“Don’t let it trouble your pretty little head, sweetheart. I told you, you aren’t my type.” He tore off his denim coat and draped it across the back of the only chair in the room. With just that small movement, he groaned and what little color he had left drained away, leaving his face pale as the snow outside on the ground.
Flayme bit her lower lip and sent up another silent prayer that he didn’t die on her. Her eyes widened as she slowly scanned his body. Good grief, the man was armed to the gills. A shoulder holster fit snug against his side. When he turned to lock the door, she saw a second weapon at the small of his back. “You have one of those tucked in your boot, too?”
“What?” He frowned, dragging the chair across the room and jamming it beneath the doorknob, making the room as secure as possible.
“You expecting an invasion?” she asked, half joking. The other half of her mind darkened with fear. If he was this concerned, she thought maybe she should be too, or at the least, a bit more alert of what was going on around her. His unease worried her, because it meant there was something more than someone taking potshots at a little nobody CIA secretary.
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