Ironclad Cover. Dana Marton

she was prepared to dwell on that.

      The elevator dinged. She glanced down her dress, which was covered with food stains, and hoped they wouldn’t run into any other guests. They didn’t need any extra attention or questions from anyone.

      They lucked out. The elevator opened on his floor in less than a minute without any incidents.

      “This one.” He pulled a key card from his pocket and opened the door, went in first, made sure the place was secure. “Okay.” He locked the door behind them.

      The room was spacious, the bed and armchairs covered in tropical prints that matched the curtains. She walked to the window to put some space between them, could see their dark office building across the street. She could even find their offices on the fifth floor, a little lower than Brant’s room. Would he be able to see into her office during the day?

      She was too nervous to sit, shaken by the attack, wary of the man whose presence filled the room. All of a sudden she had the ominous feeling like she had just walked into the lion’s den. She looked around, feeling out of place. What am I doing here?

      It might have seemed on the surface that they were on the same team, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He was using her to get to a dangerous criminal he wanted. She was using him and the resources he’d made available to clear her name. With little luck so far.

      “Would you like a drink?” He was opening the minibar.

      “Water would be fine.” If she ever needed a clear head, it was now. Somebody was trying to kill her. “This is crazy.”

      “Did you expect it to be easy?” He watched her as he handed her the plastic bottle.

      “I don’t know. There hasn’t been that much time to think about it. We’ve been going nonstop since we joined the team.”

      “And you’ve gotten some results.”

      She nodded. They had a list of possible links to Tsernyakov. That was something.

      Her gaze fell on the suitcase by the window, a small carry-on. No other cases in sight. Didn’t look like he’d planned on staying long. They hadn’t expected him, at all. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

      “Thought I’d check in, see how everything’s going. I’m a hands-on kind of guy. And, of course, I can never pass up a chance to go someplace where there’s even the remotest possibility of boating.”

      Naturalmente. And it was just a coincidence that he showed up the day Nick left.

      “How long are you staying?”

      “Until Nick gets back,” he said.

      He was here to check up on them. The thought made her mad, even knowing his mistrust was justified. She was pursuing her own agenda on the side. But that didn’t mean that she was short-changing his. She’d given her word and she would keep it.

      Here they were, risking their lives, doing whatever they could to bring his mission to success. The least they would have deserved was a vote of confidence. “You don’t trust us.” She was still jumpy from the shooting at the restaurant, full of nerves and unexamined emotion. It was easy to snap.

      He was watching her, his mahogany eyes unblinking. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

      The nerve he had. “You don’t think we can do it, do you? Unwilling or incapable. Which one is it?”

      He said nothing.

      What did it matter? “Bottom line is, you don’t think we have what it takes. And yet we are here. Which means you’re risking our lives just so you can say you tried everything. I could have been shot and killed.”

      His expression turned dark. “Believe me, I’m well aware of that. And for the record, I never said I thought you couldn’t do it.”

      “Just that you don’t trust us.” Her words slapped his back.

      He drew up a dark eyebrow. “You want the truth?”

      She nodded.

      “I gave it to you. Now deal with it.” His manner was brusque and hard, the attitude she imagined he used with suspects during his investigations.

      Maybe she should go back to her apartment. She had been checking the whole way here—they hadn’t been followed. She could call a cab at the front desk and be just fine.

      As if he could read her thoughts, he stepped in front of her, solid as a construction barricade. “I’ll take you home in the morning.”

      He was too close. She couldn’t move forward and she wouldn’t move back, despite the fact that he made her jumpy in a way Nick Tarasov, with his tough commando-guy stance, never did. Neither had Michael Lambert, even when he had his lips on hers.

      Brant Law’s mahogany eyes said he meant business. He was not a man to cross. She couldn’t wait until he’d gone back to wherever he’d come from.

      It would be better if he thought he had her full cooperation. She pasted on a smile. “Sounds good,” she said, and turned from him. She would pick her battles.

      “You take the bed.” He went around her to the two armchairs by the wall and pushed them to face each other.

      Was that where he planned to sleep? And was that a limp?

      “Are you hurt?” He seemed such a wall of solid strength, it hadn’t occurred to her that he could be.

      “No.” His response was quick, his voice sharper than necessary.

      “Looks like you’re limping.”

      “Trick of the light.”

      The light was perfectly fine as far as she could tell. What was his problem? This macho man didn’t want anyone to know that he wasn’t invincible?

      “Okay. You’re fine.”

      What did she care? She made herself relax, sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him and bent to take off her shoes, wrinkling her nose as her hair fell in front of her face. She reeked of cigar smoke from the Chamber of Commerce reception.

      “Mind if I take a shower?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

      “Help yourself.” He was digging through his suitcase. The next second, he tossed something large and white toward her.

      A cotton undershirt, she recognized the thing as she caught it.

      “You can’t sleep in that.” He nodded toward her soiled dress, without meeting her eyes.

      “Thanks.”

      He bent back to the suitcase, pulled out a laptop and set it on the desk. Looked like he meant to work. She was more than willing to let him.

      Shirt in hand, she retreated to the bathroom, into the bliss of privacy and the cascade of water, washed her hair, using up one full minibottle of shampoo and conditioner. She was drying herself when he knocked on the door.

      “I called down for a courtesy kit for you.”

      She wrapped the towel tight around her body, opened the door and stood aside so she’d be covered and blindly reached a hand out. She pulled in the small plastic bag he placed in her palm then closed the door shut. “Thank you.”

      “I ordered room service, too.”

      Something to eat would be nice. All she’d had were a half-dozen microscopic hors d’oeuvres while scoping the crowd for Cavanaugh and Martinez at the party.

      She unzipped the courtesy kit and looked at the comb, toothpaste, toothbrush and razor inside. She rubbed her arm where it was sore from when he’d taken her down, out of the way of the bullet.

      He’d saved her life. He’d done so efficiently, with practiced ease, a true professional. And it just occurred to her that she hadn’t even thanked him. She’d been too focused on