Page 43 of Command and Control: GHOST Operative

She chews her lower lip for a second, tempting me to take a bite of it myself. "What else don't you do?"

I try circling back to her request, hoping to change the subject. "Cook."

Her eyes move over my face, seeming to say something I wish she wouldn't. "But you're going to cook for me, aren't you?"

I sigh again, because Julieanne isn't being difficult or obstinate, yet she’s still somehow managing to be a complete pain in my ass. "Yes, Jules." I curve one hand around the back of her skull, urging it against my chest so she’ll stop looking at me like that. "I'm gonna cook for you."

16

SOME ITCHES JUST CAN’T BE SCRATCHED

JULIEANNE

VINCENT MIGHT CLAIM he doesn't cook, but the man makes a mean omelet.

I sit at the giant island dominating the center of the open kitchen, eyes bouncing everywhere as I shovel in another mouthful of cheesy, mushroomy goodness. Vincent sits beside me, his posture oddly stiff as he plows through his own omelet.

The woman who was here when we came in is nowhere to be seen, and since her car wasn't in the driveway or garage, and there's supposedly no other bedrooms in the house, I'm a little confused about where she might have gone. I'm pretty sure I didn't imagine her, but it's been a really weird twenty-four hours, so I’m starting to doubt myself a little.

I hesitate a second, but then decide what the hell, if Vincent didn’t want me in his business, he shouldn’t have brought me here. "Who was the woman in the kitchen?"

Vincent's eyes come my way, holding a second before going back to his plate. "Vera."

His normally grumpy demeanor has shifted slightly since we got here, going from irritated to something more like exasperation. Like he's not really sure what the fuck to do with me now. I have a few ideas, and seeing as how we get to share a bed tonight, I'm hoping to turn them into reality.

In the years since my divorce, I assumed when I finally did have sex it would be sort of like scratching an itch. Would simply offer a reprieve from the need that's been gnawing away at my inside for decades. It's been more like breaking the seal on a bottomless pit. I can’t get enough. And the itch is spreading like hives, leaving me hot and bothered in a way I’ve never been before.

And ninety percent of the cause is the man sitting next to me. I’ve been fascinated by Vincent since the first time I laid eyes on him, but now it’s more than that. Now I’m starting to see exactly what’s behind all the frowns and scowls and threats. All the claims he’s made of who and what he is.

And most of them are turning out to be lies.

He supposedly doesn't smile—except he smiled at me. He doesn't laugh—except I made him laugh. And he doesn't cook—but here I am eating an omelet he made.

I spent my entire marriage getting the worst of what my ex-husband had to offer, and I can't deny the appeal of a man who seems to hate everyone but me. A man who, despite what appears to be his best effort, can't seem to stop showing me the parts of him no one else sees.

It makes me crave more of him. More of the pieces no one gets but me.

"I’m assuming Vera isn't your girlfriend or wife, otherwise she probably would've thrown meoff the mountain by now." Not for one second did I think she and Vincent were romantically involved. I wouldn’t be here if they were. He loves to talk about what an asshole he is, but I keep seeing more and more that tells me he's the exact opposite. Makes me wonder why he works so hard to make the rest of the world believe otherwise.

Vincent's eyes come back my way, his expression startled. Like he can’t believe I’d even consider the possibility he had a woman in his life. "Vera's my housekeeper."

I let my eyes wander the space around us. "That explains why this place is so spotless."

It's a lot of other things too. I lived in a nice house when I was married, but it was a more traditional design. Closed off rooms. Small windows hung with heavy drapes. Lots of carpet and wallpaper and wingback chairs. My ex-husband loved it. I decided it wasn't worth the fight.

When my younger son left for college and I finally moved out on my own, I was thrilled to finally be rid of all the shit. The knick knacks, the area rugs, the patterns and over decoration. Was my condo boring as hell? Abso-fucking-lutely. But it sure as shit didn't look like the nineteen nineties barfed on my walls.

Vincent's home is everything I would have picked out if I'd been allowed to build my own place. It's mid-century modern meets male, and I am here for it.

The floors are slightly textured slate, with the exception of the bedroom, which had light, ultra plush carpet I can’t wait to squish my toes into. Every exterior wall is a window, offering the most amazing views and bringing a sense of spaciousness that makes the house feel bigger than it actually is. The furniture is sleek with sharp lines and low-profiles. Warm wood accents keepit from feeling harsh, and multiple vases of fresh flowers give everything a cozy feel.

"Your house is stunning."

Vincent grunts beside me but doesn't react to my praise of his home. He's back to pretending to be a sourpants, and that amuses me for some reason.

I laugh. "That's it? Are you just so used to hearing how amazing your house is that your only reaction is to grunt at me?"

Vincent goes still, his jaw working from side to side as he slowly looks my way. "No one's ever seen my house before."

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