Proof of Life: Super Agent Series, Book 3 Page 17

  Whoa, back the cart up. She settled for giving his hand a tug instead.

  And was rewarded when he tugged back as he rose to answer the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Michael stared across his desk at the top of Brigit’s head. It was bent as she studied his file on Peter Donovan. She’d bathed and her freshly washed hair hung around her face. She kept tucking sections behind her ears, but as the dark tresses dried, they formed natural waves that sprang forward like stretched rubber bands snapping back into place. Because she’d had no clean clothes to replace her smoky-smelling running attire, Michael had given her one of his T-shirts and a pair of sweats.

  While she’d cleaned up in his upstairs bathroom, he’d placed the necessary calls to get the FBI chasing Tory and the charges against Brigit dropped. He’d also made sure Ella was back home safe and sound.

  Brigit flipped a paper over, then pushed her hair back from her face. Keeping her eyes on the paper, she used the fingers of her right hand to make graceful sweeps through the curls, which coiled back immediately. She did it again, and Michael’s concentration slipped another notch.

  She glanced up. “Do you have any hairbands?”

  Grabbing a section of his short hair and pulling up a whole half an inch, he cocked a brow at her.

  “Right,” she said. “I just thought maybe Julia or one of your other female friends might have left one here.”

  Her continual references to Julia did not escape notice. Even though his relationship with Julia was in the past, he liked the fact Brigit appeared threatened by her. Deciding it didn’t hurt to feed Brigit’s anxiety about his other female friends, he said, “Sorry, I haven’t noticed any.”

  She dropped her head back, closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “I can still smell the smoke in my hair. It’s driving me nuts.”

  All he could smell was his shampoo on her. And his soap. He liked the smell and the image of her in his bathtub washing her curves with his bath products. He blinked the image away. “Smoke is hard to get out. It may take more than one shampooing to do it.”

  “Especially since I’m gimped.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand, peeking out of the sling he’d given her for her arm. It was the one he’d used after his surgery. “Only having one hand, and that one being my right, I wasn’t very thorough.”

  “You can try again in the morning.”

  She closed the file, setting it on his desk as she stood. “No, I won’t be able to sleep. The smell brings back old nightmares. I’ve got to wash it again now. Mind if I do it in the kitchen sink? It might be easier.”

  Nightmares could be triggered by the smallest things. He’d gone around that block a time or two. Her smoke trigger could mean several different things. Either way, what did he care if she washed her hair again?

  Nodding his consent, he filed the fact away and watched her walk out of the study, her hips lost in his sweatpants. She’d tugged the drawstring as tight as it would go and rolled the waistband over several times. Still, she’d had to fold cuffs into the pant legs to keep from walking on them.

  A minute later, he heard her in the kitchen. He followed the sound of running water and pulled up short in the doorway. She’d removed the sling and his T-shirt, and his eyes locked on her creamy white back intersected by her bra strap as she bent to put her head under the copper faucet. The waistband of his sweatpants dipped low, revealing a shooting-star tattoo on her lower back. He sucked in air as small explosions fired in his brain.

  He’d been able to keep his mind off her cleavage when it had been on display at the hospital because she’d been hurt. Now the soft pink bra strap reminded him of the cups cradling her full breasts.

  Brigit’s right hand snaked out to grab his bottle of shampoo on the counter and knocked it over, sending it skidding off and falling to the floor. “Damn it.”

  She tried to keep her dripping head over the sink as she used her foot to maneuver the bottle toward her.

  Michael took three punching strides and rescued the bottle from the floor. “Let me help you.”

  “Oh.” Her body tensed, no doubt since she was half-naked and again at his mercy. “Thanks.” Her tone oozed insincerity.

  Chuckling to himself, he set the bottle on the counter. “You missed a spot.” With a gentle push, he eased her head back down so he could use the spray nozzle, his fingers parting her hair to make sure it was saturated. She put her good arm on the lip of the sink for support and leaned into the water.

  He worked the water through her hair, enjoying the way the thick hair clung to his fingers. Grabbing the shampoo bottle, he squeezed out a coin-sized amount of the liquid and went to work massaging it into her scalp.

  “Ah,” she sighed, the sound warming the blood in his veins. The tension in her shoulders evaporated. The bunched muscles in her back smoothed. Her whole body relaxed.

  His, however, did just the opposite. The sound of her voice, the sight of the tattoo, the memory of her luscious curves sparked a flash bang of heat low in his gut. His senses cartwheeled. A need, dormant for months, rose and spread under his skin with a fierce intensity.

  He wanted the sensation to go on, but the voice inside his mind joined in the cartwheels, panic evident. Even though he was working with her to hunt down Donovan, Brigit was the enemy. She was blackmailing him. He was blackmailing her.

  And while he wouldn’t kid himself about the sexual attraction oozing through his veins, he wasn’t into delusions either. Casual sex might be an option, but it was a damn poor one considering their current level of distrust with each other.

  She moved under him, adjusting her arm position, and her hip brushed against his leg. His body stomped on his logic. What did a little innocent fantasizing hurt? He let his gaze roam over her backside, noticing how his sweats emphasized her butt while she was bent over. It was a nice butt. A really nice butt.

  With an intricate tat riding it.

  Damn. As he rinsed the shampoo from her hair, he let his senses soak her up while his imagination did a wheelhouse spin in the casual-sex department.

  Two minutes later, he toweled her hair and forced his mind out of the erotic dreamscape in his head. His nylon sport pants were entirely too formfitting, and after he helped her put his shirt back on, he pushed her ahead of him toward the stairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  He adjusted his pants behind her back. “To bed.”

  She stopped abruptly and shot him a quizzical look over her shoulder. He righted himself and used his hand to propel her forward again. “My guestroom is all yours.”

  “Oh.”

  As they climbed, Michael couldn’t stop thinking about her tattoo. “For someone who can’t stomach needles, I’m surprised you’d go under one for a tat.”

  Again she shot him a look that questioned his roaming eyes. “I didn’t. It’s a temporary one. A shooting star for luck.”

  “Only for the person who sees it. You can’t see your…” He cleared his throat. “Back there.”

  “Guess you’re the lucky one then tonight.”

  Under her gaze, he faltered, a million and one comments running through his head, every last one of them completely inappropriate.

  Pongo came out of nowhere and rushed up the stairs, passing them both by.

  Brigit laughed, a bit of edge in the sound as if she realized what he’d been thinking, and suddenly she was bashful and eager to change the subject. “Looks like he’s ready for bed too. Does he sleep in your room?”

  Another quirk of hers that intrigued him. Her ability to be Miss Take No Shit one minute, a flirt the next, and then, in the blink of an eye, a self-conscious ingénue.

  She glanced at him, waiting for a response. She’d asked a question. Change of subject. Deep breath. Speak. “Normally he sleeps outside in his kennel.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. “In this cold weather?”

  At the top of the stairs, he directed Brigit to the guestroom. “He likes the cold.”


  She visibly shivered and rubbed her injured arm as she stepped into the room.

  Michael stayed in the doorway and flipped the light switch. Pongo, who’d gone to his room, trotted back out and into the guestroom. He sat down beside Brigit and looked at Michael, canting his head a fraction as if confused about the sleeping arrangements.

  “There’s a guest bath behind that door,” he told her. “Extra blankets are in the bottom dresser drawer.”

  She took the towel off and shook her hair out. “Any chance you have a blow dryer?”

  He had a compact hair dryer somewhere. One of his sisters had given it to him as a Christmas gift years ago. He’d never used it, always planned to throw it out or give it to Maria. Now he was glad he’d kept it as he headed into his bathroom. It was in a drawer…

  A pair of pink bikinis hanging on his shower door like a neon sign froze him in place. Brigit’s sport pants and top were scattered on the window seat, but all he could focus on were the panties.

  She’d washed out her underwear. Since she only had the pair she was wearing during the fire, it made perfect sense she’d do so, but seeing them sent a jolt of awareness skating through him. Commando, the neon sign flashed, inside your sweats.

  His earlier mental peepshow exploded in Technicolor, and he groaned under his breath.

  Her voice from the other room startled him. “Michael? Are you okay?”

  No, he was not okay. He was turning into a freaking perv. “Fine,” he grumbled. Jerking his attention away from the panties and concentrating on the double sink vanity, he opened the bottom drawer and dug through a bunch of miscellanea, finding the small blue Conair dryer.

  Back in the guestroom, as he handed it to her, he noticed she was holding her injured arm again. “Do you need another painkiller?”

  She took the dryer, fingers brushing against his. “Nah.”

  He checked his watch. “You can take one every four to six hours and it’s after one, so you’re clear if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m okay.” She smiled, and he could see the lie in the strain of her face.

  Sleep was the best medicine, and he wanted her fresh and ready to go in the morning. However, he couldn’t make her take a pill if she didn’t really want it, and she wouldn’t fall for a trick this time. “I’ll be downstairs for awhile if you change your mind.”

  “You’re not going to bed?”

  “I have a few things to wrap up first.”

  He snapped his fingers at Pongo to come. The dog took his time rising to his feet and leaving the room, as if he couldn’t believe he didn’t get to spend the night with Brigit. “If I’m not downstairs, I’ll be in the bedroom next door.”

  She nodded, her drying hair already curling around her face.

  At two thirty in the morning, he signed off on the last op in his file and shut down his laptop. The house was quiet except for Pongo’s snores in the hallway. The dog had seemed torn between wanting to be in the den with Michael and upstairs in the guestroom with Brigit, so he’d chosen a spot in between and settled down for the night.

  Michael snagged the rabbit’s foot from the coffee table and examined it. The white fur under his thumb was soft, like Brigit’s hair. She was a conundrum.

  She had a doctorate in psychology but believed in good-luck charms. Clever and beautiful as any spy, and yet she didn’t act or talk like an operative. Her reluctance to share information about the president could have been simple loyalty. Duty to a man who commanded fidelity. The way her face had blanched when Michael mentioned Jeffries, though, told him loyalty wasn’t her motive.

  Fear maybe.

  If he had to guess, he’d bet the president was blackmailing her too. Had to be over her father’s kidnapping in Bolivia. Michael squirmed, thinking he had also placed Brigit in an uncomfortable position and played on her blood bonds to get what he wanted. Was he any different from Jeffries?

  Because Michael had previously been Director of Operations, in charge of the entire spy group, he didn’t trust anyone, and took the Boy Scout motto to extremes. At his desk, he pulled out a tracking device the size of a lithium watch battery. He pinched off the gold metal top of the rabbit’s foot and examined it. The tiny GPS fit perfectly under the cap up against a similar one already there.

  So Gunn was keeping track of Brigit’s whereabouts as well. Smart man. Flynn was right to put Smitty on his trail.

  After attaching the unit, he set the lid back in place and used his fingers to press the flimsy metal tight to secure it.

  Hitting the kitchen before he went to bed, he grabbed the bottle of Vicodin and a fresh glass of water. As he took the stairs to the second story, his steps were light and quick. He’d caught up on paperwork, emails and meeting minutes. He’d even read the file on Peter Donovan cover to cover. It hadn’t taken long. There was little information about the man’s childhood, but only scant details about his adult life as well, starting at the point of his first incarceration at the age of fifteen. Still, Michael figured he could throw a few resources at tracking him and find him in a week, two tops.

  He peeked into the guestroom. Light sliced into the room from the bathroom’s door as it stood slightly ajar. Brigit was in bed, her back to him, a pillow propped against her back to keep her left shoulder upright. Her breathing was light but rhythmic. Michael set the Vicodin, water and rabbit’s foot on the nightstand. If she woke up in pain, at least she’d have the option to relieve it. If she tried to give him the slip, he’d be able to track her.

  In his bathroom, he eyed the pink bikinis and hummed under his breath as he brushed his teeth.

  Since it was only a few hours before he’d have to be at the office to pick up the President’s Daily Brief and be on his way to the White House, he decided not to even turn down his covers. Instead he lay on top of the duvet, crossed his fingers on top of his chest and let his mind return to the ever-growing erotic images of Brigit. Since he wouldn’t sleep anyway, it seemed like a nice way to pass the time.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Buzz, buzz, buzz. The pulsing ring cut through Brigit’s sleep. She bolted upright into a sitting position, and her shoulder balked, sending her right back down to the bed. The slap of pain brought her fully awake, though, and she blinked at the soft light in the room, struggling to remember where she was. The ringing came again. A phone? An alarm clock?

  She did a quick survey of her surroundings. As soon as her eyes lit on the pill bottle and rabbit’s foot on the bedside table, the previous night’s antics flooded her memory.

  Michael.

  She was in his house. No longer stupid from exhaustion, she stared at the pills and water, trying to reconcile the man who was blackmailing her with the man who had sealed up her wound, lent her his clothes and gently washed her hair.

  The bright blue numbers on the alarm clock next to her rabbit’s foot read six-oh-five. Pongo trotted into the room and whined at her as the phone rang a second time. Throwing back the covers with her good hand, she shifted her weight, balancing carefully, to swing her feet over the side of the bed. She gauged the ringing was coming from the room next door.

  Why wasn’t Michael answering his phone? She patted the dog and tiptoed into the hall.

  His bedroom door was open and he was facedown on top of the bed’s comforter. A pillow was over his head but she didn’t need to see his shut eyes to know he was sleeping. His snores rumbled out of him, only slightly muffled by the pillow.

  A BlackBerry in a black skin vibrated manically on the nightstand, the screen showing an unidentified number. Another ring emanated from it and after a heartbeat of internal debate, Brigit picked it up, more to stop it from waking up Michael than anything else.

  She hit the green phone-receiver button and back-stepped out of the room. “Hello?”

  There was a pause, long and guarded, from the caller. She frowned at Pongo, who plunked his butt down on the wooden floor and dropped his muzzle to look up at her with a You’ve done
it now expression.

  “May I help you?” she said, wondering if it was a wrong number or if she really had made a mistake answering it. She stepped into the guestroom and snatched up the rabbit’s foot on the table. What was I thinking, answering his phone? Why don’t they say something?

  A man’s gruff voice finally spoke. He sounded like he had pea gravel in his throat. “Well, well, Michael’s got himself a new playmate, I see. That’s good. About damn time, if you ask me. You just watch your pretty little ass and don’t rain on his parade, you hear me? My deputy director’s been through enough in the past six months. Now put him on the phone, honey.”

  New playmate? Pretty little ass? Honey? Brigit gritted her teeth, not sure which term irritated her more. “He’s indisposed at the moment. May I relay a message?”

  The man barked out a laugh. “Indisposed? At six in the morning? He’s usually run ten miles, had a shower and stopped a dozen terrorists by this time. What the hell’s he doing?”

  Brigit made a face again, this time at the messy bed. Never, ever should have answered the phone. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Titus,” the man growled at her. “His boss.”

  Oh, God. Brigit took the phone away from her face and looked up at the ceiling, squeezing the rabbit’s foot in her left hand. A dull ache set up shop in her shoulder. She put the phone back to her ear. “Shall I take a message or have him call you back, Director Allen?”

  The fact she used his title and last name seemed to placate the man. Some. “Tell him I’m doing the PDB today before the president heads to Iowa. Jeffries wants to talk to me in person. About him, Michael. I don’t know what he did to piss the man off, but I’ll catch him afterwards and fill him in.” He paused. “You got that?”

  Brigit’s mind whirled with the implications of what Titus had just said. “Yes, I have it.”

  The phone went dead.

  Her legs didn’t want to work as she shuffled back to Michael’s bedroom. He was still snoring, so she sat in a chair near a set of patio doors which led outside to a deck. She shifted her eyes between him and the rising sun. When he wasn’t pinning her with his x-ray vision or blackmailing her, he had the ability to calm her.