Running Blind (10 page)

16

The sun had started to sink behind the Rockies when Rhonda walked out of the computer complex four hours later. Cooper was waiting for her, sunglasses covering his eyes as he leaned against the rental Jeep, arms folded over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. His benign expression almost hid the fact that he was as dangerous as a rattlesnake. The light breeze ruffling his hair added to the illusion that he was harmless.

Only his edgy bearing suggested that he might be one of the most lethal weapons in the Department of Defense's arsenal.

He was dangerous, all right, in more ways than one. Yet even knowing he represented the worst kind of trouble, she got that sizzling ache low in her belly when he tugged off his shades and those dark eyes met hers.

I kissed you, and you liked it.

Nothing about his expression said that, but she read the words into it anyway. Because she
had
liked it.

He pushed away from the Jeep and opened the door for her. “How'd it go?”

She slipped into the passenger seat. “Okay.”

With her focused one hundred percent on her testing, the four hours had flown by, and she hadn't once—okay, maybe once, or twice—thought about him. Now she had a splitting headache and flat out didn't have the mental or physical acuity even to talk to him, let alone try to figure out what his game was.

“You?” she asked, going for distant politeness.

He shifted into gear. “Good. These guys are on their game.”

A good ten minutes of silence followed, and she resisted the urge to ask him how his shoulder felt. Because she didn't care.

She stared straight ahead.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then finally turned to her. “I don't want to belabor this, and I'm sure you don't, either, but I really am sorry I've been such a jerk.” He actually sounded repentant.

It threw her enough that she fired before she aimed. “Amazing how you arrived at past tense so quickly.”

He wrinkled his brow. “There's a past tense for
sorry
?”

She pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed.

“Oh . . . I'm sorry I
am
a jerk, not that I've
been
a jerk. That the past tense you were going for?”

She wanted two extra-strength Tylenols, room service, and bed. Alone. “Something like that.” She closed her eyes and let her head fall against the headrest, feeling his gaze on her. “Watch the road.”

“You feel okay?”

“I will. As soon as I get back to the hotel and take something for this headache.”

“Tension headache?”

“Now, why would I be tense?” She pushed each word through clenched teeth.

“Damn. I really have upset you.”

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd affected her way beyond a headache. “The testing was intense, okay? That's all it is.”

“Look, Rhonda. Before you say anything else . . . what happened in your room was a new low for me. I've been dishing out grief with a shovel ever since you signed on, and you haven't deserved any of it.”

Rhonda stared at him.
Now
what was he up to?

•    •    •

Coop glanced over to see those amazing blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. He couldn't blame her. He'd been Mr. Multiple Personality for too long now. And while he was determined to be completely professional from now on, he knew they had to clear the air.

“Let's get this out in the open so we can put it behind us,” he said firmly. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I want to make that right. So for the record, you've done a great job on the team since you started. I have complete confidence in your work. You deserve respect—and my mother would stand me in a corner for the way I've behaved.”

Her attention was now riveted on the windshield.

Somehow they had to get past this. Then he could get the hell on with his life, without thinking about how badly he wanted to—

Nope. Not going back there.

“You think we could we start over?” he asked.

Still nothing.

He started to sweat.

Then she surprised him.

“I haven't exactly been Miss Congeniality,” she admitted after a long moment, and Coop felt a knot the size of a football ease inside his chest.

She made an effort to smile at him then—and man, oh, man, if it wasn't the weight of the world that lifted from his chest, it was at least the weight of the moon.

“Damn.” He heaved a huge breath. “I'm glad we got that out in the open.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

“Bygones and all that?”

She thought about it for a while and finally said, “Sure. Why not?”

“Great. Now that we've got the air cleared, I can do something about that headache.”

“He said, wiggling his brows lasciviously.”

“No, seriously.”

“Right. Silly me. You'd never do anything out of line.”

“Point for you. But I'm driving, which makes me harmless. And as you know, I'm injured, which makes me a wimp. Give me your hand.”

She pushed out a weak laugh. “Yeah—no. That's not happening.”

“Come on, Burns. I thought we'd established that you can trust me now. You have my permission to knock me senseless if I step out of line.”

“Whose line?”

He grinned. “Yours. Now, give it.”

•    •    •

Rhonda considered. They were in a car, driving down a major highway. What could he possibly do? Besides, he'd badger her to death until she finally gave in. And she really wanted to establish a new normal for them, one that wasn't fraught with sexual awareness or tension-filled hostility.

She finally extended her left hand.

The instant the rough heat of his fingers touched her skin, electricity zinged from her fingertips to that part of her that hadn't been zinged in a very, very long time. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he'd latched on and held tight.

“Relax.”

Then he pinched the fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and index finger and applied pressure. And oh, her headache eased, ever so slightly.

“Wow. How'd you do that?”

“I know a few reflexology techniques. This,” he said, pinching a little harder, “is a trigger point for tension headaches.”

Maybe it was, because her headache had started to ease. Or maybe it was that she was tired of being bitchy, or maybe she just had a weak moment. Whatever the reason, she didn't pull her hand away.

“Better?”

She nodded. “Yes. It is.” She finally relaxed then, lulled by the rhythm of the road and the firm, gentle pressure of his strong fingers manipulating her headache away.

“That should tide you over until you can get to your Tylenol.” He slowly pulled his hand back to the steering wheel.

She didn't want to, but she felt oddly bereft. Just as she had when he'd pulled away from her in her hotel room.

Altitude, she assured herself. It had to be the altitude.

•    •    •

There were high-stress jobs, and then there were
high-stress
jobs.

Working with Rhonda “Could Have Been Eve in the Garden” Burns had shot Coop way past stress and straight to SRS—sperm retention syndrome.

Man, he was such a dick.

Act like a jerk.

Take her to bed.

Be cordial and polite.

Take her to bed!

Maintain a working relationship only.

Take her the hell to bed!

His plan and his mental state bounced around like water drops in a hot frying pan. Whom exactly was he trying to kid? He didn't even recognize himself anymore.

Had to touch her again, didn't you? Just had to do it.

Well, no more. Not even for headache control.

Despite all his good intentions, touching the Bombshell had shot him straight into a sexual fantasy that made his head reel.

Apparently, he'd triggered a similar reaction in her, because the minute he pulled up in front of the hotel, she'd scrambled out of the Jeep and into the lobby as if it was pouring rain out. Coop hadn't asked about her plans for the night; she hadn't asked about his. She seemed as determined to stay away from him off duty as he was determined to avoid her.

Once in his room, he took a quick shower, shaved, and put on a pair of clean jeans and the black cashmere sweater his mom had given him for Christmas. Then he checked in with Taggart, who proclaimed that he was “fit and fine,” doubtless an exaggerated self-diagnosis. Next he called Mike and felt a huge rush of relief to hear that Eva continued to improve. His last call was to Nate Black.

“Working every angle,” Nate assured him. “We haven't found Barry Hill yet, but the boys have some solid leads and expect to turn over the right rock and find him under it momentarily. How's Burns doing?”

“Seems to have things well in hand. We should be out of here day after tomorrow and heading for Utah. What I've seen so far tells me I'll have a fairly clean report. She says it's looking good on her end, too.”

After hanging up, he went down to the hotel dining room. If Rhonda decided to eat there instead of ordering room service, he figured he'd be finished before she reapplied her makeup, touched up her hair, and whatever else she did to make herself look like the perfect vision she always was.

Wrong. Story of his life lately.

She was seated at a small table in the corner of the large restaurant that was occupied by only three other sets of diners.

“Will anyone be joining you tonight, sir?” The host approached him with large leather-bound menus in hand.

Unfortunately, he glanced at her at exactly the same time she looked up and saw him. He felt about as exposed as a sniper in a floodlight.

“Sir?”

“Sorry. No. It's just me.” He deserved a halo and wings for his determination to leave her in peace—and
maybe
keep some peace of mind of his own.

“Very good, sir. If you'll follow me, then.”

Twenty empty tables in the room—and the host led him to a table directly across from hers.

Perfect.

17

He'd never seen her with her hair up. She'd pulled it into a loose, sexy knot on top of her head, and golden strands trailed perfectly down her neck. Her neck was elegant, her shoulders delicate. She wore a butter-yellow sweater with a deep, round neckline. Soft, fuzzy angora again—how many of these seductions did she own?

And she was wearing jeans instead of a short, tight skirt. Deep blue denim that disappeared into knee-high black leather boots and made her legs look as if they went on forever.

Something else was different. Her makeup. Her eyes weren't as heavily defined. Not that she had a heavy hand to begin with, but the effect of the lighter touch lent a softness and vulnerability to her face that made him wonder if it hadn't always been there. If maybe he had simply chosen not to see it.

Someone cleared her throat, and he looked up from his menu.

It was Rhonda. And she was smiling. “This is a little silly, don't you think?”

Not silly—imperative. He could
not
be near this woman on their downtime. Only work had made it possible for him to keep his distance earlier today.

“I didn't want to intrude,” he said. “Thought maybe you'd had your fill of me today.”

He felt her gaze on him as he tried to concentrate on the menu. It could have been written in Mandarin, for all he knew. The letters all sort of bled together, as he did his damnedest not to look up at her. He felt ridiculously self-conscious. Him! Mr. Sydney, Australia, Model of the Year 2010!

Before he could come up with a semi-intelligent thought, she broke the awkward silence.

“You're bleeding.”

Damn. He touched a fingertip to his jaw. He'd nicked himself shaving but thought he'd taken care of it.

“No . . . here.” She pointed to a spot on her own neck, just below her ear.

He moved his finger to his neck, checking for blood.

She shook her head, stood, and walked to his table. Then she used her napkin to dab at his neck.

He stopped breathing, a moment too late to avoid the sensual scent of her signature perfume. Too late for a lot of things.

Heat radiated from her body like a furnace.

He closed his eyes, made himself breathe, then opened them again. Her breasts were at a level with his nose, and the low-cut sweater showed a generous glimpse of the heaven a man would find if he buried his face there.

“That took care of it,” she said, straightening up.

Too late to squelch the vivid image of his face pillowed against those amazing breasts, his mouth finding a hard nipple and playing with it with lips and tongue until she arched against him, begging for more as he kissed his way down her body and found the heat and the heart of her sexuality.

Oh, God. Stick a fork in him—he was so far past done he was charred.

“You're seriously going to sit over there?” she asked, seated back at her table.

When he could draw a breath that wasn't shaky, he made himself speak. “Actually, I thought I might order dinner to go, then head back to my room. Got some reports to do tonight . . . you know the drill.”

She didn't respond for a while, and when she did, he had to school his gaze back to the menu to keep from looking at her, um, sweater.

“You feel okay?” she asked.

He almost laughed, because boy, did he have an answer for her.
Actually, I'm hard as an armor-plated missile,
and it hurts like hell. Want to help a guy out?

“It hurts” might have worked in the backseat of a car when he was seventeen, and the sweet, naive girl with him fell for the pity ploy, but it wasn't going to work on Rhonda.

“I'm fine,” he said. “The shoulder feels much better today, too—thanks.”

“Then don't be ridiculous.” She pushed out a chair with her foot.

If he refused, he'd look like a coward.

Using the menu to conceal his raging erection, he stood, walked to her table, and sat down.

Apparently, she lacked the good sense to be wary of him.

“How's the head?” he asked.

“Better.”

“Good. That's . . . good.”

The waiter came then, thank God, because he'd been reduced to one-syllable words. She explained about the switch in tables and ordered the salmon.

“Steak,” he said, not even looking. “Rare.”

They both passed on drinking anything stronger than soda, since they were on the job. Which was just as well, Coop thought. He wasn't feeling all that strong and as full of conviction as when he'd walked into the restaurant, because nothing had changed about the way she looked and how much she turned him on.

He was committed, however, to keeping everything platonic between them.

“I talked to Taggart.” There was some safe ground.

“How's he doing?” She sounded anxious.

“Typical Boom Boom. Acts like all he's got is a hangnail.”

She smiled, then asked, “Did you check with Mike?”

“Eva's in a lot of pain, but she's strong, and she's determined to get back on her feet.”

“I feel so bad for both of them.” She shook her head, sending a tendril of hair spilling out of its loose knot.

He quickly looked away and dug his fingers into his thigh to keep from reaching out and tucking it behind her ear, just so he could feel the silk of it.

“What about the investigation?” she continued. “Any breaks in the case?”

“Nate says they've got some leads on Hill but nothing solid yet. It's frustrating.” And he wished with everything in him that he was back there in the trenches, fighting for his friend.

“I know you really wanted to be in the front lines on this.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, when duty calls . . . Speaking of which, how did your first day go?”

“It went very well. I really put them through their paces on phase one of the pentest, and they handled it like pros.”

“What exactly is a pentest?”

“You really want to know?”

“I want to not sound stupid if the term comes up again. But use English, not cyber-geek-speak, please.”

“Electronic penetration test—hence pentest. It's an electronic attempt to breach Internet technology systems from the outside. It tests both the system and the people running it.”

“And how do you do that?”

She hesitated, clearly not certain if he seriously wanted to know. “Here's an example. Tomorrow I'll leave a USB thumb drive somewhere near the computer-­room door or on the floor in the main room. If some idiot picks it up and plugs it into their computer to see who owns it—very much like you'd check the ID in a wallet if you found it—they're going to get a hard lesson. Because if a certain setting on that person's computer isn't shut off, the program on the thumb drive will breach the network. Then whoever planted the thumb drive owns the system—that would be me. The problem is, it could have been a spy.”

“Sneaky.” He grinned. “I wouldn't want to be the person who picks it up.”

She gave a little shrug. “I think this group is on top of their game. But I don't want you nodding off over your salad. How about you? How'd things go?”

“Oh, I was the most popular guy on the base wherever I showed up. So far, I haven't found any notable problems. They can make some improvements in their best practices and security procedures. They're a little lax on their entrance-and-exit logs, and a few security cameras could have better placement. I'll dig deeper tomorrow, but I don't anticipate I'll find too much to write up.”

The rest of the meal was all shoptalk. It was kind of nice. And besides being sexy as hell, she was pleasant when she wasn't feeling defensive, which was how he'd made her feel since the day she'd joined the team.

For a supposedly smart man, he'd been doing some damn stupid things.