Private Maneuvers (Wingmen Warriors 4)

Unwrapping his turkey-sandwich supper, Max settled behind the laptop computer resting on the utilitarian table in his VOQ room. He clicked through the multiple menus, logging into the remote account linking him to the CIA's mainframe computer.

Rain gurgled through the gutters outside his door while he waited for the connection to complete. He bit off half the sandwich. Scratched a hand over his bare chest. And tried not to think how much better his day could have ended if he'd been two doors down in the room with Darcy.

The secured black-and-green screen hummed to life, snagging his attention back to the job at hand: sending his report. The list of additional captioned addresses stretched like a damned laundry list. Why worry about a tap leaking military plans when he was all but using a freaking bullhorn transmitting his reports to a stadium?

Not much of a team player are you, son? his father's voice taunted through the years.

Sure he was. He'd just found his animals respected rules and loyalty better. Max tipped back in his chair to open the small fridge behind him for a bottle of water.

A pop cut the air.

A gunshot.

His chair slammed back onto all fours. He shut down thought. Training assumed control. Max nailed the terminate button on his computer with one hand as he grabbed for his Glock with the other.

A second shot rattled the windows.

Close.

Adrenaline pumped through him. He didn't question his instincts. He knew.>She straightened, her arms falling away from her knees as she braced her shoulders for battle. "Okay, here goes. I made a real pest out of myself back on the beach the other day and you were nice to let me off the hook with all those bicoastal excuses. You're a sexy, fascinating guy, but I realize you're not interested. And that's fine." She paused, laughing lightly as she scrunched her toes in the sand. "Well, sort of."

Her honesty was killing him faster than bullets.

Waves rolled up the sandbar, lapping around them before receding. "I'm not any good at games, Max, and I just misread the signs. Sorry. Most of all, I'm sorry I've made things uncomfortable this past week."

He felt slimier than pond scum. How did he combat such total, open honesty? Especially when she had every reason to be pissed at him. He'd sent mixed signals from the start. Here was his chance to fix that by sending her safely packing. Cut her off. Now.

He couldn't do it. He had to offer her some kind of a face-saving out while still keeping the boundaries in place. "You didn't misread anything."

Confusion creased her brow—with an unmistakable hope glinting in her eyes.

Rule number two for undercover work, keep the story as close to the truth as possible. He forced the words out. "There's someone else."

Her brow smoothed.

But the wary hope faded also. "Oh, well, that explains it then. I should have thought to ask at the start."

"Or rather there was." Where had that come from? Hell. Her honesty must be an infectious disease.

Darcy rested her cheek on her knees and watched him, waiting without pushing. This woman made talking easy.

Too easy.

"She, uh..." Max looked away from those amber-rich eyes luring him to spill secrets. He scooped up a shell, pitching it from hand to hand. "She died two and a half years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

The soft comfort of her words washed over him like the incoming tide. Not effusive or gushing. But genuine.

He regulated his breathing with the steady rhythm of toss, catch, toss, catch. "We'd been living together for about six months, had even started to talk about getting married."

Max shoved thoughts of the baby aside. He didn't want to open himself up to that much honesty today. Or ever. He pitched the shell into the ocean that had taken Eva as well as their kid away from him.

"How horribly unfair."

"Yeah, it was." He'd been the one who should have died. Survivor's guilt was hell to live with.

The normal constraints he kept on his emotions slipped. He'd channeled it all into revenge for so long, he didn't know what to do with the churn threatening to kick over him.