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  Then he did something that totally melted what was left of me.

  He grazed my forehead with a kiss and brushed his lips up along my hairline where my head was cut and kissed there, too.

  My hands fisted in the fabric at his waist. My heart felt like it was going to burst right out of my chest. I was sure he could hear it hammering because it was the only sound that reached my ears.

  If that wasn’t enough wreckage for one kiss, he wasn’t done.

  Carefully, his hands slid up, his palms were so wide they completely engulfed my face as he cupped it and stared into my eyes. He didn’t say a word, just looked at me. The melted honey of his eyes was thick and sweet, and then the corner of his mouth tilted up, giving me the smallest of smiles.

  Slowly, still watching me, he lowered himself and planted another soft, quick kiss to my mouth.

  Only then did Spencer pull completely away.

  If I had any brains in my head that still worked, I might have asked him why he did that. But really, I could fucking care less.

  I prayed he would do it again. I prayed he would do it longer, and when he did, we would be in private so the kiss could go a little further. I hadn’t had sex in almost three years, and to be truthful, I never once missed it.

  Until now.

  “I had to do that,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.”

  “O—okay,” I answered, a slight tremble in my voice.

  He smirked, one of his dimples making a heart-stopping appearance. “And just so you know,” he drawled, tucking a strand of wayward blond hair behind my ear. “I reserve the right to do it again anytime I want.”

  I didn’t say anything. Good Lord, if I opened my mouth, I might giggle like a schoolgirl. That would be embarrassing.

  “As much as I would love to keep saying things to make your face flush pink, darlin’, we got a serious conversation to finish.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked, tilting my head and avoiding the horrible must-have conversation for just a few minutes longer.

  “North Carolina.”

  That explained the southern twang that sometimes gave me shivers.

  “So the men threatened your son?”

  I nodded. “Jack. They threatened my mother, too. And my job. Basically my entire life.”

  He reached out and brushed the hair from my head and looked at the cut. “They hit you.”

  “Yeah, but this was because he shoved me and I hit my head.”

  Spencer’s jaw clenched.

  “I’m fine,” I told him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m more worried about my family, my son.” I told him about this morning, about how they came back and took Jack, how I hadn’t even heard.

  I talked until my throat was sore. I told him everything. I told him about the poison I hid in the cabinet, how I lied to my mother and sent her to the zoo, and about how they trashed my bathroom. When he knew every last detail, I fell quiet, stressed and strung-out all over again.

  He didn’t say anything at all while I talked. Mostly, he watched me, his amber eyes intent on my face. But sometimes he would look away, scope out the area beyond us. Spencer was a watchful man, careful. He seemed to see everything with the appearance of looking at nothing. I felt safe with him. His calm, cool demeanor was assuring and smoothed the worst of my frazzled nerves.

  After I fell silent, he pressed my coffee back into my hands and told me to drink it. “You need the sugar, darlin’. The lack of color in your face isn’t good.”

  I ducked my head, self-conscious about my less-than-desirable appearance.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he said, tipping my chin back up. “I like looking at your eyes.”

  “They’re probably bloodshot,” I rasped. My throat and voice was like a scratched record, not at all playing the way it should. So I tipped back the coffee and let some of the warmth soothe the roughness.

  “Even bloodshot, those baby blues are beautiful.”

  “Pretty words,” I murmured.

  “They’d just be words if I didn’t mean them,” he countered.

  I didn’t have it in me to argue. I was beyond exhausted and scared. “I don’t know what to do,” I whispered, clutching the coffee.

  “Yeah, darlin’, I know.” The compassion in his tone was almost my undoing.

  “Come on,” he said, scooping to pick up our stuff, then draped one of his arms across my shoulders. We walked back toward his car. If my cheek sometimes brushed against the side of his chest as we walked, I told myself it was because I was tired.

  It wasn’t because the idea of resting against him for even just seconds and letting someone else be strong for a moment was damned appealing.

  After we were both in the Mustang with the engine running, he turned to me. “You know I can’t keep this a secret.” His voice was heavy with duty. “I have to elevate this. Immediately.”

  “I know.” It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

  But I wasn’t sure it was the right thing for Jack.

  My hands twisted in my lap as my stomach rolled like I was on some tiny boat in a wave-laden sea.

  “Elle.” Spencer’s voice broke through my internal struggle. His hand covered both of mine, and I looked down at where our skin touched. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your son.”

  “I want to believe you,” I whispered.

  “Look at me,” he implored.

  Our eyes connected.

  “Keeping people alive is my job. It’s what I do.” His eyes were intense, serious, and true.

  “I hope you’re good at your job,” I said. I tried to make it sound like a joke but failed horribly.

  “I’m the best at my job.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” I said lightly as I turned to look out the window.

  “Elle?” he said, still not turning away.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not just a job to me,” he intoned. “Don’t ever think you are.”

  I swallowed thickly, the bottom falling out of my stomach. “I’m kinda glad,” I whispered, letting him in on my secret.

  His teeth flashed a fast grin. “I know.”

  My lips pulled up into a smile. I couldn’t even call him on his arrogance because he was right.

  6

  As soon as I told Spencer, he brought me back to the White House. I was ushered into a small office to wait while he went and told them everything he knew.

  Then the interrogation started. I answered question after question. After that, I answered them again. And again. I was scrutinized by the most intimidating security team ever. Sometimes when they looked at me, I felt dirty. I felt like they thought I was some kind of twisted murder-plotting serial killer.

  I wasn’t.

  I was a mom scared for her son. I was a woman scared for her future and a daughter scared for her mom.

  I was also a woman being reeled in by a man.

  Endless hours upon hours of going over every last detail until I began to doubt even myself, and through it all, Spencer was there. He didn’t sit close to me or hold my hand. He didn’t show any kind of feeling toward me except professional courtesy and the benefit of the doubt.

  But he was still there. And sometimes in the worst moments, in the minutes I wanted to cry my eyes out, all I had to do was look at him. Those honey eyes of his pulled me back from falling off the ledge every single time.

  They wanted to search my house but couldn’t. They argued about that forever. Spencer was adamantly against it. They were pretty certain I was still being watched and that meant my place was, too.

  I was told to keep everything in my life exactly as it always was. I wasn’t to act paranoid or watchful. I was supposed to adhere to my everyday routine and do nothing that would make whoever it was that threatened me suspicious that I did what they told me not to do: tattle.

  Robert Walsh, the head of the Secret Service team, was currently sitting across
from me. I didn’t like him. He pretended we were friends, that we had some common ground because we both worked for the president. He must have thought I was stupid. Sometimes having blond hair and being a young woman totally worked against me.

  Robert thought by creating some sort of camaraderie between us, I might show him something I wasn’t showing anyone else, like there was this secret part of me I kept hidden. I was so damn exhausted I couldn’t hide anything if I wanted to.

  “You haven’t noticed anyone following you lately? Showing up to the same places you might be ‘coincidentally?’” he asked.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, the pain behind them drilling into my skull. “No,” I answered.

  He opened his mouth to ask something else, and I cut him off. “I’d like to go home now.”

  “Soon,” he said in a completely placating tone.

  “Not soon,” I snapped. “Now.”

  “Ms. Bond,” he said. I heard a hint of warning and perhaps even suspicion in his tone. But even I knew he didn’t have any kind of evidence to arrest me or even hold me.

  I was exhausted. I was irritable. My body hurt, and I wanted to see my son.

  It was bad enough I had to call Mom and tell her I wouldn’t be home early after all. I had to lie (yet again) and say there was some sort of emergency at work.

  What the hell kind of food emergency could someone have? I prayed to God she didn’t ask me for details.

  “You said yourself that I should keep to my normal routine. If I go home too late from work, it will look suspicious. Especially so soon after they threatened me.”

  He sighed. He knew I was right. I basically just used his own plan against him.

  “We’re going to need the vial of poison they gave you,” he said.

  “Yes. I know.” I repeated everything on autopilot. “I will bring it in first thing in the morning in the bag you gave me. I won’t let anyone else touch it, and I will use the gloves you gave me to pick it up.”

  “I hope you know what a serious matter this is,” he said gravely.

  I leaned forward. “You don’t think I know?” I pointed to the cut on my forehead and lifted the sleeves of my shirt to show him the bruises. “I was attacked. My son was taken from his bed and left in my car. My car. They want me to commit murder. I understand.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well…”

  The door to the office opened and Spencer strode in. His suit jacket was still missing, his hair was mussed, and the gun he carried was on full display on his hip.

  Even in my exhausted, emotional state, his presence sent a little zing of excitement through me.

  “Her shift is supposed to be ending,” he said, his eyes sweeping over me before turning away.

  “You can go,” Mr. Walsh said.

  I sagged with relief. I didn’t waste time or give him a chance to change his mind, just jumped up to leave.

  Spencer grinned at my haste as I rushed toward the door.

  “Ms. Bond,” Mr. Walsh said.

  I wanted to bang my head against the doorframe. What would it take to get away from him?

  “Yes?” I turned back.

  “I want to remind you that we’re having your house watched. You won’t see us, but we’ll be there. If you try to run, if you try to—”

  I made a sound in the back of my throat and held up my hand. “Stop,” I snapped. “Look, I get you’re just doing your job. I’m grateful and I am thankful you have assigned my house a watch and someone to also watch my son. But stop treating me like a criminal. I—” My monologue was cut short when Spencer’s hand dropped onto my shoulder.

  “Time to go.” He ushered me out into the hall, shutting the door between Mr. Walsh and me.

  I glanced up at him. “That guy is a—” Just before I slung an insult, I noted we weren’t in the hallway alone, and I snapped my lips closed.

  A few members of the White House staff were walking by, clearly intrigued about what was going on down here. Spencer greeted them like they’d known each other all their lives, and I took advantage and slipped away.

  The sun was starting to lower in the sky as I walked through the parking lot toward my car. All I wanted to do was see Jack and get away from this place.

  “Elle!” Spencer called, jogging toward me across the pavement.

  When he stopped in front of me, he extended a clipboard and a pen at me. “You forgot to sign this grocery order,” he said loudly.

  I took the clipboard and stared down at the blank paper. Clearly, he was creating a reason to talk to me out here in the open.

  “Oh!” I said in mock surprise. “I forgot.” I took the pen from his hand and glanced over the blank paper like I was checking the order one last time.

  “I’ll stay at your place tonight,” he said, low.

  I glanced up swiftly, noting he was smiling widely, like he was joking with me.

  But he wasn’t joking. His eyes were entirely serious.

  I played along, grinned, and gave a little laugh. “You can’t.” I hope he heard how serious I was beneath my pretend nonchalance as well.

  “You shouldn’t be alone.” He insisted.

  I glanced at the paper again and scrawled my name across the bottom. “I never have men stay over. It would look suspicious. Besides, the police are watching the house. I’ll be fine.”

  I was rather impressed I sounded so confident. In reality, I was dreading spending all night alone in the dark.

  “Elle.” He began, low.

  I shoved the clipboard at him and smiled widely, giving him a little wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  He couldn’t say anything to argue; it would look suspicious. Spencer was forced to walk away, back toward the house, as I started up my car and drove away.

  7

  It took forever to get Jack down to sleep.

  Even though I could tell he was exhausted, he fought slumber with quite the valiant effort. I spent over an hour rocking him in the chair in his room and pacing the dimly lit hallway upstairs while holding him against my chest.

  It was almost as if he could read my emotions. As if he could sense all the turmoil brewing inside me. I didn’t mind rocking him or singing a million little songs. I loved the time with him. I knew someday in the near future, he would be too big for me to do this with. Hell, some parents might say he was too old now, but I didn’t care.

  Even though rocking him was the highlight of my day and I could finally rest a little easier because I knew he was safe in my arms, I still breathed a sigh of relief when at last I was able to lay him in his crib and shake out my exhausted arms.

  On nights like this, nights when I was worn out and overwhelmed, I sometimes felt sorry for myself. Sorry I was all alone, that Jack’s father—that any man—had never thought I was worth sticking around for. It might be nice to have someone I could share a glass of wine with, talk about trivial stuff that happened to me that day, or even just someone I could fall asleep against while we watched unrealistic TV shows on the couch.

  After watching Jack for long moments, I double-checked the baby monitor, making sure the volume was all the way up, and then went through the rest of the upstairs, checking every window for the millionth time.

  It didn’t matter how many times I saw they were locked; I would still be frightened.

  I wanted to take a long, hot shower to release some of my insanely sore and tense muscles, but I couldn’t allow myself the luxury. If I was in the shower, I wouldn’t hear what was going on in the rest of the house. It would make me too vulnerable.

  Instead, I settled for putting my hair in a high ponytail and washing my face quickly. I changed into an oversized T-shirt, flinging my bra across the bed, and didn’t bother with any pants.

  I guess there was something good about living alone.

  No one knew when I went pants-less.

  Once I checked on Jack yet again, I stood in the hall and debated for like ten minutes before convincing myself it was okay to go into t
he kitchen to get some tea and maybe a snack to bring back upstairs.

  Sleep probably wouldn’t happen for me tonight, but I could at least try to make myself comfortable.

  The entire time I was making a mug of hot tea and milling around the kitchen, I kept sneaking glances at the high cupboard where I hid the poison. Just knowing it was there unsettled me. As much as I didn’t want to get it out and put it in my purse tomorrow, I would be glad to have it out of here.

  When my tea was seeping on the counter, I grabbed a granola bar out of the pantry even though I didn’t want it and palmed the bottle of honey. I couldn’t help but think of Spencer as I swirled the thick, sweet stuff into my tea. What was he doing right then? Probably sleeping. Lucky bastard.

  After stirring the hot liquid, I licked the spoon and carried it to the sink.

  That’s when I saw it.

  The plant.

  I’d completely forgotten I dropped some of the poison into it. When it didn’t die or wilt instantly, I put it out of my head.

  Yesterday it was green and supple, the ivy trailing over the windowsill.

  Not anymore.

  It was dried, brittle, and brown. The ivy appeared like I let it sit out under the hot sun for weeks without watering it once. I reached out a finger to touch the leaves, kind of in shock they could go from perfectly healthy to dead in such a short amount of time.

  Just as my finger was about to make contact with the ivy, a sound erupted in the room. I let out a startled yelp and the spoon clattered into the sink.

  I spun, forgetting about the plant, to see who or what was there.

  But it wasn’t anyone. It was my ringing cell phone from beside my mug. With one last glance at the dead plant, I went over to stare at the screen of the phone.

  I didn’t recognize the number.

  What the hell good was caller ID if I didn’t know the number?

  My heart pounded heavily as I shifted from foot to foot and debated whether or not to answer. No one ever called me at this late of an hour. Hell, no one ever called me except my mother, and I knew she was long in bed.