Page 8 of Nothing to Fear

“Not at me.” Her nerves drummed. “It’s personal. I don’t discuss my private life with coworkers.” The steel wall at her spine stopped her retreat. “And we’re not friends.”

He halted shy of breaching her personal space, a good foot between them, and stared down at her for so long with his brows scrunched, she wondered what he’d say next, if anything.

Then he gave her a sexy, lopsided grin.

A zing speared her belly. She clutched her purse against her stomach to steady herself.

“You don’t have many friends here, do you?” His tone was soft as velvet.

“No. Not many.” Zero friends, at work or otherwise. Her dad didn’t count.

“Sounds lonely. Might be nice to let someone get to know you, spend time with you.”

His warm smile spread, lighting up his face, thawing his icy eyes. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips. If he’d been within tongue’s reach, she would’ve licked him.

“I’d like to be that someone.”

Her mind pinwheeled. “Huh?” She’d heard him, but he might as well have spoken Greek.

His perfect smile dimmed. “I’m saying that I’d like for us to be friends.”

She managed a swallow, loud enough to punctuate the thickening tension.

Gideon’s gaze fell to where she was clutching her purse like a lifeline and back up to her face. “Do I scare you?”

“Sometimes.” Big. Fat. Lie. He scared the heck out of her all the time.

She’d involuntarily memorized his personnel file. Information had a way of wallpapering itself to her mind. Age: thirty-two. Height: six-three. Weight: two-ten. Trained by the CIA. Sole Gray Box helicopter pilot. The specifics of all his assignments. She’d even hacked into the sealed parts of his record and devoured every nugget that’d been redacted. Savage details, extreme things he’d done out of duty and in self-defense. How he’d killed with his bare hands and once ripped a man’s carotid out with his teeth.

She was as frightened by him as she was attracted to him. What did that say about her?

He backed away at her admission.

Frowning, he tugged at his shirt collar as if it’d gotten too tight and raked back his unruly forelock. She wanted to erase the uncharacteristic red dots of color surfacing on his cheeks.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” That was the first time she’d heard his voice sound so low and shaky. “I’d never hurt you, Willow.”

Another hard swallow. He’d said her first name. She didn’t think he knew it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Is it okay to walk you to your car? I can hang back in the lobby if it’s not.”

Who wouldn’t want a hot guy walking them to their car? It just didn’t make an iota of sense why he wanted to. “It’s okay.”

The elevator opened onto the same floor. They hadn’t moved. She hadn’t pressed the button for the lobby and neither had Gideon. She was going to be late.

Castle, a hardnosed operative built like a howitzer, entered and hit the button for the lobby. He jerked his chin up, and Gideon did likewise.

The elevator cage crowded in, and she wanted to run off. Gripping her purse strap, she watched the floor numbers illuminate as they ascended from the secure sixth sublevel. She’d rather look at Gideon but couldn’t pry her gaze from the elevator’s display until the doors opened. It was one of many things she couldn’t explain to others about her spectrum disorder.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Castle strode out first. Gideon stepped off at her side. Her kitten heels clicked across the smooth sea of concrete polished to a mirror finish. The sharp sound echoed in the austere, high-ceilinged lobby.

Castle swiped his ID card along one of the electronic turnstiles that sandwiched the metal detector and strolled outside. Gideon waved to the armed plainclothes guards seated behind the ivory marble desk, addressing both by their first names.

Maybe it meant nothing that he knew hers as well. Something inside her deflated.

A sign embossed with Helios Importing & Exporting in elegant gold script hung on the wall. The business front provided a plausible explanation for the specialized vehicles on the compound and the helicopter in the warehouse behind the main building and a credible cover story to family members for operatives traveling at a moment’s notice.

She swiped her ID card. The plexiglass flaps of the turnstile retracted, and she walked through. Gideon hurried ahead and pushed the door open for her, standing on the threshold. She brushed the steel frame on the way out to avoid physical contact that might be too personal at work—yet another rule.