Page 14 of The Truths that Deceive

“As I said, you’re very annoying. Consider this a warning.”

“You took me, not the other way around.” I cling to the barbs in his words. They bring the clarity I need to get back onto safer land. “I get to be annoying.”

“You pissed off Big Daddy.”

I go still because I’ve heard that term used before. He’sdefinitely CIA. Or was. Question is, why him and not someone on the legitimate payroll?

Because there’s nothing legit about this man.

But I also have to play this carefully.

“Who’s that?”

“Your owners? CIA?” He goes into the kitchen without another look at me.

The word run beats hard, but I don’t. No way would a man this resourceful, this clever—and he’s clever, it doesn’t take much to see that—leave me even for a nanosecond if he thought I’d be able to get out.

Maybe I could if I left everything, but I’m not about to do that. If it comes down to me and the government, then I’ll need as many weapons as I can squirrel away.

He comes out with his scotch. I watch him down it, then set the glass down on the living room table.

The lavish apartment’s a mix of decorating styles, but the layout is pure modern with its open spaces. He pulls his shirt off and dumps it on the floor. My heart leaps, but he doesn’t make a move toward me.

“I don’t?—”

His sharp look cuts off my words. “Look, cut the shit. I know your name. I know you work behind a desk for the CIA in information gathering and you’ve been handling a field agent who’s missing. And while most of what you’re doing’s been redacted, the CIA wants you back.”

He shoves a hand through his wet hair. I know I should get my hardware out, even though it’s protected in the waterproof bag, but if I’m going to run, if I manage to have that opportunity, I have to trust that protection.

“We went through this, remember?” he asks. “You lost your agent. You took off for reasons I’m betting have to do with weapons and Bolivia, so spill.”

“I haven’t ever heard that term used for them. Big Daddy,” I say. “That’s all.”

This man both riles and makes me want to drop to my knees, head down, hands behind my back. He makes me want to fight and to rip his clothes off.

What I need is to ignore those urges and focus on the real issue. I need to find out all I can, to use him, and bottom line, to save my skin. Which isn’t easy when I’ve got no idea who exactly I’m up against.

And when I have a second agenda.

So I gaze at him, like I’m the lowest-level agent who has no idea what the term he used means.

His look calls me out on my lie, but he also can’t possibly see through me that easily.

Right?

“Drink?”

He turns and pours two scotches while I try like hell to pry my eyes from his body.

Lean, muscled, scarred. Enough to make a woman drip. Hell, he’s enough that Iamdripping and?—

And he knows what he’s doing to me.

His back is almost completely inked, some writing in cursive and what looks like a wound except it’s a tattoo, and through the open flesh of the art is a hand. Like it’s the Devil reaching out to pull whoever and whatever’s in its way back down into the depths.

I shiver and curl my hand because I want to touch it. When he turns around, I’m struck by the one tattoo on his chest, over his heart.

The USA. I love my country, but in my experience it’s a special kind of asshole who announces it on their skin.

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