Bulletproof (Unknown Identities #1) (10 page)

Assuming never worked out for anyone. “Not since Thanksgiving,” she said, bracing for his next non-negotiable order.

“Good. Don’t reach out to them again until this is over.”

She didn’t bother telling him she’d sent Christmas cards two weeks ago. He couldn’t change it and she couldn’t believe the senator would waste time or manpower on people completely unrelated to his situation.

Although if her source was correct, the senator had a vivid picture of her life already. A familiar tremor rolled through her. It happened whenever she thought about how much information the senator had acquired on anyone and everyone who disagreed with him over anything more serious than lunch. Worse, the senator had recently used that information to squash – in ways she didn’t want to think about – those opposed to his proposed legislation.

John rubbed her hand. “Stop over-thinking it. You’ll be fine.”

Her skin tingled under his calloused touch. Something else she didn’t want to think about. Theirs was a professional arrangement and she needed to keep it that way.

She hoped he was right. More, she hoped John’s claim of keeping a low personal profile were correct. He’d said no one knew much about him, but he didn’t have any idea who was doing the looking, or how. And she didn’t have any idea who he was. Not really. Except that he had apparently saved her life.

“Of course we’ll be fine,” she agreed sweetly. “We’re headed to the international terminal without any luggage. We look totally legit.”

“It looks like we’re in a rush. Which we are.”

She withheld her reply as the shuttle stopped to pick up more passengers. She tried to give off calm, happy vibes while her heart pounded anxiously in her chest.

John squeezed her hand, catching her attention. She met his gaze as he raised her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles. Her pulse stuttered at the gentle, sensual contact. She’d watched him dispense with two violent men less than an hour ago and to look at him now, all she could see was a man completely into
her
. Focused so intently on him, she caught the split-second wince as if touching her hurt him, but then he winked at the older woman sitting across the aisle. Maybe that blow to his head was bothering him.

“I don’t want to waste another minute,” he said softly.

“Oh, he sounds like a keeper,” the woman said with a wistful grin.

“He’s definitely a charmer,” Amelia agreed. “I’m a lucky woman.”

Minutes later they exited the shuttle with the other passengers and he caught her close to his side as they entered the terminal. “Where to? Pick a country.”

“France.” She didn’t have a real opinion it was merely the nearest counter and she just couldn’t seem to fill her lungs fast enough to want to walk any further. Despite having him at her side, the severity of the situation was creeping up on her again. Getting out of the country wasn’t a real option, though the French press would eat up a story that embarrassed United States officials.

“Do you have your passport?”

She stared at him, too shocked by this ridiculous idea. He couldn’t be serious. Her passport was in her purse simply because her apartment had been trashed.

“Well?”

“Yes, but –”

“Good.”

She stayed close, primarily because he held her hand in a firm grip, as John got into the shorter line and purchased two tickets for an evening departure to Paris.

What the hell? She thought they’d ask a few questions, maybe get some information, but shelling out cash for real tickets? She absolutely would not ‘stay close’ if he meant to take her away from her story.

Who the hell was this guy? More importantly, who did he think he was?

“We can’t really go,” she whispered as they walked toward the security stations that barred the gate area. John had purchased the tickets with their real names. He was carrying a gun that would surely get him arrested as he passed through security. Neither of them had so much as a change of clothes. Why blow that much money on tickets he knew they couldn’t possibly use?

He shot her the dark look she earned every time she questioned him. Asking questions was her job and it was a habit he’d have to accept. “You made me a promise,” he said.

She linked her arm with his and gazed up at him with another sugary-sweet smile. “Yes, dear.”

“We have hours yet before departure, would you like to do some shopping or grab some food?”

“Shopping?” She had a thing for shoes, but they didn’t sell her favorite styles at airports.

His chin dipped in a curt nod, but his eyes were skimming the people around them.

“Shopping is on the other side of security,” she pointed out.

“I’m aware.”

His palm at her back kept her moving forward. Though his touch was light, he made it clear he would not let her turn back.

“What do you hope to gain with this stunt?” She needed information, some indication that he had a plan. Wandering aimlessly through a crowded airport with a weapon or two wasn’t her idea of fun – especially not when she had a story to write.

“Tell me what you’re working on,” he said as they walked along, peering at displays as if they had nothing but time.

She shook her head. There were too many people around, anyone could pick up a wrong word or phrase and then her exclusive report would be old news.

“This is the safest place to discuss it,” he insisted.

“No.”

“Yes. Your apartment was destroyed. Your meet disrupted by a murder and attempted kidnapping. Someone is clearly looking over your shoulder. We’ll be lucky if it’s just that the phones at
The Torch
are bugged. Here we can speak freely and it will be obvious if we’re followed or if someone tries to eavesdrop.”

“To you maybe,” she muttered.

“Isn’t that why you hired me?”

“Not really.” She’d hired him because Bernie insisted. It went against everything she believed in to talk about a story before it went to press. “Why do you need to know?”

“I’ve answered that already. Quit stalling and tell me.”

She studied his stern, chiseled profile, but it didn’t help her organize her thoughts. Last night she’d known having a bodyguard would be a distraction. And John certainly distracted her, but not at all in the way she’d anticipated.

For a woman who dealt in cold, hard facts, her imagination seemed bent on fleshing out impossible scenarios with this enigmatic man. He’d shelled out the cash for first class, last minute tickets to France. Was he an independently wealthy man who just picked up a bodyguard gig now and then to keep his life exciting?

That image didn’t jive with his actions or his few words. Not to mention his calloused hands. Yet, one look into his eyes and it was clear he was as serious about his task as she was about hers. Respecting that, she glanced around again and started at the beginning.

“A few weeks ago –”

“Keep your voice light. Smile more.”

Exasperated with him, she forced her mouth into a patently false smile and batted her eyelashes. “Better?”

He glanced down, shook his head. “Creepy.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Just talk.”

In a quiet, bubbly tone, she started again. “It was like, you know, a few weeks ago,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist. Her thoughts derailed when her fingertips brushed something hard at his back, something attached to his belt. She wanted to ask, but didn’t want the inevitable glare.

“That’s the way. Keep going.”

All that praise might go to her head. “I was covering Senator Larimore’s new security proposal following the bombing at the Boston Marathon and the impact those new safety precautions could have on Boston businesses. I saw a one-liner on a tech blog about another security breach. An online retailer’s sales records were stolen. Credit card numbers, addresses, order histories, that sort of thing. It wasn’t real news because that kind of thing happens all the time.”

His brow furrowed and she gave his trim waistline a little squeeze. “Smile, sweetie, we’re on our way to France.”

The resulting tilt of his lips gave her the impression smiling wasn’t his strong suit. It looked more like a wince.

“Why did that breach matter?” he asked, his gaze roaming the crowd.

“There’s a bar, can we stop for a drink?”

“We’ll have plenty of champagne in first class.”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving the country right now.”

He ignored her. “You were saying?”

She adjusted the strap of her purse and rubbed at the tension in her shoulders. “That breach was a mistake according to a source that contacted me about a week later.”

“Who?”

“More like what.” She paused while a thick wave of people with a tour group passed by. “The first contact was an obituary for a local politician out of a small mid-western newspaper.” They continued walking, arms around each other like two lovers perfectly content to ignore the rest of the world.

“It wasn’t email,” she said, still somewhat surprised. “It was old school. A clipping from the paper sent through the good old United States Postal Service directly to my attention at
The Torch
.”

“Hold that thought,” he said. “Do me a favor and walk through that restroom. Drop your phone in the trash can before you come back out.”

“I told you I need it.”

“Forward the calls to my number until we replace it.”

“Not good enough.”

“I agree, but not for the reasons you think.”

“But you disabled the GPS thing.”

“Just the opposite,” he said, tucking a stray curl of her hair behind her ear.

“Huh?” The tender move startled her as much as the GPS trick.

“Will you cooperate,” he leaned down and nuzzled her neck, “or do I have to handle this myself?”

When he touched his forehead to hers, she looked down and realized he’d managed to snag her phone from her purse. She hadn’t even felt it. He had good hands. Too good. Who the hell had she hired?

“Fine.” He would only ignore her demands for an explanation. Taking the phone, she went winding around other travelers, and joined the line in the nearest ladies room. When she had a bit of privacy in the stall, she removed the SD card from her phone, put it on silent, and dumped the device in the small trash can mounted on the side of the stall. When she walked out of the opposite door, John was waiting for her.

“Why did this person contact you?” he asked, getting right back to the story that landed her in this predicament.

The familiar lump formed in her throat. “I guess because the dead man was a politician I’d connected to a campaign fundraising scandal during last year’s elections.”

He rolled his hand, signaling her to keep going when she paused.

“Naturally I felt bad for the guy in Ohio. A heart attack that dumps you dead in your salad plate is a lousy way to go.”

“Quick isn’t a bad way to die.”

She watched that muscle jump in his jaw again. “Right.” Her mind whirled with more questions. Not about the senator, but about
him
. John Noble. Every time he said something like that, she wanted to divert her energy to learning his story.

Well, she had his name, phone number, and profession. She’d unraveled bigger stories with less to go on.

“As my boss is fond of saying, I’ve managed to make enemies in every political camp, so at first I thought it was just someone taking a jab at me or trying to make me feel guilty for this guy’s untimely demise.”

“What changed your mind?”

The security checkpoint was only a few yards away, and the roped-off queue was full of people wearing the requisite irritable expressions. John pulled them to a stop between two large advertising displays touting Boston tourism and leaned back against the wall, drawing her close to his chest. “Keep going.”

With his hands resting lightly at her waist, her breasts pressing against his chest, she wanted to keep going, but in a completely new direction that would likely get them cited for public indecency.

“What sleeping monster did you wake?” he prompted.

“It’s almost that bad.” She chuckled, stopping short as the light friction brought her nipples to hard peaks. Christ. To save herself from certain embarrassment, she took a step back. Pretending, playing a role to get the story, was something she’d done countless times. Unfortunately, her body was far too eager to make this act real.

“I dug around, curiosity does that to some of us. The dead politician in Ohio owned the online retailer that had been breached. By way of shell corporations of course. Again, not big news, until I poked around at the nature of that business.”

“Gambling or porn?”

She arched a brow and he shrugged a shoulder. “Odds are good it’s one or the other when it comes to politicians.”

“I thought so too. But it was a farm supply site.”

“No way.”

Her grin was completely sincere this time. “We think a lot alike, but this was a legit operation. The shell stuff was to avoid the taxes. It took a few more calls, but I learned the stolen information only affected the politician’s newsletter subscribers.”

“Gambling or porn hidden in the newsletter?”

“You’d think so, but no. I was about to go back to more relevant story ideas when I got another letter.

“Again, no return address and this time it was a print out of my latest
Torch
article. At the bottom someone had handwritten several lines of numbers.” She swallowed back the remembered fear. “They were my numbers. My bank account, credit cards, social security, department store accounts, everything. It was signed with a phone number that wasn’t mine.”

“Your source.”

“Yes. My first source.” She rooted through her purse and pulled out the worn page she’d kept with her these past weeks. While he looked it over, she continued. “Naturally, I made the call. Whoever answered altered their voice, but they assured me they could destroy my life with a few keystrokes.”

“You were convinced.”

“Yes, after a demonstration against my primary credit card,” she admitted. “My source claimed he was only proving a point and wouldn’t ruin me if I cooperated.”

“He?”

“At the time it was just a guess, based on the handwriting, but it was confirmed when he was found dead.”