Fatal Fallout. Lara Lacombe

he thought, trying to use logic to appeal to his baser nature, Claire was dealing with a huge shock. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to hit on a woman who was in the throes of grief.

      She won’t be sad forever, whispered his inner sixteen-year-old.

      Damn.

      * * *

      Claire stared blindly at the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, her mind back on the papers and the man in her living room. He was too much...everything, she decided, reaching up to pluck a white blouse off the hanger. Too tall, too broad, too warm, too hard. His arms had made her feel safe and secure, and the steady thump of his heart under her ear had been a comforting rhythm. And that smell—soapy, clean, with the faintest hint of starch from his shirt. She could get lost in that smell, stay pressed against his chest for days. It would be the perfect escape from the nightmare her life had become.

      Except it wouldn’t solve anything.

      Shaking her head, she stripped off her wrinkled shirt and shrugged into the clean blouse. She had no business thinking of Thomas—Agent Kincannon, she corrected—as anything other than a man assigned to a case. A blanket of guilt settled over her shoulders as she remembered why he was here in the first place. Ivan was dead, and she was now a target.

      But I’m not dead, a wicked little voice inside her head proclaimed. And if I really am marked for death, why not enjoy the time I have left?

      Firmly shutting the door on that line of thought, she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into her slacks. She wished, now more than ever, she was the kind of woman who could have a no-holds-barred affair, to simply enjoy the physical pleasures of a relationship without letting her heart get involved. But she had tried that tack once before, and it had been a disaster. No, she thought, shaking her head as she smoothed a hand over her hair. Agent Kincannon might be quite nice to look at, and his touch might set her heart racing, but she knew all too well how things would end between them.

      She didn’t have the best track record when it came to the people in her life, starting with the death of her adoptive father when she was eleven. It hadn’t been his fault, of course, but growing up, she’d harbored a lot of anger toward him for leaving her in the care of an adoptive mother who had never really wanted her to begin with. Dena had viewed her as a burden, something to be tolerated but never embraced. Her new husband had followed suit, and their apathy had turned to outright emotional neglect when they had a child of their own.

      “Don’t call her that,” Dena had snapped when she overheard Claire refer to Amanda as “my sister.” “You’re not related to her.”

      Despite everything, she had still loved the woman, trying everything in her power to please her. Because Claire had been adopted as a baby, Dena had been the only mother she’d ever known, and her rejections had stung each and every time. Eventually, though, Claire had learned a valuable lesson—no one could hurt her if she didn’t let them get close.

      Now she made it a point to safeguard her heart, never granting anyone the power to hurt her. It was a safe, if sometimes lonely, way to live, but it kept her heart in one piece.

      So, as much as she might enjoy his company, Agent Kincannon was not a risk worth taking. She consoled herself with the thought that he probably wasn’t attracted to her anyway. After all, she hadn’t exactly been at her best today. First she’d blurted out any number of awkward statements, making her sound like an escaped mental patient. Then she’d woken up screaming, another strong moment for her. Finally, she’d snotted all over his clean shirt and argued with him, all while looking like a hungover college student with wrinkled clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Oh yeah, she was quite the catch. He probably couldn’t wait to hand her off to someone else and get back to his swimsuit-model girlfriend.

      He was standing by the windows when she returned to the living room, his back to her as he peeked through a crack in the blinds. “Is everything okay?” Had he seen something?

      “Yeah.” He gave the street another quick scan, then turned to face her. “Everything is fine,” he said with an absent smile. “Just checking to see if anything is out of the ordinary.”

      She felt the corner of her mouth lift, amused despite her resolve to keep him at arm’s length. “And how would you know what ‘ordinary’ is for this neighborhood?”

      He tapped his temple with his forefinger as he walked over, carrying the papers in his other hand. “My extensive training and lethal instincts allow me to spot danger before it has a chance to appear. Why do you think they chose me to protect you?”

      “Because of your modest and humble nature?”

      He grinned at her, dimples appearing on his lean cheeks. “That, too.”

      He passed her the papers as he walked to the door, checking the peephole before opening it. “Stay close, all right?” he instructed, all traces of teasing gone.

      Suppressing a shudder, Claire hugged the papers to her chest and followed him into the hall.

      * * *

      Where the hell is the package?

      Victor rummaged through another drawer, his patience running low as he pushed the contents aside in a desperate search for the papers. The deliveryman had confirmed the package had been dropped off, and since it was no longer on the welcome mat outside the door, she must have brought it inside. Unless he was lying to me...

      He quickly dismissed the thought. He had been rather...convincing with his interrogation, and the man’s screams and pathetic begging hadn’t been faked. He wouldn’t have considered lying, wouldn’t have seen a reason to. The package had been delivered, all right, but it was now gone.

      He stepped away from the desk, scanning the rest of the apartment as he considered his next move. He could wait here, but who knew when she’d be back? By now, she’d received his email and would know she was a target. Was she running scared, or would she go to ground? Probably the latter, he mused. Her dossier gave no indication she’d know how to evade him, so even if she was running, it wouldn’t be hard to track her down.

      He wandered into the kitchen, considering his options. He could hide here, attack her when she came home and grab the package then. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. That would be the easiest thing to do. But then his gaze snagged on the glasses in the sink, incongruous in the otherwise spotless kitchen. Two glasses. One for her, and one for someone else.

      Damn. She had protection. He hadn’t expected that so soon. He’d known it was a possibility, of course, had even suggested that to his employer. The icy voice on the other end of the line had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to do as he was told, no questions asked. They’d wanted Novikoff’s image sent to her, so he had done it. Part of him wondered now if they had wanted to make this job more difficult for him, to give them a convenient excuse to dispose of him later.

      A cold ball of anger settled in his stomach. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

      Waiting in the apartment was out. She might come home with someone, and he needed to know what he was up against before making his move. Going back to the desk, he carefully rearranged the drawer, placing all the contents back in order. At first glance, she wouldn’t suspect anything was different. He needed to keep the advantage of surprise for as long as possible. He cast an assessing look around the apartment, making sure he hadn’t left anything out of place, then slipped out the door.

      “I’ll be back,” he whispered, the promise hanging in the empty air.