he would have kept it from her. But...why would he do that? What would compel him to toss aside his values and morals and his entire career? He’d spent his whole professional life trying to keep this material out of the hands of people who would use it for evil, so why would he join forces with them now?
He’d been so excited during his last visit, so hopeful for the future. She refused to believe he’d been selling spent fuel on the side.
As if sensing her turmoil, Thomas leaned back in the chair, giving her space. He didn’t speak, but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her face as she worked through his hypothetical scenario.
“I suppose what you say is possible,” she allowed, knowing she had to at least acknowledge the chance he was right, even though in her heart she knew it wasn’t true. “But I don’t think that’s what happened here.”
Thomas nodded. “Fair enough. I just need you to consider the possibility that Ivan was not what he seemed.”
Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Thomas cocked his head toward the door, holding up a hand to keep her quiet. Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer to her apartment. He rose silently from the chair and padded over to the door, sliding up to the peephole to watch. Claire shrank down into the couch, huddling into a small ball, her palms slick from sweat and condensation. Her heart thumped hard in her chest when the footsteps stopped outside her door. She jumped when the doorbell rang, eyes glued to Thomas’s broad back as he stared out into the hall. Who was at the door? Someone dangerous? Why wasn’t he moving?
She heard a faint beeping sound, then a thud. Whoever it was walked back down the hall, and as the sound faded, Thomas relaxed. He opened the door, bent down and turned back into the apartment, an express mail package in his hands. She sighed as she realized the visitor had been nothing more than a deliveryman, shaking her head at her over-the-top reaction.
“Are you expecting something?” He set the package on the table with a frown.
“No.” She scooted forward to examine it, reluctant to touch it while Thomas regarded it with such open suspicion. “Oh!”
“What?” He held out an arm to keep her from getting too close, alarm evident in his voice.
“I know that handwriting.” Ignoring his grunt of displeasure, she reached out to trace the letters of her name. She looked up at him, his face blurry as she blinked back tears. “This is from Ivan.”
What the hell?
After a few tense moments, Thomas had agreed to open the package. He’d insisted on doing the honors himself—no telling what it contained, and if there was some kind of chemical or biological agent inside, better for him to be exposed than her. It was his job to protect her, and somehow, he didn’t think Harper would shed too many tears if he were to meet his untimely demise.
The envelope contained nothing more than a yellowing stack of papers, neatly clipped together in the upper left corner. Claire removed the paper clip and began to flip through the pages, her eyebrows drawing together as she looked them over. He could see they were covered in tiny rows of precise, dark script but couldn’t make out the language at this distance. He sat next to her on the couch, leaning over her shoulder to get a better view.
She smelled like lavender, and the neck of her shirt gaped open enough to show the edge of her bra strap. A soft pink that matched the color on her toes, not white as he’d assumed earlier. Cut it out, he told himself sternly. She’s a job, not a woman. Feeling disgusted with himself, he forced his eyes away from the enticing sight, focusing instead on the papers in her hand.
At this range, he could see the writing was Cyrillic. “Can you read this?”
She jerked at his question, and he realized she’d been so focused on the papers she hadn’t known he was close. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I don’t understand why Ivan would send these to me. He knows—” she swallowed hard “—knew I don’t speak Russian or read Cyrillic.”
“Maybe he knew he was under threat and sent them to you for safekeeping.”
“Maybe,” she said, still sounding doubtful.
He stood, reaching into his jacket for his phone. “We need to get them translated, the sooner the better,” he said as he dialed. “If there’s a message there for you, we need to know what it says.”
She said nothing as he relayed this latest development to Harper, who agreed with the necessity of a rapid translation. “Bring them in,” he said. “I’ll get the translator lined up.”
He turned to find her standing next to him, her eyes wide but her mouth set in a determined line. “We need to take these papers to headquarters,” he told her, reaching out to take them from her. “My boss is lining up a translator for us.”
“Fine. Just give me a minute. I need to change my shirt.”
She walked down the hall, leaving him holding the papers. He busied himself tapping them into place and returning them to the envelope, anything to keep his thoughts from drifting to images of her without a shirt on, that pale pink bra on display....
He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Not an option. Yes, she had a delicate beauty about her—the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck, the graceful lines of her jaw and brow—and right now, she did have the whole damsel-in-distress thing going on, which had his protective instincts flaring. It had felt good—too good—holding her as she woke from her nightmare. She had fit so perfectly in his arms, her head naturally tucking under his chin, as if she’d been made for that spot.
She had rallied quickly, though, and he knew underneath her tears and grief was a core of steel. He had to admire the way she’d held it together this morning, only letting her emotions out when she had surrendered to sleep. He could relate to that. He understood all too well what it cost to project an image of calm composure when grief and sadness and rage were boiling inside. God knew he’d done it often enough for Jenny, Emily and his mother.
Thomas shook his head and released a small sigh. Why was he having these feelings now, after months of apathy? Roger’s death had left him reeling, and he’d had no desire to start a relationship. Of all the times for his libido to wake up...
His brain recognized he had no business thinking about Claire outside the bounds of his professional responsibilities, but his body had felt her curves and wanted more.
“Not gonna happen,” he muttered, taking a long sip from his glass of ice water. Probably would have been more effective to pour it down his pants, but this would have to do. Besides, he thought, trying to use logic to appeal to his baser nature, Claire was dealing with a huge shock. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to hit on a woman who was in the throes of grief.
She won’t be sad forever, whispered his inner sixteen-year-old.
Damn.
* * *
Claire stared blindly at the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, her mind back on the papers and the man in her living room. He was too much...everything, she decided, reaching up to pluck a white blouse off the hanger. Too tall, too broad, too warm, too hard. His arms had made her feel safe and secure, and the steady thump of his heart under her ear had been a comforting rhythm.
