Chapter 2 2

The hotel lobby smelled like money and lilies, a combination that usually soothed Kiera's nerves. This morning, it just gave her a headache.

She pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head, hiding the dark circles she'd failed to conceal with concealer. The trench coat she'd ordered from the hotel boutique at 3 AM felt stiff and unfamiliar, nothing like the silk and cashmere she preferred. She'd dressed for anonymity, for escape, for the long walk of shame back to her real life.

Her phone screen stayed stubbornly dark. No messages. No missed calls. No frantic explanations from a man who'd kissed her like the world was ending and then run like she was the apocalypse.

Kiera bit her lower lip, tasting the remnants of the lipstick she'd reapplied in the elevator. She'd pushed too hard. She saw that now, in the harsh light of morning. Ethan Christensen wasn't some soft-bellied businessman who could be manipulated with a smile and a glimpse of thigh. He was steel and discipline and decades of military conditioning, and she'd treated him like a mark in a bar.

Stupid. Reckless. Exactly the kind of mistake that had cost her everything with Kayden.

She reached the revolving doors, her hand pressing against the cool glass. One push and she'd be outside, swallowed by the DC morning rush, able to pretend last night had never happened. The revenge plot that had seemed so elegant, so satisfying in theory, lay in ruins around her. She'd have to find another way to hurt Kayden, another angle to-

A hand appeared beside hers, large and scarred and unmistakable.

Kiera's heart stopped. She turned, her sunglasses slipping down her nose, and found herself staring into eyes that looked like they'd seen no sleep at all. Red rimmed the pale blue irises, and the lines around his mouth seemed deeper than they had twelve hours ago. He'd changed out of his uniform into dark jeans and a gray sweater that clung to his shoulders in ways that should be illegal.

He held two cups of coffee. Black, from the look of them, steam curling into the chilled air.

"You're not leaving," Ethan said. It wasn't a question.

Kiera's mouth opened. Closed. She took the coffee he thrust at her, the cardboard warm against her palm, and watched his throat work as he swallowed whatever he'd planned to say next.

"Breakfast," he finally managed, the word clipped and military-precise. "There's a place. Three blocks. You'll eat."

She pushed her sunglasses back up, hiding behind the dark lenses. Through them, she studied the rigid set of his jaw, the way his free hand kept clenching and unclenching at his side. He looked like a man heading to his own execution. Or hers.

"Are you always this romantic, Colonel?" she asked.

Something flickered in his expression-irritation, maybe, or the ghost of embarrassment. He turned toward the doors, his broad back a wall she couldn't read. "Follow me. Please."

Kiera followed.

The morning air bit at her cheeks, October in DC carrying the promise of winter. Ethan walked slightly ahead, his pace deliberate, and she watched the way he automatically scanned their surroundings-doorways, windows, the dark sedan that passed a little too slowly. Habit, she realized. The constant threat assessment of a man who'd spent too long in places where death came from shadows.

He moved to her left as they reached the corner, positioning himself between her and the street. A truck rumbled past, spraying gutter water, and she felt the warmth of his arm behind her back, not quite touching, ready to pull her clear if needed.

The gesture was so unconscious, so thoroughly ingrained, that Kiera felt something shift in her chest. She'd dated men who opened doors and pulled out chairs, who sent flowers and remembered anniversaries. She'd never been with someone who'd literally step in front of a bullet for her without a second thought.

The diner appeared between a dry cleaner and a check-cashing place, its neon sign flickering even at eight in the morning. The windows were steamed over, condensation tracing paths through the painted letters announcing "Best Pancakes in DC." A bell jangled as Ethan pushed the door open, and the smell hit her immediately-bacon and coffee and something sweet and bready that made her stomach growl embarrassingly loud.

"Ethan!" A woman behind the counter waved, her gray hair pinned in a messy bun. "The usual?"

"And a menu," Ethan called back. He led Kiera to a corner booth, the vinyl seat cracked and patched with duct tape. "For my guest."

The woman-her name tag read "Doris"-looked Kiera up and down with undisguised curiosity. Kiera became suddenly, painfully aware of her own appearance: the designer trench coat, the silk slip dress she'd worn under it yesterday, the four-inch heels that clicked against the linoleum like gunshots.

She slid into the booth, peeling off the coat. The slip dress was champagne-colored, backless, held up by two delicate straps that suddenly felt ridiculous under the fluorescent lights. Around them, men in flannel shirts and work boots hunched over plates of eggs, their conversations pausing as they took in the spectacle of her.

Ethan sat across from her, his big hands wrapping around his coffee cup. He didn't look at her dress. He looked at her face, his expression unreadable.

"You don't have to stay," he said quietly. "If you're uncomfortable. I can call you a car."

Kiera lifted her chin. "I'm not uncomfortable." She reached for the laminated menu, its edges soft with age. "I'm hungry."

She ordered before he could comment on her choices: a stack of pancakes, bacon crisp enough to shatter, a side of hash browns, all of it drowned in maple syrup that came in a plastic pitcher. Doris wrote it down without blinking, but Kiera caught the sideways glance she shot at Ethan, the slight raise of her eyebrows.

Ethan's own order was spare. Eggs, dry toast, black coffee. He waited until Doris moved away before he spoke again.

"About last night." His voice was low, pitched for her ears alone. "I owe you an apology. What I did-what I allowed to happen-that was inexcusable. Unprofessional. Unethical." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I'm twenty years older than you. I'm your ex-boyfriend's uncle. I should have-"

"Should have what?" Kiera interrupted. She dragged her fork across her empty plate, the metal screeching against ceramic. "Should have kept your hands to yourself? Should have remembered your precious ethics while you had me pinned against the wall?"

Color rose in his cheeks. "Ms. Cantu-"

"Chasity." She leaned forward, letting the neckline of her dress gape slightly, watching his gaze flicker and catch. "And if it was such a terrible mistake, Colonel, why are you here? Why did you buy me coffee? Why didn't you just let me walk out that door and forget we ever met?"

His fingers tightened on his cup. She watched the knuckles whiten, watched the muscle in his jaw tick with the effort of control. "Because I'm not a coward," he said finally. "Because I don't run from my mistakes. I face them. I fix them."

"And how exactly do you plan to fix me?"

The words hung between them, heavy with double meaning. Ethan's eyes darkened, and for a moment Kiera saw it again-that hunger he'd shown in the hotel room, the raw need that had overwhelmed his discipline. Then Doris arrived with their food, and the moment shattered.

Kiera attacked her pancakes with genuine appetite. She'd barely eaten yesterday, too nervous about her plan, too focused on the performance of seduction to remember basic biology. Now, with the adrenaline fading and the coffee warming her stomach, she was ravenous.

She caught Ethan watching her, his eggs untouched. "What?"

"You eat like you're actually hungry," he said, and there was something almost wondering in his tone.

"I am actually hungry." She cut another bite, syrup dripping from her fork. "Did you think I survived on champagne and air?"

"I thought-" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't know what I thought. That you were different. That we were different. That this-" He gestured between them, encompassing the diner, the night before, the impossible collision of their worlds. "That this could never work."

Kiera set down her fork. "Tell me about your work," she said. "Your real work. Not the Pentagon briefings. The bases. The men you command."

It was the right question. She saw it immediately-the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his eyes focused on something beyond her, something he could see clearly in his mind. He talked about Fort Bragg, about the young soldiers he trained, about the weight of sending them into harm's way and the heavier weight of bringing them home.

His voice changed when he spoke of them. Softer. More certain. Here, in this cracked-vinyl booth with its sticky menus and its bottomless coffee, Ethan Christensen became someone else-not the rigid officer who'd fled her hotel room, but a leader, a protector, a man who carried responsibility like another man might carry a weapon.

Kiera found herself leaning forward, her chin propped on her hand, genuinely listening. "Can I see it?" she asked when he paused. "Your base? Where you work?"

The softness vanished. "No."

"Why not?"

"It's not a tourist attraction, Ms.-Chasity." He caught himself, and she saw the effort it cost him to use her name. "It's a military installation. There are protocols. Security clearances. You can't just-"

"I can follow rules," she interrupted. "I'm very good at following rules when I want something."

His eyes met hers. Held. "What do you want?"

You, she didn't say. I want to be the woman on your arm at Kayden's wedding. I want to watch your nephew's face when he realizes who I am now, who I've become, how high I've climbed. I want to destroy him without ever touching him, and you're the weapon I've chosen.

"I want to understand you," she said instead. "Is that so terrible?"

Ethan was silent for a long moment. Then he reached for his wallet, pulling out cash without looking at the check, leaving bills that would cover their meal three times over. "Finish eating," he said. "I'll take you to the perimeter. That's all. You don't go inside. You don't talk to anyone. You stay in the vehicle, and when I say it's time to leave, we leave."

Kiera smiled, the expression hidden behind her coffee cup. "Yes, sir."

The words were barely audible, but she saw his reaction-the slight flush that crept up his neck, the way his hand stilled on his wallet. She filed the information away: Colonel Ethan Christensen, war hero, Pentagon advisor, discipline incarnate, had a weakness for being called sir by a woman he wanted.

She would remember that.

They finished breakfast in silence that had shifted, subtly, from hostile to something else. When they stepped outside, Ethan led her to a vehicle that made her stop short: a black Ford F-150 Raptor, lifted and modified, its tires nearly as tall as her waist.

"You can't be serious," she said.

He was already at the passenger door, pulling it open. "You wanted to see my world. This is part of it."

Kiera looked at the running board, at the distance she'd have to climb, at her four-inch heels and her silk dress. She could do it. She'd done harder things. But she looked at Ethan, at the challenge in his eyes, and made a different calculation.

"I can't," she said, letting her voice go small. "My shoes. My dress. I'll rip-"

She didn't have to finish. Ethan made a sound-half sigh, half surrender-and closed the distance between them. His hands found her waist, spanning it easily, and lifted.

For one suspended moment, she was airborne, held only by his strength, her hands finding his shoulders for balance. She looked down into his face, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his stubble, the small scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pupils dilated as she settled against him.

Then her backside hit the leather seat, and the moment passed. Ethan stepped back, his expression shuttered, and closed her door with more force than necessary.

Kiera fastened her seatbelt, hiding her smile. She'd felt it-the way his hands had lingered a fraction too long, the way his breath had caught when she'd gripped his shoulders. The fortress had cracks. She just had to find the right places to press.

The engine roared to life, diesel and power, and Ethan Christensen drove her toward his world.