Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
He went to the glass door and yanked it open but didn’t cross the threshold until he felt Mirage’s breath on the back of his neck.
Mirage
When they were back in the elevator, Mirage stopped Grace from pushing the button to their floor.
“You haven’t eaten yet. I bet you went straight to your shower, had a drink, and then went to bed,” he said matter-of-factly, pressing the button for the garage.
“Let’s go to Terrapas. I think it’s time for a bit of spoiling, don’t you?”
Grace nodded in agreement. The five-star restaurant was his favorite, and it was their place.
On the way down, Mirage pushed a code for their transport coordinator on his fancy watch connected to his silicone earpiece. “Have the truck brought around.”
Mirage tapped the button again to go silent.
The high-tech communicator melded to the rim of their inner ear and was undetectable by sight or scanner.
It was a gift to the Ravens’ operation from a law enforcement task force in Atlanta that interacted with Ex and Meridian.
And that was all any of them were permitted to know.
Neither he nor Grace knew who had designed the Hart locator device. They were only available to those whom the maker sent them.
And the engineer had sent six, one for each Raven and one for each handler.
Inside their bulletproof Suburban, neither of them spoke during the forty-five-minute drive to the restaurant.
When they walked through the doors, hoods lowered, the hostess acknowledged them right away and waved them toward their table.
He and Grace bypassed the other waiting, pinched-faced customers and were led to their secluded table, which they paid a substantial amount of money to remain unused. It was curtained off in the back of the dining room, closest to the exit where their vehicle waited.
The weapons they had stashed beneath the booth and table were the only way they’d feel comfortable dining in such a public environment.
After they settled into the curved booth, the maître d’ came to the table along with the chef.
He was a tall, gray-haired man who wore an unstained white jacket and pressed black pants.
He nodded and presented them with a piece of embellished card stock that described the eight-course meal for the evening.
Neither the chef nor the house manager spoke as they waited for Grace to approve the selections.
After they wiped their hands with the hot cloth, the chef signaled for the server to bring the amuse-bouche.
Mirage set his napkin in his lap, then began to eat the goat cheese–topped polenta cakes.
His palate thanked him.
They didn’t often dine in such a lavish manner. On a mission, they had to eat what was convenient and portable. They’d sure as hell had their share of disgusting MREs, freeze-dried fruits, canned meats, and sometimes what they could catch and cook over an open flame.
By the third course, Mirage was curious why Grace’s smoky gaze was fixated on his mouth with each bite he took.
The wine sat untouched, both of them choosing to drink water instead.
When their glasses were a quarter empty, the maître d’ refilled them without a word and then left.
Mirage met Grace’s eyes, and it felt as if time stood still. Unspoken words of curiosity echoed between them.
Mirage had a vague idea of what was going on, and if he was right, this was a declaration Grace would have to make with words.
Mirage didn’t have tacit body language, and his eyes weren’t as expressive as Grace’s.
He kept his forbidden emotions locked in a vault stronger than Fort Knox.
After another drink of water, Mirage gave a rare demand. “Speak, Grace.”
His partner set his glass down and waited five minutes before he replied.
“I have nothing to say, Mirage.”
Grace hadn’t spoken a word since the two he’d muttered when the debriefing ended three hours ago.
His voice was rough and gravelly from unuse and so goddamn sexy.
“I beg to differ,” Mirage countered.
“You always know what I’m thinking. You tell me what I’m not saying.”
Mirage pushed around the pieces of watermelon and basil salad with his fork—he was never a fan of the palate cleanser course—before he dropped his utensil on his plate and stared at Grace for a long moment.
“There’s confusion in your eyes when you look at me now.” Mirage squinted, studying him. “There is now hesitation in your body when I get too close.”
Grace broke eye contact.
Meaning Mirage was right.
“So, what’s it about? Do you want a different partner? Meridian, perhaps?”
“No.” Grace aggressively wiped his mouth with his napkin before he lowered his sharp tone. “No, I do not.”
“You’ve been different since we worked that job with him last month.”
Mirage struggled to keep the tinge of emotion from his voice.
“I could feel your admiration for Meridian, Grace.” Mirage shrugged. “Hell, what’s not to like? He’s young, fierce, and I know how much you admire capability.”
Grace’s stare cut into him like a sword.