The promise in his voice made her shiver, even as she tried to ignore the voice in her head telling her that it had to be over. That there was no other way this could end.
But looking into his eyes, feeling the heat still radiating between them, she almost believed him.
NINE
The late afternoon sun reflected off the massive digital billboards towering above Times Square, beaming into Steele’s eyes. He blinked, adjusting the audio equipment slung across his shoulder, trying to look like he belonged among the news crew setting up their shots.
The healthcare rally claimed the plaza, and a couple hundred protesters with handmade signs crowded together, competing for space with bewildered tourists clutching shopping bags and taking selfies.
It was exactly the kind of public spectacle that would draw media attention.
Steele didn’t like this. At all. And although Izzy was left in the dark about who could really be after her, he was all too aware that Cipher enjoyed media attention.
She was never out of Steele’s sight. Never more than two steps away. And he was still uncomfortable with this arrangement.
The iconic billboards flashed advertisements for Broadway shows and fast-food chains above their heads, while the constant flow of yellow cabs and the distant sound of police sirens created a symphony of urban noise that would make surveillance both easier and infinitely more complicated.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
Steele looked up to find Rick, Channel 7’s news producer and Izzy’s boss, staring at him with the kind of suspicious scrutiny that came from twenty years in television journalism.The man was built like a fire hydrant—short, stocky, and apparently immovable when he wanted answers.
Steele continued to check connections on his wireless mic system. “Sound technician,” he told the guy. “Covering for Esposito while he’s out sick.”
“I’ve never seen you before.” Rick’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you get the job?”
Steele straightened, meeting the producer’s gaze with the kind of steady confidence that had gotten him through countless cover identities over the years.
He gave the guy a flat look to match his tone meant to throw the guy off-balance. Steele needed him to wonder whether he was telling the truth or making a joke. “I have national security clearance.”
The producer laughed, but it had an edge of uncertainty. “National security? For a sound guy?”
“You’d be surprised what kind of background checks they require these days.” Steele turned his attention back to the equipment while keeping Izzy in his peripheral. “Especially for jobs that put you in close proximity to public figures and sensitive information.”
Rick studied him for another moment, clearly trying to decide whether to push the issue while looking like he just might buy it.
Finally, he grunted and walked away, apparently deciding that some questions were better left unasked.
“Smooth.” Izzy appeared at Steele’s elbow with that slight smile that never failed to make his pulse pound. “Very mysterious sound guy.”
He scanned the crowd shifting and moving around her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Maybe a little too well. If I know Rick, he’s going to spend the rest of the day wondering if you’re CIA or FBI.”
Steele caught her arm gently, drawing her a few steps away from the bustle of the news crew. “Speaking of which, why did you volunteer me for sound duty?”
Her smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Would you have preferred camera operator? That would put you about fifteen feet away from me instead of right by my side.”
“Good choice.”
She studied his face, those amber eyes seeming to see straight through him. “I also figured that you would prefer to be the one handling my audio equipment instead of some random tech guy putting his hands all over me while he sets up my mic.”
The casual way she said it made Steele’s jaw tighten, because she was absolutely right. The thought of another man’s hands on her, even in a completely professional context, made something possessive and primitive rise in his chest.
Izzy stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the subtle scent of her perfume mixing with the crisp late autumn air. “You’d better get me wired up. The transmitter goes on my belt, and the mic wire runs up under my jacket.”
His eyes hooded as he raked his gaze over her smokin’-hot body. “I know how it works.”
“Do you? Because you’ll need to thread the wire up through my shirt and attach the actual microphone to my bra. Right here.” She indicated a spot just below her collarbone, her fingertip tracing along the edge of her blouse.
