Page 23 of Tabitha

Ugh.

Just as the door chimes again, I grab the knob and yank it open. “What?”

I wince internally, already knowing that I’ve failed.

Banks is standing alone on my doorstep, dressed casually in a form-fitting black shirt and tan cargo pants. He scans me from head to toe, his perusal slow. Most women would classify him as handsome. He’s slightly older, mid-thirties, his brown hair military short. Sexy stubble dots his jaw. His features are sharp, his face lean, his body in great physical shape but not bulky with muscles. His green eyes are lovely, if you can ignore the dead look in the soulless orbs.

But I’m not fooled by a pretty face.

His lips quirk, as if amused by my lack of tact, his smile almost infectious as he nods toward me. “Good afternoon. I’m Edward Banks, your neighbor.”

He casts a look inside the house before his gaze flashes back toward me. “I wasn’t aware that the house sold?”

Though he posed it as a question, tension thrums through his frame.

The man is thoroughly pissed.

I tighten my hand on the doorknob, barely resisting the urge to slam the door in his smug face. But I play the good assassin and suppress the impulse.

Barely.

“It was my grandfather’s house.” I glance away, pretending to be affected, using the time to try and locate his team. The back of my neck itches, and I know they are close. Unfortunately, the fuckers are good, and I don’t spot them. “We’re just going through his things, packing up the house.”

Banks gives a hum of sympathy that’s totally fake and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorjamb to prevent me from slamming the door in his face. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wasn’t aware he had a granddaughter.”

He is fishing for information.

Though it annoys me to share any private details about my life, I give them to him, not wanting to break cover. “After my father left the military, he and my grandfather became estranged. I wasn’t even aware the old man knew of my existence until a lawyer contacted me after he passed.”

An expression so sympathetic crosses his face that, if I didn’t know he was a murdering, lying scumbag, I might have almost believed it. “I live just down the road.” He points over his shoulder toward a house directly to the right.

“If I can be of any assistance packing or anything, just let me know.” He shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shifting on his feet. “I know this isn’t the right time, but if you’re looking to sell, I’ll offer you well above the asking price.”

I can only gape at his audacity, barely resisting the urge to reach for my knife to carve the fucker up. There is no doubt in my mind that he had a hand in killing Buford. Unfortunately, someone paid a lot of money to change the coroner’s report from murder to an accident.

The old man didn’t fall down the stairs.

He was pushed.

Someone not only wanted to take over the militia group, but take possession of the house as well.

I shake my head at his offer, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, but nothing has been decided yet. We’re taking the month to close up the house and mourn the loss of the grandfather I didn’t know existed.”

“We?” Banks queries with a quirk of a brow, tipping a little to the side, as if to see in the house.

Pierce, who has been hovering a few feet behind the door, steps forward. He slips an arm around my waist, then leans down and places an affectionate kiss along the side of my neck. Before I can process it, he reaches out and offers his hand to Banks. “I’m Pierce.”

Displeasure darkens Banks’ face, but he quickly masks it with a fake smile and shakes hands. “Banks.”

Pierce’s fingers brush up and down my sides, sending goose bumps scattering along my body. He’s totally taking advantage of the situation, and I’m forced to do nothing when I normally would have elbowed him in the gut and thrown him over my shoulder for taking such liberties.

He plays with my fingers, the fucker turning all snuggly and possessive. I grit my teeth and bear his touch, completely thrown off when my nipples harden.

Intellectually, I understand the laws of attraction, but I’m not prepared for the all-consuming way it takes over my thoughts. I should be focusing on the mission, the very real danger standing on my doorstep, but I can’t stop obsessing about the way my skin tingles under the sweeping brush of his fingertips.

As much as I want to hate it…I can’t.

And I’m mortified that I can be so easily distracted.

---