I’m free from his touch for about two seconds before his hand snags out, catching me. “Wait.”
His warm fingers close around my wrist, locking me in place, almost like he thinks I might run away. I’m not running, though. I couldn’t run, even if I wanted to. I’m frozen in place again. The rest of my body has disappeared, and there is only the feeling of his skin on my skin, the surprising strength of his long, lean fingers, the subtle roughness of the calluses on his fingertips. There is only the sight of the veins cording up the back of his hand and into his forearm, his skin a pale gold against my dark olive.
His grip shifts so his thumb moves over the pulse point on my wrist, rubbing slowly over that soft, vulnerable patch of skin. It’s such a small motion—he maynot even realize what he’s doing—but it wakes up the rest of my body again, sending currents of electricity running through my veins, spreading outward from where he’s touching me until my whole body is alert in a way it hasn’t been for ... years. In a way it hasn’t been since him.
Stupid girl. I’m actually holding my breath, hoping he’ll tell me that he feels it, too. That he couldn’t forget me, either. That it was real between us, all the important parts.
Wes clears his throat, dropping my hand. “I hope it goes without saying that what we’ve discussed here is confidential. It would jeopardize the case if you told anyone.”
I blink. Right. “Right,” I say out loud, nodding too vigorously to show I understand. “I won’t say anything to anyone.” I pull my hand up against my chest like it’s wounded, even though my heart is what feels the sting. “I really do have to get back to work.”
And I run away before I do something far, far worse.
Chapter 12
Wes
Ithink my conversation with Nina went pretty well, all things considered. As well as blowing your cover to the woman who broke your heart and jeopardized your careercango, that is.
Okay, scratch that. That’s my wounded ego talking, not how I really feel. What happened after Agnes—Nina—wasn’t her fault.Iwas the one who made the choice not to go to the prison riot that day, not to be at Big Tom’s side, not to solidify my place as his number-two guy. Afterward, there was a noticeable change in Tom’s demeanor toward me, and my handler deemed it necessary to extricate me before Big Tom could (violently) eject me himself. I could have gotten the information I needed from him weeks before; but instead, I’d dragged out my time in prison and was left with nothing.
I wasn’t fired for that, although maybe I should have been. And even though it wasn’t Nina’s fault that I failed the mission, it feels like a bad omen to be seeing her here now, during my riskiest undercover assignment yet. I have a track record of not being able to see a case clearly when she’s involved. Hell, I have a track record of not being able to see anything or anyone else in the fucking room when she’s involved.
Unfortunately, Morrie seems to be of the same opinion when I rendezvous with him in his room after the photoshoot and tell him what happened. “You didwhat?” he hisses, the vein in his forehead coming out like it always does whenhe’s pissed. Usually at me. It’s such a frequent occurrence that I’ve even given the vein its own nickname—Achilles. You know, ’cause of all the rage and stuff. (Yeah, I read epic poems on occasion. I’m cultured. Don’t let my commemorativeHouse of the Dragondinner plates fool you.)
“What choice did I have?” I protest. “She recognized me. She knew I was going by a fake name, and the last time she saw me, I was in prison with a neck tattoo that’s mysteriously disappeared. It was either tell her the truth or try to go the long-lost-secret-twin route, which almost never works.”
“I’m going to have to report this to the ASAC.” Morrie paces the length of the room, running a hand over his face. “She’s going to pull you from the case.”
“No, she won’t,” I say with a certainty I don’t feel, because, yeah, she might. But sheshouldn’t, and I need Morrie to see that, so he can help me convince the assistant special agent in charge. “I’ve already met all the other contestants. I’m in the cast photoshoot. If they pull me now, it’ll be hella suspicious and we’ll lose this route to Aaron Miller. At least this way we have a possibility of achieving our objective.”
Morrie pretends to pull out an invisible pad of paper and mimes writing on it with a pen. It’s a really annoying bit he does that for some reason he thinks is funny. For the record, it is not. I sigh. “What are you doing?”
“Writing down that genius speech you just gave me. ‘Hella suspicious.’ I can’t wait to report that back to Agent Decker.”
“Ha ha.” I pick up one of the pillows off the bed and toss it at him. He ducks, because his reflexes are amazing, even if his mime skills could use some work; the pillow hits the wall behind him, sliding to the floor. “I’m not wrong, though,” I persist. “You have to convince her.”
Retrieving the pillow, Morrie squishes it in his hands like a giant stress ball, his face pensive. “You think this girl can be trusted?”
I think of Nina, her blouse buttoned almost all the way up to her chin. Her big, beautiful, guileless eyes. The way her face always seems to catch the light, no matter where she’s standing in the room. I swallow. “She was training to be a nun the last time I saw her. So, yeah. I’d say she’s pretty salt of the earth.”
Morrie contorts the pillow some more. Poor thing. It’s never gonna go back to its original shape now. “She’d have to be vetted. Registered. Debriefed. On a need-to-know basis, but still. I suppose having a CI in the wardrobe departmentcouldbe useful.”
He’s coming around to the idea of Nina being a confidential informant. I can smell it. Doing my best to keep my tone nonchalant, I offer, “I could help with bringing her onboard. She knows me. Trusts me.”
As soon as I say the words, I can’t help but wince, remembering the way she completely froze up when I told her Cass had never been real, that all of it was a lie. It wasn’t, of course—not all of it, not to me. But her feelings on the subject were clear when I’d touched her wrist and she’d flinched like I was causing her physical pain. I swallow again. “Kind of.”
Morrie narrows his eyes at me. “No. Your only goal while you’re here is to do such a fucking fantastic job convincing Harmony Miller that you’re head over heels in love with her that she has no choice but to take you home to her creepy preacher daddy.” He straightens a little, smirking to himself. “You leave the pretty little ex-nun to me.”
Morrie’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Hell, a brother. So the flash of blind rage I feel at his insinuation takes me by surprise. I clench and unclench my fists, my jaw, basically anything in my body that can clench. (I’ll let you connect those dots yourself.) I draw in a deep, steadying breath and try my best to look unfazed.
I must not be very convincing, because Morrie arches an eyebrow at me. “You okay, Ackerman?”
“Gr-r-r-r-eat,” I say, drawing it out Tony the Tiger–style for some inexplicable reason. “Yabba dabba doo.”
“What?” a baffled Morrie asks.
“Better get going,” I say in lieu answering, picking up the discarded trapper hat that was part of my photoshoot costume off the bed. “Got some bonding to do with some lumber-giants. Someone already threw out the nickname Short Stack within the first five minutes of meeting me. So, gonna be a fun experience—great for my ego.”
