Page 51 of Iron Shield
Every time a door opened, his head shot toward the sound. Every time he heard footsteps in the tunnel, he pictured the way her hips swayed when she walked, or the hard little stomp of her feet when she was irritated.
Then common sense kicked in and reminded him that seeing her at all was a terrible idea.
It didn’t help that he could so easily picture her tangled in his sheets.
Tangled up with him.
He pushed down a grin and shoved away from the computer. He stretched his arms but his shoulders and neck protested the movement. Hours hunched over reports, camera footage and lists of arms dealers had left him stiff.
And one spunky little vixen had him rock hard.
The war room had finally emptied. Cannon had disappeared into his office hours ago, and the rest of the team scattered.
Rome should have done the same. Instead, he stayed in front of the computer chasing threads that led nowhere.
One connected to another. Then another.
Courier services.
Burner accounts.
Vehicle registrations owned by shell companies.
Addresses that turned out to be abandoned storefronts or empty lots.
The people behind this operation were careful. Very careful.
That bothered him most, because in his experience, criminals got lazy eventually. They cut corners, trusted the wrong person and got greedy.
The person after Stina and Jolie seemed disciplined, and every step he took was controlled.
Whoever was pulling strings had built layers between themselves and the people carrying out their dirty work.
Rome enlarged the photo of the man that Stina and Jolie couldn’t identify.
The shot was blurry, the man’s face turned aside. If they couldn’t manage to clean up the photo, they’d struggle to identify him through facial recognition software too.
He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face, attention drifting to the hallway, distracted by curly hair, a sharp tone and green-gold eyes.
Rome swore under his breath and snapped the laptop shut.
Enough.
He wasn’t getting another useful thought out of himself tonight.
When he stepped into the hallway, he stopped dead.
Something smelled incredible.
That alone was suspicious—he was sure he remembered Rorke should be cooking tonight, but the scent drifting through the tunnels—fresh bread, garlic and herbs and roasting meat—was distinctly not protein powder.
Unable to stop himself, he followed the smell. The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger it became. Voices and laughter carried to him.
He slowed his pace, expecting to glance in and find Stina sitting with Jolie. But when he walked in, he found her standing at the long counter, ingredients spread around her. Open containers and mixing bowls occupied every available surface.
And she stood in the middle of it all looking happier than he’d seen her since arriving at Sierra.
That should have pleased him.
