with parties and—” She paused self-consciously. “I’m babbling. You don’t need the agenda.”
“You specialize in polishing the halos of the rich and famous.” He smiled on the outside.
Her lips pursed tightly. “Think what you want. I don’t need your approval.”
A sentiment he applauded. So why was he yanking her chain? Because she looked so damn pretty with righteous indignation sparking from her eyes.
That kind of “in your face” mentality was rare. But it also could land a person in trouble.
He knew too well. It had taken all his self-control to buckle down and meet the judge’s requirements when he’d been sentenced at fifteen. Although, he’d found more than he expected at the military school. He’d found friends and a new code to live by. He’d learned how to play by the rules. He’d slowly gotten back computer access and started a video games company that had him rolling in more money than his pedigreed, doctor old man had ever brought home—three times over.
But the access had come with a price. His every move had been monitored by the FBI. They seemed to sense that the taste of megapower he’d felt delving into the DOD would be addictive. Irresistibly so. At twenty-one, he’d been approached with an enticing offer. If he ever wanted a chance at that high again, he would need to loan his “skills” to the American branch of Interpol on occasion.
He’d chafed at the idea at twenty-one. By thirty-two, he’d come to begrudgingly accept that he had to play by a few of their rules, and he’d even found a rush in being a sort of “on call” guy to assist in major international sting operations. He was committed to the job, as he’d proven every time they’d tapped him for a new assignment.
Over time, they also began utilizing him for more than computer help. His wealth gave him access to high-power circles. When Interpol needed a contact on the inside quickly, they used him—and other freelance agents like him. For the most part, he still provided behind-the-scenes computer advice. He was only called upon for something out in the open like this about once a year, so as not to overuse his cover.
Some of that caution would have been nice now, rather than recklessly including Hillary Wright in this joint operation being run by the CIA and Interpol. She wouldn’t be able to carry off the charade this weekend. She couldn’t blend in.
He’d known it the second he read her profile, even if they’d missed it. God only knew why they called him a genius and then refused to listen to him. So he’d arranged to meet her on this flight to confirm his suspicions. He was never wrong. He would stick by her side all weekend and make sure she didn’t blow the whole operation.
Granted, that wouldn’t be a hardship, sticking near her for the weekend.
For the first time in years he wasn’t bored. Something about this woman intrigued him, and there weren’t many puzzles in life for him. So he would stay right here for the rest of the flight and play this through. When she found out his full name—his public, infamous identity—she would pull away. She would likely never know his real reason for being part of this sting, and someone like Hillary Wright wouldn’t go for a guy with the reputation of Troy Donavan, especially so soon after getting her fingers burned in the relationship department.
Not that he would let that affect his decision to stick by her. She needed him to get through this weekend, whether she knew it or not.
A flight attendant ducked to ask, “Could I get either of you a complimentary beverage? Wine? A mixed drink?”
Hillary’s smile froze, the lightheartedness fading from her face with the one simple request. The mention of alcohol stirred painful memories. “No, thank you.
Troy shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks.” He turned back to Hillary. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine or something? A lot of folks drink to get over the fear.”
She inched away from the wall and sat upright self-consciously. “I don’t drink.”
“Ever?”
She refused to risk ending up like her mother, in and out of alcohol rehabs every other year while her father continued to hold out hope that this time, the program would stick. It never did.
There was nothing for her at home. D.C. was her chance at a real life. She couldn’t let anything risk ruining this opportunity. Not a drink. Not some charming guy, either.
“Never,” she answered. “I never drink.”
“There’s a story there.” He toyed with his platinum cuff links.
“There is.” And honest to God, the bay rum scent of him was intoxicating enough.
“But you’re not sharing.”
“Not with a total stranger.” She was an expert at keeping family secrets, of sweeping up the mess so they would look normal to the outside world. Planning high-profile galas for the D.C. elite was a piece of cake after keeping up appearances as a teenager.
She might look like a naive farm girl, but life had already done its fair share to leave her jaded. Which might be why she found herself questioning the ease of her past hour with Troy.
Nothing about him was what she’d expected once he’d first flashed that bad-boy grin in her direction. They’d spent the entire flight just … talking. They’d discussed favorite artists and foods. Found they both liked jazz music and hokey horror movies. He was surprisingly well-read, could quote Shakespeare and had a sharp sense of humor. There was interest in his eyes, but his words stayed light all the way to the start of the plane’s descent.
His eyes narrowed at her silence. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re not hitting on me,” she blurted out.
He blinked in surprise just once before that wicked slow smile spread across his face. “Do you want me to?”
“Actually, I’m having fun just like this.”
She sat back and waited for him to stop grinning when he realized she wasn’t coming on to him. Was she? She never went for this kind of guy, hair too long and a couple of tiny scars on his face like he was always getting into some kind of trouble. A line through one eyebrow. Another on his chin. And yet another on his forehead that played peekaboo when his hair shifted.
But then Barry had been Mr. Buttoned-Up, clean-cut and respectful. Except it had all been a cover for a deceitful nature.
Troy stared deeper into her eyes. “You don’t get to have fun often, do you?”
Who had time for fun? She’d worked hard these past three years building a new life for herself, far away from a gossipy small town that knew her as the daughter of a drunk mother. Barry had tarnished her reputation with his shady dealings—stealing scholarship money for God’s sake. And unless she proved otherwise, people would always think she was involved, as well. They wouldn’t trust her.
Her boss wouldn’t trust her.
She picked at the hem of her skirt. “Why would you say I’m a wet blanket?”
“Not a wet blanket. Just a workaholic. The portfolio under your seat is stuffed with official-looking papers, rather than a book or magazine.
