Vanessa called Rhys next. She admitted Stokes got the jump on her, since she’d have to put that in her report. He said the same thing that Nick had—Stokes was a trained killer, and she’d handled it fine. If she was comfortable staying, then she could stay. Like Elena, though, he wasn’t sitting back to wait for an update call. Jayne and Rhys were both coming out. Like Elena and Clayton, they’d hang back and wait for a distress call.
When Rhys said he’d wait for a distress call, he meant it—part of her kit was a short-range SOS alert with a GPS. Now that someone would be in range soon, she was expected to wear it.
It was not easy to find alcohol at five in the morning. Apparently, state liquor laws meant that even the corner stores stopped selling it at 2 a.m. Or they did for most people. Nick sussed out a store with a thirty-something woman behind the counter, asked Vanessa to stay in the car, went in, and came out with alcohol.
It wouldn’t have been a hard sell. Even after a night of narrow escapes and filthy buildings, all it had taken was five minutes in a restroom for Nick to look like he’d stepped off a magazine cover. Vanessa was sure with only a modicum of charm—and perhaps a generous bribe—he’d been able to convince the clerk to break the rules for him.
Before he’d gone into the store, Nick had asked what she drank and she’d joked about missing her nightly gimlet. In all seriousness, she said a fifth of gin and a bottle of 7UP would be fine. At the hotel, she discovered he’d grabbed good gin and a packet of Rose’s lime mix. Vanessa suspected he’d looked up the recipe on his cell phone. A guy considerate enough to do that for someone he didn’t particularly seem to care for? Well, they didn’t make many men like that in Vanessa’s world, which only made the “didn’t particularly seem to care for her” part all that much harsher.
When they’d gotten on that plane together, she’d known he’d rather be with just about anyone else. His opinion seemed to have improved since then, but she suspected she’d have had to work very hard for it to get worse. Since Nick had a reputation for being nice to just about everyone … well, that didn’t exactly mean he’d want her number when all this was over, not even as a professional contact. Meanwhile, the more time she spent with Nick, the more time she wanted to spend with him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was very nice to look at. Put him in a dark room and she’d still be happy. Of course, if she was in a dark room with Nick, she’d probably be very happy …
Oh, hell.
She knocked back the rest of her gimlet and let Nick mix her a second. It didn’t help that there was a king-size bed beside their table. The hotel had apparently been out of double beds. When she said “apparently,” she wasn’t implying that Nick had lied. As nice as that might have been for her ego, Nick would never pull that. She’d been the one asking when the desk clerk had said there were only king rooms left, all the while giving Vanessa a look that said, “This better be your brother, sugar, or you’re out of your mind for wanting two beds.” The room had a pullout sofa, though, and Nick had gallantly offered to take it, though she planned to flip him for it when the time came.
At least they weren’t drinking in awkward silence. Nick was being his charming self, making conversation. He seemed in no rush to get to sleep, and she needed the drink as much as she’d joked she did. She’d started a very rare third as he asked about her move from fieldwork to team leader.
“I’m a half-assed field agent,” she said. When he started to make the obligatory protest, she raised her hand against it. “That’s not humility. I’m better suited to supervising. As you may have been able to tell, I’m not a twenty-five-year-old kick-ass martial-arts fighter. Never was, even at twenty-five. Getting through basic training was a bitch. Marksmanship? No problem. Academic? Technical? Easy-peasy. Running, jumping, climbing? Hell, no. I just don’t have the body for it.”
His gaze dropped, and she’d like to think he was checking out aforementioned body, just as she’d really like to think that the spark in his eyes was an appreciative assessment. When he said, “Nothing wrong with that,” there was a flicker of hope that he was complimenting her, but he followed the comment with, “Not everyone’s cut out for everything,” and she took another gulp of her drink.
Stop acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Oh, but Nick Sorrentino was so crush-able. In every way.
Another long drink, this one draining her glass. He went to take it then stopped, looking her in the eyes, head tilted, as if assessing her sobriety.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I have a high tolerance.”
His lips quirked in a smile. “And you’re a lousy liar. I’m good at reading the signs, and it’s time to cut you off.”
“Spent some time tending bar, have you?” Even as she said it, she wanted to slap herself. Nick Sorrentino had most certainly never been a bartender, not unless he’d played one on a friend’s yacht.
Before she could retract the comment, he laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m just …” He shrugged. “Careful. If a woman’s had too much …” Another shrug. “I’m careful.”
In other words, he’d learned to read the signs so he wouldn’t take advantage of a woman who’d overindulged.
Damn, she thought, looking at him. Why hasn’t someone snatched you up by now?
Again, it was a stupid question. If a man like this was snatchable, some woman would have done it twenty years ago. He wasn’t interested in that. Why would he be? For a guy like Nick Sorrentino, there was no upside to a committed relationship. It wasn’t like he’d get more sex if he had a steady girlfriend.
And maybe, for five minutes, you could stop thinking about Nick and sex?
“I’m not going to stop you,” he said. “But if you really aren’t accustomed to that much, you’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
He held out a bottle of water. She took it and put her empty glass aside. He deserved backup that wasn’t hungover tomorrow.
“We should be getting to bed.” Her cheeks heated. “I mean, getting to sleep.”
“I know what you meant.” He cleared his throat, the easy humor falling from his eyes. “I also know you might not be comfortable sharing a room, given what you think of me.”
“What?” She looked up, startled. “No, I—I have absolutely no qualms about sleeping with you.” Oh God, did she just say that? “I mean, sleeping in the same room as you.”
His head tilted again, another searching look, cooling fast now. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, uncharacteristically formal. “If I make you nervous, I can assure you I did not suggest a single room because I plan to seduce you.”
“I know that. And you didn’t suggest it—we agreed on it. For safety.” She forced a laugh. “It’s not like you need to trick a woman into a hotel room to get laid.” Stop talking. Stop talking now. “That didn’t come out right. I just mean—”
“You made it clear this afternoon what you meant, Vanessa, and if we can avoid resuming that conversation, I’d appreciate it.”
“I was flirting.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. No, not slipped. Blurted. She’d seen that she was losing any ground she’d gained and the only solution—after three gimlets—seemed to be this. Honesty.