Rogue Officer: A Protector Romantic Suspense Standalone (Gone Rogue) Page 13

  Fuck. I didn’t know how much I missed being touched by someone outside of the medical field. Even JoAnn, who has a wicked sense of humor when she’s not mad at me, never touched my hand or arm with anything but clinical precision.

  Sloane touches me like I’m real. Like all of me is real.

  I move each finger in turn, and when she traces a line across my palm, I gently close the hand so I can capture hers.

  “I didn’t expect…I thought it would be cold.” She doesn’t pull away, and shit. The urge to do more than hold her hand? I don’t know how much longer I can resist it.

  “The titanium conducts heat from my arm. It’s not magic. Or intentional. Helps me feel a little less like a robot, though.” I force a chuckle as I turn away and lock the case, then catch sight of movement in my periphery. Dammit. I should have put on my glasses.

  Marina stands in the doorway, her mouth hanging half open. Great. Why didn’t I bring a shirt with me?

  Because you wanted Sloane to see you.

  Hunching my shoulders, I pick up the case, hoping it doesn’t look like I’m fleeing the room—even though that’s exactly what I plan on doing—until Sloane touches my right arm. She’s laughing, and suddenly, I don’t feel quite as small. “You didn’t hear her. Marina just said, ‘Hello, muscles.’”

  When I turn back around, the raven-haired stylist levels me with a stern gaze. “Do I have to chaperone the two of you?”

  “We’re dating. Cover story, remember? Let it slip to someone today that you walked in on us kissing or half naked and Sloane threw a pillow at you or something. It’ll help sell the act.”

  “Um, sure. Sloane? I need to be downstairs in an hour to handle the makeup for the other models. So I need you ready for me in fifteen minutes, okay?”

  She must agree, because Marina grins. “Perfect. We’ll do it in the main room. Better light out there.”

  “Wait.” Relinquishing my hold on the case, I take a couple of steps back so both women are more or less within my line of sight. “Marina, anyone at the party last night is going to know you and Sloane are close. Whenever you go anywhere, you take your panic button with you. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a hundred other people. That button stays hidden somewhere you can get to it.”

  The color drains from Marina’s cheeks, and Sloane brushes by me to take her friend by the shoulders. At the last minute she angles them both so I can see her lips. “Griff’s right. If they got to Max, they could get to you, and I can’t lose you.” Turning back to me, she chews on her lip for a moment, and her anxiety bleeds through her normally serene expression. “I don’t suppose you have a brother who could pretend to be Marina’s fake boyfriend?”

  “No. But I can call my boss and see if they can find someone local. Even a rent-a-cop would be better than no protection.”

  “Please?”

  There are moments Sloane looks so vulnerable. So desperate. If I could give her the world, I would. In a heartbeat. Just to see her relaxed and happy again. Because right now? She’s wound so tight, one more turn and she’ll snap like a guitar string. “I need to call in before we leave for the press conference. We’ll get someone.”

  Sloane’s shoulders heave as she blows out a breath and drapes her arm around Marina’s shoulders. “Until then, you have to be careful. Okay?”

  Marina nods, then ducks out of Sloane’s grip. Picking up the case, I head for the door so I can give Sloane space to finish getting ready, but she stops me, her hand flat over my heart. “Stay for a minute?”

  “Sure.” I don’t expect her to close the door, or how intimate it feels to be alone with her after what we just shared. “What do you need?”

  Her fingers tremble against my skin, and this close, I can feel her breath catch in her throat. “If we’re dating, we’ll need to kiss. Right?”

  “Yeah.” Half the blood in my body heads south, and my mouth goes dry. “Why?”

  “I haven’t kissed anyone in…a long time. I don’t want our first kiss to be in public.” Her cheeks are on fire now, and she won’t meet my gaze. The case hits the floor with a thud I can feel through the soles of my feet, and I slide my left arm around her back.

  My other hand, the one that’s still flesh and bone, tangles in her silky blond hair. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall for this woman, and that cannot happen. But fuck. She smells like the tropics, and her gentle curves mold to my body in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  “Is this okay?” I whisper.

  Her lips brush mine. Soft. Hesitant. She’s about to pull away when I kiss her back. The slight rumble in my chest surprises me, but damn. She tastes like fresh mint, and when I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, she gasps, opening for me.

  If there were an ounce of blood left north of my waist, I’d stop. Let her go. But I can’t, and when she figures out how to tangle her tongue with mine, white hot need shoots through me.

  I’m hard as a rock in seconds, and though I could kiss this woman for days, I force myself to let her go and pull away.

  Her brown eyes are dazed, unfocused, and she grabs my arm to steady herself, keeping me close enough she’s going to notice my dick straining against the gray linen any minute now. “You okay, sweetheart?”

  “Wow.”

  “Is that a yes?” Ducking my head slightly so I can meet her gaze, I offer her an encouraging smile. “I know this isn’t real, Sloane. But I don’t think anyone in the press will suspect a thing. Not if we kiss like that every time.”

  A flicker of…something…ignites in her eyes. Passion, if I’m not mistaken. But why? Does she feel this—whatever this is—between us as strongly as I do?

  Her fingers are warm on my prosthetic hand, and she squeezes gently. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sloane

  Alone, I brush my fingers over my tingling lips. Oh, my God. That was so much more than just a kiss. It was my first kiss. Something Griff can never find out. He wouldn’t believe me. And then he’d ask questions. Questions I don’t want to answer.

  All the men who used me? They showed no tenderness. I was nothing to them. Sometimes, one would slobber over my neck, but there was no true intimacy. No tenderness.

  With Griff, I felt both.

  “I know this isn’t real, Sloane.”

  So do I. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing it were. He believes he’s too damaged, but all I see is a man who survived. Who’s stronger than he knows, and more understanding than I deserve.

  The rest of my beauty routine passes in a blur. Memories of that kiss—that perfect, all-consuming kiss—distract me, and when I’m done, I have no idea how much serum, moisturizer, or eye cream actually made it onto my face.

  At least I’d finished drying my hair before he’d knocked, determination in the set of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze.

  Shit. Contacts! I almost forgot them. Popping open the case, I stare down at the blue monstrosities. I hate them. Despise them, even. They’re the one material thing that represents every sacrifice I made, every bad decision that brought me to this moment.

  My vision blurs, and I blink hard until the lenses settle, my memories carrying me back to the moment I signed fifteen years of my life away.

  “We have to change as much of you as possible,” Max says. “Lighten your hair, give you a new nose, a smaller chin, higher cheekbones. And your eyes. What do you think about blue?”

  “I like blue.” I’m so out of it. Shaking, my t-shirt and fleece pants drenched with sweat, throwing up every few hours. It’s been a week since my last fix. A week since Max checked me into this expensive rehab facility. A week since I feared for my life. But it’s also been a week since I’ve been outside. A week since I made any of my own decisions. A week since I gave up my name. A week of wondering if I did the right thing.

  “Stop it,” I tell my reflection in the mirror over the marble sink. “You made your choices, and now you have to live wi
th them.”

  Wishing my life were different? It’s no use. So often, I wonder what I’d look like now if I’d turned Max down. Would I still be alive?

  Doubtful. Heroin doesn’t promise it will grow old with you. It just takes away the pain until it sucks out every ounce of your life that’s left.

  Would Max still be alive?

  Yes. Most definitely.

  My eyes start to burn, and I paw through the bag of toiletries until I find my eye drops.

  You cannot cry, Sloane. The press will eat you alive if they suspect you’re on the edge.

  Desperate for a distraction, I lick my lips, tasting Griff. The only question running through my mind now?

  Did he enjoy that kiss as much as I did?

  Every moment I spend with him, I want more. He hasn’t pushed me to tell him everything, even though I think he wants to. He’s smart. He’s probably figured it all out anyway. But if he’s put all the puzzle pieces of my past together, he hasn’t let it show. Not once.

  The doctors at rehab? They knew. And though they were all nice, I could see the pity in their eyes every time they looked at me.

  Finding a pair of luxurious slippers in the closet, I let the cushioned memory foam soles carry me to the main room. Marina pushed the desk in front of the balcony doors, set up her makeup mirror, and spread out her tools—brushes, sponges, tissues, and Q-tips—in precise order. She’s tapping her foot, waiting for me.

  “I was about ready to come get you,” she says, glancing at her phone. “You are always my priority sweetie, but I have three other models to take care of for this presser.”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I had problems with my contact lenses.” With a sigh, I perch on the edge of the chair and let Marina snap a hairdresser’s drape around my neck, then tuck oil-absorbing tissue paper between the collar and my skin.

  Griff, who’s sitting on the couch a few feet away, meets my gaze in the mirror. “I’ll miss the brown. It suits you.”

  Before I can reply, Marina dots concealer under my eyes, then picks up a makeup sponge. But a subtle buzzing startles me just as she starts to blot, and I end up with a streak of concealer along my temple. “Stay still,” she hisses. “Or this is going to take forever!”

  “Austin, I’m going to put you on speaker,” Griff says. “Sloane and Marina are in the room with me.”

  “Won’t that make it harder for you—?” I ask.

  “The software still picks up everything.” He shows me his tablet, where Austin’s greeting appears in bright green text. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”

  “Sweetheart?” Marina laughs, blotting away the smear of concealer. “You’re really trying to sell it, aren’t you?”

  Griff shoots her a look I can’t read, and over the speaker, Austin clears his throat. “If he doesn’t ‘sell it,’ he’s not doing his job and you and Sloane are in a hell of a lot more danger.”

  “Sorry,” Marina says, turning her focus to the various shades of foundation in her kit. “This is just weird for me.”

  And it’s not for me?

  As much as I want to snap at Marina, she starts dabbing foundation along my chin—probably on purpose. But I lock eyes with Griff, and there’s that understanding again. Along with the promise that everything’s going to be okay.

  “Where’s the video from Max’s room?” Griff asks. “You arranged things with housekeeping, right?”

  “Civilian life hasn’t made me that sloppy,” Austin mutters. “But I had to pay off half a dozen local officials to get Max’s body to the morgue without raising any red flags. Sending the footage to your tablet now. I scanned it, and there’s not much to see. No obvious defensive wounds, not a single piece of furniture out of place. Autopsy results will take at least twenty-four hours.”

  The details—or lack of them—about Max’s death make my stomach churn, and I drum my fingers along my thighs while chewing on my lower lip. Marina shoots me a pointed glance, and I nod. I will definitely need a Xanax before the press conference.

  “Shit. Fibers? Prints? Anything?” Griff runs his right hand through his brown hair, and the tousled strands fall across his forehead in a way that makes me want to touch them—and him.

  “Nope. This guy’s a pro. But his tech skills are nothing compared to Wren’s. He erased any footage of him entering and existing Max’s room, but Wren found the splices.”

  Griff lowers his voice, but if he thinks I can’t hear him, he’s very wrong. “Time of death?”

  “Sometime between 19:33 and 19:49,” Austin replies.

  I jerk away from Marina’s touch and twist so I’m facing Griff. I don’t care if his glasses or tablet will pick up my words. I need to see him—without a mirror between us. Or maybe…I need him to see me. “He died less than fifteen minutes after he left the bar. That means—”

  He nods. “The killer was probably watching you the whole time.”

  Griff

  The look on Sloane’s face? Shit. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Or take the call from Austin in another room?

  Marina spins Sloane’s chair back around, and fuck. All I want to do is take her in my arms and tell her everything will be okay. Instead, I can’t touch her, can’t reassure her, and have to watch her eyes fill with tears and Marina chastise her and then wick them away with a tissue.

  “Griff? Are you still there?” Austin asks.

  “Yeah. Listen, Marina is responsible for three other models during this junket. She’s going to be out of pocket for at least a couple of hours every day, and I can’t be in two places at once. Can you check with Dax and see if he knows anyone local who could provide some backup?”

  “I’ll make some calls.”

  Sloane mouths, “Thank you,” in the mirror, and even Marina looks relieved.

  “Appreciate it. I don’t suppose Wren’s had any luck with facial recognition?” Second Sight’s hacker is a fucking genius from what I’ve seen so far, and supposedly another one of Dax’s Special Forces buddies out in Seattle is just as good as she is.

  The speech to text software displays the words heavy sigh on the screen. “Not yet. Whoever this guy is, she can’t match him to any of Dimitri Volkov’s known associates.”

  “Try searching for Rodney Carriger,” Sloane says. She spells his last name but won’t meet my gaze in the mirror.

  “Who is he, Sloane?” With my tablet in my hand, I push to my feet and skirt the makeup table.

  “Excuse me? Working here,” Marina says, but I ignore her. From Sloane’s body language, this wasn’t an easy admission for her, and that name definitely was not in her file.

  “Can you give us a minute?” she asks Marina. “Please?”

  Her friend huffs—I think—and jams her hands on her hips. “Fine. I can give you three. No more. Either that or you can finish up your own damn makeup.”

  As soon as Marina slams the door to her room—a sound even I can hear—Sloane peers up at me, shame hooding her gaze.

  “Austin, I’m going to put you on hold. Or…fuck it. I’ll call you back.” Jabbing the tablet screen to sever the connection, I set the device down and lean my hip against the desk. “Who’s Rodney Carriger?”

  Sloane stares down at her hands clasped in her lap, and I lay my fingers over hers.

  “Talk to me, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.” God, I wish I believed that. I want to. I’d give this woman anything. But this is all make believe, and even if it weren’t, I can’t possibly be enough for her. Not as damaged as I am.

  “It’s not a nice story. Marina doesn’t even know.” Tears brim in her eyes, and shit. If the makeup artist finds out I made her cry, she’ll kick my ass into next week. Pulling one of the tissues from the box, I touch it gently to the corners of her eyes. The intimacy in that gesture is almost too much for my heart to bear without taking her into my arms and carrying her somewhere no one can hurt her again.

  Her cool fingers brush mine. “Rodney worked for the Philadelphia police depa
rtment. He was part of the team who arrested Dimitri.”

  “Sloane? I have to ask. Assumptions in this business? They get people killed. But how do you know that?” Deep in my soul, I have no doubts as to what happened all those years ago. She was one of Dimitri’s victims.

  Trafficked.

  Sold.

  Broken.

  But she survived. Flourished, even, judging by all her accomplishments. They’re not enough, though. No professional accolade or award can make up for months or years of hell. Of torture. Of pain. My file has more commendations than most of the men and women I trained with, and they don’t mean a damn thing to me now.

  “Please don’t ask me that.”

  With the drape covering her upper body, she looks so slight. A stiff wind would blow her over, and she’s convinced she’s somehow to blame for Max’s death. For the man who broke into her home. For me being here in the first place.

  “I have to. No secrets, remember? No shutting down?” Curling the fingers of my left hand around the arm of the chair, I pull the rolling monstrosity toward the couch, then sit so we’re face to face. “Do you really think I’m going to judge you for anything that happened fifteen years ago? For things that weren’t your fault? That you had no control over?”

  “You should.” Sloane pulls a piece of fabric from the pocket of her bathrobe. My handkerchief. She kept it close.

  “Fuck that. Never was much for following the rules.” Cracking a smile, I try to set her at ease, but it’s no use. What I’m about to say? It’s a risk. But Sloane needs to hear it. “I didn’t tell you how I lost my arm. And my hearing. Not the real story, anyway.”

  She sniffles and dabs at her nose with the silky square, waiting for me to continue. The last thing I want to do is go back there, but if it’ll help her? No hesitation.

  “Ambush in Pakistan. Middle of the city. The bombs were so close, they blew out my ear drums and damaged a whole lot of things inside my ear that couldn’t be fixed. My arm? A concrete wall collapsed. I pushed Austin out of the way, but I wasn’t fast enough to save myself.”