Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(29)

Yes. “No. Yes. I’m not your business.”

“I made you my business.”

“I don’t know if you are my friend or enemy-”

“Friend. I am your friend.”

“Then I don’t want you to die. And even if you’re my enemy, Kyle, he’ll turn on you. You’ll be the man that got me into your-” I stop myself before I say bed which would be telling in so many ways, and the look in his eyes says he knows it.

“Into my what, Myla?”

“He’ll turn on you, Kyle. Get out while you can.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” His hands settle on his knees, “Except to go get something I have for you.” He stands. “I’ll be right back.” And then he’s walking away, and my fist is balled against my chest, my heart racing so fast I think it might explode from between my ribs. I’m confused. I’m worried. I’m feeling like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time, and that terrifies and excites me in equal portions.

Standing, I gather our trash because I have so much energy and adrenaline and no place to put it. I carry it all to the kitchenette just off the dining room, where I dispose of it all, and by the time I return to the living area, Kyle is returning too, and we both stop mid-way into the room. And we stand there. Just stand there, looking at each other, and I think that in itself, if caught on film, would have destroyed us with Michael. There is something between me and this man, a charge in the air when we are together that can’t be created by choice. It’s not something any man could create to set a woman up, unless she was just panting over him, and that simply isn’t me. But that doesn’t mean he’s a friend. That doesn’t mean he won’t use whatever is between us against me.

He crosses toward me and I stand my ground, showing the strength that has allowed me to prosper in Michael Alvarez’s world. He stops in front of me, a step away, not touching me, but what scares me is that I want him to touch me. I want that hero I just got mad at myself for wanting, and I want that hero to be him. “Let’s sit, sweetheart,” he says softly.

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Of course, you should. Come on.” He motions with his head and when his hand just barely brushes my waist, I step away from the instant fire in me, walking back to the couch, where I welcome the support of the cushion. But it seems there is no escaping Kyle in this moment. He joins me and bypasses the chair, sitting down next to me, close enough to be in my personal space.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, setting a small handgun down in front of me, along with a case and a strap.

“A Sig,” I say of the tiny gun. “I used to carry the cheaper Ruger version.”

“Used to?”

“Michael won’t allow it.”

“You’re carrying it,” he insists. “In your purse or on your person. I prefer on your person.” He holds up a strap. “This will allow you to wear it-”

“At the center of my bra. I know. I have a sister who’s an FBI agent, remember?”

“Actually she’s not.”

I blanch. “What?”

“Kara took a leave last year and then eventually resigned.”

I suck in air, my chest tightening, before I breathe out. “Where is she now?”

“Married to an ex-ATF agent and working in New York City. You can take comfort in knowing that Ricardo didn’t know that. He was told she’s active FBI, which means they dismissed her as a problem they think only you can re-invent.”

“Oh, thank God.”

He studies me, his eyes too keen, too knowing. “You’re protecting her.”

“She’s my sister,” I say, choking a bit on the word sister, “and I might not want her in my life, but I love her.”

“Then we’ll keep her away. You have my word because I understand being angry at family, but still caring if you lose them.”

“You do?”

“My father was murdered, too.”

My chest tightens just a little more. “How?”

“He crossed the line, and played a little too dirty, for his own benefit, not that of the FBI, and in the process he double-crossed the wrong person. He was point blank assassinated.”

“My God,” I whisper. “How can your story be so like mine?”

“They hired me because they knew I’d have this connection to you and they expected me to use it against you.”

“Will you?”

“Never would I ever use my father, who I never even talk about, against anyone.”

“Then why did you tell me?”

“Because I want your trust.”

“And what will you do if you get it?”

His hand comes down on my leg, intimate, wrong. Right. “When I earn it you won’t ask that question.”

“I wish you could earn it,” I say, and my hand goes to his and I tell myself it’s to push him away, but I don’t even try.

“I can and I will,” he says, leaning in, or maybe I lean in or we both do, but we are close, our faces, our lips, and our breath. “Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but I’m not going anywhere.”