Page 9 of Once a Killer

“There were,” she said. “But I like the freedom of personal protection. My boss isn’t looking over my shoulder. I’m in charge of my work, and I make my own decisions. And keeping someone safe? Heading off a threat? Very satisfying.

“Which brings me back to what you’re going to tell the people working for you. Any ideas?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest with you,” he said. “Have you?”

“Of course I have. Without a good cover, the people around you are going to be curious. Then suspicious. The best bodyguards are wallpaper. Part of the background, but not interesting or important enough to think about.”

“So what are you thinking your cover should be?”

“I’ll pose as a journalist for an e-zine. I’ll be writing a story about labs like yours, what they do, what their purpose is. It’s a good excuse to be with you every day -- getting a feel for who you are and what you do. It’s also a good excuse to talk to the other people in your lab. Ask them what they do, why they chose to work for you, what they hope to get out of their association with you.” She smiled. “You’d be surprised how much people will tell you if you ask them questions and listen as though they’re the most interesting person you’ve ever met.”

He stared at Bree for a long moment. Yeah, shewouldneed to talk to the other people in his lab, and this would be the perfect excuse. He was betting she’d know exactly how to phrase her questions to get each of them to spill their guts.

“You know the coders in my lab are going to want to read the finished article. See their names in print. They’ll be waiting for it to be published,” he said, watching Bree’s reaction.

Her only reaction was a shrug. “You have any idea how long the lead time is for publication? It’s shorter in magazines, but it’s still several months. By then, I hope we’ve caught the person who’s after your program. And the article will be moot. If it’s someone from your team, you can tell the rest of them the truth. That I wasn’t a journalist. There was never going to be an article. That I was investigating them.

“They’ll probably be pissed. But once they’ve thought about it, they’ll understand. You did what you had to do.”

When she spoke the last sentence, she swallowed. Pressed her lips together.

So Bree had done what she had to do, as well.

He’d find out what that was. Because he wanted to know every damn thing about Bree Gordon.

She was an attractive, interesting woman. She intrigued him. But that was secondary to the most important detail -- his life was in her hands.

Chapter 4

Bree lay awake long after she’d gone to bed that night, listening to the sounds she’d hear in any older city house. Wooden walls creaking when a strong gust of wind whistled against the windows. The occasional car driving by the building and the more distant sound of traffic on a busier street. The slow plod of footsteps walking up the stairs and entering the apartment below Jameson’s. Which reminded her that she hadn’t asked about the other people in the building.

A task for tomorrow.

Bree plumped her pillow and rolled onto her other side. Blocked out the noise from outside the building and focused on what she heard from inside the house.

Her door was open, and so was Jameson’s. He hadn’t been happy about that, but she’d pointed out that she needed to hear him at all times. Even overnight.

He’d pinched his lips together, but he’d left his door ajar. She’d done the same. He was safer that way.

But it was distracting. Awkward. The sounds people made when they were sleeping and unguarded were intimate sounds. Only a partner should be privy to those. But when someone was threatened, boundaries and norms went out the window.

So she heard the rustle of his sheets when he shifted in bed. Shoved away the image of those sheets against bare skin.

The tiny sounds he made as he slept were disturbingly intimate. So was hearing him talk in his sleep. She wanted to get up and close her door but knew she couldn’t.

She was used to sleeping like this when on an assignment. It had never bothered her before. Maybe she was more sensitive to the sounds Jameson made because she’d sparred with him.

Well, not sparred, exactly. Restless, she rolled onto her other side. She’d taken him down repeatedly. And while she’d done so, she’d felt the hard contours of his body against hers. Felt his muscles flex and release. Heard his breath whoosh out when he landed on his back.

Everything about sleeping across the hall from Jameson was way too intimate and familiar for their situation. Bodyguard. Principal. Nothing more.

Finally, to take her mind off the tiny sounds coming from the other room, she stood up and pulled on a pair of pajama pants. Slid her Glock 43 into its sticky holster and carried it into the living room. Stood beside his desk, where she tugged the curtain aside just far enough to see the street in front of his building.

Her car was now in a long line of cars parked against the curb. But there was no activity on the street. No cars going by. No people out walking. Of course, it was three in the morning. Not the time people went for a walk. Or even left for work.

When she’d been in the military, and then in the CIA Spec-Ops group, three a.m. was the magic hour. It was the time when patrols went out, checking the small villages. The time when ops were launched.

It was the time when she’d gotten into position, safely hidden and waited for her targets to show their faces.

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