Page 32 of One Secret

Though, apparently, not just one.

That oh so sweetly-concerned bartender. The twitching blinds at her place. Darcy's cagey dislike of being seen as "involved" with me...

Logic dictates that, since I was last in Rome, Darcy's found someone to be in a real relationship with.

Which means that our... association... is now living on borrowed time.

Realizing my hands have curled into fists, I try to relax. I fold my arms to pin my fingers flat against my sides.

Darcy and I have made no promises to one another. I should feel nothing if she decides to end things.

Though, in my experience, "should" and "reality" aren't exactly bosom buds.

When Darcy looks back at me over her shoulder, I realize she's waiting for an answer.

Shit, what had she asked me, again?

"You have your own plane?"

'It's a friend's,' I explain as Darcy makes a slow pirouette, assessing all of the vanilla leather and glossy textures of the interior.

'You have a friend?' Darcy asks with the exact same level of amazement she'd pitched over the plane.

'Ha. Ha,' I drawl. Then, I'm forced to shrug my free shoulder as if conceding her a point. 'Fine. More like a client than a friend. He lets me use it whenever, provided he's not already booked in a flight plan.'

Thank God Freya is now in Italy full-time. For the last twelve months, booking time on the Machelli jet had been near impossible. It seemed to almost always be on route to or from the States.

Darcy whistles long and low. I watch as one of her hands, her fingers slim and tapered, brushes over the backs of the chairs.

'One hell of a perk,' she says.

I barely hear her. I'm distracted by a sudden tightness in my throat, a hunger in my belly. I've always liked Darcy's touch. How it shifts from the gentlest of caresses—like now, on that leather—to a firm and possessive hold. Darcy is petite and kind of delicate-looking. But she's far from fragile. There's a strength, a power, in her that is so at odds with her elven appearance that it's sexy as all get out.

A warrior in a sweet maiden's mask.

I nod.

'The perks are definitely one of the upswings to the job,' I admit.

But the drawbacks are just as real.

Such as never being able to admit what I do for a living. Or, on the rare occasions that I trust someone enough to open up, watching them hightail it as fast as they can in the opposite direction.

More often than not the retreat is emotional over physical. Oh, the distance becomes real enough with the dodged phone calls and general avoidance later on. But there, in the moment, when I so much as hint at my profession, I get to witness a retreat of a different kind. One that kills the light in their eyes, like shutters coming down behind their irises as their genuine smiles are replaced with detached, wobbling replicas.

It's a mental rejection. An instinctive, protective barrier forged against the monster they now view me as.

I'm fairly convinced I'd be less offended if they gave up all pretense and just made a beeline for the nearest exit.

Darcy, on the other hand...

Darcy had made no kind of escape at all.

Just... "All right."

Total and complete acceptance.

It makes me itch. But it also makes particular body parts sit up and pay attention.

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