer I’m close to him, how I wish I’d skipped the shimmering lip dye? Definitely desire.
His laugh relaxes me by a fraction. “Hell, no. The CIA does have a dress code, though it’s pretty lax. Jeans or khakis. Polo shirts, Henleys, the occasional button-down for meetings with the higher ups. Deputy directors on up wear suits.”
“And that’s not you? I’m not sure you ever told me what your job really is there.” I have to put some distance between us, so I snag the silver leather clutch that goes with this outfit and add my room key, meds case, lip dye, cell phone, and a tiny mirror.
“I’m a Senior Operations Officer. Before…” he gestures to his left arm, “I ran ops all over the world. My last one was with Austin in Pakistan. Can’t really talk about the details beyond what I told you this morning, but…”
“It ended badly.” Turning to face him again, I square my shoulders. “Are you going to go back? When you’re done protecting me?”
He shrugs, an emotion I can’t read in his deep blue eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t made to ride a desk.” Clearing his throat, he picks up his phone and slides it into his pocket. “Where’s your panic button?”
“Taped to the bottom of my left breast.”
My matter-of-fact delivery combined with the intimate location throws him. Griff’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s…uh…really smart.”
