Page 8 of Edge of Danger

“Now you’re just showing off.”

As he stepped into camo pants, he asked over his shoulder, “Hungry?”

“Thirsty,” she replied.

He disappeared into the other room and she hunted around until she found her panties wadded on the floor beside a fancy antique armoire. Her bra had landed on the back of an armchair in the far corner. She shimmied into both and then scrambled into her pants and tank top.

Embarrassment overcame her at having just fallen into bed with a man she barely knew. Even if he had just done the exact same crazy thing. Blushing furiously, she stepped into the living room.

Ian tossed her a bottle of water from over by the kitchenette. She caught it neatly with one hand and proceeded to down it. She tossed the empty bottle back at him. Unfortunately, he turned and snagged it before it could bean him in the back of the head. Good reflexes.

He said dryly, “We got a little sidetracked before, but we do need to talk.”

Sidetracked? She would call the last few hours an epic detour.

This was not a conversation she was looking forward to. But he was without question stronger than she was—she knew thatfrom first-hand experience—and he could force her to stay here, and to talk for that matter, if he wanted to.

She scowled while he put a bunch of grapes, dates, and crackers on a plate and sliced open a pomegranate. He paused on his way over to a low, Occidental-style table—not the one she’d sat on not too long ago while they tried to give each other tonsillectomies with their tongues, thankfully—and pulled the long chain dangling from a ceiling fan. It began rotating lazily.

The air wafting down from it was warm, but the light breeze against her skin was welcome, nonetheless.

He put the plate on the table, sank down onto a cushion beside it, picked up a date, and bit into it. “Are you going to join me, or are you just going to stand there and stare?”

Her scowled deepened as she plunked down on a cushion across the table from him. “Who are you?”

He grinned. “Funny, but I was about to ask you the exact same thing.”

“You first,” she snapped.

“No, you,” he snapped back.

“No,you,” she retorted, “I asked first.”

“I caught you, and I’m feeding you.” He added archly, “And I did win our contest.”

Jerk. She glared but answered, “My name’s Piper Roth. You?”

“Ian McCloud.”

“Who do you work for?” she demanded.

“Ah, ah, ah. I caught you, remember? Who doyouwork for?”

She nibbled a cracker. Sipped more water. Glanced up at him as if she’d forgotten the question. He shifted a foot so his knee stuck up and propped his elbow on it. And waited. Studying her with disconcerting intensity. God, she could get lost in those piercing green-on-brown eyes of his.

Work, Piper. Focus.He wasn’t going to buy her cover story for a minute, but she might as well throw it out there. She replied, “I’m an aid worker. I’m here to give kids vaccinations and vitamin shots. Teach women proper nutrition for their kids.”

“While toting around a sniper rifle?” He snorted. “Who signs your paycheck?”

“Who says I’m collecting a paycheck?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nobodycomes to this place for random shits and grins. You’re on a job. Aid worker, huh? That’s a pretty thin cover for a woman in this part of the world.”

He would not be wrong. She shrugged in response and replied, “Who are you working for?”

“I’m U.S. military.”

Translation: military intelligence, or maybe straight up Defense Intelligence Agency. Or he could be part of a Special Ops Team. “Where’s the rest of your unit?” she asked.

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