Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sydney
Three rapid knocks on the suite door sound. I hit mute on the television, silencing Gordon Ramsey’s infinite wisdom.
“Ms. Parker?”
The gruff voice is not one I recognize. Hotel staff wouldn’t use my name. I approach the door from the side.
“Yes? Hello?”
“It’s Howard Casey. I work with Mr. MacMillan.”
Security?
I crack the door open. The man standing before me wears navy dress slacks, a cream-colored golf shirt paired with a sports jacket, and black running shoes. With his short, trimmed buzz cut, he could be mistaken for military.
“I work with Mr. MacMillan,” he repeats. “Do you mind if I come in? I need to check the space.”
“You’re on his security team?” I study him with professional interest. Stance slightly wider than shoulder-width, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, right hand positioned for quick access to what’s likely a concealed weapon beneath his jacket.
Not Secret Service protocol exactly, but similar.
Private sector with government background.
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes perform a quick scan over my shoulder—assessing threats, mapping exits, exactly as he should.
While I haven’t met this man yet, he was on the surveillance pics Quinn shared. I recognize his facial structure and the military bearing. I open the door wide and let him enter, curious to see his methods.
“Mr. MacMillan will return soon. I’ll do a quick walk through and be out of your hair in no time.”
“Not a problem,” I say, stepping toward the sofa, but uncertain as to what I should do.
The way he moves through the space is methodical—corners first, then central areas, maintaining sight lines to all entry points. Well-trained. Which means Rhodes takes his security more seriously than he lets on.
“Go ahead and watch your show,” he says as he passes through the perimeter, a device in his hand meant to detect any unexplained signals.
And that’s why we don’t have surveillance in this room.
“Is it okay if I head in?” he gestures with his head toward the bedroom.
“Go ahead.”
My phone sits on the coffee table, the screen black. We agreed I would limit contact with the KOAN team while I’m in this room—at least until I’ve confirmed we’re aligned with Rhodes. His disappearance act this morning has me wondering if he’s re-thinking, well, everything.
The suite door opens and Rhodes steps in, face bright red, hair wet, and T-shirt soaked.
“Did you go swimming?”
“Looks like it, right?” In three long strides, he’s in front of the concession area and opening a bottle of water.
“Is it hot out there?”
He downs about half the bottle, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Getting there.”
As I say, “Howard from your team is here,” the man exits the bedroom.
“Mr. MacMillan.”
Rhodes clocks Howard with a degree of surprise, but there’s no alarm. He recognizes him and knows who he is, but the formality in his posture and greeting tell me he doesn’t work often with Howard.
“Roger’s downstairs,” Rhodes says.
“Right,” Howard replies. “It’s all clear here. Have a good day, sir.”
After the suite door clicks closed, Rhodes crushes the now empty water bottle in his hand and scores a perfect shot into the circular gold bin at the end of the credenza.
“Do you run with security?”
With one hand, he lifts the hem of his soaked shirt up and twists it over his shoulders.
Fine golden hairs stand on end, most likely a reaction to the air conditioning.
He’s lean, and the faint lines of a six-pack dimple his abdomen.
Thinking about touching him last night, about how those muscles felt strained and corded above me, gives rise to a visceral reaction.
“Not when I can avoid it.”
“Oh?”
“I’m pretty unrecognizable in D.C. But…these guys I hire here…they’re pretty cautious.”
“You should listen to them. They’re experts, right?” His eyes narrow, questioning. “I assume you hire the best.”
“Did you get to know Howard?”
“No,” I half-laugh. “I’m just assuming?—”
There’s something about the way his dark eyes penetrate me that has me altering my course, shifting from light to serious.
“You have access to an extremely valuable tool—it might threaten dangerous people. There are those out there who might have ideas on how to force your hand. And snatching you off the street might sound…” I know how it sounds, but it’s not at all inconceivable.
He doesn’t have a wife or children, and that means his body parts might be the leverage a sick individual might choose.
Images from training flash and my throat tightens. He needs to be cautious.
“No one’s coming after me. There’s no need for concern.” His tone conveys it’s a preposterous notion.
If he knew what I do—about how aggressors can treat a human being, about the techniques I’ve studied—he’d be concerned.
I’ve seen what happens to high-value targets when they’re cavalier about security.
The images flash unbidden: the photographs of business executives taken in Moscow, Seoul, Beijing.
The ones who thought they were untouchable. Some never made it home.
I meet his gaze head on. “You need to be careful.”
My concern is genuine, surprising even me with its intensity. Somewhere along the way during this op, Rhodes himself has become something I want to protect. The professional part of me recognizes this as a classic sign of operational compromise. The woman, or well, the human in me doesn’t care.
I step closer, but he stops me with his hand. “Let me shower.”
“Want company?”
His gaze roams my body, possibly looking for sweat. “Did you already work out?”
“No,” I admit. I intended to work out, but after further conversations with the team, ended up back in the suite so I’d be here when Rhodes returned.
“We can fix that.”
This time, when I step closer, he pulls me in, flat against him. When we kiss, once again, it’s demanding. Controlling.
And while my body reacts with tingles and goosebumps, the pungent scent of sweaty male threatens to overwhelm me. I push against his shoulder, breaking the kiss with a laugh. “I think we should head to that shower.”
He smirks and slaps my Lycra-covered ass.
“Let’s go.” He interlaces our fingers, tugging me along. “We’ve got to be quick. I’ve got a tuxedo arriving shortly.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I forgot to pack one.”
“You remembered to send me five gowns and forgot your tux?”
“I planned to wear a suit. But we’ve been invited to a private reception at the Russian embassy before the event tonight. I’ll need to show my respect.”
My steps slow as adrenaline surges. I need to alert the team. An opportunity to access the Russian embassy… I mean, I’ll be watched. I probably can’t do much, if anything.
“Maybe you can help me,” he says, spinning to face me in the bathroom. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
“How?”
“Let’s see if we can determine who is pulling the strings?”
“You mean with your blackmail? You know with Russia it’s… All instruction leads to the leader.”
“Right. But you want to find out who leaked your list, right?”
“I doubt that information is lying around in a file cabinet.” But wouldn’t it be lovely if it was?
“Inside the embassy, if you were to get a chance to access an office…any office. Any computer…” He tilts his head, assessing.
“What?”
“No,” he shakes his head and scratches his jaw. “It’s dangerous.”
He steps forward to tug at my top, but I step back.
“What? I’ll do it.” I may sound too eager, but I’m intrigued.
“If you can insert a drive into a computer,” he says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “it can install a surveillance package that will provide remote access.” He reaches for the towels, continuing as if discussing dinner plans.
“The drive has a zero-day exploit that bypasses typical security measures. Twenty seconds is all it needs.”
His technical knowledge reminds me that beneath the executive exterior is still the genius who dropped out of Harvard’s business school.
“And if I get caught?” A legitimate question.
“If you get caught, of course, you’d need to play it off that you were trying to download something.” His eyes meet mine, calculating. “The drive is disguised as a compact—looks like makeup. If they find it, the software self-destructs after three incorrect password attempts.”
This isn’t amateur hour. The level of preparation suggests Rhodes has either done this before or has resources with serious intelligence backgrounds. I’m both impressed and concerned—how much of this was planned before our “honest” conversation yesterday?
He steps into the shower and twists the water to high.
“I can do it.”
I push my leggings over my hips and attempt to step out of them quickly while his back is to me, but when he turns, they’re at my ankles. As I awkwardly step one leg out at a time, he steps close and fingers the underside of my sports bra.
I peer up at him, and he says, “Up.”
Obediently I raise my arms and he fingers the tight clothing over my breasts and up over my arms.
“You’ve done this before,” I can’t help but say, and what’s more, I’m slightly alarmed at the jealousy I feel. Unlike me, he has been in a long-term relationship.
“Undressed a woman?” A singular eyebrow raises. “Yes.”
His heated gaze roams from my breasts down to my remaining undies and ankle socks. He releases an appreciative sigh.
“Maybe I should’ve taken you on the run with me.”
“Twenty miles? Eh…no thank you.”
“But you’re a runner.”
His genuine surprise has me laughing. “If I’m doing twenty, it’s with a purpose. Marathon. Trapped behind enemy lines. Some kind of work.”
“So I’m not work?”
His question hangs in the air. He is, and he isn’t.
Steam bellows in the shower behind him, beckoning. I finger his running shorts and push them down. His sex hardens in my hand.