seconds. E. J. Packer was young, twenty-four, but he’d been an excellent sniper in the Delta Force when he’d been badly scarred in a shoot-out with Syrian terrorists. He hadn’t lost any of his ability, but he was distinct now, recognizable for the angry red mess that was the left half of his face. Michael didn’t give a shit about that. He wanted a crack team that not only knew what to do at the party but understood that no matter where they worked—or for whom—it was a military operation and there was no excuse, ever, for slacking off.
He nodded at E.J. “That was close.”
“I’ll do better next time, sir.”
“I know you will. Carry on.”
E.J.’s shoulders moved just enough to let Michael know he hadn’t let go of the trappings of being a soldier. Didn’t matter as long as he did the job. As long as he didn’t make Tate feel like a bug under a microscope.
The young man disappeared, melting away as silently as he’d entered. Michael thought about going into the kitchen, talking to Pilar, Tate’s personal chef. But he just walked the perimeter of the foyer, checking out the artwork.
This place had always felt more like a museum than a home. Marble floors, antiques of inestimable worth, paintings he recognized because they were masterpieces. He took in a deep breath to combat the tightening of his throat. It wasn’t that he resented her for having the money. Okay, so he resented it a little. But what really pissed him off is that this was what his life had come to. Babysitting.
“Michael?”
He turned at Tate’s voice.
“Would you like some coffee? I’m going to be another ten minutes or so. I’ve already warned Father.”
“Sure, that’d be great.” He waited until Tate disappeared back into the hallway, then he went into the kitchen.
Pilar was there pouring him the promised cup of coffee. He wasn’t one for fancy java or any of that flavored crap, but he had to admit the coffee in Tate’s kitchen was some of the best he’d ever had. He wasn’t sure what it was and he’d never asked. No chance he’d ever get those beans for his coffeemaker.
“How are you, Michael?”
Pilar was born in Brazil and moved to the U.S. when she went to college at eighteen. Her accent made her seem exotic and sophisticated. Or maybe that was just Pilar. She had trained at the CIA—the Culinary Institute of America—which was one of the reasons she was working as Tate’s chef, but she’d also trained at the other CIA, and that was why she had a chef’s coat with a custom pocket that held her Sig Sauer.
“I’m fine,” he said, taking the too-delicate cup from her hand. “How’s the new kid working out?”
She smiled at him, and he tried to remember if he’d ever seen her without her deep crimson lipstick expertly applied to her generous mouth.
“Don’t you think of anything but business?”
“No.”
She laughed. “No wonder you have no love life.”
“How do you know?”
“Michael, my dear, if you can resist me, then you can resist anyone.”
He held back his own grin. “How do you know I’m not gay? Living the wild life with my lumberjack boyfriend?”
Her laughter actually echoed in the kitchen. It was ridiculously large, like something out of Windsor Castle, all for one woman whose only guests were business associates, all of them involved with the Baxter Foundation, a charitable organization funded by Baxter, run by Tate.
“Believe me, I’d know if you were gay,” Pilar said. She picked up her own cup and took a sip, leaving no trace of her lipstick on the rim. “It’s a shame you don’t let yourself relax, though. It isn’t healthy.”
“I relax.”
“I don’t even think you know the definition of the word.”
“What word?”
Michael turned to see Tate standing at the hallway door. “Are you ready?”
“Not really, and we’re not late. I just got off the phone with a very obstinate woman at the MacArthur Foundation and I need to calm down.”
“So you’re getting coffee?” he asked as she handed Pilar another cup.
“Yes. I am.”
“Okay by me.”
She took the full cup back but didn’t drink. Instead she focused her attention on him. Her expression became pensive and she opened her mouth, but then a blush stole over her cheeks and she turned to Pilar. Two sips and five quiet minutes later they were in the elevator, on the way down to the limo. Tate looked at her shoes the whole time.
SHE STARED OUT HER tinted window, watching New York pass by, chewing once again on the idea Dr. Bay had fed her last week. It was easy to make excuses for her fears, which were, in fact, legitimate. She could be kidnapped, held for ransom, murdered. Such things had occurred, could occur again. It made sense to be wary, to keep her guard up.
On the other hand, her guard was up so high she couldn’t see the world behind it. Yes, it could all go to hell tomorrow. But it hadn’t gone to hell yesterday or the day before or many years before that. She’d put all her eggs in the fear basket, and wouldn’t she feel like the biggest idiot on earth if she went on to live to a ripe old age, completely safe and having missed the whole thing.
She sighed as she gazed at the back of Michael’s head. His dark hair was wavy and thick and she wondered if the messy-chic was on purpose or just truculence. Somehow she doubted Michael owned mousse or gave a damn about how he looked—which, in her opinion, was incredibly juicy even on his bad days. It helped that he kept himself in battle-ready shape. He even walked as if daring anyone to try anything funny.
How had she let her fear of being kidnapped morph into a fear of everything? College had started out so well. She’d finally been able to put Lisa’s death behind her, at least enough to get by, and then—whoosh!—it all had vanished on that one awful day when Ian Stark and Bruce Halliday had kidnapped her.
After that everything had gone to hell. Her relationship with Graydon, never great to begin with, had soured until she’d had to get out. She’d started spending more and more time in her apartment, only leaving to go to class or one of her self-defense classes, which, instead of making her feel more in control, had brought her terror into sharper relief.
She had given in to the panic attacks, the nightmares—and they’d taken over.And now look at her. She hadn’t even been able to ask Michael a simple question. She saw him almost every day. They talked and talked, and yet when it came to something as foolish, as personal, as the origins of the scar on his chin, she became tongue-tied and shy as a kitten. It wasn’t as if she wanted to ask him if he preferred boxers to briefs. The scar was right there for anyone to see.
Pathetic.
HE STOOD AGAINST THE wall in the executive dining room along with the two ex-Secret Service agents who protected William Baxter. One, Jim, was William’s driver, and the other, Peter, was
