Page 38 of Every Last Breath

“I never would’ve figured you for that kind of work,” she said casually, ignoring the low blow. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Ditto, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. He loved getting under her skin, even if it wasn’t the way he craved.

“After the auction, do you plan to pull a disappearing act? Go back to playing dead?”

The doors opened, and she marched off.

Catching up to her, he said, “Let’s get something straight. You resurrected me, to use me for your job. And after you roped me in, I got shot. I took a bullet. Playing this game with the CIA—or whatever the hell you are now—isn’t on my bucket list.”

She went straight as a lightning rod, picking up the pace. “The bullet grazed you.”

“Grazed?” As if it’d been a scratch. A freaking bullet put a hole in his arm!

“It’s a flesh wound,” she said with frigid nonchalance, but her eyes snapped with fire. “Would you like me to kiss your boo-boo and help make it better?”

“Listen, you can kiss my—”

“Fine. You win the poor-me award. Should we have your trophy engraved?”

As infuriating as she was and as livid as he was, damn if this new ball-breaker side to her didn’t turn him on like a floodlight. “Are you kidding—”

“Shit happens.”

Her teasing tone tickled and goaded him at the same time.

“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she said. “And I’m not talking about the playing possum kind, where you let your fiancée think you’re dead. The only easy day was yesterday. So suck it up, baby.”

A nice guy would’ve let her have the win, but standing in super-spook central, he wasn’t inclined to concede an inch. “You weren’t my fiancée. I never proposed.”

She stopped so violently, it was as if she’d plowed into a wall. She whirled on him. A thousand emotions flashed in her eyes, condensing to one that ripped a hole in his gut.

They’d talked about marriage, made plans for a future. He’d had every intention of hitching himself to her until death, the kind that’d actually put him in a casket, but he’d never popped the question. Never gotten her a ring.

“You’re right.” Her voice turned soft as cotton, an unearthly composure falling over her. “I wasn’t as important as a wife or a fiancée. You would’ve come back for one of those.”

He was officially an asshole. He reached for her, but she stepped away. His gut burned.

She was unreadable. Only her eyes telegraphed scathing pain before hardening to steel.

“Maddox,” said someone, drawing both their gazes.

A woman with a cello-shaped figure and bright eyes that screamed on high alert stood posted outside a conference room, its glass walls tinted an opaque gray. She ducked her head inside the room. Then a guy in his late forties, maybe early fifties, waltzed out. Despite the snazzy suit, he didn’t look like a desk guy. He had the sharp presence of someone used to being in the thick of the action.

“Thanks, Janet.” He patted the woman’s shoulder, and she left. “I’m Director Bruce Sanborn, Mr. Matthews. Or would you prefer Mr. Reznikov?” He extended a hand.

“Cole works.” Tightening his grip on his helmet, he stuffed his other hand in his pocket.

“We appreciate your assistance, Cole.” The guy lowered his hand. “This is time-sensitive and of the greatest importance. You’ll be read into mission details, but there are nondisclos—”

“I’m up to speed about the NDAs.”

“You don’t mince words and you don’t waste time.” Maddox’s boss flashed a smile bright as a bare bulb and just as empty. “You’ll fit right in.”

Cole tugged on a cold, tight grin. “Trust me, Mr. Sanborn, I won’t.”

“Simply Sanborn is fine.”