Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,3
reason, of my motives. “If you’re asking me if I’ve been in less than predictable situations before, the answer is yes.”
Many times. It’s the nature of the work I do. Two years working as a war correspondent in Syria will wipe the blush off any novice journalist’s cheeks. That forward push to investigate a lead. The commitment to get to the heart of the story. To tell the truth. To get it right.
To get it aired, for the world to see.
Tonight is far from being the first time I’ve put myself on the line. Though it might be my first experience crossing the line.
I grind my teeth together. Time isn’t on my side; it never is.
“I know who you are,” I turn the conversation back onto him.
His eyebrows arch. “Who am I?” he bluntly says.
A barbarian and, more importantly, a CIA agent.
I offer my most seductive look, and go for the gold. “The question really is who are you going to be?”
His eyes narrow on me. “I’ll bite. Who am I going to be?”
I force my lips into an upward curl in what I hope is a seductive smile that suggests everything but commits nothing.
The parking garage is so quiet I could hear a whisker hit the carpet flooring. He interrupts the silence with a throaty laugh. It comes from deep within his diaphragm. Like I’m some late night comedian instead of the journalist who gets the story. Period.
“I will, yeah?”
I blink, wondering if he’s laying the Irish on a bit too thick, though nothing—and I mean nothing—else about the man is for show. “Yeah, you will.”
His eyes narrow on me. It takes great discipline not to wiggle in my seat as I struggle to hold my suggestive smile in place. For several uncomfortable seconds, he studies me. As if I’m the one with the dreadful beard, bad fashion sense, and an accent that does funny things to one’s insides. He’s a trained CIA agent, I remind myself, an important bit of information my source in Acapulco confirmed. This is what they do when you hit them with a vague proposition.
“You, lass, are away with the fairies.” But he nods and unwinds his big body out of the tiny car. “Come inside for a drink then.” The door slams, and he stalks off.
And as if the goose fairies are nipping at my heels, I hurry after him. Dead set on convincing him, one way or another, to confide in me.
He has a candle fetish.
I stare in wonder at the clutter dispersed about the living room of his apartment. An enormous, battered sofa takes up a large part of the space. It’s lost its legs and sits low to the ground. Pillows in various shapes and sizes cover the worn cushions and spill off onto the floor. But it’s the candle-cluttered coffee table in front of it that captures my complete attention. Round, fat candles, tall, thin candles, tapers with long wicks and even two flameless, battery operated candles fill the glass surface.
“Aren’t you prepared for the next major power outage. I bet your bathtub is filled with water.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Or are you going for a primitive vibe?”
He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling.
Those eyes . . . they catch me off guard. I feel my breath hitch unexpectedly in my throat. That naughty twinkle of his speaks volumes: Take a gander, storeen, I’m a man who’ll make you come fifty different ways. But it’s the baby blue color of his irises that has me looking more closely at him. A soothingly beautiful color, his eyes remind me of a Maine winter sky over a morning bay. A sky I often dreamed about during the two long years I worked in Aleppo, where bomb dust and bloodshed shaded everything gray. No one looks at the Syrian sky anymore; survival means you fix your gaze straight ahead and nowhere else.
I mentally sigh. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a Maine sky. Ages since I’ve stopped long enough to come up for air. Ages since I’ve been intimate with a man.
Wait . . . what?
My gaze drops. Better. Someone should alert Gandalf from Lord of the Rings that this man stole his beard. He looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in The Revenant. And he has the same rugged, I’m-gonna-kick-some-ass-when-you-least-expect-it attitude, too. Unlike his eyes, that beard makes it difficult to consider him in a romantic way.