He’s asking if she wants to know about Kara, testing her to see if she’s distracted by personal matters. “Did you check out the locations I gave you?” she asks, proving her focus is crystal clear. She wants to save those women. She wants to get Alvarez.
There is just a flicker of surprise in Royce’s eyes that he quickly replaces with hard focus. “We’ve been up all night working on it. In every location we have trusted contractors, we confirmed active locations. In most of the others, we’ve found missing person trends that support a location in the city.”
“Then what’s the plan to get them out?” she asks.
“At this point,” I say, “we want to put together a mass raid that happens at all locations at the same time we extract you, which will be at the moment Alvarez appears.”
“That’s going to require manpower and support,” Royce adds, “which means we need to call in the FBI.”
“If you hand this over to them and they delay to act or make even a small mistake,” she says, “those locations will be gone. And if anything happens to him, and they’re not already under your control, they’ll be gone. He’s taken precautions for everything.”
“Without the FBI involved,” Royce says, “we’ll be delayed. With them we’ll have the resources to monitor, prepare, and raid those locations.”
“In other words,” I offer. “Even if the location is moved, we’ll have eyes on it, and move with it.”
“We’re on this, Myla,” Royce says. “And thanks to you, we’re going to finally get this bastard, and all his minions. But if you don’t mind, can I have a word with Kyle alone?”
My jaw clenches at the request sure to stir discomfort in Myla, though her reply is quick and cordial. “Of course. And thank you for your help.”
“Thank me in person when you are no longer in prison.”
She gives a nod and without looking at me, rounds the chair and heads to the door, exiting and shutting it.
“Whatever this is,” I begin, only to be cut off with, “Holy hell, Kyle,” Royce snaps. “Is she fucking wearing your shirt? She’s Kara’s fucking sister.”
My irritation is instant, and while I would gamble he’s guessing on the shirt, I don’t even try to deny it. “I seem to remember Lauren ending up in your t-shirt when you were guarding her.”
“She wasn’t traumatized by a madman,” he bites out. “And she wasn’t Kara’s sister. And yes. You are right. Lauren’s my wife. She wasn’t just a fuck and a conquest on an undercover job.”
Now he’s pissing me off. “Myla isn’t just a fuck and conquest.”
“You just met her.”
“I’ve been looking for her for a year.”
“You look for a lot of people. You don’t take them to your bed.”
“Exactly the fucking point. Back off, Royce. And now, unless you have something other than a lecture, I’m going to open the door before I end up losing the trust I want from her.”
“If you hurt her-”
“If I don’t die saving her life, feel free to finish that sentence.” I end the connection, scrubbing my now heavily stubbled jaw, then do the same of the now longish layers of my hair that need a cut as bad as I need a shave. Inhaling, I walk to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then stare into the mirror. I wait for the self-flagellation to start, for regrets over Myla to follow, but it doesn’t happen. I don’t regret touching her any more than I question why she’s important to me, beyond the obvious family connection. She just is. And I damn sure don’t regret the year of looking for her that created this connection I feel to her in the first place, because I found her, and I’m going to take her home.
Pushing off the sink, I cross the room, exit to the hallway, and seek out Myla, finding her standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, where she seems to stare at the wall. Seeming to sense my arrival, she turns to face me. “I heard what he said to you. I stayed by the door and I listened and I shouldn’t have, but I did. The man thinks I’m a loose cannon. And how dare he decide who can be in my bed, after all I’ve dealt with. How dare he-”
I’m in front of her before she finishes the sentence, my hands on her shoulders, my lips on her lips, my tongue doing a deep slide before she sighs and says, “You taste like spearmint,” telling me that I’ve successfully brought her mood down at least one notch.
“That was just to make sure you know where we stand, but he was just being protective. He cares. And I told you. He’s gruff around the edges but a good man, Myla.”
“I get that,” she says. “I do. I just don’t need anyone doubting me right now. I can handle this. I am handling it.”
“Like a champion,” I say, “Now. Let’s take a shower together. Yes?”
“Yes,” she says, and she’s barely spoken the word before I’ve scooped her up and started walking toward the bedroom, my action meant to tell her that I’m here to carry her if she needs me. And she will. Maybe not now, but later, because what I don’t say to her, what I can’t tell her now, but I know all too well, is that once touched by a monster, that beast stays with you forever. All I can do is make sure he doesn’t get the chance to add to her scars.
Chapter Seventeen
Kyle
It’s eight-thirty, half an hour before we need to be at her office, when Myla steps into the doorway of the bedroom looking sexy as hell in some sort of peachy looking dress she’s cinched with a belt at her waist, her long, dark brown hair silk around her shoulders. “You ready?” she asks.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” I say, shutting my computer, and picking it up to take with me, before standing and closing the small space between us.
“Thank you,” she says, sliding her hand over the light blue tie I’ve paired with my navy suit. “I like this. And since they say the man makes the suit, you absolutely do.”
“A compliment from a future famous designer,” I say, taking her briefcase from her, her shiny lipstick a perfect match for her dress, and the only thing keeping me from kissing her. “I’m honored.”
“I don’t want to be famous,” she says. “I just want…” Shadows settle in her pretty green eyes. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“You want to design your clothes, your way,” I say. “And you will, on your own label.”
“He owns some of my favorite designs now.”
“He’s not going to own anything when this is over. Now.” I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Let’s go get another day of playing this ridiculous game over with, and then we’ll come back here, take a run, get naked, and then watch Dexter while we eat pizza. Then we’ll do it all again.”
She gives me a tiny smile. “Dexter again?”
“He’ll feed your fantasies about killing Alvarez, I promise.” I shift to preparation for the day. “Do you have your gun?”
“Yes.”
And back to her and us. “Let me see,” I say softly.
“You want to see?”
“Yes. I want to see.”
“All right,” she says, giving me a shy, sexy smile as she reaches for her zipper, “My design, by the way,” as she pulls it down. “I should market it as easy access to your handgun.”
“Or to other things,” I murmur, as she reveals her ample cleavage, a black lacy bra, and the gun, all of which has my cock thickening and my gaze lifting to hers. “I’m not sure what I’m going to think about the most today. This moment or the one where you were naked and holding a semi-automatic rifle in your hands.”
She zips herself back up. “I can’t believe I was holding that gun while I was naked.”
“Just know I’ll be a happy man every time I think about it today,” I tease, tilting my head toward the hallway, amazed at the flush of her cheeks that I catch before she turns and heads to the door. Somehow, some way, Alvarez took her body, but she’s managed to deny him her soul.
“Let’s assume there’s a camera to go with the recording device Les installed last night,” I say, joining her at the door, and flipping
the lock. “I want you to drop your purse to force us to linger at the door. That will make our conversation we want them to hear seem natural.”
“And what is that conversation supposed to be?”
“Be snappy with me,” I say. “Act irritated that I’m around.”
She shakes her head. “No. That’s doesn’t fit me. I never do that, even with Juan.”
“All right then. We’ll stick with me being cold and you being uncomfortable. Just follow my lead and let’s ride the elevator down that has cameras and continue the same tone.”
“Got it,” she confirms, and I open the door.
Myla immediately exits the room, dropping her purse, which manages to open and spill the contents to the floor. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, squatting down to start collecting her items. Instead of helping her, I shut the door, and step closer to her, towering over her, and watching her efforts.
“These kinds of delays and mistakes, are dangerous,” I say. “It allows someone time to grab you.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she says, sounding flustered, and glancing up at me. “Do you have to hover?”
“It’s my job to hover,” I reply dryly.
“It’s making me nervous,” she says, popping to her feet and shoving her purse to her shoulder. “What is it exactly that you’re protecting me from?”
“As I keep telling you. Everything and everyone that isn’t me.”
“Can I have my briefcase? I want to look at my sketches.”
“And I want your hands free in case you need to use them to protect yourself.”
“My hands? I can put the briefcase on my shoulder.”
“Not and hold the sketchpad. We need to move along.”
She glowers at me and turns on her heel, beginning the walk to the elevator, smartly holding her character, her steps a bit too fast, her body language stiff and uncomfortable. “Behind me,” I instruct, when we step into the elevator. “Always behind me. I’m in front to take any fire that comes before you would.”
“What fire?” she asks, as the doors close. “Who wants to shoot me?”
“It’s not my job to name names,” I say. “It’s just my job to ensure no one hurts you.”
She says nothing else, remaining where she stands, her acting skills a testament to how she’s survived. The game is as second nature to her as it is for me to step forward first when the elevator doors open to the garage, and immediately know something isn’t right. An instant later, my gaze lands hard on Juan, looking shorter than usual, because he’s leaning on my fucking Mustang, just asking to get hurt. I reach for Myla, my hand closing around her arm, as I pull her to my side. “Why is he here?” she murmurs, as we start forward.
“Trying to get his balls ripped out,” I say, not releasing her until we’re at the car, and I’m standing a foot in front of Juan. “Get in the car, Myla,” I instruct, clicking the locks open.
“That won’t be necessary,” Juan counters. “She and I need to talk. I’ll drive her to work.”
She stops walking. I keep my eyes on him, and repeat, “Get in the car, Myla,” and this time, she does exactly what I say, moving to the passenger door.
“She’s going with me,” Juan says. “You work for me. Myla! Come back.”
“I work for Alvarez,” I say, as the car door slams with Myla inside the Mustang. “You’re just the messenger, and you should know: my car is my baby. Lean on it again, and I’ll have to defend its honor.”
“You’re very protective of her,” he says. “Maybe too much so.”
“I paid a hundred thousand dollars for that car. You’re damn straight I’m protective of her.”
“I mean Myla and you know it.”
“I was hired to protect her or die. I’m not getting my balls cut off over you, but right now you should know I’m thinking about where to hang yours.” I walk to the driver’s side of the car.
“I’m not done talking,” he says.
I get in the car, lock the doors and hold up a finger to warn Myla the car might be bugged. She inhales and nods, facing forward. Juan remains on the back of my car, apparently thinking he’s going to stop my departure. I rev the engine and still he stands there. I shift to reverse and roll just enough to knock the shit out of him, which earns me loud cursing and his butt getting the hell out of the way. I back us up and get us the fuck out of the garage, handing Myla the scanner from my pocket. She eagerly accepts it, turns it on and sweeps the car, during which time my mind is conjuring all kinds of reasons to turn around and run Juan over.
“Why would he want to see you alone?” I ask, the minute we’re clear. “Is that a regular thing? Does he-”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “And no. That was one time, but he likes to play with my head. He taunts me. He was not pleased when Michael decided to bring in a bodyguard.”
“Interesting,” I say, glancing over at her, and hating the way she’s hugging herself again. “Are we sure Juan isn’t making a move against Alvarez?”
“They’re family,” she says. “I can’t imagine that to be the case, but it’s Juan, so maybe.”
“You will not go with him anywhere. In case I haven’t made myself clear. That means, you shoot him if you have to. Understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
But what I don’t understand are Juan’s actions and motives, which brings me back to him telling me Kara’s FBI, not ex-FBI, when Alvarez is obviously concerned about her contacting Myla. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue. Maybe he’s just an asshole who’s a fool. But assuming so could make me the fool and get us killed.
***
Myla
The minute Kyle and I walk into the lobby, our timid little blonde receptionist takes one look at Kyle’s hard-set expression, and jumps to her feet. “Can I get either of you some coffee? Or some…something?”
“I’ll make some in my office, Heather,” I say, “but thank you, and don’t worry.” I indicate Kyle. “He’s my personal stalker, I mean bodyguard. He won’t stay up here and stare at you.” It’s weak humor, but the best I have in the “feel good/comfort” category after the Juan incident that seems to have left Kyle worried, rather than just agitated. Maybe that’s because he’s just not used to Juan’s behavior, but he’s honed years of instincts I’ve only been using for a year. Maybe there is something about Juan I’ve been missing that he’s picked up on.
Whatever the case, the two of us make a beeline for my office, where Kyle unlocks the door, flips on the light and does a quick scan before he allows me to enter. The instant I’m inside, I cross to my desk, feeling a punch in my chest at the sight of my mother’s photos. I settle my purse in my desk, unsurprised when Kyle shuts the door, sets his MacBook on the conference table, and removes his scanner from his jacket. Also unsurprising, by the time I’ve pulled my sketchpad out, flipped through my presentation for today, and looked back up, that he’s already found a recorder by the Keurig and destroyed it.
There’s a knock on the door, and he immediately returns the scanner to his jacket pocket and walks to the door, opening it, his big body blocking me from seeing my visitor. “The bodyguard is back,” a female voice I recognize as Barbara’s says. “And he even answers doors.”
“But I don’t make coffee for anyone but myself,” he says, stepping back to allow her to enter. “Don’t ask.” He delivers this with such a dry, flat tone that I’m not sure if he’s joking or serious.
And from the look on Barbara’s face when she enters the room, and her awkward reply of “I…of course not,” I am pretty sure she isn’t either, especially when Kyle actually walks to the Keurig and inserts a pod, proving he knows how to take his comment, and his cold, hard-to-read bodyguard routine to perfect extremes.
“Good morning,” I greet her, pulling her attention back to me, and noting how lovely she looks in a baby blue sheath, with her sleek gray hair piled on top of her head.
She seems to shake herself into
action, walking to my desk. “What is his deal?” she whispers, as if he can’t hear her.
“Robot,” I say, as she perches on the edge of one of my visitor’s chairs. “It’s the only explanation I have for that man.”
She laughs good-naturedly. “I do believe you’re right. He’s a robot. That explains so much.”
“He,” Kyle says, “is still in the room, and not going anywhere.” He sits down at the conference table and opens his MacBook. “And I’m not programmed to refrain from commenting should this conversation continue.”
We both laugh, and then Barbara looks at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes warm with fondness that has me deciding she’s quite taken by Kyle, which can only work in our favor. I hope. “I’m not staying anyway,” Barbara replies, focusing on me. “I just wanted to give you a heads up that I’m going to have the model agencies send you spec sheets this morning and I’m hopeful you pick some models you want to see this afternoon.”
“Actually,” I say, deciding not to ask but rather tell her what’s going to happen. “I don’t want models. We don’t need them and they’re expensive and high maintenance anyway.”
She looks dumbfounded. “But the campaigns.”
“I have a solution I am quite pleased with,” I reply, showing her my sketches, to which she gives a critical inspection before her expression lights up.
“I’m blown away,” she says. “I love the concept of “We design. You make the style.” Everyone is going to love it. I’ll get with the art departments at the magazines right now, and find out what we need to do.”
“I still have a few ideas I want to elaborate on,” I say. “I need to finish these sketches.”
“I’ll have the appropriate people work through it with you,” she says, standing, “and really, this is a load off. We can focus on other things now. I’ll be in touch in a few.” She turns to leave, but Kyle stops her progress.