Page 88 of Renegade
“He left.”
“Did you tell him my condo number?”
James hesitated. “I told you I did not.”
“Yes, I know what you told me, I’m reconfirming that.”
“I did not.”
“If he stops by again?—”
“I told him you weren’t interested and he left,” said the concierge cutting her off. “I doubt he’ll be back.”
How in the hell did he know what Stan would or wouldn’t do? She’d fucked the guy and she didn’t know a damn thing about him.
As her blood pressure shot into the stratosphere, she decided to let it go. The concierge didn’t care. Her problem wasn’t his, and he wasn’t going to accept responsibility for his mistake. She held his gaze for an extra minute, opted not to threaten him, and said, “Thanks for doing your job.”
“You have a nice Friday.”
As she made her way to the elevator, she wanted to scream. In truth, she was angry at herself, but the concierge should never have told Stan her name.
Though she doubted she’d ever fire her weapon, knowing it was holstered inside her jacket gave her some sense of security.
Probably a false one.
The never-ending sea of traffic didn’t help with her mood. She arrived at Langley, handed her badge to the security guard at the gate. After she’d been cleared, she parked. Ten minutes later, she was sitting in a conference room with a coworker who was also a Haqazzii terror cell expert. With her string of questions cued up, she began probing for intel.
The morning wore on as one meeting rolled into another. Unfortunately, her colleagues knew no more than she did and, in most situations, less. Before leaving for the Black Site, she downed two aspirin to silence the pounding in her head. The clock was ticking, the month of April flying by, and she had nothing solid to go on.
As she drove out, she ran through everything she knew. De Clerq was dead, the terrorists were hiding in plain sight. From what she’d read, the corrupt government officials involved in helping the terrorists enter the country claimed they knew nothing about these international killers.
After turning off the main road in Great Falls, she pulled over to confirm she wasn’t being followed. She did that twice more before driving into BLACK OPS’s parking lot. The second the hangar door closed, relief relaxed her muscles.
Creepy Stan Bowers can’t breach these doors.
As she headed toward the office she shared with Grey, she heard voices coming from the break room. She stopped in the doorway and eyed the three men standing there.
Grey was talking with Dakota and Tank. Her heart skipped a beat.
Nope. It’s over.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. His crisp white shirt and black pants clung to him like a second skin. His sinewy muscles pressed against the material, and her mind jumped to dark places. She wanted to slowly peel them off him, strip him bare?—
Stop.
She was so drawn to him, she had to force herself to look at the other two men.
“There she is,” Dakota said.
Caroline acknowledged him with a smile. “How’s everyone doing?”
“How’d your meetings go?” Dakota asked.
“Not as productive as I’d hoped.” Her attention floated from Dakota to Tank—from the Santini restaurant—then back to Grey. Always back to Grey.
She might be angry with herself for hooking up with him, but she couldn’t deny the man had it going on. Today, he’d pulled his hair into a man-bun, and she let her gaze hover on his striking features.
“Hi, Tank,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
