Strong Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #1)(29)

As the GPS starts to take us off the main roads and into subdivisions and residential areas, Muse gets quieter. She could be asleep. But she’s not. The only thing that gives her consciousness away is the way she’s twisting the hem of her T-shirt between her fingers. Otherwise I might think she was dozing with her head leaned back against the rest, facing out the passenger window.

When I pull to a stop, she glances over at me. Her eyes are big and shiny and she looks near tears. Impulsively, I reach for the fingers of one busy hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

Muse gives me a weak smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers tremble inside mine. “I’m not afraid.”

“Liar,” I accuse softly.

Her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t make a sound or make a move. She just stares at me, like she’s willing me, begging me, maybe through the connection our hands make, to give her courage. Strength. To promise her everything will be all right.

“I know you’re not going to like this, but I want you to stay here while I go check it out first.” Before I can even get halfway through the sentence, she’s shaking her head.

“No, I’m going.”

I knew that’s what she’d say.

“Fine. Just stay behind me, okay?”

“Why? What do you think is going to happen?”

I shrug. “Hard to tell. In my line of work, you learn to expect the unexpected.”

“All right, I’ll stay behind you. Let’s just get this over with. I need to know he’s okay.”

I release her hand and we both get out, meeting at the front of the car. Muse trails behind me by a foot or so and stops on the top step while I approach the front door and use the clacker to knock.

The door swings open quickly, like someone was expecting us. A man fills the entrance. He’s just over six feet tall, has salt-and-pepper hair and looks fit and trim in his Dockers and pressed white shirt.

“Jasper King,” he says flatly, no surprise coloring his tone.

“Colonel Harper,” I reply, addressing the man I used to work for, the man I used to respect. The man I used to trust.





SEVENTEEN


Muse

“Dad! Ohmigod! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I cry, pushing past Jasper and throwing myself against my father’s sturdy chest. He hugs me tightly and I let the sandpaper rasp of his cheek and the light scent of Old Spice soothe my nerves, nerves that have been frayed for eight long days.

“I knew you’d come,” he says, his voice gruff in my ear. “And I knew he’d bring you.”

I lean back to look questioningly into the familiar face. “What do you mean? How do you know Jasper?”

My father’s shrewd, gray eyes leave mine to settle on Jasper where he stands behind me. I can feel his presence like a current of electricity tingling along my spine.

“We’ve worked together before.”

I turn to glance back at Jasper. His blank expression, his tiger eyes are glued to my father’s. They’re unfathomable, as they so often are, but there’s an animosity, a coldness pouring from him like an arctic breeze.

“How did you know I’d find him? I mean how . . .”

“He knew they’d send me. Because I’m the best one for the job,” Jasper interjects. His voice is icy, his beautiful lips thin. Fingers of unease dance down my spine.

“Who’s ‘they’? And what do you mean ‘send’ you?” I ask.

When Jasper doesn’t answer me, I look to my father. They’re engaged in some kind of silent standoff, each man staring at the other, neither moving a muscle.

“Muse, honey, why don’t you wait for me in the kitchen? I need to speak with Jasper.”

“Dad, I think after all that’s happened, after all I’ve done, that I at least deserve some answers.”

Finally, he looks at me again. “You’ll get them. I promise. Eventually, I’ll tell you everything. In the meantime, you’ll just have to trust me.”

In his eyes I see the immovable force that I know my father to be. Some of the reasons that I love him—his protectiveness, his rock-solid reliability, his unconditional love of me—are also some of the things that frustrate me. When he gets it in his head that he’s doing something to protect me, he’s unshakable. Even by me. And this is one of those times. I can see it in everything from the firm set of his jaw to the stubborn angle of his chin.

As though sensing that I’m about to argue, he reaches out and cups the side of my head, right over my ear, like he’s done for as long as I can remember. “Trust me, right, my Muse?”

I exhale. There’s no use fighting. I’ll never be able to change his mind. I know an unwinnable battle when I see one and anything involving my father when he gets like this gets that unique distinction.

“One of these days maybe you’ll trust me as much as I trust you.”

“I already do, sweetheart. It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of love. I love you too much to risk you.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Please, Muse.”

I want to debate the issue. I want to argue until I’m blue in the face. I want to stomp my foot in a fit of temper. But I know there’s no point. My father is a negotiating genius. At least with me he is. He has this way of making me feel like an ungrateful, difficult child for squabbling. I doubt he thinks that for one minute, but he can damn sure make me wonder about it.