Compromised (3 page)

H
e remained in the shadows as Sadie let herself into her tiny apartment. He wanted a second to watch her before making his presence known.

When Simon had let himself in, all the shutters had been closed, leaving the room much cooler than it had been outside in the afternoon sun. But as soon as he had eyes on her, he felt the temperature rising uncomfortably.

He was about to step out of the shadows, but barely before she'd put her purse down, she'd stripped off her crazy Hello Kitty T-shirt and unzipped her denim skirt. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't say anything. Her body looked stronger than it had the last time he'd seen her naked. Dammit. His dick twitched in reaction to the new Sadie. Her shorter hair, the way it framed her face. Her long legs and full breasts. He blinked, thinking about the days and nights they'd spent together. It felt like years ago. It felt like yesterday too. His fingers itched to touch her; his mouth watered to taste her again.

Sadie flopped on the bed, arms and legs splayed to take advantage of the ceiling fan's downdraft. She moaned as the air touched her skin. He watched as her nipples grew in the cool air. Goddamnit, this was obscene. He couldn't stand here getting off. Why didn't she stay in her freaking clothes? She stretched and…he couldn't take any more.

He cleared his throat, and she jumped up.

“What the…?”

He stepped forward with his hands showing. Force of habit. He doubted Sadie had the wherewithal to shoot him.

“Who is…Simon?
Simon?
What the hell? What are you doing here…in my apartment? What?” She looked around her as if looking for something to hit him with.

He grabbed her silky robe from the chair in the corner and handed it to her, the other hand still aloft. All her questions were valid, for sure. He didn't know why he'd been hoping for a slightly warmer welcome. Or even a welcome at all. He knew they'd parted on…if not bad, then awkward terms.

And he'd just witnessed her moving on with that young kid.

“How dare you…” She struggled into her robe and tied it so tight that he was surprised she could breathe. He made the mistake of smiling at the thought. “What the fuck do you think you're doing here? Did you”—she looked at the door—“did you break into my home? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her eyes blazed with an intensity he'd never seen before. Especially not directed at him. “Get out. Get the
fuck
out.” She crossed her arms as if to punctuate the sentence.

She was so sexy when she was pissed. “I saw you in the street but didn't want to interrupt you…” He let the sentence trail off just enough to let her know where he'd seen her. He didn't really know why it was important, but somehow it just was. Why the hell was he here? He started to get that itchy feeling as if he were about to be ambushed. It was an instinct that had served him well in the field. He sighed. “You're right. I just didn't want to blow my cover by talking to you in public. I shouldn't have let myself in. It's just…almost second nature to me now. I'm sorry. I'll go.”

He waited a second for her to protest, but she didn't. Her eyes just narrowed infinitesimally. Even her facial expressions had changed. Before, her whole face was open to laughter, sadness, happiness—everything was written clearly on her face. But now he hesitated. He couldn't get a read on her at all. It was like she wasn't the Sadie he'd known. Was she in some kind of trouble? Was that why she was in Athens? But no. Remembering her snuggling up to that…that boy—nothing about that had seemed stressful to him. “Good-bye, Sadie. It was good to see you again.”

In a second, before he'd even thought about it or considered some kind of game plan, he'd taken two strides toward her, snaked an arm around her waist, and pulled her to him. His mouth descended on hers, as she opened it to exclaim. Her hot breath and soft lips—the very smell and taste of her felt like home. Had always felt like home.

Even from the first time he'd engineered their meeting.

His kiss claimed her as his.
Always his.

And then as quickly as he'd gained entry, he left.

S
adie's blood chilled as the door closed. She perched on the edge of her bed and dug her fingers into the sheets. Why was he here? A gnawing in the pit of her stomach made her rub her belly and wince. Why had he come? How dare he kiss her like that—as if he still had the right. How had he gotten in? She thought she knew enough to secure her home, but obviously she didn't know as much about Simon and his skills as she'd thought.

That wasn't a surprise, though. Her first week of training at The Farm had told her all she needed to know about her relationship with the man she'd nearly married.

She'd been his mark.

She remembered the lesson well. How to establish trust. You wait for a moment where you could easily take advantage of someone, and you don't take advantage of them. Then you wait for them to call. She'd sat in that class, chilled to the bone, knowing that she'd almost married someone who had followed this training to a T.

Mumbai, 2012

Sadie was running over her PowerPoint one last time before she presented her analysis on terrorist movements to the Asia bureau chief. It was supposed to be a whistle-stop visit—just a one-night stay—but she'd jumped at the chance of going to India. It wasn't until she was on the plane, facing thirteen hours in coach class, that she realized she probably only had gotten the opportunity because no one else had wanted to go. Oh, the joys of being the lowest on the totem pole.

She'd had only enough time to dump her bags at the hotel, touch up her makeup, and run through the presentation one more time before walking the two blocks to the embassy. She stopped in front of the building to root around in her bag for her ID, when the ground shook under her feet. A blast sounded a split second after, and she watched in numb horror as the windows of the building opposite the embassy blew out onto the street. There was a second of silence, punctuated only by the soft sprinkle of glass on the concrete street. Then muffled screams. Hers.

Blood covered her hands, and pain radiated through her. She catalogued all the pain before she realized she was lying against the wall of the embassy. A man stooped over her, sliding his hands efficiently over her limbs before helping her up. She recognized him. He'd smiled at her several times on the flight from Los Angeles. She'd smiled back.

“You're okay. Can you stand up?” he said, gently nudging her upright. The pain seemed to fade as he smiled at her again.

“Thank you.” Her own voice sounded thick to her ears as she struggled to her feet. She took a second to steady her legs and then looked up—way up—to meet his eyes. Even with her heels on, he was tall. He'd looked muscly on the plane, but she'd assumed every man who stood up in a plane looked big. Now she knew different. He had a little scruff, probably from traveling, and hair that was a little longer than a neat haircut. His intense blue eyes radiated concern, but all she wanted to do was run her fingers through his sandy-colored hair and see if it was as thick as it looked.

“Do you want me to call for an ambulance? Or do you want to go back to your hotel? I think the embassy will be on lockdown for a while.”

“Hotel,” she croaked, before coughing. Dust seemed to coat the inside of her mouth.

“You probably need a drink too. Maybe a bunch of them.” He carefully wrapped his arm around her, under her shoulder, and supported her back to her hotel. Her head was still full of bleeding people, screaming, and the echo of the loud boom played and replayed.

“I think I need to drink a lot,” she said, feeling better that she'd made a firm decision.

“Excellent idea.” He escorted her to the bar in the lobby and sat her down. The waitstaff looked at her worriedly as her rescuer ordered them some drinks. He came back to the table with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

“Brandy?” she asked.

He looked a little concerned. “It seemed…medicinal? At least more medicinal than the mojitos they're famous for here.” He looked again at the bottle. “I'm sure this is the right thing for shock. Women in old movies were always prescribed a stiff brandy for shock, right?”

Sadie laughed and then winced as her cut lip cracked with the effort. “I guess. Hey, do I really look that awful? People are looking at me weirdly.” She fluttered her fingertips over her lip and the place on her brow that was sore.

He shook his head, and she enjoyed a second of relief before he continued. “Honestly, you look like you've done five rounds with Tyson. But you still look beautiful. Just scary. Hard-core even. Dripping blood looks great on you.” He smiled and handed her a glass. He clinked his against it. “Here's to survival, and a coincidental meeting.”

She clinked it back and took a sip. Fire slipped down her throat. It felt good. Really good. She held her glass out for another, and this time he half filled her glass—double the shot she'd finished in seconds.

“Do you think I need to go back and…I don't know, say I'm a witness?” she asked after she'd nearly finished her second glass.

“Did you see anything?” he asked, refilling his own brandy.

“No. I don't think I did,” she admitted.

“Then I'd just wait for things to calm down and call the embassy in a few hours and tell them what happened.” He held the bottle up and she nodded.

Warm liquid was pooling at her knees and her aches and pains started receding into the alcohol. He was so cute. So funny. They laughed and drank. Until she yawned.

“You should probably try to get some sleep. Jet lag combined with nearly exploding will do that for you.”

She giggled and tried to stand up. He jumped up to steady her. “I'll help you to your room. God only knows what you'll get yourself into if I leave you here.”

Suddenly she thought, you. I want to get into you. She leaned up and kissed him. First a small experimental kiss. And then when he didn't pull away and his hands dropped to her waist, she kissed him properly. Euphoria pumped around her as his tongue slid against hers.

Rationally, she knew exactly what this was. It was a happy-to-be-alive euphoria driven by adrenaline and alcohol. She didn't care. He was sexy and funny and he'd rescued her. After all, she'd sort of known him from the plane. That totally counted, right? Even as she had the thoughts, she knew they were a pure excuse; she just didn't care.

She opened the door with her key card and he helped her in. She kissed him again, feeling the tipping point where she would be lost in him. His mouth, his scent, his warmth. She leaned in, but he squeezed her arms and took a step back.

“Should I call a doctor for you? You have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing that looks serious,” he said, still not crossing the threshold.

“I'll be fine; thank you,” she managed to say before shakes racked her whole body. Her teeth clattered together as if she'd been in an ice bath.

Concern flashed across his face. He walked her to the bed, with his arm under hers, supporting her. She allowed him to wrap bedclothes around her and lay her down.

“What's your name?” she whispered, as sleep washed over her.

“Simon.” His voice sounded as if it came from a million miles away.

She later woke up in the same clothes as she'd fallen asleep in. A glass of water and some ibuprofen were on the bedside table, along with a note on hotel stationery. Just his name and a number.

She thought him so honorable. So good not to have taken advantage of her. She had all but thrown herself at him.

Present day

It didn't occur to her to even question how he knew which hotel she'd been in until she'd been in her class at The Farm. She'd been so stupid.

Simon didn't make a sound as he left her apartment building.

She grabbed a baggy T-shirt as if that would stop the feeling of vulnerability. She'd kissed him back.
What the hell was that all about?
When they'd called off the wedding and he'd all but disappeared, she'd rehearsed a dozen different ways she would act if she saw him again. Frosty, flippant, blasé. Not one of them involved a kiss that rated on the cellular level. She touched her fingers to her lips and replayed it.

She should have been immune to his kiss; his presence should have been nothing more than an annoyance. She knew who he was now. Knew he'd used tradecraft to meet and date her. But all that knowledge hadn't stopped her from melting when he kissed her. Hadn't stopped her from not punching him.
Dammit.

The only thing she held on to was that her training kicked in and she'd been able to dial back her instinct to grab her weapon from under her pillow. As a CIA field officer, she wasn't supposed to have any kind of firearm. The agency recruited her because she could use her head. She was supposed to be able to avoid any situation that might be dangerous and extricate herself from anything that became dangerous. Her brain was her weapon. That's what they drilled into her at The Farm. But her brother had visited and found a way to slip her a brand-new Glock.

Simon would have known something wasn't right if he'd seen her with a gun. The last thing she wanted to do was blow her cover. She knew he worked for CAG, but that was because last year they'd been engaged. The fact that he didn't know that she was a field officer now gave her a measure of satisfaction, not to mention a big advantage over him, whatever he was doing in Athens.

What
was
he doing there? Not a vacation, that was for sure. He must be in the city for something to do with the G20. But what the hell would Delta Force be doing on the ground? That unit didn't deploy unless they had a specific mission and a specific time frame to accomplish it in. They didn't just cruise a city until something happened.

She moved slowly through the cool room, touching the few ornaments and photos she had, not really thinking about them but how Simon might play into her situation with Platon. If at all. Did he see them together because he was watching Platon? A finger of excitement danced at the base of her spine. That would mean that she was right. But if they were onto the same potential plot, there was no way on God's earth she was going to let him snatch the lead away from her. Platon was
her
mark.

Speaking of which. She glanced at her bedside clock and ran for the shower. She had to think about what she should wear to meet Platon. The problem was the intense heat. In the winter she wore boots in which she could keep a multitude of sins: backup cell phone battery, retractable carbon baton—her weapon of choice—or even a European-style flick knife. If they let her into the meeting, they were certain to frisk her, or at least look in her bag. She batted ideas back and forth and decided on a sundress and a clutch purse big enough for her cell phone and some euros. Better to foster an image of being no threat than to give them anything to wonder about. In fact…she would add some condoms to her purse too. If they saw those, they would be sure that she was just Platon's girlfriend. She smiled to herself as she slipped on her sundress, and as a nod to practicality, she pulled on some matching bike shorts that just peeked out under the hem of the dress. A chastity belt by any other name.

Before she left, as she always did before going out “on the job,” she opened her laptop and encrypted a short paragraph about where she was going, what she hoped to achieve, how long she thought she'd be gone, and the cell phone number of the burner phone she was using for this mission. She sent the file to the office central database and headed out.