What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(63)

Carmen stiffened, something that might have been jealousy slashing through her. She was certain she’d heard a female voice as Griff had strolled away. Was it his lover? Did he have a woman back in California?

With a sharp shake of her head, she dismissed her childish urge to think the worst. She was terrified of being betrayed. Which meant it was easier to find a reason to push people away than to trust they might be sincere.

But not even her damaged heart could believe that Griff could have spent the night making love to her and then calmly taken a call from another woman. He no doubt had plenty of faults, but he wasn’t a jackass.

At least not a deliberate jackass.

Almost as if wanting to prove her point, Griff returned to the living room, still holding the phone in his hand.

“That was Nikki,” he said, his expression tense.

It took a second for Carmen to place the name. “Your FBI contact?”

“Yes.”

“What did she want?”

“She needs us to meet her at her office in Chicago.”

Carmen frowned. “The FBI office?”

“Yep.”

A hard knot of anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach. As far as she knew, Griff hadn’t been in contact with the agent since he sent her the Polaroids.

“Why?”

He shoved the phone in the front pocket of his jeans. “She refused to tell me any more over the phone.”

She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. “That can’t be good.”

He moved toward her, his hands framing her face so he could tilt it back, forcing her to meet his steady gaze.

“We don’t know anything yet,” he said in firm tones.

“Do you think—”

He bent his head, halting her words with a brief, searing kiss.

“I think it doesn’t do any good to speculate,” he insisted.

He allowed his hands to drop and turned to begin gathering their few belongings, which were spread around the room.

His motions were brisk, confident. But Carmen hadn’t missed the unease smoldering in his eyes.

He was just as afraid as she was that they were about to discover those photos weren’t just a hoax.





Chapter Seventeen


December 26, Rural Indiana





Griff insisted on driving. He didn’t want Carmen behind the wheel when she was distracted. Especially not when a light snow had fallen during the night, covering the roads in a layer of ice.

It also prevented him from spending the next three hours brooding on Carmen’s reaction to their night of hot, endless passion.

He hadn’t expected her to leap around the house with sheer joy. Had he? He grimaced. Okay. Maybe he’d expected a leap or two. They’d set off fireworks during the night, for Christ’s sake. That deserved recognition.

But one glance at her panicked expression as she’d scrambled out of his arms had warned him that Carmen wasn’t ready for a heart-to-heart.

He hadn’t even dared to give her a good-morning kiss.

A fact that gnawed at him like a pit bull with a bone.

He’d never thought of himself as affectionate. He liked to touch women when they were in his bed. A lot. But he’d never been a man who’d been into public displays of affection. Women who were forever kissing him and snuggling close when they were walking down the street, or eating in a restaurant, were more annoying than charming.

Now he wanted nothing more than for Carmen to lean across the cab of the truck to lay her head on his shoulder. Or to place her hand on his leg as they traveled through the back roads to reach the I-90.

Good Lord. He was turning into one of those kissy-face sort of guys.

Rylan would never let him hear the end of it.

His dark thoughts were interrupted half an hour into their silent drive. Slowing the truck, Griff studied the bridge that looked like it had been built by the early pioneers. Narrow planks set over a rusty frame with nothing on the side. The locals might feel comfortable with the sketchy construction, but he wasn’t nearly so trusting.

Not when the entire thing was slick with ice.

Coming to a halt, he reached toward the GPS that was built into the dashboard.

“What are you doing?” Carmen asked, blinking as she glanced around.

“I’m looking for an alternate route,” he said. “There has to be a state highway nearby.”

She nodded, leaning forward as if she intended to help him. At the same time there was a sudden squeal of tires. Startled, Griff glanced in the rearview mirror. The road had been empty for miles. The last thing he’d expected was some jerk racing over the icy pavement like he was at the Indy 500.

Watching the heavy SUV thunder toward them, his annoyance abruptly transformed into fear. This wasn’t a teenager with more horsepower than sense. Or a local who’d lost control of their car on the ice.

Whoever was driving the SUV was headed straight toward them. At a speed that meant that the driver had no intention of stopping.

Griff had less than half a second to make his decision. There was no way to avoid the impact, but he could do his best to keep them from being slammed over the edge of the steep bank and into the icy river below.

“Brace yourself,” he snapped, shoving the truck into four-wheel drive and gunning the engine as he turned the steering wheel sharply to the side.