Chapter 9 #2
She blinked at that. “You get too close to me and things could end badly.”
He lifted a shoulder. Smiled. Then he walked over to the bed and sat down. “So, I guess we have right now,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth.
She swallowed, nodded.
And then, aw, he didn’t know why he did it—especially since Ham had just suggested she might be an assassin. Every instinct he’d trained for years was screaming to pull back, verify, wait for data. She was sick, vulnerable, and she’d just told him to stay away.
And he kissed her anyway.
Soft. Careful. One hand coming up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin against his palm. Then leaning in to press his lips to hers. Sweetly. Perfectly.
Because he simply couldn’t stop himself.
He probably should have asked, but—
She softened her lips and kissed him back.
Oh. My.
She tasted like ginger tea and something else, something that was just her, warm and certain, and when she made a small sound against his mouth—surprise, or surrender, or both—something broke open in his chest.
He moved his hand behind her neck and drew her closer. She came willingly, her hand fisting in his shirt like she’d been waiting for permission to hold on. The kiss deepened, unhurried now, the reckless edge of it smoothing into something that felt less like a question and more like an answer.
Kissing her felt like coming home, as if she belonged in his arms, and the sense of it sank into him, turning his bones to fire.
The kiss had come without thinking—pure reflex, a sudden need to prove something he couldn’t have named. But everything about this woman pulled him in. Tempted him to let go, to forget who he was, what he wanted.
No. He knew what he wanted.
This. Her. The what-ifs.
The tomorrows.
Her fingers slid up to the back of his neck, into his hair, and the small tug undid him.
He kissed her like he meant it, like he had no intention of stopping.
She tightened her arms around him, breath catching, and for one dizzy moment there was nothing else—no mission, no questions, no reason this couldn’t be exactly what it felt like.
Which was the problem.
What was he doing? He hadn’t let himself want anyone in years. Didn’t have room for it, didn’t have the kind of life that left space for a woman in it. One day at a time, one job to the next—that was the deal he’d made. He couldn’t see all the way to the end of this.
Someone was going to get hurt.
He broke away. Leaned back, breathing hard, one hand scrubbing down his face. Couldn’t quite look at her. “I’m—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
She stared at him, lips parted, an expression he couldn’t read. Surprise. Confusion. Something that looked almost like fear.
So maybe she felt exactly the same.
“You’re a dangerous man, Dakota Rivers.” Her voice came unsteady, like the kiss had knocked something loose in her too.
He made himself meet her eyes. “Not really. I’m a safe man.” Something in him needed her to believe it. “I really am.”
She studied his face for a long moment. Searching for something. Whatever she found made her expression soften, the fear fading into something warmer. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, you are.”
She pulled back, retrieving her tea, and he watched her ease against the pillows. The moment shifted—still intimate, but different now.
The what-ifs still there, but maybe cast aside.
“I should eat something.” She reached for the soup. “And then probably sleep for another twelve hours.”
“The tour doesn’t leave until ten tomorrow. More wine tastings.”
“Perfect.” She took a spoonful of soup, hummed appreciation. “This is good.”
“The restaurant recommended it. Said ginger was good for congestion.”
“You really did take care of everything.” She looked at him over the soup bowl.
He lifted a shoulder. “It was a tactical assessment.”
She smiled—genuine, unguarded, the best thing he’d seen all day—and went back to her soup.
“By the way, I went to check on our bags. The one you had is missing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So, the owner finally grabbed it?”
“Maybe.” He made a grim face. “Or it never made it here.”
She nodded, her jaw tight.
Dakota sat with her while she ate, answering her questions about the resort, the tour group, the wine country they’d explore tomorrow. As normal as it could be with his heart still hammering, the taste of her kiss lingering.
When she finished, she set the tray aside and slid back under the covers. Gave him a look. “Um, I see the tiny sofa in the next room, and I know you’re intentions. But . . . could you, maybe, stay?”
Stay. And right then, yep, that’s exactly what he wanted—and maybe shouldn’t—do. But, “Yes,” he said quietly as he kicked off his shoes, and moved to the other side of the bed. “I’ll be right here.”
He switched off the lamp.
She was asleep within minutes, breathing slow and congested, her body curled toward his warmth.
Dakota lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe, and tried to think about Ham’s words. The mission.
Gender-neutral name.
Stay sharp.
Ham’s warnings played on a loop in his head. The profile fit. The circumstantial evidence was there. Any objective analyst would have her at the top of the suspect list.
But Dakota wasn’t objective. Not anymore.
He looked at the woman sleeping beside him—dark hair on the white pillow, face soft in the darkness, trusting him enough to be vulnerable—and made a decision.
She wasn’t the assassin. He was sure of it. Sure in his gut, in his bones, in the part of himself that had recognized her from the beginning.
Which meant someone else was. Mags Winston? The Novaks? Vic with his convenient nervousness? Someone on this tour was planning to kill the president, and Dakota was going to find them.
But first, he was going to keep Jayden safe.
He reached out, careful not to wake her, and brushed a strand of dark hair from her face.
I’m a safe man, he’d told her.
He intended to prove it.
Jayden woke to birdsong and the smell of autumn in Australia drifting through the cracked window.
For a long moment, she lay still, cataloging her status. Clear sinuses. Full breath. No swelling, no burning, no pharmaceutical fog clouding her thoughts. The allergic reaction had run its course, leaving her body wrung out but her mind sharper than it had been in days.
Morning light filtered through sheer curtains, painting the stone walls of the cottage in shades of gold and amber. Outside, the vineyard spread in orderly rows toward the horizon, leaves catching the early sun, dew still glistening on the grass between the vines.
A beautiful day.
And Dakota was asleep on the bed, fully clothed, on top of the covers. He’d kept his word. Hadn’t moved to the sofa in the next room. Stayed.
Jayden turned her head slowly, careful not to make noise. He’d shifted to his back in the night, arms folded across his chest, looking almost as if he’d just closed his eyes, still on alert. But his chest rose and fell in deep rhythm.
A vague, shadowed memory had her holding his hand in the darkness. And before that—
The kiss.
It came back all at once. His mouth on hers, his hand cradling her jaw, the way she’d leaned into him like her body had decided something her brain hadn’t signed off on. The way he’d pulled away, scrubbed a hand down his face. I’m a safe man.
He wasn’t, though. Not to her. Because every minute she let him close was another minute she didn’t tell him the truth—who she really was, why she’d come, the name she wasn’t using. He thought he’d kissed a sick woman in a vineyard cottage. He had no idea who he’d actually pulled close.
She watched him breathe. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The slight furrow between his brows, even in sleep—like he was still worried. About her.
Something bloomed in her chest. Something terrifying and warm and completely inappropriate.
Because she wanted it. The what-ifs. The tomorrows. The version of this where she got to be the woman he thought she was and stay.
Stop it. Focus.
She had an assassin to find.
She slipped out of bed without waking him, gathered fresh clothes from her backpack, and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a linen shirt, she eased open the cottage door and stepped into the golden morning.
The main building was quiet at this hour, most of the tour group still sleeping off yesterday’s wine tastings. Jayden found the restaurant half empty, the breakfast buffet just being set up, the coffee station blessedly operational.
She poured herself a cup, doctored it, then breathed in the steam and let the caffeine work its way into her bloodstream. Better. Clearer. Ready to think.
Sydney was getting closer. The president’s speech at the Opera House was in four days. Somewhere on this tour, Spectre was hiding in plain sight—and Jayden was done waiting for the threat to reveal itself.
Time to hunt.
She wandered toward the resort’s small gift shop, coffee in hand. The display window caught morning light, illuminating racks of wine-themed merchandise and local artisan goods. But it was the dress on the mannequin that stopped her.
Sage-green linen. Simple cut, elegant lines. The kind of dress that would move beautifully in a breeze.
She shouldn’t. She was here to work, not shop. Her travel wardrobe was a mix—tropical pieces, a few wine-country additions, and the handful of operative basics she’d been carrying all along.
But the morning was beautiful. The sun was warm. And for just a moment, she wanted to feel like someone who belonged in a place like this. Someone on a romantic vacation, not a mission.
Ten minutes later, she emerged with the dress in a paper bag, feeling ridiculous and lighter than she had in days.
She’d just settled at a table by the window—fresh coffee, a plate of fruit and pastries from the buffet—when a shadow fell across her table.
“You two are just the cutest thing.”