Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 10

  When I first saw Sloane tonight at the bar, the one-shoulder number in midnight blue hugging her curves, she took my breath away. Finding myself distracted with her for a few hours? That’s not my mission. But while I’m damaged goods, I’m not dead.

  Clenching my right hand, I relish the pops of my knuckles. Even if I can’t hear the sound, I can imagine it, and the sensation helps drive the inappropriate thoughts out of my mind. “It’s not out of the question. But that may not be as easy to sell as we’d hoped. She’s pretty pissed at me.”

  “Shit. I told Marina she couldn’t keep this from Sloane,” Clive says.

  “Your cousin has a decent right hook. If she were any taller, she might have done some damage.”

  The word laughter flashes on the screen in Austin’s green text, and damn. There aren’t many sounds I miss—at least not more than I miss simply being able to hear. But laughter? I blink hard against the burn of emotion rising from my throat to my cheeks to my eyes.

  It hits me so hard, I sink down onto the bed, take off my glasses, and mutter, “Need a minute.”

  I need a hell of a lot more than that, but leaving Sloane and Marina alone for much longer? Not an option.

  “Griff? Clive and Dax are on hold. It’s just the two of us. You okay?” Austin asks.

  “Fuck no, I’m not okay. This was a goddamn mistake, and you know it. Sloane doesn’t know about my limitations yet, but when Marina found out? That was a shitshow.” Shaking my head, I swallow my pride and clear my throat. “I’ll keep Sloane safe. You know I will. But for the love of God, send someone else to take over for me tomorrow. Someone with two good arms who can hear more than thunder and semi trucks. Please.”

  My voice cracks on the final word, another thing I can feel but will never hear again.

  “There’s no one else to send. I just recruited a former FBI agent out of Texas, but he’s recovering from a serious concussion and won’t be mission ready for another month. They’re doing a major remodel at Clive’s mom’s care home, and it was stressing her out to the point she was hospitalized. He can’t leave her. Ronan’s back in Ireland for his brother’s wedding. Tank is in Seattle training with Hidden Agenda for a week. Vasquez is on another assignment, and Ella’s on vacation. But dammit, Griff. I wouldn’t have sent you if I didn’t believe you were the best guy for the job.”

  Fuck. “Do what you can. Okay?”

  “I will. Gonna bring the others back on now.”

  My phone announces the return of the other two guys, and Dax’s name flashes on screen first.

  “I talked with Clive, and we think the best move is something between risky and dumb. I’ll send a cleaning crew in tomorrow morning posing as housekeeping. This shindig is a big fucking deal, and there’s no way the hotel—or Beauty and Style—would want a murder made public. Wren’s going to hack into the manager’s email. We can analyze his writing patterns and communicate with the event’s organizers so no one misses him. Family emergency, that sort of shit. Your cover story has you working for the Ulstrum Agency as a junior agent—that’s how you and Sloane met in the first place—so you can take over any day-to-day management tasks and it’ll give you an excuse to be with her 24x7.”

  They’re not going to let me out of this. “Fine. Once I talk to Sloane, I’m going back to Max’s room to record the scene.”

  Dax stops me, “Don’t. My guys will take video and send it to you. Wren’s scrubbing the security feeds so there’s no footage of the two of you coming or going. Cleaner that way.”

  “Will do.”

  Call Disconnected.

  Shit. I’m on my own. And if I fail? Sloane will pay the price.

  Sloane

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but if I’d waited until now, the closest help would still be eight hours away,” Marina says as she drags me to the cream-colored couch facing the balcony. “Sit. I’m going to turn on the kettle for more hot water. You’ve had a day.”

  “You can say that again.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out and peer at the screen.

  Unknown Number: You were warned, Sophiana. His death is on you.

  There’s a photo of Max with the text, and there’s so much blood, all I see is crimson—and his open, vacant eyes.

  Oh, God. A sob sticks in my throat, and Marina takes one look at me, runs to my bedroom door, and starts pounding on it.

  I can’t form the words to tell her to stop. That man? Griff? He can’t fix this, and if he tries, he’s going to end up just like Max.

  “What?” Griff says sharply. I don’t hear Marina’s reply, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s in front of me in only a couple of seconds, holding out his hand. “Phone.”

  “You know, barking orders isn’t the best way to endear yourself to me,” I choke out. “Neither is lying.”

  With a sigh, he sits next to me, takes off his glasses, and gently touches my jaw to get me to look at him. The intensity and pain in his blue eyes shock me. “Sloane, I didn’t lie. Exactly. I didn’t intend to disturb you at the bar. I was going to keep my distance, but you were upset and,” he shrugs, “I couldn’t just sit there.”

  “And at the party?”

  “Standard surveillance.” Griff rubs his right hand up and down his thigh, his left still tucked in his pocket. “Can I see your phone? Please?”

  Tapping in the unlock code, I pass him the device, and he swears under his breath. “Fuck.” Forwarding the message to a number in the States—Boston, I think—he adds a message.

  “Find out who sent Sloane this message and put a trace on the number - Griff”

  “Who did you just send that to?” I ask, staring at my fingers—which are tapping on my thighs so fast they’re practically a blur before looking back up at him—and he shakes his head. Anger swallows my fear, and I give him a hard stare. “No? You won’t tell me?”

  Dropping the phone next to me, he sighs, the kind of deep, whole body sigh that hints at a lifetime of weariness. “Sloane, I can’t hear. Much, anyway. If I’m not wearing my glasses, you have to look right at me if you expect me to read your lips.”

  “You’re deaf?” I shoot Marina a glance. “Your cousin sent a deaf mercenary to protect me?”

  “That’s not all,” Griff says, an edge to his tone. His shoulders slump unevenly until he grits his teeth and straightens.

  “Oh, great. You can’t be blind too. So what is it?” I know I’m not being rational. Or sensitive. Or even a halfway decent person. But I’m still too raw, too terrified to be myself.

  Griff pulls his left hand from his pocket and rests it on his thigh. His fingers open and close slowly, and I stare until I figure out what’s different. The words tumble free before I remember to turn to him, but I catch myself and start over.

  “You have a prosthetic hand.”

  “Arm.” He knocks on his elbow joint, and it’s decidedly not flesh and bone. “Mid-humerus amputation. Eight months ago. Same time I lost most of my hearing.”

  The change in his voice from earlier? It’s like he’s a totally different person. One who expects me to yell or cry or tell him to get his broken self out of my room.

  “Sloane?” Marina asks, then clears her throat and jerks her head to indicate I should follow her into my bedroom. “Can I have a minute?”

  It’s obvious Griff didn’t hear her, so I meet his gaze. “Marina wants a minute. Don’t…leave?”

  He huffs what might be a laugh. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for at least the next twenty-four hours. Go talk about me. I’m used to it. But do not go out on the balcony or open the drapes and stay away from the windows whenever you can.”

  The idea that someone would try to hurt me through the french doors makes me shudder, but I follow Marina into my bedroom. “I don’t think you need to shut the door,” I offer.

  “Oh, he can eavesdrop if he wants,” Marina says. “Those glasses? Clive told me they were cutting edge tech.”

  “Like…they can what? Help hi
m hear? Like a hearing aid?” Curiosity bleeds through the worst of the fear, and I cast a quick glance back at the handsome bodyguard sitting on the sofa with his back to me.

  He’s texting, and mutters something to himself that sounds a little like, “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  Marina shrugs. “No clue. I didn’t ask. I was ready to call Clive’s mom and pitch a shit fit when he introduced himself to me at the party, but then he pointed around the room and picked out every single person in the industry, down to being able to tell who was there for the money, who was just interested in banging a model, and which models were into one another.” She frowns, her sigh full of regret. “He also told me those three guys from Beauty and Style’s accounting department were making you uncomfortable. Clive knows his stuff. He wouldn’t have sent Griff if he didn’t think he was the right man for the job.” Marina won’t let go of my hands, and now that we’re mostly alone, her presence calms me enough to stare at the man in the main room.

  He’s on his feet now, closing every one of the drapes, checking the door twice, and then heading for the far wall, turning a knob on the Murphy bed Marina was going to use, then exposing a panel in the wall next to it.

  What the hell is he doing? After he enters a code on a keypad, the bed doesn’t pull down like it’s supposed to, it swings outward. Revealing an adjoining room.

  “Hey!” I shout, completely forgetting that he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Stalking after him, I touch his arm, and he whirls around, the look on his face one of barely controlled rage.

  It takes him a beat to get himself under control before he takes a deep breath. “Ground rules, Sloane. No sneaking up on me. If you need to get my attention and I’m not looking at you, stomp your foot. Clap. Slam a door. Something I can feel. Don’t grab me from behind. Until my injuries, I was a CIA field agent, and you don’t want to know what I could do if I thought you were a threat. Even now.”

  Taking a step back, I nod. “Sorry. I’m not used to being around someone who can’t hear.”

  “That makes two of us,” he says with a half smile—one that transforms his face completely. This is the man from the bar. The one who gave me his handkerchief and tried to make me feel better. “I know it’s late. And that picture couldn’t have been easy to look at. But we need to talk while everything’s still fresh in your mind.”

  The picture. Of Max’s body. Max’s dead body.

  Whatever self-preservation mechanism allowed me to function the past fifteen minutes gives up, and my chest tightens, my breath catching in my throat. “Max…they…shit. I can’t…”

  Griff wraps an arm around my waist and presses his other hand—the real one based on how warm it is—just above my chest. “Count for me. Backwards from forty-seven.”

  “Forty-seven?” The odd number surprises me, but he repeats the order, this time with more force behind his words.

  “Count. Now.”

  “F-forty-seven. Forty-s-six. Forty…shit. Forty-five. Forty-four. Forty-three. Wow. No one’s ever been able to help me stop a panic attack this quickly before.”

  “Starting from a random number gives your brain something to focus on,” he says quietly. “Take another couple of deep breaths for me.”

  I do, feeling his palm rise and fall with my chest, and it’s so comforting, I don’t want him to let me go. But if we’re going to talk about everything, I have to take a Xanax or this is going to happen again and again. “I need a pill.” Searching for my best friend, I meet her gaze, and she nods.

  “On it.”

  “What do you take? How much, and when?” Griff hasn’t released me yet, and I take comfort in his warmth and the solid feel of his body against mine, even if I do think he’s being a little intrusive with all the questions.

  “That’s personal.”

  “Nothing’s personal anymore. Not until we know you’re safe.” He shifts, taking my hand and leading me back to the couch. After I sink down onto the cushions, he snags a silky throw from the back of the sofa and drapes it around my shoulders. “Get comfortable, take your pill, and focus on your breathing. I need my tablet and a couple of ibuprofen, then I’ll explain everything.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Griff

  My shoulders ache, and my left arm—or what’s left of it anyway—feels like I jammed it into a light socket. I’d kill to take my prosthetic off, but Sloane barely trusts me as it is. Seeing me even more damaged? Not happening. Not yet.

  With my tablet tucked under my arm, I snag a bottle of water from the ice bucket on the bar. This hotel is the nicest I’ve ever stayed in. Despite what the recruitment brochures claim, the life of an undercover CIA agent is not glamorous. We spend more time trapped in dank, dark spaces staring at a computer or video surveillance screen, in hot, sweaty cramped rooms waiting for our informants to show up, and catching a few hours sleep sitting up in a vehicle than we do in swanky hotels—or our own beds.

  Pausing at the open door between our two rooms, I study the woman I held in my arms just a few minutes ago. Marina hands her a small plastic case and then pats her shoulder. Meds. But Sloane barely acknowledges her best friend. Shock has set in, and dammit. I shouldn’t have left her alone. She was still verbal when I left, and in the five minutes it took me to shed my tuxedo jacket and tie, she shut down.

  “What does she take?” I ask Marina.

  Clive’s cousin leans in, apparently forgetting I don’t care how loud her voice is. “Xanax for panic attacks. Zoloft daily. But she needs to eat something.”

  “Can you order room service? Whatever you think she’ll eat.”

  “You want anything? I need a piece of cake the size of Manhattan.”

  My stomach rumbles—or feels like it does—and shit. I haven’t eaten since the tiny breakfast sandwich SwissAir offered before we landed and a single puff pastry at the party. “I’d kill for a club sandwich or a burger. Anything, really.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I don’t need to…leave or anything, right?” Marina’s lips curve into a frown. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

  “Emotional overload. And no. You don’t need to leave. She needs you. But from now until this is over, I’m staying here with her. Wren hacked the hotel reservation system so I’m listed as the second guest in this room and you’re staying next door.”

  “What?” Sloane asks.

  I programmed her voice into my phone after I talked to her in the bar, and her question appears in red text across the lenses of my glasses.

  Skirting the couch, I take a seat next to her and hold her watery gaze. With every blink, a hint of brown appears around her blue irises. “You wear contacts? Your file didn’t mention corrective lenses.”

  She doesn’t expect the question and shakes her head. “My file?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m CIA. For a little longer anyway. And the guys I work for? They don’t take jobs unless they run a full background check on the client. I memorized just about everything in your file on the flight from Boston. And I know at least part of what’s in there is a bald-faced lie.”

  Sloane jerks back, and if I could kick myself, I would. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m not accusing you of lying. I have a pretty good idea why your file’s full of half-truths and fairy tales. But now that I’m here and we’ve seen how serious this is…I need you to tell me the truth. All of it.”

  A few tears escape her lower lids, and she swipes them away with my handkerchief. The sight of it, the dark blue stitching all around the edges, gives me a strange warm feeling deep inside.

  Nodding at the pill case, I start with a simpler question. “Did you take what you needed?”

  She flinches and whips her head around as the word Knocking flashes across my glasses.

  “Don’t answer it,” I say sharply, stopping Marina in her tracks.

  “But you told me to order room service—”

  “I know. Doesn’t mean you throw open the door for just anyone.” What I wouldn’t give for my Sig
right now. Dax had a pistol, ammo, a shoulder harness, and various other tools and weapons waiting for me when I checked in, but the gun is a last resort. One-handed shooting isn’t half as reliable as the movies and TV make it out to be.

  Dipping my right hand into my pocket, I slide my fingers through a set of brass knuckles. My cross is pretty damn effective, but I’ll take whatever extra power I can muster.

  I can feel Sloane and Marina watching me as I check the peephole and close my prosthetic hand around the knob. “Who is it?” I call.

  “Room service, Mr. Griffin.”

  Opening the door, I offer the uniformed bellhop a tight smile. “I’ll take it from here, thanks.” He nods, and I ease the rolling cart into the room before shedding the brass knuckles and pulling a ten franc note from my pocket instead. “For your trouble, mate.”

  Marina takes over as soon as the door closes, setting a tall glass of thick green liquid in front of Sloane, my club sandwich and fries on the table next to it, and cradling her own plate like it’s a slice of heaven rather than simply chocolate cake.

  “Sloane, you need to eat,” I say when I’ve double-checked the locks and joined her on the couch again. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look any smaller, but somehow, she’s managed to wedge her body into a ball in the corner of the sofa. She doesn’t react, and I glance over at Marina for help.

  “You try getting a model to eat when she doesn’t want to.”

  Snagging a french fry, I offer it to her, and she shakes her head. “No salt before a press conference.”

  Is it my imagination? Or does she look at the fry like it’s the only thing she wants in this entire world?

  I touch her arm so she’ll turn toward me. “The first time I saw a dead body out in the field, I puked on my SFO’s shoes.”

  “SFO?” she asks.

  “Senior Field Officer. My boss at the CIA. I was a junior officer, working in Afghanistan, and the Taliban killed one of our informants.”

  “How long were you CIA?” Sloane reaches for the smoothie and takes a single sip. It’s a start.