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Still Not Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 4


  He likes me to look spunky in these photos. The kind of All-American Girl people would root for in a made-for-TV movie, even if I'm drifting into my late twenties.

  Pretend. Fragile. That's what he wants.

  Not the kind of woman trained to be at her best in the middle of a terrorist attack, using the skills I’ve learned to save lives rather than letting them – and myself – molder and go to waste.

  Sorry, is my bitter showing?

  My curiosity shows, too, and I remember that noise.

  Unfolding myself from the bed, I walk over and press myself to the window. The resort is set up like a little village, with the large main lodge for meetings, receptions, and communal dining, as well as saunas and spas and all sorts of other guest services inside, including a freaking mini-mart.

  It's a comfortable pace away from the little cabins where couples, singles, and families scatter around with snow-lined paths leading in between and a single central road running down the middle. It’s been quiet enough due to the road being covered in a light dusting of snow with no tire tracks in it, but now the snow sprays lightly to the side as two heavy, armored black SUVs come rolling up the hill like gliding leviathans, cutting through the powder.

  I don’t know if what I’m feeling is a thrill, pure terror, or the thrill I get from pure terror.

  Because I don’t even need to wait for the doors to open to know that James is in one of those beast-cars.

  I rub my hand over my aching throat and tell myself to go out there.

  Get it done.

  I don’t like being a coward. If I’d had the life I really wanted – the life I feel like I’ve half-fallen back into since this entire mess of scares and assassination attempts started – I’d have stared fear in the face every day and refused to back down.

  And I can’t back down from seeing James again. Especially when this time he can’t ignore me.

  This time, he can’t shut me out.

  We’ll be together all day, every day, and even if that might kill me inside just a little...

  Eventually, I’ll get my answers.

  I'll get them if I have to annoy them right out of him.

  Although after seeing him, after the feel of excitement and danger riding the crisp, snowy air, I don't know.

  I don’t know how I’m going to go back to my old life. My boss was so confused after I called her from the hotel.

  People at the library manage to forget who I am. They let me just be Faye instead of Senator Harris’ daughter. But she was understanding, at least, and I’ll still have a job when I go back, even if I’m not quite sure I’ll want it.

  I'm still mulling my career prospects when a new shape catches my eye. I suck in a deep, trembling breath.

  There. It's him.

  The driver’s side door of the lead SUV opens, and even the way the door opens reminds me of those meticulous, careful movements, like he’s aware constantly that his own body is a blade and with the slightest wrong movement, he could destroy an innocent bystander.

  It’s an instant slug to my gut. Something between hate and sad and longing.

  Even dressed for the weather in black gloves and a thick jacket over his suit, he’s neat and crisp and so perfectly put together. That subtle air of menace around him always reminds me exactly why girls always love those sinister, elegant, wickedly sadistic movie villains.

  It’s not just that he looks like he could kill a man with his pinky finger.

  It’s that he looks like he could twist your body up into a million knots without even trying, and then smile in that slow, serpentine way he has as you explode into stars everywhere and completely fall apart. He could be Lucifer himself, fallen angel and master of hell. Or maybe just the quintessential bad boy.

  Unfortunately for me, the way my lungs pull tight and the heat in the pit of my belly tells me far too well how true that is.

  James Nobel is dangerous in more ways than one.

  He’s a complete and utter demon in bed, and he’ll make you develop kinks you didn’t realize were possible. My toes scrunch and I'm instinctively biting my lip.

  I had no idea, until one fateful night on a training mission, that I apparently have a thing for lying naked and vulnerable under a fully-dressed man in a three-piece suit, while he strokes every inch of my body, slips his fingers inside me, works me into a fever, and then leaves me breathless and hovering on the edge.

  Refusing to bring me over the edge until I admit in broken, gasping whispers that I need him, crave him, can’t live another second without his fire.

  He’s got such sensitive hands, too. Hands that can play a woman’s body the same way he plays piano keys...and he used them ruthlessly.

  Until I came completely undone. Always after I thought I’d gotten under his skin and broken his control.

  Instead, I’d only learned he was just as good at controlling my body as he was at controlling his own.

  Oh God, I can’t be thinking about this right now.

  Not while I’m watching that fluid, sexy way he moves.

  Not as he opens the back of the SUV and retrieves a simple rectangular black duffel bag.

  Even though my body tries to light up with heat, I can’t help a fond memory when I see the bag. I recognize it. It's a standard FBI issue field bag, and I guess he’s just as bad as I am at letting go of those old bits of the past.

  Okay. I’m going to do this. I can do this. I have to.

  Instead of waiting for him to come to me, I’m going to go to him. I step away from the window and pull on my thick, wool-lined hiking boots and heavy winter coat, then rake my fingers through my hair, tug on my gloves, and head for the door.

  By the time I step outside, he’s already disappeared.

  Damn!

  He tends to do that. He moves like a wraith, this ghost who’s never where you expect him to be, silent and undetectable until it’s too late.

  It used to be a game for me when I first met him at Quantico.

  He fascinated me then, this silent man in my training class, this handsome mystery man straight out of the Army. He could capture every eye in the room, and then somehow vanish even with so many people watching, completely captivated by him.

  He’d been so antisocial, never wanting to talk to anyone. But when he did, there was mischief and elegance in his voice. A rare, refined charm that said he wasn't all street smarts with a college degree.

  I’d half thought he’d run ahead of the pack during morning training laps, not just because he was stronger and faster than everybody, but because it let him keep them at a distance.

  So I’d become a James hunter.

  I tracked the traces he left behind, learned to recognize the tell-tale signs of where he’d been even when he seemed to leave no mark. I’d swear I could catch his scent in a crowded room, his trademark earthy cologne and raw masculinity. Slowly, I developed a sense for where he’d be until I could feel his presence like a prickle raising the fine hairs on my skin.

  And I feel it now. Somewhere close by.

  I can’t see him, but he’s here.

  I move slowly, careful not to let my steps crunch in the snow.

  If he knows I’m on his scent, he’ll go to ground like a sleek white fox, elusive and impossible to catch. I’m practically holding my breath, making it all too easy to hear the roar of my own pulse.

  God.

  I shouldn’t be feeling this anticipation, this excitement, but he always brings it out of me. Something about James Nobel makes me want to bat him around like a cat with a toy, even if I’m never sure who’s the cat and who’s the mouse.

  All I know is the moment I saw him, in another life, I knew I’d love to let him sink his teeth into me again.

  I turn haltingly, gazing in all directions as I move toward the road and the SUVs.

  I’m out in the open, peering at the trees scattered beyond the cabins, no way anyone could sneak up on me.

  Which is why I nearly scream when I turn f
or one more sweep, and find James standing right behind me, practically in the footsteps I’ve left in the snow.

  As it is, I suck in a little squeak and stumble back, nearly falling, before I catch myself and straighten. “Jesus!”

  He says nothing.

  He’s too close. He always smelled like gunmetal without his cologne, and that scent hasn’t changed now, carried to me on the cold, nose-stinging winter air.

  My breaths puff out in smoky clouds of frost as I stare up at him. He invades my senses without even trying, as if he’s taking me over from the inside out.

  I’m not sure he’s even alive. Unlike me his breaths are nearly invisible, almost like they’re the same temperature as the icy air.

  And if he’s as torn-up inside at seeing me as I am at seeing him, he doesn’t show it.

  He just studies me with a narrowed gaze, his grey-blue eyes so pale, they’re like faceted white diamonds, giving away nothing that could ever be called a feeling.

  I try to say something. Anything.

  Where did you go? Why didn’t you call? Why are you here? Why me, why now?

  Even a hello would do.

  Instead, all I have is this wild screaming feeling in my heart and racing blood. It’s freezing outside, but I feel so hot, so hot.

  Until he parts those sensuously stern lips in a smirk, with smooth and almost formal precision, and says, “There are approximately sixteen locations here where a sniper could easily conceal themselves and still maintain an open line of sight for a clear headshot. Why the hell are you outside, Faye?”

  There it is.

  This man is a flipping Vulcan. So logical, it's insane.

  And there’s my temper, too, deflating that petrified needy-angry-hungry, messed-up, confused feeling inside to just leave me irritated, disgusted, and folding my arms over my chest as I scowl at him. “Hello to you, too, James. Long time no see, James. It’s good to see you, James. Now this is the part where you say ‘Hello, Faye. Long time no see, Faye. It’s good to see you, Faye. I owe you a hell of a lot of explanations, Faye.’”

  He tilts his head, eyeing me – then bows briefly, sardonically. “Ms. Harris.”

  Oh my God.

  I’m going to punch this man in the face.

  Groaning, I push my hair back with clumsy gloved fingers. “Don’t you ever Ms. Harris me. And I’m fine. I did my own sweep, and there’s no ninja-assassin sniffing after me. You can’t expect me to stay locked up for this whole week. The term ‘cabin fever’ exists for a reason, you know.”

  “Sure. Reason being a poor understanding of modern mental health and the stressors of a closed environm—”

  “Stop.” I cut him off with a raised hand. “Just stop, James. If you’re going to do that pedantic human dictionary-slash-computer thing this entire time, we're gonna have ourselves a miserable week.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I glare so hard, it burns.

  So smooth. So impenetrable. So infuriating.

  Maybe I really am the only one affected by the memories we once had together, a past that never got a happy ending or any kind of ending at all. I can’t help staring at him, taking in the sharp-edged contours of his face, the lethal cheekbones and chiseled jaw, the Prince Charming elegance that makes him seem so courtly and just a little dastardly.

  James hardly looks a day older than the last time I saw him.

  Hardly looks different at all besides being hardened by age like a fine wine, and maybe that's the worst part. It could be just yesterday when I was waking up in his bunk with his tightly crafted body pressed against mine, every inch of naked skin on skin.

  I want to reach up, touch his face. Crave it, and I actually catch myself reaching before I pull back, stabbing my fingers into the ends of my hair instead just to keep them busy.

  “You don’t look burned at all,” I murmur, looking for telltale signs of the plane crash, then instantly want to kick myself.

  No-Filter Faye. That’s me.

  But he doesn’t react in the slightest.

  If I hurt him, if I annoyed him, if I amused him...I can’t tell.

  He only flicks me over with an unreadable look, before his gaze fixes over my head. “And I see you're as enchanting as ever.”

  I don’t know if he means that – if he’s really telling me I could ever be anything beautiful to him again – or if he’s being sarcastic about my ever-so-charming personality and complete and utter lack of tact.

  But I don’t get a chance to ask, to needle the truth out of him when he continues, “I take it you know your way around better than I do. Why don't you show me to our cabin?”

  It’s like the snow around my ankles turns into ice, grasping my ankles like frozen hands and capturing me there while that chill cuts down to the bone.

  What did he say?

  Our cabin?

  “I...you’re...staying with me?” I ask faintly.

  “Naturally.” He says it slick, calm, utterly unruffled, as if we don’t have years of painful history between us, binding us together like stitches in bloodied red. “If I'm going to be a proper guard, I must be in your presence at all times.”

  “Guard?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in...you’ve been assigned as my bodyguard...” I'm choked off by my own sour laughter. “Holy hell. You're joking?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “I should think the truth would be obvious.”

  “Damn it, James!” I explode.

  He always did this to me. Forced me to realize I’m that girl who falls for men who are just like her father.

  Only, where I always manage to whip a reaction out of Dad, with James, he’s the one who always pushes me into losing it when I can barely even claw a scratch in his ice-cold façade.

  Okay, shock over. This insanity is happening. Time to deal, I tell myself.

  Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look away from him and back to my cabin, nodding toward it. “It’s over there. Have at it. But you can’t stay with me. There’s only one bed. I'll talk to Dad, figure out alternative arrangements.”

  “No need,” he says, shouldering his duffel bag and brushing past me. “I'll sleep on the floor, Faye. I'm here to do a job, not steal your damn beauty sleep.”

  He leaves me standing there, open-mouthed and quietly shattered, hardly able to breathe.

  Holy flipping Hannah.

  I can’t share a cabin with this man. It's one thing to see him like this, just sparring words in the open and hidden memories. But I can’t share a space with him.

  Especially when I realize now that there’s nothing inside that sleek, polished façade of the James I used to know.

  Somehow, since the last time I saw him, that sweetness that made him so redeemable is gone.

  The hidden light inside him has gone out.

  * * *

  Seven Years Ago

  The real world doesn’t feel real right now.

  Not when I’ve been living and breathing Quantico for months. Training scenarios, life in the dorms, my every day caught up in the regimen that makes a successful agent. To suddenly be ejected with my badge and full-fledged agent status, already on my way back to Oregon for my first case?

  I feel like I’m dreaming.

  Like Quantico was real, but this is a dream of life outside the training center, and I’m not quite sure how to wake up.

  It’s me, five veteran agents...and James.

  The only other new graduate on the team, but he looks like he’s been doing this his entire life, seasoned and calm and rakish in his tactical gear, seeming to command authority even though he’s the second lowest ranked in the SUV.

  We’ve got SWAT with us, too, in another armored car trailing after us, but we’re supposed to be the first on the scene. A month ago, one of the local FBI teams caught wind of someone concealing large caches of high-powered rifles and other black market contraband in shipments of tractors.

  Farm equipment isn’t exactly typical when it comes to sm
uggling, and the fake farmers embroiled in the scheme might have gotten away with it if not for a mistake during a run from Tacoma to Klamath Falls.

  The local agents almost kept it under wraps until they could get the intel they needed to bust the rest of the ring – but somehow something got out.

  And we’ve now got two agents captured, possibly dead. But we’re going to try to negotiate them out in a tense standoff with the smugglers who’ve turned the farm they use for cover into a compound and a very bad hostage situation.

  Because they’re swearing they have explosives, and if anyone sets foot on the premises, they’ll blow it to kingdom come.

  Which is where I come in.

  This is my specialty.

  The plan is that we’ll park on the perimeter of the farmland, out of sight, and infiltrate covertly.

  Survey the land, figure out who’s where, make sure there’s no deadman switches or anyone with their hand hovering over the button. SWAT and the senior agents will rush the smugglers, disarm them, get them under control, and rescue our people.

  My job is to defuse any explosives on-site immediately, or notify the agents to evacuate right now if it’s not possible.

  James is here as my cover. My shield. My protector.

  While everyone else goes after the smugglers, his job is to shadow me and make sure no one stops me from doing what I need to do.

  It’s comforting. My blood is somewhere between lit dynamite and a shaken can of soda, my entire body jittering with anticipation and excitement, but James’ calm, collected composure is a comfort that reminds me everything’s going to be okay.

  I know what I’m doing.

  He’s got my back.

  And we’ll get in and get out with everyone in one piece.

  It’s dark when the small convoy of armored vehicles finally pulls up far from the farm's perimeter.

  We don’t want them to see us coming. It’s amazing how a group of heavily armored men and women can move so silently, but we’re like a murder of black-winged crows flitting through the dark silhouettes of the trees. The air tastes like autumn and loamy earth and my own nervous sweat.