Page 62 of Lock ’N’ Load

The truck’s dashboard indicated it was eleven a.m., and they had nearly six hours of driving ahead of them. “Five o’clock today? Your place?”

“No. There’s a coffee shop on the corner of Central and Louise avenues. I’ll meet you there.”

“Be care—”

The phone beeped, indicating he’d hung up.

Unable to stop herself, she grinned and grabbed Matt’s shoulder. His muscles were tense, the stark, savage beauty of his profile made more so by the clenching of his jaw.

When he glanced at her, his eyes blazed with anger. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Do what?” She stared at him, wide-eyed and confused. “I just made contact with that reporter. Not even you managed that.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, his jaw clenched. “You gave him your name after I expressly told you not to. We don’t know what the hell is really going on here, and we don’t know if this guy’s phone is being monitored by the Russians, the CIA, or Bugs Bunny. You just identified yourself and announced to anyone listening exactly where you’ll be at five o’clock.”

His voice had risen to the point where he was yelling at her. Hearing the commotion, Sheba stuck her head through the window, and he reached out to stroke her ear.

Trista turned in the seat to face him, crossing her arms as her own temper rose. “Why are you so angry with me?”

“Because I—” He readjusted his hands on the wheel. When he spoke again, his voice was low and controlled. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

When he gave her a quick glance, the look in his eyes was tender and honest, diffusing her indignation. “Oh.” Uncrossing her arms, she settled back against the seat.

What exactly did he mean by that?

He’d given her another passionate, toe-curling kiss, but that didn’t mean he truly cared about her. On a scale of one to ten, her experience with the opposite sex barely scored a two, but even she understood men had physical needs. Sexual needs they often satisfied without feeling an emotional bond with a woman. The statement he’d made about not wanting anything to happen to her could merely mean that it was his official duty to protect her. She was, after all, a CIA asset.

Having found that scratching Sheba’s ears was soothing not only to the dog but to her as well, she reached out her hand, but her fingers never contacted the soft fur. Matt grabbed her hand, entwining their fingers and holding their linked hands on top of his thigh, something that had nothing to do with protecting her.

Immediately, her body heated and something deep in her womb contracted. She shivered. Matt’s expression didn’t change as he focused on the highway before them. Smiling, she reveled in the warmth of his fingers and the heat from his thigh. Uttering a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter Eighteen

From beneath lowered lids, Matt adjusted the newspaper in his hands and slid his gaze from one side of the coffee shop to the other.

A few patrons lingered, drinking coffee, reading magazines, or chatting away across small, well-used wooden tables. Nothing was out of place, and there was no one around who tripped his bad-guy meter. Except for a couple of men ogling Trista. He still couldn’t believe the flash of possessive irritation he’d experienced when Nick had leaned into the truck and touched Trista’s shoulder.

While he knew none of his friends would ever hit on her, he knew they were attracted to her. She was the only one who didn’t realize her hidden charms where men were concerned, something that was slowly driving him out of his mind with wanting her.

Sitting at a table on the opposite wall, she sipped a cup of coffee that had to be lukewarm by now, since they’d been there an hour.

Six o’clock. The reporter was a no-show.

He sent a quick text to Nick, updating him of the situation, then another to the burner phone he’d given Trista, telling her to meet him back at the truck. Remaining where he was, he waited until she read the text.

Before she had the chance to get up, he tossed the newspaper on the table and exited out the door. As he neared the truck, Sheba’s brown-and-black muzzle stuck through the cracked window of the covered bed. Catching sight of him, the truck began rocking gently, showing the dog’s eagerness to be let out and part of the action. Although tonight was a total bust thus far.

As he sat in the driver’s seat, Sheba greeted him with a series of woofs and whines. They’d taken her for a short walk before going inside to meet the reporter, but she had to be hungry for the stash of kibble he’d brought along. A minute later, Trista joined them, and he nearly laughed at the irony.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, she wouldn’t have dared touch his dog, but as soon as she parked her butt on the passenger seat, she put her face right into Sheba’s, allowing the dog to give her some serious licking.

“What now?” she asked.

“We call him.” He picked up the burner phone from the console, then hit redial and put the call on speaker. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. Without leaving a message, he ended the call. “Now we go to his house.” He entered the reporter’s address into his phone’s navigation system, then pulled away from the curb.

Ten minutes later, he rolled past the address, a small white Colonial that had seen better days. The house was sorely in need of a paint job, and the foot-tall grass could use a hefty mowing.

“Hey, aren’t you going to stop?” Trista gave him a questioning look.