Page 40 of Nothing to Fear

To find out who was framing Willow, they had to follow the money. The offshore account had been opened in person, and there would be a picture on file. With luck, the mole was a woman and had used her own photo along with Willow’s name to establish the account. If the traitor was a man, good odds he’d use a woman close to him, someone he could control.

Either way, it was their one shot in the dark. Flying to Grand Cayman wasn’t an option. Safe bet the Gray Box was monitoring airports using Willow’s facial recognition program. He needed to figure out an alternate form of transportation and to know the Gray Box’s next move.

Grabbing the clippers, Gideon rapped a knuckle on the bathroom door. “Mind if I cut my hair?” Ken had been generous enough to give them one room to use. He wouldn’t impose by dirtying a second bathroom. “It’ll take two minutes.”

Two, and he’d get to work on creating an exit plan out of the city.

Water ran in the tub. “Come in.”

He ducked inside with his head lowered, but he still caught her rise to her knees, clad in only her bra and underwear, and dunk her head under the faucet. His thoughts careened. The sight of her creamy pale skin, narrow waist dipping to the small of her back, and heart-shaped ass tipped in the air lit up his central nervous system like a football stadium on game night.

Fastening his gaze in the opposite direction, he hustled four strides to the sink. The snapshot of Willow, her curves and every movement, had imprinted on his brain, filling in the missing pieces in his mind for a complete picture he could visit whenever he closed his eyes. For the first time, his memory was a liability instead of an advantage.

Might’ve been smarter to wait for her to finish. Gideon redirected the trajectory of his misfiring mind. He opened a trash bag over the sink to collect the hair and set the timer on his watch, determined to stick to two minutes and not a second longer.

Changing his appearance with a shave and haircut wouldn’t thwart a facial recognition program. But adding a pair of sunglasses and ball cap would make him less recognizable in a crowd, give him a slight advantage in person.

He flipped on the cordless clippers. First, he shaved under his chin, up and over his jaw, above his upper lip. Quick, methodical swipes to get the job done. Nothing fancy. He did the same with his hair, running the clippers from the nape of his neck to the front, his head hanging over the trash bag. The goal was simple—keep it neat, clean, even.

When he was done, he looked like a younger version of himself. One less cynical and guarded, a man who had naively believed he was capable of having a successful relationship. He no longer recognized that version of himself staring back.

The water stopped running in the tub. He wiped the sink and collected the trash bag. In the mirror, he watched Willow wrap her hair in a towel. His gaze slid over her sensual figure. Looking at her without being able to touch her was pure hell.

His alarm chirped. Perfect timing. He bolted from the room before she made it to her feet.

Before he could pat himself on the back, a sharp gasp came from the bathroom. Willow started crying. The pit of his stomach tightened.

Those weren’t crocodile tears. From extensive experience with his ex’s episodes of bawling on demand, he could detect fake tears at the first sniffle.

The pained sounds from Willow were real and had the inside of his chest twisting.

He hated how her life had been turned upside down. Over the last few hours, he’d asked a lot of her—high-pressure, high-risk things. She’d handled all of it with grit and trusted him with little explanation. It bumped his admiration of her several notches higher.

The absolute last thing he should do was go back in there, but her crying turned to sobbing, and he didn’t need her falling apart.

He threw his T-shirt on, set a five-minute timer—estimating it’d take longer than two to console her but not giving himself enough time to succumb to temptation—and stepped into the bathroom. Sanguine dye smeared the edge of the white tub on his right, making it look like a bloodbath. Plastic gloves lay on the floor.

Leaving the door ajar, he pivoted left. Willow stood trembling in front of the sink and mirror. Weeping, she faced him.

Water dripped from her dark-red hair in rivulets down her delicate body. Her flimsy gossamer underwear was see-through. Blindsided, he stiffened.

He pinned his gaze on her face, refusing to veer for a second below her neck.

“I don’t look like me.” Tears spilled from her eyes.

Unable to stop his feet from moving closer, he went to touch her but thought better of it and drew his hands back to his sides.

“I-I hate this hair.” She burst into a series of hiccupping sobs. “None of this is me. Running. Dodging bullets. Stealing cars. Being a fugitive.”

Her raw vulnerability gutted him. He had to say or do something—only a heartless asshole wouldn’t comfort her—but he was frozen in place. “Please, don’t cry.”

She reached for him. He couldn’t avoid the collision of contact as she fell against his chest and pressed a trembling palm to her mouth. Or perhaps he didn’t want to.

He wrapped his arms around her shivering body and held her, cradling her head against his sore sternum. She was warm, so warm and soft. Her fear was palpable, tearing him up on the inside. She really started sobbing as if she’d been holding back a moment ago.

Tightening his embrace, he shushed her and stroked her hair.

“Gideon, I can’t do this. I don’t know how. I need things to go back to being normal. I need normal.”