Still Not Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 3

  Guess we all have our reasons to be exhausted.

  Riker’s graying brown beard is a mess, dark hollows under his eyes, even when he's smiling. Probably so smitten with his family man blessings he can hardly keep up. With an adorable, creative wife and a brilliant little girl, who could blame him?

  Meanwhile, gigantic Gabe looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. The only thing keeping him moving must be the sheer bulk of his muscle. It’s possible he really hasn’t slept, considering his half-asleep, very tired, very pregnant wife is leaning against his side.

  Skylar's pale-blue eyes are half-closed and her little pixie-cut bob looks disarrayed. I’ve never been married, but I’ve heard the stories with late-term pregnancies. Up at all hours of the night tossing, turning, having hot flashes, going to the bathroom, kicking your spouse, struggling through three a.m. cravings.

  I’ll deal with my empty bed, thank you very fucking much.

  Landon, our fearless leader, he's the only one who looks fresh. Maybe it's because he's the only person in the room who knows why we're here.

  He's almost restless with a vibrant, frustrated energy, his blue eyes snapping as he paces back and forth in front of the projector screen, raking a hand through his thick, dark hair. He gives me a sharp look as I settle into my chair, folding my hands over my knee.

  That gets my attention.

  There’s something in his glance that raises a wary intuition under my skin, a voice that wants to whisper into my ear and that I very doggedly ignore. Trouble is, that intuition is highly irrational and illogical. The last time I listened, I got in more trouble than I ever wanted.

  But it turns out the intuition’s nagging little voice was right.

  Too damn right.

  Because the first thing Landon says, once he’s sure he has our attention as we all settle, is, “We’re shipping out within the hour on a protection gig for Senator Paul Harris.”

  Harris.

  Father of Faye Harris. The man who ruined my life, and the man who tore me away from the woman I loved.

  I feel numb from head to toe. I’m listening to Landon, processing the information, but I can’t really formulate any clear thoughts about it.

  I’ve shut off, switched into robot mode, recording data to be processed later when I think I can actually handle a mountain of preposterous this-can't-be-happening bullshit.

  “This is a last-minute favor,” Landon says. “Apparently Harris is an old friend of Riker’s.” Riker tiredly raises a hand as if accepting responsibility for this, snorting, before Landon continues, “Someone took a shot at him in his home this week. The place was evacuated, and when the security team returned, someone had been there. They left this.”

  He flicks the projector on with a remote control, bringing up one of the most grisly images I’ve seen since my time with the agency: a severed human hand, the stump a meaty congealed red, the fingers folded around a wad of crumpled hundred dollar bills.

  It sits in the middle of a marbled counter, next to a message scrawled on the white marble with a fingertip of blood:

  GET OUT OF THE WAY OR YOU’RE NEXT.

  There’s a number written on it. Its structure is quite familiar for a Senator – the labeling for a bill up for a vote in the House and Senate.

  And Landon confirms it when he continues. “That number represents a bill currently going to a vote before the Senate Appropriations Committee. A bill our Senator Harris has repeatedly challenged because of the size of the budget allocated to Homeland Security and multiple externally partnered contractors. One of those contractors is our friends over at Pershing Shield.”

  Riker rolls his eyes. Sky groans, dragging a hand over her face. “Don't do it, boss. Don’t you dare mention Hook Hamlin. Don’t you dare.”

  Landon grins. “I’ll save my private admiration. But you’ll need to deal with him, because Pershing Shield will be working with us on this job. It’s high-profile, a little more than either of our firms can handle alone, so we’ll be coordinating tightly.”

  “And you just so happen to get to pick your idol’s brain,” Riker groans.

  “He’s the best in the field. Second to us, of course. We have things we can learn from each other. And –” Landon holds up a hand to stave off more ribbing. “They might just be able to let us know a few likely suspects for who’d be pissed about Harris’ opposition to the bill. Bipartisan politics, messy as they can be, usually don't warrant assassination attempts. So it’s likely someone on the outside. Or one of the many contractors with a dirty underbelly who’d get cut if the budget was trimmed to push the bill through.”

  “How many they got?” Gabe asks, his Louisiana accent drawling deep.

  “Fourteen total,” Landon answers. “If the cuts to the bill go through, that would cut it down to six. Pershing Shield and a few other heavy hitters, while the smaller ones would lose their contract.”

  “So that’s where we start investigating,” Riker says with a nod. “I’m assuming we’re going to track their movements around the location of this gig?”

  “Correct,” Landon says. “We’ll be going to the resort at Soda Springs. The Senator’s hosting a ‘sport and ski’ fundraiser there for a week-long event to court some big donors for his next election. It’s our job to sniff out who’s a threat and make sure they don’t take advantage of the opportunity to get too close.”

  “If they had any damn sense they’d just cancel the fundraiser,” Sky mutters, tossing back her head. “Who goes courting rich people when someone dumps a hand in their kitchen? Whose hand was it anyway?”

  “We don’t know. Police took it and forensics are working on that part,” Landon answers, before continuing with something else. Something that flies over my head, because the longer they talk, going back and forth, the more I feel shut on the outside.

  A normal feeling for me.

  I put myself on the outside. I’m a fringe walker, always watching, and I have a habit of making myself so invisible, my friends forget I’m in the room.

  Useful for an agent making himself unobtrusive and unnoticed to gather intel.

  Not particularly useful for a functioning human being trying to thrive among others.

  Especially when I’m clearly not functional enough to realize Landon has been talking to me for the past minute. Not until Sky elbows me and hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Pay attention.”

  I blink, shaking myself, refocusing my attention on Landon. They’re all staring at me, and I wonder if my mask cracked, when I was sitting here numb and lost in the past. Can they see it on my face?

  Can they see the plane crash? The night then-Congressman Harris ripped away my soul?

  I knew. And I didn’t turn him in, for all the wrong reasons.

  All because I couldn’t stand hurting her.

  But they’re still looking at me, waiting for a response, and I straighten my tie. “Pardon? Could you repeat that?”

  Landon eyeballs me, then says, “I’m assigning key targets to key personnel. Shadowing one-on-one. I’ve got the Senator, with Gabe and Sky for backup. Riker’s handling his primary aide. We’ll put contractors on the rest of the staffers. I’m assigning you to the daughter, Faye Harris. Can you handle that, James? You’ll have to transport her from their current location to Soda Springs. The Senator will provide an armored car.”

  They’re all still staring at me while my boss is asking me to do the impossible.

  And I’m not saying a word.

  All I can think of are flashing green eyes. Vivid red hair. Curves to all seven heavens that still make my dick way too hard.

  Zero sense of her own personal safety, and enough fearless recklessness and bright spirit to not even care. The way she’d laugh, when we were young and innocent, together in training.

  And suddenly I'm back there.

  * * *

  Seven Years Ago

  Quantico. A university classroom, a massive projector screen depicting crimes so macabre they'd turn
any civilian's stomach, and little scratchy whisper-punches hit the back of my head.

  Balls of paper.

  I’m trying to pay attention to the instructor, and she’s lobbing balls of paper at the back of my head and snickering behind her hand in tiny sounds. I’m trying my damnedest to ignore her.

  Is this a fucking high school chemistry class, or where I'll learn to be a federal agent?

  Is this what I signed up for after Iraq?

  Sometimes, I really wonder.

  Here I am, fresh faced and bright eyed and eager to learn...and I've got this silly Tinker Bell creature laughing her sweet little ass off as she lobs another wad.

  Then one of her little papers gets stuck in my hair and slips down the back of my suit collar.

  I reach back to fish it out before it can fall down and get caught in my belt, scowling as I uncrumple it to see what childishness she’s tossing my way now.

  I find a little scrap torn from a corner of notebook paper, blue ink scrawled in her little hand.

  Hey Nobel,

  Made you look.

  ;P

  This girl. This girl has no sense of appropriate timing. This girl is –

  “Mr. Nobel,” the instructor snaps coolly. “Since you have time to pass notes like this is high school, then you have time to do ten extra laps in the morning. Understood?”

  I close my eyes. It’s on my tongue to protest it wasn’t me, but no one here wants to hear excuses and I’m not the kind to make them. I tuck the wrinkled bit of paper into my own notebook, pick up my pen, and sit up straighter. “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  Meanwhile, the entire time, she laughs under her breath behind me.

  The extra laps can't be worse than what I had in basic training, or running for my life on the narrow streets of Mosul.

  Faye Harris, on the other hand, might be a bigger problem.

  * * *

  Present Day

  “James? James.”

  For a second, Landon’s voice is the instructor’s – the same setup, the projection screen and the dim-lit room and the people all around me. Except, rather than disapproval, Landon stares at me with concern and confusion while I look back blankly at nothing.

  “James,” he repeats. “You okay?”

  “No,” I say bluntly. “Sir, I cannot work with Faye Harris. Assign me to the aide. Assign Riker to Ms. Harris instead.”

  Everyone is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I’m not surprised.

  I've never directly challenged a company order unless I felt there was a logistical issue that might cause problems. This isn’t like me.

  I don’t feel like me. Everything suddenly seems wrong and twisted up, and I wish I’d never opened my mouth, but I can’t take it back now.

  Almost warily, Landon asks, “Is there a reason why?”

  I search for a reason, then admit, “I know her. We have a history.”

  That much, I can say.

  I simply can't tell them why, or when, or how. “I once lived in the Congressman’s district. Ms. Harris would attend stump speeches with him, and meet and greet constituents. We grew occasionally friendly. I fear our...familiarity would be a direct conflict of interest. It would hurt my ability to perform my best, plus our client's comfort.”

  It’s a shameful fucking half-lie, but a believable one.

  Landon lets out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not how conflict of interest works. If anything, since she knows you, she’ll be more comfortable having you on hand as her personal bodyguard. I’m aware you’ve got some fancy notions about women and propriety, James, but we’re not asking you to follow her into the shower.”

  More than a few crooked smiles pop up around the room. I'm sitting like a stone, showing nothing, even if there's a small part of me that knows I'll never live this down.

  I can’t really tell Landon that I’ve been there, done that with Faye.

  Hell, I can't tell Landon anything, or do anything but acquiesce.

  Because if my boss knew the truth, it could cost me my job – and the life I’ve built since I left the FBI.

  I’ve already had one life torn away from me without any choice.

  I can’t let another one slip through my fingers because I got careless and loose-lipped.

  One day, I know, my lies will catch up with me and it'll all be over. I'll lose people's trust. I’ll be fired and shut out from this strange little family that I do feel affection for, no matter how distant I may keep myself.

  After all, who would want an employee or a friend who covered for a high-level criminal guilty of sabotage?

  Sabotage and murder.

  3

  Reunion (Faye)

  I stare at my phone, reading an article on Enguard Security and the explosive events of a Milah Holly concert over a year ago, where the pop star would've been poisoned to death and several others murdered by a rival security agency if the good people of Enguard hadn’t stepped up and brought down the bad guys.

  He’s there.

  Right there, on the front page of the article.

  James Nobel looks just like I remember.

  No, maybe better.

  Dashing, heroic, and ice-cold sexy blond, this man like a shining steel sword transformed into a human being.

  There’s something dangerous about James and the blade analogy is way too fitting.

  He’s beautiful to look at, to admire, to crave. That's half of it.

  But it's also knowing he can cut so deep, be so deadly, that makes being around him a pure adrenaline rush.

  There’s just something about men who can be as calm and collected in the middle of a firefight as they are while checking the mail that takes my breath away.

  And he leaves me completely breathless in that front-page photo, caught mid-stride by a security camera as he positions himself in front of a half-conscious woman and a beaten man, his Ruger drawn, making himself a human shield with complete and utter fearlessness.

  He’d been captured in black and white, but my memories are all the color I need as I look down at that slicked-back, platinum blond hair, those features like a saber’s edge, those gleaming grey-blue eyes behind those sternly aloof glasses, the broad set of his shoulders in his perfectly meticulous suit. Even mid-combat, there’s not a hair out of place, and in arrested motion he’s just...

  Graceful.

  It's the first and best word.

  Graceful, lethal, perfect.

  Three fatal qualities far too good at causing heartbreak, fury, longing, and so much confusion. All over questions I’ve needed answers to for many, many years.

  I set down my phone numbly, just staring at his image – and then in a sudden jerk, I make myself look away.

  I can’t do this again.

  I can’t look at him like he's the man I once knew. Not anymore.

  It hurts too much, and it’s not making this miserable situation any better. I’ve managed to delay having to see him by a little bit, but probably not for long.

  Because the second I found out he was assigned as an escort to my father’s team, I managed to slip past the Secret Service agents at the hotel where my father stashed me, hooked myself up with a rental car, and skipped down to Soda Springs a day early.

  I’d probably have caused a minor national emergency if I hadn’t called my father and left a voicemail once I was an hour out of town, before anyone could really catch up to me. It’s not like he isn’t already there, departed a few days ahead for site scouting and prep.

  I’m only supposed to be there for publicity. Politically calculated optics. All so he can keep me under lock and key.

  In fact, keeping our movements separate is part of the protection plan, making it harder to track us when we’re operating on different itineraries.

  But with James, just waiting around for him, I couldn’t.

  Couldn’t sit there in that hotel room and wait for him to show up.

  Couldn't look him in the face and see nothing there while he did
his job, shepherding me to the resort.

  I mean, can you even imagine that car ride?

  At least I’ve got a little time to myself for now. This cabin is small, but I’m used to small.

  I’ve never really wanted the kind of lavish houses or lush penthouse apartments you’d expect a Senator’s daughter to have. My rental in Portland is a cute little modern deco cottage fitted out with clean air and water catching tech, solar, even my own little greenhouse atrium in the rear.

  I could live off-grid if I wanted. It’s one of my daydreams that lets me fantasize about something remotely resembling independence.

  Now that I think about it, that’s actually kind of pathetic.

  But it also means I’m used to the kind of rustic setting in the cabin.

  This is one of those resorts where you pay extra to live in conditions a few centuries behind modern times. Or pretend to when all the modern conveniences are tucked away behind the raw wood cut siding and hand-carved furniture and fireplace ovens, if you know where to look.

  It’s just the illusion of roughing it. You don’t ask a billionaire donor to actually go to the bathroom in an outhouse and wipe with a pinecone if you want campaign funds.

  It’s cozy, though. And I’m currently curled up on the plaid-patterned quilt on the bed, sorting through the print books I brought with me along with the books on my Kindle, when I hear a clamor from outside.

  It's loud enough to be heard over the howl of the evening wind that’s just started kicking up now that the sun is setting over the snow. The light casts bright washes of color, reflecting off glittering fields and hills, throwing spangles of light through the cottage windows.

  I'm grateful it’s too late in the day to be with the photographers. That particular hell won’t start until tomorrow morning. Then my father needs me to appeal to the kind of demographic who’d vote for a single father and widower left to raise his cute, button-nosed, redheaded daughter alone.