In a Fix (Torus Intercession 2)

He rubbed his eyes with one hand.

“When do you imagine that Suárez will make contact?”

“We suspect very soon.”

“You know, I was serious at the office; I should take Brig’s place, because he can’t lie to save his life.”

“And you’re what, the world’s best liar?”

“No, but I’m better than Brig, and I’ve had training, not to mention that people have seen us together, so anyone Suárez asks about me will report back that we’re close.”

“All they have to do is run your ID.”

“Please, you’re the FBI, you can change my ID into anything you want.”

He was quiet.

“It’s safer for Brig if I play intermediary.”

“But not safer for you.”

“Who cares about me? I’m the bodyguard. It’s my job.”

“You––”

“And besides, like I was trying to tell you before, Brig is going to be useless to you anyway. He’s too caught up in figuring out his life.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that once he tells his board he’s going to marry a man, he might no longer be in line to be CEO, and you’ll be looking to get Nolan to wheel and deal for you.”

“That would be a disaster. There’s no way Suárez goes from planning to deal with Brig only to pivot to Nolan. It won’t happen, and we’ll lose this chance.”

“Then you should fix my ID now, and make me the contact.”

“You won’t be able to guard Brig, then.”

“What does it matter? If I have the target on my back, instead of Brig, I’m actively doing my job.”

He had no comment.

“And won’t I have you to guard me?”

“Yeah, but––”

“The only danger to Brig is this op,” I told him. “If I removed him from this situation, he’s no longer in danger, and my company has fulfilled its duties.”

“Your boss will never allow you to be placed in danger.”

“I’m here to protect Brig, and as I pointed out, what would be better than this? My boss will be thrilled.”

“He shouldn’t be. I know I would never go for it if you were my guy.”

“There are no other options,” I explained logically, realizing that neither of us had moved at all, still plastered together, the warmth of his body seeping into mine, the mere fact of his presence, calming.

“This is why I hate ops with civilians,” he grumbled. “They never work out. You always end up in the middle of some bullshit cathartic moment.”

I snorted, letting my head fall back, sinking deeper into the lush couch. “This is what makes life interesting, don’t you think?”

His whine was painful, long-suffering, and hysterical. I couldn’t have stifled my chuckling if I tried.

“You’re a dick,” he pronounced as three women joined us.

“Can I sit there?” one of the women asked, pointing between us, smiling seductively.

Beautiful woman, tall, with jet-black hair and fire-engine-red lipstick. Utterly stunning, dressed provocatively, but also elegantly. It wasn’t everyone that could combine the two and pull it off so flawlessly. The way she was looking at Dallas, like he was something she wanted to try, was both predatory and flattering. There was no reason for him to say no.

“No,” he answered belligerently, crossing his arms for emphasis. “We’re good.”

She smiled in return and took hold of her two friends, leading them away, back toward the bar area where the other guys were.

“What in the world are you doing?” I asked, curious as to what was going through his head. “She was gorgeous.”

“I’m working.”

“You could have arranged a play date later.”

His lashes fluttered.

“You’re falling asleep,” I groused. He’d been hungry and tired back at the interrogation room—and then it hit me. “Let me call your wife or––” Yes, I was fishing, and it wasn’t subtle, but I didn’t care either.

“I’m not married,” he said, and it was easy to see he was rankled, edgy, that sort of tired where you couldn’t get comfortable, where you were itchy and it felt like there were ants crawling around under your skin. “Do I look like someone who would be married?”

“What does married look like?” I shot back.

“Content,” he murmured, “peaceful.”

Interesting. “I think you have a skewed perception of what it looks like.”

“How would you know?” He bit out the words. “Are you married?”

“No.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it.

“You need someone to take you home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re falling asleep right here.”

“I’m a hundred percent awake,” he said, his voice deep and croaky.

Such a liar.

“I’m in charge of a joint sting operation with the FBI and DEA,” he informed me with a grunt at the end before laying his head on my shoulder. Like that meant he was too busy and important to be exhausted.

“Don’t do that,” I scolded him, about to get up.

“Stop moving,” he snapped.

When I turned my head to growl at him, I got a face full of his hair. It smelled faintly of oud, of all things, and citrus and green tea. I inhaled deeply.