Page 42 of Nothing to Fear

Her stomach twisted, her heart beating heavily.

Lowering her head, she stared at her bra, stained with dye and torn. Ruined.

She hated underwear. The only reason she wore any was her father’s insistence it was inappropriate if she didn’t.

After the NSA hired her, her dad explained in nauseating detail the importance of dressing professionally to fit in. Her biggest issue was the uncomfortable textures of some fabrics on her skin. Cotton, silk, and cashmere were her go-to materials. In college, she lived in T-shirts and sweatpants. For the job, she’d Googled “best store for women business attire,” and Banana Republic came up first. At their outlet in Leesburg, she had found a comfortable seasonless skirt and classic button-down blouse. A saleswoman had recommended kitten heels, since she had little experience wearing pumps.

She bought the outfit, two in every color, and made a detailed chart on what dates she’d wear certain combinations, adding cardigans during the winter. No one seemed to notice, and Amanda complimented her often that she was always very well put-together.

Willow chucked the bra and bikini briefs in the trash. They were a matching set—she couldn’t wear one without the other—and she was glad to be rid of both.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

The hair looked awful—unnatural—but this time, she concentrated on her flushed face and not the floppy reddish-brown mane. Ken had armed her with a blow dryer and arsenal of hair products, everything from a pleasant-smelling leave-in conditioner to hair spray. No wonder the guy had gorgeous locks.

She threw on her top and slipped into her skirt in the bedroom. Gideon’s voice was muffled through the wall of the room next door. Padding barefoot into the hall, she spotted Ken hunched over the lightbox on the table. She reached for the handle of the adjacent bedroom, but Gideon’s sharp tone and the clipped edge in his voice pricked her nerves, staying her hand.

“Listen to me, Maddox. It was a judgment call. Willow is my target, and this is like any other assignment,” he said on the other side of the door.

Willow cringed, bracing a hand on the wall.

“This is the only way to find the real mole. Trust me, this isn’t personal. This is business. Let me do my job.”

Her heart lurched, the beats bleeding together. She spun, rushing back to the bedroom. Shaking, she closed the door and locked it.

Willow is my target.

This isn’t personal. This is business.

Humiliation burned inside her, followed by a sickening realization. Everything finally made sense. His sudden interest in her, a plain Jane misfit, when he was obviously into drop-dead gorgeous women. His deceased wife had looked like a Victoria’s Secret model.

No surprise the only reason he cozied up to her, came into her house, snooped through her room, distracted her with a kiss, was for an investigation.

She slid down the door, her lungs squeezing. She was his assignment. She was business.

Business!

Hope that anything romantic with him might’ve been possible ruptured like a burst water pipe. She slapped the wall, wanting to slap Gideon. He didn’t care about her. He was only using her to find the mole.

She’d trusted him on the most intimate level, knowing he’d never take anything from her that she didn’t willingly give. No, he’d never hurt her physically, but she’d been short-sighted. She hadn’t considered her heart.

17

Springfield, Virginia

Friday, July 5, 12:40 p.m. EDT

“Listen to me, Maddox.” Gideon paced in the room, chewing on a piece of gum. “It was a judgment call. Willow is my target, and this is like any other assignment.”

“This isn’t the way,” Maddox said over the phone. “You’ve lost your objectivity.”

No shit. He’d made the mistake of touching her, and the contact had robbed him of all common sense.

“This is the only way to find the real mole. Trust me, this isn’t personal.” He doubted Maddox was buying the bullshit he no longer sold to himself. Things had gone from professional straight to intimate. “This is business. Let me do my job.”

Glancing at his watch, he checked the time. He’d bet his left nut Maddox wasn’t tracing the call, but he liked his balls as a set and wasn’t willing to risk being wrong.

At the forty-five second mark, he’d hang up.