Reston Security was expanding fast and it sounded natural for Sam to say he needed a hand. But then Harry turned out to be more than just an extra pair of hands—he was an enormous asset to the company. He was better with computers than Sam, a goddamned genius actually, and he had more patience with dumb clients than Sam did, so he was seconded to the array of latest-generation computers in a quiet room off Sam’s office and to the Asshole Client Detail.
Harry tried looking nonchalant, bony shoulder pressed hard against the doorjamb for balance, but his legs were trembling.
Sam knew better than to protest. His brother had a head as hard as the titanium that held his hip, right thigh and left shoulder together.
Harry ragging on him was brand new, though. Maybe it meant he was healing some. He’d come back from a secret mission in Syria with barely a pulse, and had completely lost his sense of humor.
Sam and Mike were Harry’s only family, down in Harry’s file as the persons to contact in case of death. When Sam and Mike had flown to Ramstein to take him home, Harry had been more dead than alive.
Worse than the damage to his body had been the damage to his spirit. Like Sam and like Mike, Harry had come through a brutal childhood intact. Whatever had happened in Syria—and so far he wasn’t talking—had crushed his spirit.
So Harry taking the piss out of him was new and good.
Sam sat up, shuffled papers, wiped the smile off his face. “Wasn’t smiling,” he muttered. He rarely smiled. No one knew that better than his brother.
“Was, too.”
Sam looked up into his brother’s light brown eyes, as fierce as an eagle’s, and just as warm. “Was not.”
“Was, too.”
“Wasnot.” Sam’s jaw clenched at how childish they sounded. “Don’t you have work to do? Weren’t you supposed to prepare the McIntosh report?”
“Mmm.” A corner of Harry’s mouth lifted. “Did that last night, while you were having fun along the docks.”
A joking Harry was good, but there were limits. “It wasn’t fun,” Sam snapped.
Harry’s slight smile faded. He knew how heavily this two-week wait had weighed on Sam and he knew the reason why. Who knew how many girls were being hurt while Sam had to wait? “No,” Harry said soberly. “I know it wasn’t. I was just trying to get a rise out of you, God knows why. You’ve been walking around looking like the Grim Reaper lately.”
“Not anymore,” Sam said. “Job’s done. I notified the client, who’s already contacted the authorities. I’ll write up the report today. It’s over.”
“Christ.” Harry straightened. He put his crutches under his arms and hobbled into the room. “Wow, that’s…that’s great news. Did you get the evidence to back you up?”
“Damn straight,” Sam said with satisfaction. “Photos and digital recordings and even some paperwork. Put those fuckers away for the rest of their natural lives. Which I suspect will be cut tragically short by a shank between the ribs in the prison showers. Nobody likes child rapists.”
“Hey, man. Congrats. I’ll call Mike and we can go celebrate tonight. On me. Bonus on that sucker’ll keep us in tall corn for the next quarter.”
“Can’t.” Sam’s eyes slid to the computer monitor, staring into it. There was nothing there he had to see right now, but it kept his face away from Harry’s intelligent, perceptive eyes. “Busy tonight.”
“So cancel. The three of us need to celebrate.”
Sam didn’t share blood with Harry, or with Mike, but they were his brothers in every sense of the term. That didn’t mean he’d miss his shot at dinner out with Nicole Pearce for Harry or Mike. Tonight was off-limits.
“Can’t,” he said, bending his head over a piece of paper, pretending to scrutinize it like it was a peace treaty between warring tribes. “Not tonight.”
Harry jerked the paper out from under his hands and held it up. “Okay, I get it, you can’t talk because you’re way too busy with”—he glanced at the paper—“orders for paper and photocopy toner. Uh-huh. Okay, what’s going on tonight that’s so special?”
Sam glared at him. His very special Death Glare, guaranteed to terrify recruits.
Harry put his crutches to one side and carefully sat on the corner of the desk and looked at him, eyebrows lifted. Sam crossed his arms and set his jaw.
“Not talking, eh?” A corner of Harry’s mouth lifted, Harry body language for a full-out grin. “That means I’ll have to guess. Okay. I like guessing games. It’s obviously not work-related, or you’d have told me all about it, so we’re talking a date with a dame. And just as obviously that dame’s someone you don’t want to blow off, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that means it’s…” He snapped his fingers. “I know! That looker across the hall! The one you’ve been mooning over. Christ, how’d you swingthatone? Who’d you have to kill?”
Damn! Sam hated it that Harry was so smart. He hunkered down in his chair, knowing he couldn’t take Harry on. Harry’s bones were just now resetting, Sam couldn’t go breaking any new ones.
But, shit, he didn’t want to talk about this. He’d never been one to blab about his sex life, mostly because there’d never been much to talk about. He had sex—lots of it in fact, though lately, work had gotten in the way—but it was never with anyone special. The sex he had was mainly a way to scratch an itch, like eating when hungry. Who wanted to talk about food once you’d eaten your fill? Mostly, one woman was just like another. They satisfied an appetite, and that was about it.
But…Nicole Pearce was different. He couldn’t really get a handle on why, but there it was. And hewasn’ttalking about it.
