Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

grounds before he set the machine to brew. Even after he finished, he still kept his back to her. As though he knew she needed the space. And with that towering frame, it was the only way he could give it without leaving the room.

Another wave of guilt churned in.

Why couldn't LaCroix have taken the damned bait? She'd have had no problem using the sergeant's attraction to further her case—or lying her ass off to him in the process. The mission was that important.

Dirty soldiers, or cops, had to be taken down. She had absolutely zero issues with being the one to do it. She never had. Garrison and his sister weren't the only ones who'd experienced firsthand what happened when life's traitors were left in place to soil and fester. Like them, she'd lived it.

"Here you go."

She flinched, nearly upending the steaming contents of the mug he held out all over the table and floor. She flushed for the second time that night. "Sorry."

He set the mug on the table. "I didn't know how you like it—black, white, sweet. I've got—"

"Black." Just as God and the Army intended. "Thanks."

He nodded, then sat. Stared. At her. With that same unnerving intensity he'd displayed the previous night. "You sure I didn't freak you out?"

"No."

He didn't appear to believe her.

She tried shaking her head for added emphasis, but that failed to dent the doubt as well. Would the truth? Did she dare?

"I… It's just—" She broke off. Moistened her lips as she searched for the courage to continue.

He waited, damn him. Gave her the same patience she'd given him on several occasions these past two days. Though his appeared to be born solely of genuine concern. Maybe that's what allowed her to actually voice it.

"It's…my dad. You weren't the only loser in the parental sweepstakes. He, ah— He was…killed."

"Oh, hon, I'm so sorry." He shoved their plates to the far side of the table and covered her hand with his. Again. But for some reason, the sight and feel of their intertwined fingers didn't have her pulling back. "When did it happen?"

Just as he had earlier, she laughed. And just as his had been, the sound was dark and stunted. Empty. "Nineteen years ago…tonight."

"Christ. And you chose to come over here and spend it with me?"

She'd had to. For so many reasons. Reasons she doubted he'd accept, even if she could tell him. Which she couldn't.

"If you don't mind me asking…what happened?"

For some reason she didn't. Even though she'd known it was coming. "He was…a cop."

"You said he was killed. In the line of duty?"

She opened her mouth. But as she stared into that unwavering intensity, she just…chickened out. Her courage had been used up. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to recharge it. And God help her, she actually wanted to.

"Rachel?"

Rachel. Not Regan. What the hell was she doing?

He didn't even know her real name.

She watched as his fingers came up to brush her cheek. She didn't flinch. Didn't even feel the urge.

But she did stand. Lie. "Yeah. Line of duty."

He remained in his seat as he blew out his breath. "That's rough."

He had no idea. No one did. Not even Mira. Not really. Her colleague, her friend, who should have been calling her blasted phone right about—

What time was it?

More importantly, when had she stopped tracking it? She always tracked the time. On some assignments, minute by minute.

Maybe there was a God, because as she started to turn her wrist to peek, her phone rang. Its tone was unusually harsh and strident as it pierced the air, despite being tucked securely in her leather bag. Somehow she managed not to pounce on it. She even located a tight smile and pinned it into place.

"Excuse me."

He stood then, moving off to skirt the island as she unzipped the bag. Captain Vaughn's name scrolled across the screen as she retrieved her phone. Evidently she hadn't needed to take the precaution of assigning Terry's professional ID to Mira's number for the night. Garrison wasn't hovering over her shoulder as she'd feared.

"Yes, sir?"

Her friend's breathy rush filled the line. "I am so sorry I'm late. Please, please, please forgive me. I got called in. I'm inside the general's quarters now."

"Of course, sir. I understand." She waited several long beats, then continued, "Absolutely. I'll be right there."

Relief blistered in as she hung up and returned the phone to her bag before anchoring its strap over her shoulder. She would've turned to face Garrison as she crafted the words for her escape, but he was already beside her, disappointment tightening every generous muscle of that body as he stared down.

"Terry?"

"Yeah. He's got a lead on a story, and he's on a dinner date."

A wry smile cracked in. Briefly. "Go figure." The disappointment returned. "I'll see you to your car."

"No, you don't have—"

"I do." It was quiet. Adamant.

Before she could argue, that light, proprietary hand from the night before slipped into place at the small of her back, gently easing her along as they cleared the kitchen and the living room. She waited as he paused to open the front door to the house, then preceded him out onto the now-darkened porch.

Manners demanded she also wait for him to close the door, even as her every instinct ordered her to escape while she had the chance. Run.

Unfortunately, too much had passed between them at the table for her to obey. She stayed, even accepted the hand that settled back into place as he accompanied her down the cobblestone walk.

He was as good as his word, escorting her to her driver's door and patiently waiting while she retrieved the Tiguan's keys. But as she turned to offer her swift thanks and a swifter goodbye, the words clogged in her throat.

The night had closed in, shrinking the world down to just them, much as that tiny closet had that afternoon. But there were no uniforms now, no iron-clad Army regulations protecting her from the man who,