Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(56)

“I still don’t know how you know Wyatt,” she said, respecting his privacy on the occupation question. “Or is that off-limits, too?”

For the life of him, he didn’t understand how he could feel so content in the midst of a life-or-death situation, but he did. Carrie’s “good moment in time” philosophy had apparently rubbed off on him.

He stretched back, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. “You first.”

“This is just an observation…”

He could hear the smile in her soft southern voice.

“But it occurs to me that you practice avoidance better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

He smiled, too, because she was not only beautiful and sexy but smart and funny. “It’s that occupational-hazard thing again.”

She made a sound that was something between a snort and acceptance. “We grew up together,” she said, giving him his way. “Stayed friends.”

He opened one eye. “Define friends.” That issue had been working on him since Wyatt had called him in Jakarta.

She cocked her head and considered. “More than friends once. In high school we were an item.”

“And he walked away from you?”

She leisurely traced a fingertip from his left collarbone to his right and back again. Her touch made him shiver and burn at the same time.

“Not so much away from me, as from Adel, Georgia.” She lifted a shoulder. “Lotta people do. Not much excitin’ goin’ on around there.”

He loved how her drawl had intensified as she relaxed.

“Were you heartbroken?”

She was quiet long enough that he opened his eyes again. And by the time she said, “For a while, yeah, but not anymore,” he was pretty certain he didn’t believe her.

She still had a thing for Wyatt.

Which probably answered his next question. “Why did you come to Myanmar, Carrie?”

Another hesitation. Another Ah ha moment when she had to think about it a bit too long.

The truthful answer probably went something like: Not long ago, Wyatt had come home to Adel with a new wife. It had stung. So Carrie Granger had gone looking for adventure. Something to help her douse the old flame and soften the blow.

He understood. Savage was a great guy. Carrie-worthy. Something he wasn’t.

“I might have been a little disenfranchised,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

It occurred to him that these were the kind of moments he’d been missing for a long time. Quiet, intimate moments with a woman who mattered. Moments where barriers fell and truths came out. Dangerous moments for a CIA asset. Moments he’d had to avoid at all costs, for more years than he wanted to count.

The same years that had brought him to the place he was today: a man who could not possibly be someone good for someone like her.

“Maybe I was a little hurt that Wyatt was once and for all off-limits,” she admitted.

Her soft words drew his gaze back to her face.

Her smile was whimsical. “A girl never forgets her first love, you know.”

Her candor didn’t surprise him; it was who she was.

“But that was then. I’m over it.”

Didn’t change a thing where he was concerned. He was still no good for her.

If he was honest, he had to admit that he was teetering very close to alcoholic status. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wished he had a drink in the past twelve hours.

He was burned out and just plain tapped out of goodwill toward man. He didn’t know if he had enough left to pull himself away from the abyss, let alone be the man that a woman like Carrie needed.

“Why did you come for me?” she asked.

At last, an easy question. “Because Wyatt asked.”

“And he knew you’d do it.”

He closed his eyes again. “Yeah. He knew.”

Her hand lay flat on his bare chest now. Warm and light and the most sensual presence he’d ever known.

If she had thoughts or questions about why Wyatt hadn’t come himself, she didn’t voice them. She lay down close to him instead and rested her head on his shoulder as if she needed the contact to keep her grounded.

“How did you find me?”

He touched a hand to her hair, pulled her closer, and thought, Fuck it. He was going to enjoy the moment. “Wasn’t easy. Do you know why you were arrested?”

She made a sound of frustration. “No idea. I got out of the cab, saw a girl in trouble, and I tried to help her.”

He knew the rest of the story. Had spent a lot of money and a lot of hours ferreting out the facts.

“That girl was a prostitute who had stolen from a customer, who had sent a hired enforcer to punish her. As it turns out, that same customer was also a high-ranking military official—the judge presiding over your trial.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“And since the girl was a known prostitute, when the police saw you aiding and abetting a criminal, they assumed you were a working girl, too, and hauled you off to court.”

“Some court.” She shivered and snuggled even closer. “How did you find all of this out?”

“I have… sources,” he said evasively, then laughed when she punched him. “My contacts checked out all the taxi companies in Mandalay, found a driver who remembered a fare for a blond English-speaking woman. He filled us in on what happened and that it was the military, not the city police, who made the arrest. After that, it was just a question of finding the judge.”