Glancing up at me, his entire demeanor changes. The shift from all-business Griff to this-man-could-actually-be-my-boyfriend Griff is like a switch, and his blue eyes soften. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But I’m not taking any chances with your safety, Sloane. None.”
After he smooths the denim back down and stamps his foot a couple of times, he holds out his hand for mine.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asks, squeezing my fingers lightly.
“N-no. Please don’t ask me to.” Every man in my life who ever held a gun in my presence hurt me. Dimitri, all his men, Rodney…
“Look at me, sweetheart.” His voice carries a rough edge, and I snap my gaze back to his and try to ignore the weapon on the table in front of us. “You shouldn’t have to touch it. Hell, it’s a last resort for me too.” He closes the fingers of his left hand around the holster and pulls the gun with his right. “I got top marks on the range for years before I lost my arm, but I’ll never be weapons certified again. Not by the CIA. Still, even with one hand, I’m better than most. So when we leave the hotel, I’ll be armed. Every time.”
He shows me where the safety is, how to flip it on and off, and the special pocket in his jacket where he clips the holster.
“You have your panic button?”
I run my fingers over the inside of my right breast, the small, thin button taped to the bra cup. “It’s here. But you’re not going to leave me alone, right?”
When he smiles at me, I want to believe everything’s going to be okay. That he won’t leave my side. That we’ll have a nice, maybe evennormalnight out. “Unless you want me following you into the bathroom—or you like hanging out in the men’s room—we might be apart at least once tonight. But otherwise, I’ll be with you the entire time. I promise.”
Draping a plaid tartan around my shoulders, I take a deep breath. I can do this. Go on a date with a handsome man at my side, and maybe…have a nice evening.
* * *
TheBahnhofstrasseis coveredin a canopy of tiny lights, lending a warm glow to the shops lining both sides of the street. We left the cars behind two blocks ago, passing under a massive arch to a large pedestrian-only boulevard. Hand in hand, we take our time walking among dozens of tourists window shopping, taking photos, and milling around the various bars and restaurants.
“Still breathing?” Griff asks. Despite the people all around us, it’s quiet, and so I don’t worry about looking up at him to answer.
“Mostly. It’s beautiful here.” With a sigh, I press closer to him. “I wish we were on a real vacation.”
He squeezes my hand, and though I know his fingers are made of silicone and titanium and various electronic sensors, there’s something sorealabout the gesture. “We are.”
“Do most ofyourvacations involve someone dying? If so, you need a new travel agent.”
His laugh is the most comforting sound. Rich and strong and one hundred percent genuine. “I don’t take vacations. Or, I haven’t. Not for a long time.” Guiding me over to an artist offering sketches for ten francs, Griff gestures to a stool positioned opposite the white-haired man.
“You don’t have to—” He silences me with a tender kiss, and I melt against him. Every time I convince myself this isn’t real, that we’re only pretending, he does something likethatand I think…maybe one day I could be happy. Not with him. This is nothing more than a job for Griff, and no matter how good he is at it, that’s all I’ll ever be to him.
But with someone?
Is there another man in this world who wouldn’t immediately see my damage? Who’d want me even though I’m not sure I’ll be able to have sex ever again?
“Sloane?” A warm hand cups my cheek, and he’s staring into my eyes like he can’t find me anywhere. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. Just…thinking.” Before we left the hotel, Griff explained the plan. Ninety percent happy couple, completely in love, ten percent secrets, lies, and distance. Anyone watching us has to believe I’m terrified but keeping it to myself.
The first part is easy to sell. The second? Griff is easy to talk to. And now that he knows everything? I don’t want to hide from him.
Giving his fingers a final squeeze, I sink down onto the stool, cross my legs at the ankles, and fold my hands on my thigh. One of the first lessons I learned. How to sit. Chin level, a gentle smile, head angled slightly to one side. I can hold this for hours if I have to.
“No good,” the artist says, his accent thick. “Together.” He turns the page to start fresh, and Griff offers me his hand. The stool is only big enough for one of us, and I’m not sure what he’s planning, but let him pull me to my feet.
Before I even get my bearings, he’s perched on the stool, an arm around my waist, and my ass resting against his thigh. Now it’s my turn to laugh, and dammit. Iwantthis. A life. Fun. With someone who understands me.
“Tell me something no one else knows about you,” Griff says, his lips close to my ear.
“When I was eight, I won an art contest in school.” It’s so easy to be myself with this man. He doesn’t judge me, doesn’t doubt me, even now. “Where I grew up? It was such a small town. I think there were only twenty kids at my school. But the teacher entered one of my drawings in a contest…” Shit. I can’t tell him where. Not in public. “It went all the way to the capitol. I didn’t win the big prize. That would have been enough money for my family to eat for a month. But for a few weeks, my little picture of a mama duck and her babies was on display for thousands to see.”
Griff gives me a gentle squeeze and brushes his lips to my cheek. “That’s impressive. I can barely draw stick people.”
“Anyone can learn to draw. I…could show you later.” What am I doing? This is realrelationshiptalk. He won’t be interested in learning how to sketch a tennis ball.
