Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,25

last he aimed those laser blues back at her, even as his lips thinned. “I said you’re assigned to the Queen of England,” he enunciated very clearly. Dressed in a business suit, he always looked dapper. Today was no different. Except that suit jacket was crisply pressed black linen over a burgundy dress shirt with a matching burgundy silk tie. Not bright red, but close enough to blood-red that it turned her stomach. Matching black slacks. Gold cufflinks. A USA flag pinning his tie over his heart.

Those. Colors. Looking at all that red and black had simply made Persia sick to her stomach, which was why she’d focused on anything but him. Still, her head bobbed in quick agreement. “Okay, thanks. Great. At the UN or—?”

“Mark…” Alex growled, his attention now to his right on Senior Agent Mark Houston. “I don’t have time for this. Please fill Junior Agent Coltrane in on everything she’s obviously missed. I’ve got a meeting with the Senate Majority Leader. We’re done here.”

Chairs scraped, as Alex collected his leather-covered planner, then stalked from the Situation Room. No one else moved, a signal everyone seemed to understand but Persia. Tired of her never-ending charade, she closed her eyes and ran her middle fingertip over her right eyebrow, covertly telling them and her boss to fuck off. Wishing she were anywhere else, but sure she was in for a butt-chewing in front of The TEAM.

Man, it was stifling hot in this conference room.

“You’re distracted,” Mark said quietly. He’d turned to her, his index finger tapping the worn corner of his planner. He had the darkest brown eyes that, thankfully, were never as cold or as icy as Alex’s could be.

“She’s been that way since she got back from Florida.” Izza Maher snorted from the other end of the conference table where she usually sat with her hubby, Connor.

Only Junior Agent Connor wasn’t here today. He and Harley Mortimer, one of the other senior agents on staff, had flown out earlier to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Yesterday’s 8.2 earthquake had wreaked catastrophic destruction that extended from Jalalabad into Pakistan, all the way to Peshawar. Connor and Harley had gone over to assist emergency efforts and to find their friends, to make sure they were okay. At least that was their cover story.

“Yes, Mark, I do have a lot on my mind,” Persia agreed. Why lie? Her head hadn’t been right since she’d left Brazil. Or maybe, since yesterday’s flight from Florida. She no longer knew which pain hurt more than the other. Having lived through Domingo Zapata or waking up without Hotrod.

“I, umm…” Where to start? I need an intervention? I’m afraid of the dark? I miss some idiot guy I only slept with once, and I’m pretty sure I’m turning into an alcoholic? Yeah. That ought to sit well with this group of polished professionals.

Shoving his chair back, Mark lifted to his feet. “Step into my office. We need to talk. Dismissed, guys. You too, Izza.”

Another snort. Persia loved Izza. Heck, she loved every last TEAM member. She was the problem, not them. Not even Alex. Dutifully, she trailed Mark to his private corner of TEAM-land.

“Mark! Mark!” Ember called from the customer service desk, where she worked IT issues with Agent Beau Villanueva, another over-the-top sniper.

One of those perpetually dark and gloomy guys, his brown eyes lit up when he caught Persia’s sideways glance. “Good morning,” he called out. Man, he was sexy as hell when he smiled, but he was also married to Doc Fitz. “Your new laptop just came in. Let me know when you’re ready for a tutorial.”

“Will do,” Persia replied, wishing she could get her mind off—that man. That other man. The one with no sense in his hard, empty head. Sheesh. Hotrod Whoever-He-Really-Was hadn’t even been able to perform! He was a loser! A nobody! Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind?

Mark gestured her to go on ahead, while he diverted to Ember. All Persia caught was Ember excitedly telling him, “You’ll never guess who just called!” Everyone loved Ember. She was pure sunshine. If she was that excited, the someone who’d just called must be quite the rock star.

With a long-suffering sigh that didn’t begin to ease her deflated spirit, Persia sank into the wooden chair alongside Mark’s desk. She tucked in her tummy, stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and prepared to be all she could be. No one needed to know her personal problems. Not even