Covert Makeover

“Go inside and get someone to check you out. I’m going to talk to Montoya.”

She looked back at the bag, still sitting under the sign. “What was that all about? They didn’t stop.”

Sean shook his head, his mouth grim. “I don’t know. I’m not sure they ever intended to pick up the money.”

“Wait.” She reached for his arm. His skin was hot against her scraped palms. “What do you mean? Then why did they shoot at me?”

“I think this was a test. They agreed awfully easily to our choice of location.”

“A test? To see if we called in the police?”

Sean shrugged as gravel crunched behind them. It was Rafe.

“Soph, you okay?”

She nodded as Rafe touched her shoulder in a protective gesture. Confidential’s chief of security took his job seriously.

“I’m fine. What’s happening?”

Rafe’s black eyes appraised her quickly, then he faced Sean. “Go on inside, Sophie. Majors and I have a couple of things to straighten out.”

BACK INSIDE, Sophie sat at the kitchen table on the second floor. She arched her shoulder. “I hit the ground on my right shoulder, and my palms and knees are scraped.” She looked down and saw the shredded stockings. “Dammit.” She tried to tug her skirt down, but it was too short.

Isabelle hurried in with the first-aid kit just as Rafe and Sean stepped into the room.

Rafe eyed Sophie but spoke to Isabelle. “She’s okay?”

“I told you, Rafe, I’m fine,” Sophie said.

“What’d you see?”

“I never saw the car until it was right on me. I tried to follow Sean’s instructions not to look back. I don’t think the car had a license plate, but I can’t be sure.”

“There was no license plate,” Sean said.

Rafe scowled as he dialed a number and listened. “Okay, guys. Good job. Bring in the videos. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He put away his two-way radio. “Right. No plate, glass too dark to see through. You didn’t get a look at the shooter, did you?”

Sophie shook her head. “Sorry. I saw the reflection of sunlight on metal and dove instinctively.”

Isabelle dampened a square of gauze in alcohol and dabbed at Sophie’s knee through her shredded stocking.

Sophie waved her away. “Don’t,” she said. “I’ll run home and change. That will be the easiest thing.”

She heard the muted desperation in her voice and hoped everyone would chalk it up to reaction to being shot at. She had to get out of these ruined clothes and stockings, and she didn’t want anyone watching her.

She looked at her pin-striped skirt in regret. It was frayed at her hip where she’d hit the ground and damp from Sean Majors’s sweat. As she brushed her hand over the back of her skirt she felt Sean’s eyes on her.

Sean was all gritty primal male, with his bare, sweat-streaked arms, and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His eyes were stormy as he looked her over.

“That was a pretty good duck and cover you managed out there.”

Sophie stiffened. “Self-defense course,” she muttered.

Isabelle quickly stood, gathering up the first-aid paraphernalia. “Come on, Sophie. Let’s go into the dressing room and I’ll take care of those scratches and scrapes.

Sophie shook her head. “Nope. I’m going home.” She reached for her purse, and winced at her scraped palms. For some strange reason, she began to shiver. “I’m—I’m fine. I just need a shower and a change of clothes.”

“I’ll drive you,” Sean said.

Sophie stared up at him in surprise. She’d have bet he wouldn’t have left the scene until he’d gone over every square inch of it.

“After all, it was my fault you were out there getting shot at.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Rafe muttered.

Sean stiffened. “At least it was a plan.”

Sophie rushed to defuse the animosity between the two. “All right, please. Drive me to my apartment. I’ll change and we can come back here to discuss our next move.”

Rafe caught her eye and shook his head slightly. She needed to watch what she said.

Sure enough, Sean picked up on the remark. “Our next move?”

She stood and nodded. “Sure. Your next move.”

“Montoya, how long before I can see those tapes, and interview your men? Mr. Botero is going to want to know exactly what happened.”

“Any time you want. While you’re chauffeuring Sophie, I’ll take a look at them.”

Surprised at how shaky she still felt, Sophie directed Sean to her car, a late-model BMW convertible.

He stopped. “Maybe we should go in the pickup. I’m liable to get your car dirty.”

She looked him over, moistening her lips as her gaze lingered on his dust-streaked hair, the T-shirt that hung loose over his jeans, the mud-caked work boots.

Then she looked down at herself. “I’m as covered with dirt and dust as you are.”

“Okay.” He reached to open the passenger door for her and the muscles in his arm rippled. She knew how good that arm had felt, curved protectively around her head. No one had ever put themselves in harm’s way for her. Never. It was a new feeling. A warm and disturbing feeling.

Her body gave a little shudder as she moved in front of him and stepped into the car. Her tight skirt rode up, drawing a glance and a scowl from Sean before he slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. He dug a cell phone out of his pocket before he climbed in and buckled his seat belt.

As he pulled away, avoiding the section of the driveway where the kidnappers’ car had spun around, reaction to her near miss clutched at Sophie.

Her job with the CIA had been as a graphics expert. She’d spent most of her time forging documents, identifying and duplicating inks and dyes used in water-marks and aging paper. She’d never had any field experience, although she’d gone through all the training and kept her firearms proficiency up to date.

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