Page 85 of Red Line

“You’redoing that.”

“Yes. We’re presenting as a husband and wife on vacation. I thought I was following behind you and would catch up with you there. But you got outfoxed.”

“I was indeed.” Husband and wife cover?

He lifted a hand and flagged a cab. “Safer not to walk.” The cab pulled over. “Okay, let’s find out who you’re going to be next.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Red

“Today was a string of unexpected events,” Pied Piper said as he shut the cab door, and they started toward the front entrance of the airport. “I’m sorry you went through all that.”

Red was off balance right now. She’d like a few minutes to adjust to the shit show that had been her day.

She still hadn’t eaten and was hangry.

Knowing that, Red should watch her mouth, but despite the guy’s tone being gentlemanly and concerned, Red bristled at the idea that he didn’t think she could do her job. “Did you think I was looking for sympathy from you?”

“Empathy, maybe? I mean, you’re a human being. Or,” he smiled, “human-like. Perhaps cyborg. In a snap, you went from death’s doorstep to La Femme Nikita.”

“Nikita. Funny.” She looked around to ensure they were out of earshot. “Am I putting off the image that I’m a cutthroat?”

Pied Piper held his eyes wide. “Literally, are you?”

“Cut throats are very messy.” She was tired, and this felt like banter. Like they were teasing each other. Like this was flirty. But flirty took energy.

“Stop,” she said, coming up on her toes and holding his face in hers. She pressed against him, lifting her lips as if she was going to kiss him on the cheek. “Do you want me to keep calling you Pied Piper in my head, or do you want to give me a name?” Rude? She was fine with that.

“Nomad,” he said, pulling his brows together. “Why Pied Piper?”

Red lowered her heels to the ground and took his hand as they walked toward their X again.

Nomad …

She liked it.

“You asked me if I was a cutthroat. I can’t imagine asking you the same question. It’s part of the job, right? You’re handed a mission. You fulfill the mission. Does that violence define you?”

“To some extent, yes,” he said.

“Can a man do his job and go home to his spouse and kiddos to have a barbeque with the neighbors all Mr. Suburbia?”

“Not very effectively, honestly. Just look at the divorce rate in our respective fields.”

She wore his button-down shirt over her outfit, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and her hair in her face. She should look different enough, though she’d been cleared by security, and she shouldn’t be sucking up anyone’s attention.

And the T-shirt he’d worn under the shirt he’d handed her fit him very well.

“Some marriages survive. How do you think they can do that?” He squeezed her hand, released it to reach for the door, and held it wide for her.

Once through, Red adjusted her bag onto her shoulder, accepting the arm he offered her. Why had she jumped right into talking about marriage and divorces? Who does that?

She leaned heavily on it like an old woman with arthritic feet.

Red would admit to exhaustion. And for once, she understood the allure of a man sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bedroom—but to sleep. She wasn’t used to thoughts like these and wondered if her brain had shrunk in the dehydration of her bout of typhoid fever.

After a few steps, Nomad reached around her waist and held her tightly to him, supportively.

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