Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Read online

  “Almost ten years. Still am, technically. Though, I don’t expect I will be for long after this op.” A little wrinkle appears between her perfectly plucked blond brows, and I rush to explain, hoping she’ll relax, at least a little. “This isn’t exactly on the books. And what we’re about to do? Very not legal.”

  “What are we about to do?”

  “Cover up your manager’s death. Or at least not report it for a while. Find the asshole who’s stalking you. Make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again.”

  She sniffles—I think—and reaches for the small plastic case on the table before withdrawing a single white pill. “These are Xanax. I take one before a lot of my shoots, and whenever I feel a panic attack coming on. The blue ones on the other side are Zoloft, and I take one of those every night at bedtime.”

  I file that information away, hoping I won’t need it, but I hate how defeated she looks. “Sloane, I don’t care if you need meds to get you through some of this shit. Or even everyday life. There’s no shame in it.”

  “You don’t spend your time with photographers yelling at you and documenting your every move,” she says, washing down one of the pills with a few sips of her smoothie. “And you haven’t seen the worst of the side effects.” Her lips roll together, she rubs her jaw absently, and her shoulders heave. “Shit. Until now.”

  “What? The nervous tics? Those are caused by your meds? I thought it was just stress.”

  “Oh, God. You noticed. When? At the bar?”

  “Yeah. And before you went up to the party.”

  “Tardive dyskinesia.” Sloane’s fingers dance across her thighs until she shoves her hands under her legs. “I can control it for short periods of time. But stress makes it worse. I need to switch my meds, but I have to titrate down off of Zoloft, and when I do, I’ll have vertigo and dizzy spells for a couple of weeks. Not something I can do while working.”

  Shit. She’s so matter-of-fact, so calm. I thought getting her to talk to me would help, but now, I’m not so sure.

  “I don’t know shit about your job, Sloane. But how much have you eaten today? Total. Be honest.”

  “A handful of strawberries. Iced tea. A banana. Coffee. I hate international travel.”

  “You’re not the only one.” I toss back half the bottle of water and a couple more fries, Sloane’s gaze following my every movement. “You can have whatever you want off my plate. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Sloane smiles, and though it’s weak—weary even—the light it brings to her face is something I want to see more of.

  But before that can happen, we have to get through the bad stuff first.

  “One french fry. It’s been months since I let myself have carbs.”

  She ate three. And half the smoothie. No one said a word while we finished the food, and Marina used the suite’s electric kettle to make a big pot of chamomile tea. She’s perched in an armchair a few feet away, hovering like a mother hen. Her nervous energy isn’t doing a damn thing for Sloane’s peace of mind, but then again…after what she saw? Would anything?

  “I need you to respond to that text message,” I say after setting the room service tray back outside the door and returning to the couch.

  “What?” Her shoulders hike halfway up to her ears, and she starts chewing on her lip again. “I can’t.”

  Covering her hand with mine, I hold her gaze. “Yes. You can. You have to. Volkov—or whoever he’s working with—wouldn’t have sent the photo of Max if he’d been certain you’d seen the body. This is good news. It makes it a hell of a lot easier for us to keep Max’s death quiet.”

  She jerks her hand away. “Keep it quiet? Why? He’s dead! We have to call the police.” A trio of fresh tears tumble from her eyes, and she reaches for the handkerchief again. I should have brought her a fresh one.

  “No, we don’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “The call I made earlier? Clive’s boss—Dax—is going to send a couple of cleaners posing as housekeeping to Max’s room tomorrow. They’ll send me video of the room so we can piece together what happened and when. But their main purpose? To make it look like housekeeping discovered the body in the morning, and the hotel covered it up to avoid any bad press for the event. A place this swanky? They’re not going to want the news getting wind of a murder on the premises. I can’t imagine Beauty and Style would be happy about that either.”

  “Dimitri knows I told Max about the blackmail. Max texted me. Why wouldn’t I go to his room?”

  “Because your boyfriend showed up and kept you thoroughly distracted.”

  Sloane sits up straight, her eyes narrowed. “Boyfriend? What are you talking about?”

  “My cover story.” With a quick tap to the tablet screen, I bring up the file Austin, Clive, and Wren worked up for me. “Officially, my name is Harry Griffin—nickname Griff—and I work for the Ulstrum Agency as a junior agent. That’s how we met, a little over a month ago.” Swiping to the next page, I click the link to her Instagram. “We altered two of the photos you posted over the past couple of weeks to show me in the background.”

  “Oh my God. How do you even know how to do this stuff?” She pulls out her phone and checks her account, zooming in on the most recent photo Wren swapped out—one of her on the beach in San Diego. Somehow, Austin’s graphics guy managed to put me in a t-shirt and board shorts in the background, and even got the details of my prosthetic arm right. It’s blurry, but it’s most definitely me.

  “Austin—my boss—has a kick ass designer on the payroll. How do you think I got a fake passport, driver’s license, and my own social media accounts in less than a day? I should be tagged in that photo of yours.”

  Hell, I haven’t even browsed my own fake Instagram yet, so I peer over Sloane’s shoulder while she scrolls through Harry’s feed. Pictures from the Ulstrum Agency’s New York City office, random dogs at Central Park, latte art, me smiling behind a couple different pairs of Dax’s special glasses. And a shot I took from the window of the plane as we were about to touch down in Zurich.

  Landing in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, about to meet up with my girl and see her dream come true. #blessed

  “Your girl? I’m thirty-five years old. That is not a girl,” Sloane says, her shoulders jerking in what I assume is a huff.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. This would have gone so much better if she’d been in on the planning from the beginning. But no. Rather than glare at Marina, I take Sloane’s hand in a futile attempt to calm her down. “Your brand new boyfriend of less than a month is gushing over you, and in order to keep you safe, he has to be possessive and overprotective.”

  She stiffens. “I’m in this mess because when I was eighteen, I made one mistake—one huge, awful mistake—and a possessive, evil mudak made me do things I never want to speak about again! I put all that behind me after another man took control of my entire life. This isn’t the face I was born with. The eyes. The voice. What’s in my file? Those lies? They are all I have in this world, and I will not let another man take them away from me!”

  Marina gets to her feet, but I wave her off and scoot closer to Sloane, taking her hands in both of mine. I expect her to flinch at the feel of my prosthetic, but she doesn’t, tightening her grip on my fingers like she’s desperate for an anchor in this storm. What she doesn’t know? Her touch is anchoring me.

  “Listen to me, sweetheart. No one is going to take anything away from you. I won’t let them. I can’t promise you’re going to like my plan, and despite how shitty this sounds, I don’t care. This cover story is going to keep you safe because it means I’ll be by your side until we know the threat’s neutralized. And Volkov will be neutralized. But if you want, we can have a very public fight tomorrow where you tell me in no uncertain terms to never call you ‘my girl’ again.”

  “Promise?” she asks.

  “You can even throw a glass of water in my face.” I try for a smile, and she stifles a laugh. “Just make sure I take off my glasses fi
rst.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sloane

  By the time I stagger into the bedroom and close the door, it’s after midnight. Griff—whose real name is Griffin Hargrove, not too far off from his cover identity—is hard to read.

  He bounces between prickly and almost angry to understanding and caring in ways I desperately need. When he held my hands, I expected his prosthetic to be cold. Hard. But it wasn’t. And when I squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back.

  He kept rubbing his left shoulder, and I wish I knew him well enough to ask him if he’s in pain. What did he say? He was injured less than a year ago? I can’t remember. So much of tonight is a blur.

  Changing into a t-shirt, I make sure the curtains are drawn before going through my nightly routine. Makeup removal, a steam treatment with a mint tea bag in a bowl of hot water, moisturizer, and finally, a cold water rinse to counteract all my tears and the salt from the french fries before climbing into bed.

  The quiet knock makes my heart race, and I struggle to untangle my legs from the sheets. “Just a minute.”

  As I reach for the knob, Griff calls, “Sloane? I need you to open the door.”

  “What is it?” I ask when there’s nothing but two feet of space between us. And, oh my. No more tuxedo, just a t-shirt that strains across his hard chest and a pair of loose shorts. Gray metal extends from the end of his sleeve to the hinge of his elbow and continues down his forearm to just above his wrist. His hand looks almost lifelike, though it’s a little lighter than the rest of his skin.

  Shit. I’m staring.

  Forcing my gaze to meet his, I clear my throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Griff offers me a brief, wry smile. “You can look. We’re supposed to be dating. Pretty sure if that were true, you’d have seen a lot more of me by now.” He has all the right words, but his tone? The way he angles his body so the left side is farther away from me? He’s uncomfortable with anyone seeing him like this.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Sometimes.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but at the same time, his lips press together and his eyes crinkle slightly until he sighs. “Yes. It was a long day. Usually I don’t wear the prosthetic more than eight hours at a time. I’m coming up on…nineteen at this point.”

  “Oh. You don’t have to…for me.” For a moment, neither of us speak, and Griff studies me like he can’t figure me out, and I rush to fill the awkward silence. “Everyone judges me for how I look. Three years ago, I came down with the flu when I was in Mexico for a swimsuit spread. For two straight days, I could not stop throwing up. A photographer caught me accepting a room service tray looking like death. The rumors were awful. ‘Has Sloane Sanders given up? Is she pregnant? Having weight loss surgery?’ It was awful.”

  “No one should have to live like that,” he says.

  I run nervous fingers through my hair, suddenly realizing I’m only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “It’s part of the life. And why I want out. I have eight months left on my contract. After that, I can disappear somewhere Dimitri can never find me. And start eating carbs again.”

  I try for a smile, but the sound Griff makes is almost a growl. Goosebumps flare along my arms, and the way he looks at me? I feel seen in a way I never have before. “My job is to make sure you don’t have to disappear. Ever.”

  “You don’t know Dimitri.” I want to look away, but I can’t. Not if I expect him to be able to understand me. A fresh tear balances on my lashes, and Griff reaches up and brushes it away.

  “The brown suits you,” he says quietly.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes.” His hand is still cupping my cheek, and the touch sends sparks all the way down to my toes. “Any time you want to leave the blue behind…”

  “I can’t. My contract…”

  Griff balls his hand into a fist and shoves it into his pocket. “If you want that contract terminated tomorrow, say the word. It’s so far outside the mission parameters, it won’t be easy, but dammit, Sloane. No one should have to hide who they are from the whole world.”

  “I do,” I whisper and start to close the door. If we continue this conversation any longer, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Like admitting my real name.

  “Wait.” He blocks the door with his left arm, the metal making a solid thunk against the wood, and holds out his other hand, a small device no bigger than a quarter in his palm. “Keep this with you at all times. It’s linked to my watch, my phone, and a device I put under my pillow at night. If anything happens, if someone threatens you or tries to break in or if you’re just alone in this room and need me, I can’t hear you if you call my name. But if you press this, I’ll come for you. Wherever you are.”

  It’s solid and warm, and I run my fingers over the small depression in the center.

  “Try it now.” Griff’s stare is so intense, I shift from foot to foot, but press down on the device. A second later, a subtle buzz comes from his wrist, and he shows me his watch face.

  Sloane 911

  “Get some sleep,” he says. “Marina took the adjoining room, and she has her own panic button. I’ll be on the couch.”

  “The couch? There’s a perfectly good bed—”

  “Can’t use the Murphy bed without making it damn near impossible for me to get to Marina if anyone tries to break in. Just…don’t lock this door, okay? I have to be able to get to you.”

  The idea that someone would break in while I sleep—here, so far from home—makes me shudder, and I glance at the curtained balcony doors.

  “Hey.” His warm fingers wrap around my elbow, and then I’m shaking against him, his arms around me. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Sloane. I know I’m not…what you expected. The idea of a guy as messed up as I am keeping you safe is…ridiculous. I asked Austin to send someone else, and I still hope he will. But until then…”

  “I don’t want anyone else.” The words escape before I can figure out why I feel this way, and since my chin is resting on his right shoulder, he can’t hear me. But it’s the truth.

  “Get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Griff smooths a hand over my hair, and the gesture is so tender, I can’t manage a response until he’s heading for the couch, and by then, it’s too late.

  Griff

  I wait until Sloane shuts her door before closing myself in the second bathroom and pulling off my t-shirt. I wasn’t thinking when I knocked. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve had a clear thought since seeing her manager’s dead body—and her reaction to it. But I didn’t remember the panic buttons until I told Marina to take the bed in the adjoining room. And then realized I couldn’t hear either woman if they screamed.

  Thank fuck Austin and Dax are used to this sort of shit.

  But now that I’m alone, I can let my arm breathe and lessen the strain on my shoulder.

  Rolling down the sleeve that runs from just above my elbow to my shoulder, I blow out a breath. The cool air feels like heaven, even though I still have the arm and the liner in place.

  “You’re lucky, Griff. You have enough of your upper arm that you don’t need to worry about a harness unless you’re planning on carrying heavy loads.”

  JoAnn’s overly perky face flashes behind my eyelids with each blink. Going into an unknown situation, I couldn’t be certain what I’d have to deal with, so I snapped the harness into place before I dressed for the party tonight. It’s not all that different than the harness I wore for my Sig, except it attaches to my arm socket with industrial-strength snaps.

  Suction and friction—along with the sleeve—keep the socket in place, and I tug on the liner to break the seal, then remove the arm and set it in its case.

  My arm throbs, and I run the water as cold as it’ll go before thrusting the residual limb under the faucet. Hissing out a breath as I let the icy flow soothe the aches and pains, I rest my head against the mirror and close my eyes.

  Every time I get close to Sloane, there’s a spark unlike
any I’ve ever felt before. Does she feel it too? Or am I so desperate for human connection that I’m imagining the whole damn thing?

  Jet lag—along with my racing mind—conspire against me when I lie down and try to sleep, so I prop my tablet on my bent knees and review her file yet again.

  It’s perfect. On paper. Elementary and high school records, a few community college classes, summer jobs at a beauty salon, then waiting tables. But one of the first lessons I learned at the Farm—a CIA training facility for elite undercover agents—is that anything that looks perfect is suspect.

  She’s so young in the first headshots and the press release the Ulstrum Agency sent out when they signed her. Twenty years old, thin as a rail. Only the barest hint of curves. Her eyes though…those deep blue eyes full of pain give her away.

  Bringing up my email, I message the rest of the team back in the States hoping for some word on Dimitri Volkov’s location.

  In under five minutes, a chat window pops up.

  Wren: Got a couple of minutes?

  Griff: Not sleeping. Got all the time in the world.

  Wren: Volkov got out of prison six weeks ago. He made every single meeting with his parole officer until last Monday. Then he went dark. But get this—there are no warrants out for his arrest.

  Griff: Someone in law enforcement is helping him. Any idea what he’s been doing since he got out? Besides disappearing?

  Wren: When he was arrested for procurement—that’s a terrible term for what he did, by the way—eight girls entered the system in Philadelphia. Sloane wasn’t one of them. Four testified against Volkov in exchange for asylum; the other four were either underage or flat-out refused.

  Griff: Not uncommon for trafficking victims. Worked a couple of cases in Afghanistan years ago. The assholes in control convince them if they say a single word, not only will they die, but their families will too.

  Wren: Volkov is making good on those threats. One of the girls OD’d on heroin six months after the trial. But the other three? They died in the past month. All home invasions. One in Kansas, one in Spokane, and the last in Orlando.