course.” He swung the door open and stepped to the side.
“You weren’t sleeping.” Her gaze swept over his slacks and unbuttoned white shirt.
“I was on the phone.” He closed the door behind her. “How’s your son?”
“He’s fine—sleeping. All he knows is that there was an accident that broke a bunch of windows in the house.” She sat on the foot of the bed and then fell back, staring at the ceiling, her blond hair fanning out around her head. “Spencer did it. He’s responsible.”
As much as he wanted to join her on the bed, he parked himself on the arm of a chair across from her, resting his ankle on one knee. “You have one video of him meeting with a suspicious person and all of a sudden he’s guilty of killing the CIA director?”
“It’s more. It’s a feeling.” She hoisted herself up on her elbows.
“Whether Correll is responsible or not, this attack is bold, hits right at the heart of our security. If they can kill the director of the CIA in the middle of Georgetown, what else do they have planned?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Something more? Do you think other attacks are planned?”
“There has to be some endgame here, and if your stepfather is involved somehow and can lead us to—”
“Shh.” She put a finger to her puckered lips.
He cocked his head, holding his breath, and heard the wood creak on the other side of the door.
Claire bolted from the bed, launching herself at the door, but Mike caught her around the waist before she reached it. He swung her into his arms and sealed his lips over hers.
He groaned, a low guttural sound that was only half pretense as he felt her soft breasts beneath her silk pajama top press against the thin cotton of the T-shirt covering his chest.
He moaned her name against her luscious lips. “Claire. Claire.”
She sighed and answered him in a breathy tone. “Mmm. Mitchell.”
The board outside the room squeaked again, but he tightened his hold on Claire as she made a move toward the door.
Would he have to kiss her again to keep her from bursting into that hallway? It was better to err on the side of caution, so he backed her up against the door and took possession of her lips once more.
She placed her hands against his chest as if to push him away, but her fingers curled against the material of his T-shirt instead.
He kissed her long enough for whoever was outside that door to walk away—and then some. He raised his head, and she blinked her violet eyes.
Reaching around her, he opened the door. In a loud voice, he said, “Go back to Ethan. I’ll be right next door all night.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mitchell.” She peered down the hallway and shook her head. “I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been a happier reunion.”
He clicked the door behind her and fell across the bed, inhaling the sweet musky scent she’d left behind.
His first meeting with Claire Chadwick couldn’t have been any happier.
Claire fluffed Ethan’s hair as she sat on the edge of the bed where she’d spent a sleepless night next to her squirmy son. If Mike had let her fling open the door, she might’ve caught Spencer in the act of eavesdropping.
And then what? He’d be alerted to her suspicions. Right now he suspected her only of nosing around his finances, and she wanted to keep it that way. Mike had been right to stop her.
But did he have to stop her by kissing her silly? She traced her mouth with her fingertips. Not that she’d minded.
Her son fluttered his long lashes and yawned.
Typically, Ethan woke up with the early birds, but last night’s commotion had him sleeping late. Commotion? Was that what you called the murder of a CIA director by the man who would replace him? She had no doubt that was what had gone down. Now she just had to convince Mike Becker.
She hadn’t trusted Spencer Correll since the fourth or fifth year of his marriage to her mother. She’d been in college at Stanford when her mother married Spencer. Claire hadn’t given him much thought. He was the type of man her mother had dated since Dad’s death—charming, a few years younger, in need of some financing.
Despite her wariness, nothing set off any alarm bells until that phone call and then her mother’s accident.
“Mommy?”
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” She skimmed her fingers through Ethan’s curly brown hair. “It’s late.”
His eyes grew round. “Can I look at the accident now?”
“I think that’s been all cleaned up.” At least she hoped to God it had been. “Let’s have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“Uh-huh.” He smacked his lips. “Is Mr. Brown eating breakfast, too?”
“You remember Mr. Brown from last night?” She tilted her head, wrinkling her nose. Mike must’ve made quite an impression on Ethan, which meant she couldn’t get her son out of here and with his grandparents fast enough. She didn’t want to confuse him or get his hopes up.
“Mr. Brown was giant, like Hercules.” Ethan raised his hand over his head as far as he could.
“Yeah, he’s tall.” She grabbed him under the arms and tickled. “Now let’s go eat.”
The smells of bacon and coffee coming from the kitchen lent an air of normalcy to the house after Claire had made her way through the cleaning crews in the great room. The giant Christmas tree she’d lit up with a thousand bulbs last night had shed its gold ornaments in the blast and now stood in the corner, a forlorn reminder of the Christmas spirit.
Ethan had shoved through the dining room doors first and came to a halt in front of Mike, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and Jerome’s flaky biscuits.
Mike eyed Ethan over the rim of his coffee cup. “Who are you, the cook?”
Crossing his arms, Ethan stamped his foot. “I’m Ethan. I saw you last night.”
“Oh.” Mike snapped his fingers. “You looked a lot smaller in bed. I thought you were a little boy, but you’re not. You’re a big boy.”
Claire pulled out a chair with a smile on her face. Mike must have kids of his own, and if he wasn’t divorced, he should be after the way he’d kissed her last night. No happily married man would be kissing a woman he’d just met like that—assignment or no assignment.
Ethan climbed into the chair next to Mike’s, studied his plate and proceeded to ask Liz, the maid, for the same food Mike had.
Claire
