Covert Evidence (10 page)

Ian was good at his job and prided himself on his tradecraft. He’d been based in Ankara for the last two years. Before that, he’d been in Bahrain. During his time in the Middle East, he’d recruited a record number of spies. But if they didn’t get anything from Cressida’s phone, then this was the fuckup of all fuckups and could end his association with the Company. This kind of disaster didn’t just get a covert case officer fired, it could get him killed.

Beside him, Cressida was anxious. Rattled. Scared. He’d ruthlessly broken through her caution and distrust both on the jet and again next to the train. He had to remain ruthless in his dealings with her. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by pretty, innocent eyes. But he had to do it while playing the mild-mannered prick John Baker.

Jesus, he’d wanted to screw her brains out earlier—and not because he was playing her. In his personal rulebook, kissing, even sex for the job were fine, but honest desire, when there was doubt about her loyalty? It bothered him that he even felt it.

He’d screwed up the mission because of that desire. Because of her.

She was an unknown risk, and until he had the microchip, he had to control her. The fact that her tradecraft sucked argued against her being a spy. As it was, the team in Ankara had gathered more intel on her background, which he’d read this afternoon while she napped.

He knew about the blank space on her birth certificate where a father’s name should be. Now he had another piece: Cressida Porter knew the make and model of the car in which she was conceived, but not the name of her biological father.

Dubious paternity was one thing they had in common.

He draped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. Good. She was already relying on him.

The facts of her life were simple and sad. Her pregnant mother had been tossed out by disapproving parents at the tender age of fifteen. It appeared Cressida had never met her maternal grandparents, who lived in a wealthy, gated community outside Baltimore.

When Cressida was born, the hospital sent the bill for the uninsured labor and delivery to her grandparents, but they refused to pay it. Both mother and child were minors, and when threatened with court and public shaming, the Porters quietly paid the bill, then paid their daughter, Sarah, to move across the country with their granddaughter. Monthly payments halted on Sarah’s eighteenth birthday.

With cold parents like that, it was no wonder Sarah had gotten knocked up at such a young age. But life in California wasn’t much better for baby Cressida. The police visited her home often due to Sarah’s loud, violent fights with her various boyfriends. Cressida received her own bruises, and CPS intervened a few times, culminating in a stint in foster care before she ran back to her mother’s house.

In spite of all this, according to school records, Cressida had been a brilliant student. She graduated near the top of her high school class and received a full scholarship to Berkeley. She turned Cal’s graduate school down in favor of the underwater archaeology program at Florida State.

Nothing in her background added up to someone who’d become disillusioned with her country and joined a terrorist group, but he still had questions.

No doubt Cressida’s childhood had been the stuff of nightmares, but her struggle wasn’t the sort that generated anti-American sentiment. No. Her background was a breeding ground for depression, low self-esteem, and abusive boyfriends of her own.

International terrorism wasn’t on the long list of side effects, let alone the short one.

But he couldn’t ignore the boyfriend with Jordanian ties who’d stolen Lidar equipment and implicated her in the theft. Now, here she was in Eastern Anatolia, hoping to use Lidar to find ancient smuggler tunnels.

As Ian escorted her through the lobby of the old hotel, he slid his hand down her spine, settling on the small of her back. That Lidar theft nagged at him. Had she fooled everyone?

Was Ian simply another dupe to a sexy spy with exceptional acting skills?

T
he hotel clerk’s eyes widened when Cressida entered the lobby all torn and dirty. He spoke rapidly to John, who answered in Turkish, explaining, she assumed, her mugging. After a moment, the man produced a new key to her room and slid it across the counter. To John, she said, “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have explained the situation without your help.”

His jaw tightened as he touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing what she suspected was a raised welt. She had to look like hell, which matched how she felt. “We’ll just have to make sure you don’t go anywhere without me from here on out,” he said.

The idea of him feeling even slightly protective of her made her pathetic heart beat a little faster. “That’s impossible. I have research, and you have work—”

“I’ll clear it with my boss. You need an escort, and I’m volunteering.”

She didn’t understand him. One moment he could be
too
nice,
too
accommodating. Then she’d get a hint of…something… A darker nature, maybe. Or a dangerous vibe. Whatever it was lurked deep, telling her that Mr. Affable wasn’t necessarily the real John. And if she were being honest, she was more attracted to the man he hid than the one he presented. It appeared she’d inherited her mother’s poor sense of self-preservation.

There was more to it, though. She couldn’t meet his gaze without returning to the moment he’d swooped in and saved her. The knife still loomed large in her mind. She could so easily imagine it finishing the arc and slicing into her.

John had fought with a brutality that in any other circumstance would horrify her. The dangerous vibe wasn’t in her imagination. That was the real man, buried under that amiable demeanor. And he’d unleashed that ferocity to save
her
.

She was no stranger to violence. She’d witnessed her mother take blows and had received a few herself when she was younger. Never, not once in the darkest times of her childhood, had anyone been there to help her when she needed it. His presence and action had fulfilled a long-buried childish dream of rescue.

Then there had been that moment right after he’d knocked out her assailant, when he’d looked at her with an intense, concerned expression that spoke to her core. He was a stranger, yet he’d looked at her like she was something to be treasured, protected. She’d felt as precious as an ancient, gilded vase inscribed with secrets of the past.

She’d waited her whole life to see that look on a man’s face.

There was something seriously wrong with her if she could flip from terror to lust to distrust in the flash of a second, but it had happened as they stood next to the train, and now here she was, leading him to her hotel room, hoping more than anything that once they were alone, he’d kiss her.

A kiss could make her forget the terror. Forget her lost passport and money. Forget her stupidity. She wanted, more than anything, to forget. Just for a moment.

Todd had ruined her last night in Antalya, and now she’d been mugged in Van. In true Turkish fashion, she wondered if she were cursed. Without thinking, her fingers strayed to the evil eye pendant, which hadn’t protected her. But then again, John had come to her rescue, so maybe it had.

She thought of a way to thank John for his services, proving she was as foolish as her mother, a woman whose sexual history was a textbook of don’ts.

“You okay?” John asked.

She stepped into the tiny elevator, realizing she was dazed, and it showed. “Fine. Sorry. Just…shaken up, I guess.” She leaned against the back wall, tucking herself into the corner.

He hit the button, then faced her, stepping so close she was warmed by the heat of his skin. His eyes were hot with desire. “I very much want to kiss you right now.”

Her heart kicked up a notch.
Maybe wishes do come true
. “What’s stopping you?”

He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. Her heart no longer merely raced; it pounded with the force of a bass beat. “We’re both coming down from adrenaline, and your judgment is clouded by gratitude.”

The heat that had begun to unfurl low in her belly retreated. “You’re turning me down. Again.” She couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice.

“No. I’m giving you a chance to back out while I’m still able to listen to my conscience.”

That delicious heat returned. She placed a hand on his chest and felt the truth—his heart beat as rapidly as hers. “To hell with your conscience.”

The elevator door opened on her floor. Before he could turn, she leaned up and brushed her lips over his. His mouth didn’t respond, but his eyes flared with hunger. He stood frozen before her, blocking the exit, his thoughts unreadable but his desire unmistakable.

The elevator doors closed. “We missed my floor,” she said. Her voice was a dry rasp.

“Who needs a conscience?” His mouth descended to hers. She opened to let his tongue inside—hot, arousing, exactly the stress reliever she needed.

She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. He pressed into her, pinning her in the corner. His tongue delved deeper, a firm sensuous caress that lit a fire in her center. He tasted sweet, hot. Perfect.

John Baker was nothing like any man she’d dated. For starters, he was pure alpha in the way he spoke, moved, and beat the crap out of armed thugs. Not to mention he was tall, muscular, and fluent in multiple languages. Brawn and brains happened to be her very favorite combination, and the confidence in his kiss turned her into a puddle of want. She gave as much as she took, reveling in the sweet heat.

He lifted his head, releasing her mouth. She opened her eyes. His gaze burned with arousal that likely mirrored her own. Behind him, the elevator doors slid open. She’d been so caught up in the kiss, she’d forgotten they were in a public elevator.

His broad chest blocked her view, she shifted to glance around him and caught sight of a couple. The woman wore a dark chador. Her eyes were wide with shock.

John cleared his throat and stepped back.

She glanced at the control panel. They’d overshot her floor. “Going down?” she asked.

The couple took a step back and shook their heads. The man said something in Turkish or Farsi, which she interpreted as, “We’ll catch the next one.” The door slid closed again.

Cressida hit the button for her floor, met John’s gaze, and licked her lips. “I am definitely going down.”

He laughed—full, loud, sexy—and she felt a rush.

Jumping into bed with him was crazy, but right now, in her freaked-out vulnerable state, crazy might be what she needed.

The elevator stopped again at her floor; this time they exited. When they reached her room, she pulled the key from her pocket and glanced over her shoulder at John. “Can we order wine from room—”

John pushed her aside, out of the doorway. A gun appeared in his hand. “Get down.”

“What—”

“The lock is broken.” His voice pitched low.

She glanced at the handle. Fear took her breath. A crowbar or some other tool had snapped the mechanism.

Nagging doubts returned to the forefront. John had been on her flight. He was in the same hotel, he’d been on the train platform when she was mugged, and now, he was here. With a gun.

John—not the elusive Berzan—was the only common denominator.

She stared in horror at the man with the gun trained on the door. A moment ago, he’d kissed her silly. But she’d regained her wits and did the only smart thing—what she should have done by the train—she kicked him in the back of the knee, then ran for the stairs at the end of the corridor.

Chapter Ten

M
otherfuckingsonofawhore.
She’d caught him off guard, and Ian went down. He bumped the door, shoving it open, forcing him to throw himself to the side, out of the line of fire.

He tucked himself against the wall as Cressida bolted down the hall. He wanted to follow her, but his six would be exposed if he did. He jumped to his feet and kicked the door wide. A quick scan. No one.

She’d almost reached the stairwell. No time to search—he had to go after her. He couldn’t lose her like he lost the damn chip. He sprinted down the corridor and shouted, “Cressida! Wait!”