“And where would you have them do that?” She lifted her eyebrows, still giving him that “God, you’re so obtuse,” expression that made him want to kiss her, of all things.
“I know. The next bus stop,” she said, humor lacing her voice. “Or better yet, how about in the middle of Shirley Higgins’s vegetable garden, right there in her prized sugar beets that you trampled?”
“I thought they were weeds,” he said in his own defense. His lips twitched. He couldn’t help smiling at her. “But I get your point.”
She leaned closer, blindsiding his senses when he caught a whiff of her sweet scent. A contradictory mixture of bold, exotic spice and soft floral perfume, mingled with something uniquely Alyssa—a little sunshiny and a lot womanly.
Her half-smile faded and her expression turned serious. “Those guys found out where I live, right?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Do you think they could access my credit card records, too?”
“They seem pretty resourceful,” he said by way of an admission. Too much so, he thought. They’d tracked down her home address in record time. The men paying them were indeed powerful. He couldn’t help wondering what other information might be accessible to them.
“I think it’s safer if we keep it on the down low as much as possible,” she told him.
He nodded solemnly, struggling not to crack a smile. She watched way too much television.
A tired-looking woman across the aisle watched them curiously. They weren’t exactly off-the-grid types, he realized, and probably drew more attention than not. If questioned, the woman would be able to easily identify them, which could pose a problem, depending on who was doing the interrogating.
Maintain the status quo. That had been his order from his immediate superior, Supervisory Special Agent Dane Abbott. Which he took to mean his job was to keep everyone around him believing he was Charles Rolston, while Rolston was elsewhere, wherever that might be. If Rolston wasn’t in FBI custody, the U.S. Marshal’s office could have him in theirs since the all-important Witness Protection Program fell under their purview. Which could mean Rolston had caught wind of the SEC investigation. Quite possibly, he could’ve made a deal. In exchange for his continued cooperation and testimony at trial, he might have demanded witness protective services. Dropping the insider trading violations would only sweeten the deal.
Granted that was all a whole lot of conjecture on his part, but it was the only theory that made sense to him. If he was right, then why hadn’t he been told about it? He’d been in on the SEC’s investigation from the beginning. He’d done the legwork, followed up leads and spent hours poring over documents and spreadsheets until they were a blur. What was the point of keeping him in the dark at this stage of the game?
If Rolston had made a deal, and Noah highly suspected that was the case, then his job was essentially over, wasn’t it? If so, then shouldn’t he be on the next flight back to FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia? But no. Instead, he was subjected to public transportation with a make-believebodyguard, whose life was now in danger because someone wanted Rolston silenced—for good.
He didn’t like not having answers. He didn’t like not knowing what questions to ask. And right now, he had an overabundance of both.
As Alyssa had promised, they had indeed reached the beach before sunset. A good four hours before sunset, too, an event she’d indicated they could enjoy from the balcony of the third story at The Beach Inn once they were settled in their room.
The seaside inn was unlike any hotel Noah had ever seen. The narrow, three-story structure teetered on the edge of being called a crumbling relic. In his opinion, the place was more elaborate beach house than actual hotel. The inn was built in the art deco style, and its faded pink paint seemed more at home in Miami than Manhattan Beach, California.
The front of the weatherbeaten inn faced the Pacific Ocean and, Noah had to admit, the view was a stunner. The interior, decorated in a combination of old Hollywood glamour and tropical beach house, actually worked. Surprisingly, each piece fit the overall style.
Their room was no different. Sturdy, light-colored fifties retro furnishings filled the modest room, while a bold mixture of pastel and jewel-toned accessories offered up an unusual, but informal décor. How relaxed he’d be sharing a room with Alyssa, Noah was afraid to hazard a guess.
He hung up his garment bag and set Alyssa’s bag on the suitcase stand inside the closet. She’d disappeared into the bathroom, giving him a few moments alone to figure out their next move. He had no idea how long they’d be staying. Until he received orders indicating otherwise. Or until someone else took a potshot at them. And then where would they go?
For the moment his orders were clear. Which meant he had to continue the pretense of being a pharmaceutical company whistleblower until advised otherwise. Keep pretending to be a man he wasn’t.
He was beginning to seriously dislike Rolston.
Frustrated, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the sapphire-blue velveteen chairs positioned in the corner. He walked over to the nightstand next to the king-sized bed and removed his shoulder holster before emptying his pockets.
He frowned. A bed he’d be sharing with Alyssa. He’d never get any sleep. Not when the words bed and Alyssa conjured up images of late nights, tangled sheets, and sweat-covered bodies.
Loosening his tie so he could breathe, he then unfastened the top two buttons of his white dress shirt. Sharing a room had been her idea. At the time, he’d actually agreed with her so he could keep her safe. He understood the pragmatism of such a plan, but he seriously questioned the wisdom.
Alyssa was hot, no doubt about it. She was sweet, sassy, and she made him smile. But a physical relationship would be the extent of any personal association he could have with her. They were opposites in every sense of the word. He lived on the East Coast; she on the West. He lived by the rules; she thought they were suggestions. He imagined he would be employed by the Bureau until he retired. She’d had more jobs than anyone he knew. On paper nothing worked. In reality, he wanted her, even if they might say good-bye at any moment.
He dropped to the edge of the bed and toed off his black wingtips. God, he was tired. He checked his watch. Four o’clock. His body was still on Eastern Daylight Time. He wondered if he’d ever recover, not only from the crazy obstacle course Alyssa had led him through, but from the jet lag caused by the three-hour time difference.
He scooped his BlackBerry from the nightstand. He needed a different kind of distraction, so he decided to check in with his SSA to update him on his whereabouts. He couldn’t exactly call with Alyssa around, so he had no other choice but to text or e-mail. Text would probably garner him the fastest reply. With any luck at all, he might even receive some concrete information in return. That whole “maintain the status quo” bullshit wasn’t working for him.
The bathroom door opened a crack. “I’m going to take a shower,” Alyssa called out to him.
He powered up his BlackBerry. “Okay,” he said, not sure what she expected him to say.
“You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” he told her, struggling to keep the amusement out of his tone. He got it. She thought she was doing her job protecting him, but really, enough was enough. He could take care of himself, and her. That was his job.