Page 29 of Wyatt

Now, it was all Wyatt, his mouth sweet and tender, drawing her in to himself as he stood them up. He reached behind her, caught her legs, lifting her around him, so she could kiss him face-to-face, settle her arms on his shoulders. Then he just held her there, kissing her so thoroughly she’d forgotten why she’d tracked down his hotel, sneaked into the lift, followed the party up to his room, and tried to find the courage to talk to him.

Wyatt made her feel safe. He was gentle and caring, and even as he brought her over to the bed, even as he settled her down into it and pulled her into his arms, she felt cocooned in his presence. Big. Solid. Focused.

He took a breath, as if he might be nervous, and it sent a funny feeling through her, like maybe he wasn’t quite as changed as she thought.

Wasn’t the big time hockey player with the flock of women.

Maybe Wyatt was still the shy boy who’d cried the first time they were together.

She wanted to believe that.

He’d kissed her neck and then raised his head and met her gaze. Swallowed, a question in his beautiful eyes.

Yes.She’d nodded. “I’ve missed you too, Wyatt.”

Oh, she still missed him, and as the train lurched, she rolled over, pressing her hands to her face, trying to hold herself together.

Because if she could, she’d stay right there, in the last good memory between them. In the place where she always belonged.

Wyatt’s embrace.

4

Wyatt rued every single Russian spy novel he’d ever stayed up late reading—le Carré, Forsyth, Follett, Lee Child, even Tom Clancy—because every torture scene had rolled into one, settled into his bones, and turned him desperate by the time an officer came to get him.

The grousing from Jace, Deke, and Kalen hadn’t helped—even after Wyatt had told them everything, three times, emphasizing the fact that he hadno ideawhy someone would want to rob him.

He was turning into a pretty decent liar.

But as the officer shoved him, still cuffed, down into a metal chair and shut him in a room that had KGB written all over it, Wyatt considered rethinking his answers.

Yes, nude photos. And he wouldn’t cop to sex tapes—hello, that felt too tawdry to even lie about—but he had a litany of possible explanations. Whatever it took to get him out of these zip cuffs and on the train to Vladivostok in the morning.

The door opened and a woman came in. Blonde, midfifties, she wore a thin line of red lipstick, cool blue eyes, and the uniform of a militia officer.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” she said, offering a smile he didn’t quite believe. She sat down in the chair across the table. “We were busy gathering evidence.” She placed a long manila folder onto the table. Opened it up. He recognized the handwriting of the officer who’d taken down his initial statement. At the time, he’d also been bleeding, holding a compress to his nose, and trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he’d lost the only evidence his sister had of her innocence.

Sometime later, as he sat in the cell—a chipped and dour eleven-by-eleven cement dungeon that stirred up visions of gulag and Siberia and had Deke praying under his breath—Wyatt realized that if Coco still had the USB in her possession, she might have been the one attacked.

Which led him to the fact that maybe someone saw her hand him the device in the garden at the hotel. And that meant that someone had been following her.

Or him.

Which gave all sorts of credence to the idea that a real live and deadly assassin was very truly after Coco. And probably RJ.

And Wyatt had beat him up.

See, he could have been a SEAL. So, hoo-yah.

Except, well there was the fact that Wyatt had lost the evidence.

But if he could find Coco, maybe she could reconstruct it.

Except, hecouldn’tfind Coco. Not without help, and certainly the woman across the table wasn’t a great bet.

In fact—and this was where the spy stories kicked in—he didn’t know who to trust.

Probably no one.

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