He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted, just for a moment, to be me. Or at least a part of me that . . .”
“That you wished you could hang on to.”
This man should be the sniper, with his precision. She shrugged again.
“And the things we talked about in Hunter Valley. And in Melbourne, at the penguin parade?” He held her gaze.
The penguins. Watching them waddle home in the darkness while Dakota held her hand. The conversation about home being wherever you want to come back to.
She looked at him—this man she’d suspected and trusted and fallen for, all at the same time. This man who’d nursed her through allergies and watched over her while she slept. This man she’d kissed like she meant it, because she had.
“I wasn’t playing you,” she said softly.
The words hung between them. Not a declaration of love. Not an apology that could fix what was broken. Just the truth—painful and inadequate and all she had to give. It was real, Bugsy.
Dakota’s jaw tightened. He nodded once—acknowledging, not forgiving. Then he simply walked away, leaving her standing there.
Alone. The way it should be.
FOURTEEN
The question wasn’t whether Dakota could work with her. He was a professional—he’d work with anyone the mission required.
The question was whether he could look at her without remembering everything he’d thought they were building, without wanting it back.
She was a spy. A trained operative. Everything he’d thought he knew about her—the hotel inspector, the grieving sister, the woman who’d kissed in a way that marked his soul—was a cover story, carefully constructed and professionally maintained.
Except, was it?
I wasn’t playing you.
He didn’t know what to believe. He just knew that everything ached, right down to his mitochondria.
The Harbour Bridge was beautiful at sunset—all that steel turned to gold by the dying light, the city skyline glittering beyond, water that looked like liquid fire. Dakota stood on the patio and felt none of it.
Behind him, through the glass doors, the safe house hummed with operational activity. Ham coordinating with Secret Service. West reviewing extraction routes. Skeet confirming radio equipment. The machinery of protection, grinding toward tomorrow.
Dakota had needed air, not sure what to do with his conversation with Jay—Lynx.
He needed to wipe her other name—not even her real name, he’d guess—from his brain.
Lynx. It felt right. Sneaky, beautiful, dangerous.
Focus.
The sliding door opened behind him. “Thought I’d find you out here.” Ham moved to stand beside him at the railing, looking out at the bridge. The sunset painted his face in shades of copper and gold.
Dakota didn’t respond. Just kept watching the water, the ferries, the light slowly bleeding from the sky.
“That woman,” Ham said after a moment. “Lynx. She was the one you were traveling with.”
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“You have feelings for her.”
