Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(67)
“Do you ever think maybe the things we do in the name of the flag make us bad people?” she asked, fiddling with the long black thread that had come unraveled from the hem of her tank top. Not meeting his eyes.
“Nope,” he said, his lips making the P-sound really pop. “I know I’m a bad person.” And that had her gaze snapping up to search his face. “I think you have to have a bit of bad in you to do what we do. But we’re bad people workin’ on the good side. And that makes it okay. Because the bad people workin’ on the good side are the only things standin’ between the good people and the bad people who are workin’ on the bad side. Every lie I’ve ever told, every life I’ve ever taken was in the name of keepin’ innocents safe. And that’s what lets me sleep at night.”
Which made sense. Perfect sense. Still…
“I just feel like—” She blew out a breath and glanced over her shoulder toward the line of oblong portholes and the rays of golden light shining through them. Dust motes danced on the beams like tiny sparkling fairies. So pretty. So simple.
Why can’t everything be that simple? A dance of dust in the sun?
But that was a ridiculous question, wasn’t it? Considering she’d spent her entire life dreaming of being a spy, which was about as far from simple as a person could get. Of course, there was that saying about being careful what you wish for. And its bosom buddy: “Nothing is ever what it seems.”
Maybe she’d just convinced herself that’s the kind of life she wanted because it was easier. If she chose a solitary existence, a life that kept her from ever getting too close to anyone, no one could ever reject her or pass her over again. Remaining aloof and unloved would be her decision and—
Whoa there, Nelly. Don’t go getting all maudlin. Next thing you know, you’ll be sporting sweats, eating frozen dinners, and drinking boxed wine. Olivia Mortier: cover girl of Woe Is Me magazine.
Okay, so, armchair psychoanalysis aside, the fact remained that she still had physical symptoms to worry about. “I get sick to my stomach when I see mortal violence,” she admitted to him. “Literally sick. That’s why I had to leave the bridge. It was either that or introduce everyone up there to the breakfast I had on this morning’s flight to Key West.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She turned to find him walking toward her. His loose-hipped strut emphasized his coordination, his extreme agility. And she could have gone on simply watching him move, watching his muscles ripple, his skin catch the light and gleam, for the rest of her life. But he finished off the bottle of water in one long gulp—hydrating before the dive because hydrated blood meant thin blood which, in turn, meant more easily oxygenated blood—and set the empty container on the counter behind her. He kept his hands planted on the cabinet top on either side of her waist, boxing her in. She was instantly awash in the waves of heat coming off him. It was delicious, comforting. She wanted to snuggle into him like a cat curling up in a patch of sunshine.
“Do you think it’s a bad thing, darlin’?” His tone was hot and dark, his accent as syrupy as burned sugar.
“Considering my line of work,” she said, not surprised to hear her voice had gone hoarse. His nearness always had that effect on her, “tossing my cookies at the first sight of violence could be a bit of a hindrance. To me. To whoever my partner might be at the time.”
“Listen.” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. She was instantly reminded of the feel of his callused palm on her breast, how the roughness had abraded and stimulated her nipple. “If the loss of life, whether that life be one of good or evil, didn’t make you sick, that’s when I’d start to worry about you.”
She pursed her lips.
“I’ve seen it happen,” he continued. “Men who’ve grown so hard over the years that death and violence no longer affect them. Those are the guys who wind up on the news because they ran into a village and murdered a bunch of women and children. Killin’ shouldn’t be an easy thing to see or to do, Olivia. When it becomes easy, that’s when you can go from bein’ a bad guy workin’ on the good side to bein’ a bad guy workin’ on the bad side.”
“You make it look easy,” she whispered, remembering the quick, efficient way he’d dispatched the tango who drew down on them in the water.
“There’s a world of difference between proficiency and ease,” he said. “I’m proficient at it. But don’t think for an instant it’s ever easy. I live with the lives I’ve taken. Every day. And even though I feel each kill was necessary, even righteous in some cases, even though I have no trouble sleepin’ at night, that doesn’t mean I’m not changed by each one of them. Just a little. Made less somehow. And made more somehow too.”
Again, everything he was saying made sense, but… “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do my job,” she admitted. “I’m afraid someone will be depending on me to cover their backs, and I’ll be too busy horking my guts up to do it.”
He pulled her close and she went willingly, wrapping her arms around his waist and flattening her hands against his warm back. His skin was impossibly smooth, and the hard muscles made a deep groove of his spine. When she pressed her cheek against his chest, next to the old silver coin he wore around his neck, he smelled like sea and sand, like sunshine and Leo. He smelled like everything she’d never known was missing in her life.