Page 59 of Protecting You

“Dinner will be served in a few minutes,” Molly said. “Help yourself to the cheese board while you wait.”

Alyssa waited until she’d left, then turned to Callan.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in hours.” He crossed the room and pulled her into a hug, whispering, “We have to assume they’re watching.”

She leaned away to face him, eyes wide. “It’s been a day.” Her voice didn’t betray her worry.

Holding her hand, he led her to a loveseat. “I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing, but how’s it going?”

“I think I’ll have what he needs by tomorrow.”

They set the drinks on a low table and sat.

Callan wrapped his arm around her. “In time to get to my parents’ house for dinner?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” She tucked in close to his side, fitting perfectly. Not that he needed to be thinking about that, or about how good she smelled, or about how much he liked her right there, beside him. “How about you? Did you get some work done? I know it’s frustrating that you can’t get online.”

“Hmm.” He allowed frustration into his tone. “Your client is a piece of work. Paranoid beyond belief.”

“I assume he has reason to be.” Alyssa patted Callan’s knee as if to calm him.

The innocent touch did just the opposite, sending his heartbeat into overdrive.

“It’s just for one more day.” She gestured to the room, the romantic table, the lights beyond the windows. “At least we have the evening together. This is nice.”

“Finally.” He kissed the top of her head like a real fiancé would do, picking up hints of vanilla and jasmine.

He reminded himself that this was all fake. Pretend. Not real, despite the way her nearness made his body go haywire and his thoughts drift far from the operation.

He whispered in her ear, “You need to use the restroom.”

She leaned back, eyebrows high. Her mouth opened—a protest, he guessed, but she said, “I’ll be right back.” She pushed up and walked into the living room. Her voice carried through the sunroom door. “I need a bathroom. Should I go upstairs or?—?”

“I’ll take you.” Benson peeked his head in. “Stay here.”

Callan lifted his glass of wine in a sort of salute, then wandered to the doorway and watched as Alyssa and the guard turned down a hallway toward the kitchen.

After counting to ten, Callan meandered through the living room and toward the front of the house, moving slowly, looking around as if he were bored, not searching.

In the foyer, noises drifted up the stairs from the basement. Men’s voices, at least two, maybe three. One of them was Ghazi.

They were speaking English, some accented with Arabic, he thought. Not talking about anything important.

Even though he was probably being watched, he moved up the stairs quickly and silently. The hallway lights were off, the space dim as he turned away from the office where they’d spent the afternoon. He opened his own bedroom door. He stepped inside, then, keeping it open, ducked as low as his six-foot-something body would allow and crept to the end of the hallway.

If the camera he’d seen earlier was a fisheye, then he wasn’t fooling anybody. But he was betting it wasn’t.

He guessed the master bedroom was on the back corner of the house. When he reached that door, he opened it and slipped inside before flicking the light on.

Fancy room, like all the others. King-sized bed, poorly made, probably not by the fake housekeeper but the room’s occupant.

Personal items on the bureau—a handful of coins, a couple of envelopes. Nothing unusual.

Except for one photograph.

It was a little faded in a cheap, thin frame that showed wear on the edges. It displayed a young couple grinning at the photographer. The woman was beautiful with dark skin and fashionably curled silky black hair.

The man had his arm slung around her shoulders. In his other hand, he showed off a lighter in an open box. The same lighter he'd used to light the fire earlier.

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