Hidden Agenda. Christy Barritt

her arm and steadied her before she hurt herself. When he released her, she brushed her shirt off. Getting rid of his touch maybe?

      He didn’t have time for these games.

      He put a finger over his lips to signal silence. She nodded and stayed behind him as they stepped into the kitchen. Wind swept through the room, bringing a chill with it. As lightning flashed again, the ragged edges of one of the bay windows by the breakfast nook came into view.

      A tree limb lay half inside, half outside the house.

      He let out the breath he’d been holding. The noise had just been nature doing the damage, not anyone dangerous. He lowered his gun.

      “It looks like it was the storm after all,” Bailey muttered, stepping out from behind him, her shoulders relaxing some. “A nuisance, but the better of the options racing through my mind. I’ll get a broom.”

      He tucked his weapon into his jacket. “Know where any plastic is? I need to cover that hole up.”

      “Look in the west wing of the house. There are entire rooms with furniture covered in sheets of the stuff. You should be able to find something there.”

      Her words were cold. She thought she knew him, knew his reasons for being away. But she had no idea. And he didn’t have to explain himself to her. In fact, he wouldn’t explain himself to her. All of this was none of her business.

      He’d come here to figure out who’d killed his dad. He only wished he had more to go on than the cryptic message his father’s friend had left him. Then the man had died before relaying any information. Now his father was dead, as well.

      As Ed headed into the blackness known as the west wing, he comforted himself with the fact that his father had run a check on Bailey before she was hired. But the best operatives were good. Really good. They slipped by the normal screenings. A few had slipped by high-level screenings.

      Until he could identify the guilty party, he’d trust no one.

      He was no fool. When his father had told him he was hiring a nurse, Ed had looked into Bailey himself. Her past had seemed seriously lacking. Could that be a sign she was a Goody Two-shoes or that her background had been fabricated?

      He stopped at the first room in the hallway. The door creaked open. On the other side, he saw what was probably a ballroom at one time. Pieces of furniture stood like pretend ghosts in a haunted house. Each was covered and draped with either plastic or white sheets.

      He grabbed some thick plastic off a wing chair and carried it back into the kitchen. Bailey was already there sweeping up the glass shards on the floor.

      “Nails?” he asked.

      He didn’t have to see her expression to know her thoughts. If you’d been around more, maybe you wouldn’t have to ask me these questions.

      He wished he had been around more. He’d wanted to be. But his job had required a lot of him. In essence, it had required his life, and Ed’s father knew that. Ed’s father had helped him get the position. His dad knew all about the risks, the sacrifices. It came with the territory.

      Bailey continued to brush the glass into a trash can. “The toolbox is under the sink.”

      While he was gone, Bailey had lit some candles around the room. Warm light flickered at the sink, on the breakfast table and on top of the kitchen island.

      Ed found the nails and a hammer—right where Bailey had said they would be—and, after moving the limb from the window, he secured the thick plastic around the frame. At least the room would be protected against water damage. It wouldn’t do much to keep intruders out, though. There was little he could do about that now.

      While he had the toolbox, he also hammered the back door shut. Bailey watched him, her arms crossed and eyes suspicious. Finally, Ed stepped back and looked at his work. It was nothing to write home about, but it would do. In the morning, he’d see if he could find the supplies to fix the door.

      “I’ll put those tools up for you,” Bailey offered.

      Before he could insist that he could do it, she grabbed the hammer. Their hands brushed, and his heart jolted with electricity. He cleared his throat, brushing off his surprise. “Your hands are ice-cold. Do you have any firewood? We need to get some heat in this place.”

      She turned, squatting to return the hammer to its location under the sink. “Yes. A fire would be great. I wasn’t successful at starting one myself.”

      At least the lack of a fire wasn’t an effort to conceal her presence here. “It’s going to get cold, and the storm isn’t supposed to let up anytime soon,” he finally said. “It looks like both of us are stuck here for a while.”

      She stood up and offered what looked like a forced smile. “So it appears.”

      He walked into the living room, a grand space with a ceiling two stories high, ornate bookcases stretching the height of the walls, and various seating areas where people could nestle down and catch up.

      Too bad there would be no nestling down and no catching up.

      He slid his wet coat off, grateful that his clothes underneath were still dry. Then he grabbed some logs and put them on the hearth. He balled up some newspaper he’d found on the floor to use for kindling. Bailey stood close, watching his every move, and finally handed him some matches.

      He watched as the paper caught flame. Something about the moment reminded him of how very alone he was now. Both parents dead. No brothers or sisters. No family of his own. There was nothing waiting for him if he left the CIA. Nothing.

      “Your father always liked to make fires himself,” Bailey muttered, her voice breaking him from his thoughts. “He never let me help.”

      Ed stepped back, waiting for the flames to come to life. “Sounds like my dad.”

      He glanced at Bailey. Had he heard sorrow in the woman’s voice? She stood there with the sleeves of her sweatshirt pulled over her hands. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes downcast, almost sad. Maybe all of this defensiveness was because Bailey truly did care about his father. He didn’t have time to ponder it now.

      A moment later, the fire hissed, yawned and finally roared to life. Bailey stepped closer and rubbed her hands together. Orange light danced across her face.

      Her very pleasant face.

      Not that it mattered to Ed. He squatted there, mesmerized by the flames for another moment.

      After a few minutes, Bailey stepped back. Her gaze narrowed as she looked at something in the distance.

      Then she froze. Sucked in a quick breath. Stepped back.

      Ed sprang to his feet, tense and ready for action. “What is it?”

      Her wide eyes met his. “You came in through the back door, right?”

      “That’s correct.”

      She pointed toward the front door. “Then who left those wet footprints there?”

      * * *

      Bailey grabbed the fire poker and wrapped her fingers firmly around the handle. If there was someone else in this house, she was going to be prepared to fight him or her. Right beside Ed.

      She didn’t think Ed was the most upstanding guy, but she also didn’t think he’d harm her.

      Unless he continued to suspect she had something to do with his father’s death.

      Which was absurd.

      Just then, Ed turned from scanning the room. He looked back at her, and she sucked in another deep breath.

      The firelight revealed the intricacies of his face.

      Startling blue eyes, thick dark hair, perfectly proportioned features. He had a slight scar under his right eye and a small dimple at his chin.

      It would