school; one sheet of paper folded on itself so many times that it turned into a hard pellet.
The note was disappointing. Just a series of numbers: 1945 2 23. What the hell was that supposed to be? A combination to a locker somewhere? A secret Swiss bank account? Her stomach lurched. She was no spy, no undercover agent. She was a reporter, yes, but not the kind who wanted to report from war zones and dodge bullet fire while interviewing militia leaders in the Middle East. She wanted to be home at her comfortable desk, talking with her friends. She wished she’d never started to look into the water contamination scheme.
“Kate?” Sloan’s voice came from outside the door, and she shoved the note into the pocket of her jacket.
“I need to wash these clothes somehow.” She nudged the door open, holding the pile of garments.
“Wash them in the sink. You can hang them from tree branches outside to dry, if the rain lets up. Otherwise, we’ll string them up inside.”
She nodded, looked around, then dumped the clothes back onto the bathroom floor. “I need to sit down first.”
He gestured down the hallway, an unspoken command, and she seethed as she walked in front of him. Still, though, she wondered if he was watching her ass. She didn’t have any panties on under the sweats, and the cloth rubbed against her skin in a way that felt provocative and free. He knew she wasn’t wearing panties. Was he thinking about it, maybe, thinking about her body underneath the cloth, wanting to touch her, see her, smell her?
She felt her face redden, and was glad for the moment that he couldn’t see. He was probably thinking none of those things. He was thinking about his sting operation and how to take down Mancini while dealing with her, too.
Chapter Six
He had granola bars waiting and bottled water, and she grimaced, but didn’t complain. Once again starving, she ate everything from every shiny wrapper he put in front of her and drank the entire bottle. When she finished, wiping crumbs from her sweats, she looked up to find him gazing at her.
“What?” Feeling defensive, she crossed her arms, then flushed because that pulled down the neckline of her voluminous shirt, revealing the upper curve of her breasts. She tugged at the shirt.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
She shook her head, stood up. “How do you think? I’m shell-shocked. I have PTSD even though we’re not even in the P part of this situation. My leg is throbbing. My head hurts. I’m scared.” She paused. “How about you, honey? Sleep well?”
“Well, it’s good to know that stress doesn’t seem to harm your ability to think of passive–aggressive insults,” he said cheerfully. “A clear sign of recovery. Let me see that leg. Take off the sweats and lie on the bed.”
“What? No.” She stared at him. “I can’t do that.”
“The word no means little coming from your lips, Kate. I think I made it clear yesterday.” He frowned at her. “I need to put on more ointment and rewrap it with gauze. It’s not a request.”
“But I’m—I’m not wearing anything under the sweats. What if I just roll up the leg?”
“All the way off so I can clean it properly.”
“Sloan!” She felt her face redden.
“Kate, I just saw you naked ten minutes ago.” His voice held frustration. “I promise I can resist your womanly lures while I tend to your gaping, unattractive wound, which happens to have a very neat, carefully done bandaging job for someone who’s not a doctor.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
“Yeah. Drop the pants. Now.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or remember what I said?”
“It would be cruel to spank me when I have an injury. It would be like, you know,” she struggled for a comparison, “like when a person trips over their shoelace? It would be you waiting until they stand up and then shoving them into traffic. It would be,” she warmed to her topic, “like watching a kid drop his ice-cream
The note was disappointing. Just a series of numbers: 1945 2 23. What the hell was that supposed to be? A combination to a locker somewhere? A secret Swiss bank account? Her stomach lurched. She was no spy, no undercover agent. She was a reporter, yes, but not the kind who wanted to report from war zones and dodge bullet fire while interviewing militia leaders in the Middle East. She wanted to be home at her comfortable desk, talking with her friends. She wished she’d never started to look into the water contamination scheme.
“Kate?” Sloan’s voice came from outside the door, and she shoved the note into the pocket of her jacket.
“I need to wash these clothes somehow.” She nudged the door open, holding the pile of garments.
“Wash them in the sink. You can hang them from tree branches outside to dry, if the rain lets up. Otherwise, we’ll string them up inside.”
She nodded, looked around, then dumped the clothes back onto the bathroom floor. “I need to sit down first.”
He gestured down the hallway, an unspoken command, and she seethed as she walked in front of him. Still, though, she wondered if he was watching her ass. She didn’t have any panties on under the sweats, and the cloth rubbed against her skin in a way that felt provocative and free. He knew she wasn’t wearing panties. Was he thinking about it, maybe, thinking about her body underneath the cloth, wanting to touch her, see her, smell her?
She felt her face redden, and was glad for the moment that he couldn’t see. He was probably thinking none of those things. He was thinking about his sting operation and how to take down Mancini while dealing with her, too.
Chapter Six
He had granola bars waiting and bottled water, and she grimaced, but didn’t complain. Once again starving, she ate everything from every shiny wrapper he put in front of her and drank the entire bottle. When she finished, wiping crumbs from her sweats, she looked up to find him gazing at her.
“What?” Feeling defensive, she crossed her arms, then flushed because that pulled down the neckline of her voluminous shirt, revealing the upper curve of her breasts. She tugged at the shirt.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
She shook her head, stood up. “How do you think? I’m shell-shocked. I have PTSD even though we’re not even in the P part of this situation. My leg is throbbing. My head hurts. I’m scared.” She paused. “How about you, honey? Sleep well?”
“Well, it’s good to know that stress doesn’t seem to harm your ability to think of passive–aggressive insults,” he said cheerfully. “A clear sign of recovery. Let me see that leg. Take off the sweats and lie on the bed.”
“What? No.” She stared at him. “I can’t do that.”
“The word no means little coming from your lips, Kate. I think I made it clear yesterday.” He frowned at her. “I need to put on more ointment and rewrap it with gauze. It’s not a request.”
“But I’m—I’m not wearing anything under the sweats. What if I just roll up the leg?”
“All the way off so I can clean it properly.”
“Sloan!” She felt her face redden.
“Kate, I just saw you naked ten minutes ago.” His voice held frustration. “I promise I can resist your womanly lures while I tend to your gaping, unattractive wound, which happens to have a very neat, carefully done bandaging job for someone who’s not a doctor.”
“Now you’re just being an asshole.”
“Yeah. Drop the pants. Now.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or remember what I said?”
“It would be cruel to spank me when I have an injury. It would be like, you know,” she struggled for a comparison, “like when a person trips over their shoelace? It would be you waiting until they stand up and then shoving them into traffic. It would be,” she warmed to her topic, “like watching a kid drop his ice-cream
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