Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1) (3 page)

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Marissa watched as Trace disappeared
inside the crappy little motel lobby.
With the
lights on inside, she could see everything that was happening, right down to
the swagger of the older woman who’d been sitting on a worn brown sofa when
Trace entered the building. The instant he was inside, the too-thin woman leapt
from her spot and waltzed over to the desk, adding a little extra sway in her narrow
hips as she passed Trace.

For whatever reason, that amused Marissa.
Maybe because she’d seen it happen all too often, or possibly because she was
too fucked up to know better.
It’d
been a
hell of
a night
.

Either way, it was entertaining to watch
the myriad of expressions rotating across Trace’s face as he stared back at the
woman. Marissa could practically hear the conversation now.

“Can
I help you?” the woman would ask.

“Two
rooms,” Trace would say curtly.

“Sure
thing, handsome. Will you be needing company tonight?”

Trace
would roll his eyes at the woman, ignoring her question altogether.

Typical.

Growing up with four
brothers, as well as the Kogan clan,
Marissa
was all too familiar with the sideways glances that women gave men. And she’d
seen plenty of women give Trace Kogan an appreciative second, even third, look.
Hell, she was one of those women.

Not that she cared to admit that to
anyone. Not even to herself.

No, Marissa knew from experience that it
was in her best interest to pretend she wasn’t attracted to Trace. Rejection
was a bitch, and Marissa had been down that cruel road before. Repeating
history … so not her thing. The current situation notwithstanding.

It wasn’t an easy feat. Trace wasn’t an
easy man to ignore. At six foot two inches, he was a force to be reckoned with.
He kept his light brown hair short—military short—and combined with those
unusual white-gray eyes, slightly crooked nose, and the stubble that always
lined his sexy, angular jaw, the man turned heads.
In fact, he made women forget their manners, as was proof by the way the skinny
chick inside continued to flirt with him although he looked as though he were
ready to knock her over the head just to get her to shut up.

It was a look Marissa
knew all too well.

Marissa gave a cursory glance to her
surroundings, checking to make sure no one had arrived in the parking
lot—either by car or on foot. The latter would be asinine considering the temp was
hovering at six degrees, made
impossibly
colder by the vicious winds, but she wouldn’t put anything past the guy who was
clearly after her now.

All was quiet for the time being.

And maybe that was why Marissa noticed
that her hands were still shaking, her heart pounding hard enough to crack a
rib. She continued to replay the events of the night over and over in her head,
right down to the point when the quaint little two-bedroom, one-bath rental
she’d spent the last two and a half months in was blown to smithereens.

Sucking in a deep breath, Marissa fought
the panic attack that threatened. She needed to keep herself in check. She damn
sure didn’t want Trace to see how freaked out she was. Keeping calm on the
outside was all that mattered. After all, Trace had risked his life to save
hers, so the least she could do was not cause him any more problems.

When the driver’s door opened, Marissa
acted on instinct, swinging the gun around and aiming it directly … between
Trace’s eyes.

“Not a threat, Marissa.”

Swallowing hard, Marissa lowered the gun,
ignoring her itchy trigger finger. No sense in causing an accident—or death, as
would be the case if she actually did pull that trigger. God, why had he given
her the gun? Trace was trained for this shit. She wasn’t.

Nor did she want to be.

“Did they have two rooms?” she asked, her
voice giving away the quivering that was happening on the inside.

Trace smiled, transforming his already
too-handsome face to what Marissa would call beautiful. Knowing Trace, he’d
adamantly argue if anyone attempted to call him beautiful. She was half tempted
to say as much, just to see his reaction.

Unfortunately, he didn’t give her a
chance.

“And if you’d like, Tilly would be more
than happy to keep us company.”

Marissa snorted. “She might be
your
type but certainly not mine.”

“I prefer my women with a little more meat
on their bones,” Trace replied with a chuckle, putting the SUV in gear and
pulling around to the back of the building, the Escalade maneuvering slowly
through the unplowed snow before they returned to the main lot.

Once they were parked in front of a door
marked with a tarnished number nine—which was hanging crooked and very well
could’ve been a six at one time—Trace climbed out.

Marissa followed.

After he had
retrieved
a duffel bag from the backseat, Trace joined her in front
of the door, inserted a key, and pushed it open with his foot.

Instantly, Marissa’s nose wrinkled. A
musty smell wafted out of the room, but at least it was warm.

“I’ll see you in—” Marissa didn’t get to
complete her sentence before Trace was nudging her into the room, closing the
door behind him, and engaging the locks.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re sharin’ a room, darlin’,” he said
simply
.

Marissa turned, surveying the small,
cramped room while pretending not to have noticed the endearment. No, her eyes
weren’t playing tricks on her. “Then why’s there only one bed?” she asked,
confused.

“Our new friend Tilly said that’s all they
have here.”

Marissa frowned. Surely even a dump of a
motel such as this could have a room with double beds. Remembering that she
didn’t want to cause Trace any more problems, Marissa merely nodded and moved
farther inside. Flipping on a floor lamp near the wall heater, she glanced
around.

Brown shag carpet,
chipped brown furniture, a thin beige bedspread and a picture of—Marissa wasn’t
sure
what
the picture was of, but it
had orange in the background—provided the only color in the room.
If bland could be considered a color.

Unless,
of
course,
she
included
the man dressed from head to toe in black still standing
near the door.

“You take the bed, I’ll take the floor,”
Trace imparted, nodding toward the no-frills mattress and setting the black
duffel down on the scarred dresser. “I brought you a change of clothes.”

Marissa’s eyes flew up to meet Trace’s.
“What?”

Trace cocked his head as though trying to
figure out if she’d hit her noggin and had knocked a few screws loose. Now that
she thought about it … well, it had been a really
foolish
question.

“Never mind. I heard what you said,”
Marissa told him, shaking her head as she moved toward the bag.
She wanted to throw her arms around him, allow Trace
to wrap her in the safety and security of his strong arms, grateful that he’d
saved her as well as thought about her well-being, but instead, she settled on
asking, “Mind if I take a shower?”

Trace merely grunted, and Marissa took
that as consent.
Grabbing the jeans and hoodie
he’d brought her—clearly something he’d snagged from her parents’ house in
Dallas—along with the white panties and bra (which made her face flame with
embarrassment at the mere sight), Marissa searched around inside the bag to see
if there were any …
toiletries. Bless him. There was a travel-sized
shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, a toothbrush, and a small tube of
toothpaste.

For now, Marissa could deal with this.

Hugging her stash close to her body, she
once again surveyed the room, her eyes darting to Trace briefly and then back
to the only bed. Now, as for their sleeping arrangements…

Ignoring the thought of being alone with
Trace for an unidentified amount of time, Marissa made her way into the claustrophobia-inducing
bathroom, closing the door behind her.
         
The
only positive thing she could say about the
bathroom
… it
appeared to be clean. And that very well could’ve been an
overstatement, but she was too tired to care.

Finding the wobbly knob on the wall,
Marissa turned on the shower and took a step back. Thankfully, a minute or two
later, the room filled with steam as she managed to yank off her clothes,
tossing them into a pile on the counter. Grabbing the toiletries, she climbed
into the ugly yellow porcelain tub, hoping like
hell
yellow had been the intended color and it wasn’t from lack of care over the
years.

She allowed the hot water to pound down on
her aching muscles, saturating her hair and warming her skin, as she thought
about all that had happened in the span of a couple of hours. The longer she
thought, the colder she got, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in
the now humid bathroom. The idea that someone had attempted to kill her … yeah,
well, she was still having a difficult time digesting that.

Marissa was no stranger to danger.
It’d
been front and center in her life and on
her doorstep for the past twelve freaking months, hence the reason she’d been in
hiding
for the last year
. During that
time, she’d been the target of two unsuccessful kidnapping attempts, and now, evidently,
the people who were after her weren’t satisfied with merely getting their hands
on her.

If the bullets and the explosion were
anything to go by, they’d prefer something entirely different.

It would be stupid for her to try and
think why they’d be so hard up that they wanted her dead. She was pretty sure
she knew the answer to that. Well, she had a good idea but lacked the necessary
proof. The problem … n
o
one else seemed
to know the reason.
Although her father, her
four brothers, and the Kogans—all six of them, including Trace’s parents,
Casper and Liz—were running the most successful security firm in the country,
Marissa still seemed to be the only person who knew why someone would now want
her dead.

The dilemma of telling them the reason
versus allowing them to continue on the wild goose chase they seemed to be on
wasn’t getting any easier, either. In order to keep them all safe, Marissa had
felt that staying as far from home as possible was her only choice.

Obviously, she’d been delusional in
thinking that.

The people she’d stumbled upon—not
necessarily the
story
—weren’t the
type to simply look the other way. And Marissa had found herself knee deep in a
world she absolutely didn’t understand. One that scared the bejesus out of her
and left her wishing she could turn back time, pretend none of it had ever
happened.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t do that.

The threat was once again knocking loudly
on the door to her life.
Whoever wanted her dead
knew where she was at all times, and that led Marissa to believe they were
dealing with a very powerful man or—something she absolutely didn’t want to
even consider—someone on the inside was feeding that man information.

She was inclined to believe it was a
little of both.

A chill washed over her, and Marissa
pulled herself to the present. She needed to get out of the shower and back in
the room. Only then would she have a chance to interrogate Trace, get him to
tell her what the plan was and how they were going to nail this bastard once
and for all. Because truthfully, Marissa was damn tired of running, tired of
hiding, tired of not knowing, just freaking tired … of everything.

After brushing her teeth and washing up,
Marissa climbed out, snatching one of the threadbare towels folded neatly on a
shelf. It took longer than expected to dry off, and she wasn’t sure if that was
because the towel was useless or because her hands were shaking profusely.
Either way, she managed to get dry enough to pull on her clothes, and when she
was finished, she finger combed her hair—grateful that she’d taken to keeping
it relatively short. Once she was presentable, Marissa grabbed the pile of discarded
clothes and then stared at the closed door.

Now, if she could be as successful facing
Trace as she had been getting clean, she’d be doing a million times better.

While Marissa was in the shower, Trace
paced the shoddy little motel room, his gaze continuing to stray to the lone
king-sized bed beckoning him with its emptiness. It wasn’t that he was tired.
Quite the opposite, actually. Well, not so much now that he was inside and
Marissa was safe.

Nope. Trace wasn’t interested in making
use of those puny fucking pillows for a few hours of shut-eye. Shit, he could
care less if the pillows were even on the bed.

But he wished Marissa was. And not because
he was worried about her health and wanted to make sure she got a few hours of
sleep, either.

Damn it.

Scrubbing his hands down his face, the
two-day
-old stubble scratching his palms, Trace
didn’t bother looking at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser as he
made another pass by. He knew exactly what he looked like, and best
guesstimate, it rhymed with bell. Just as he was pivoting to make another
round, his cell phone rang.

“Kogan,” he grumbled into the phone after
glimpsing the number on the screen.

“Hey, man. Line’s secure. Y’all make it
okay?” The familiar, gravelly voice made Trace smile.

“We’re here,” he told his friend and
co-worker, Zachariah Tavoularis—better known to his family and friends as Z.

“Where’s
here
?” Z questioned.

“Some crappy-ass motel room in Bum Fuck,
Connecticut.”

“Where’s Marissa?”

“Shower,” Trace stated, doing his best not
to imagine her in that bathroom, all naked and…

Fuck.
Not helping.

Z chuckled. “I take it you’ve managed to
keep your hands to yourself?”

“Shut the hell up.” Trace had absolutely
no intention of touching Marissa. She was far too much temptation for him, and
he knew… Hell, screw what he
knew.
It just wasn’t
going to happen.

“Those blue balls are makin’ you prickly,”
Z said with a rough laugh.

“Did you have somethin’ important to tell
me? Or you just call for a status update on the color of my balls?”

“Neither. Just checkin’ on you. Someone’s
gotta keep you in line.”

“Uh huh. What gives?”

“Nada. Just don’t hesitate to call if you
need somethin’. Feel me?”

“Yeah. Got it.” With that, Trace
disconnected the call and pocketed his phone at the same time the shower turned
off. Still pacing restlessly, he forced himself to stop walking and found
himself staring at the bathroom door as though Marissa was going to walk out of
there stark naked and motion him to join her.

He fucking wished.

And that was the damn problem.

Why the hell had he signed up for this
anyway? Perhaps he had a fucking death wish? Because he knew, without a doubt,
that if he touched Marissa, one or all of her brothers would string him up by
his nuts. Blue or not, his balls were not interested.

No, unfortunately, his involvement wasn’t
that cut and dried. Trace had purposely signed on for this particular
assignment because he had a deep-rooted interest in Marissa’s safety. It all
came down to the fact that he cared about her, had for longer than he could
remember, and he wasn’t willing to leave her safety in anyone else’s hands.
He’d seen how well they’d fared when he’d done that over the course of the last
year.

But pulling her from a house that was
rigged to blow and hauling her past
gunfire
to his waiting SUV had been the easy part. This … being alone with her … not so
fucking easy.

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive a
night in close quarters with Marissa. It had seemed like a good idea hours ago
when the only thing on his mind was getting her to safety, but he was quickly
rethinking that plan.
Despite the less-than-romantic
décor, Trace was battling an intense hard-on that had little to do with the
adrenaline still coursing through his veins and more because of the beautiful woman
on the other side of that damn door, water dripping down her alabaster skin as
she began toweling off.

Damn it.

Okay, so his mind was officially in the
gutter.

Time to get his thoughts back on track.
Grabbing his cell phone once more, Trace pulled up his
father’s number, but before he could hit the button to place the call, the
bathroom door opened, and Marissa walked out, followed by a cloud of steam.

Fuck.

The good news … she was dressed.

The bad news … she was dressed.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Trace turned
away from Marissa and punched the call button on his phone, listening as the line
began to ring.

Once … twice…

“All good?” His father’s deep voice
interrupted the annoying ring, successfully dragging Trace’s attention away
from his thoughts of Marissa naked and pulling him back to the true reason he
was there.

“So far,” Trace told him. Let the man
believe he was referring to the bad guys.

“Any luck?”

“Nope,” Trace said.

Casper grunted, then followed with, “You
pick up the gift?”

That was code to let Trace know that the
line wasn’t secure, so rather than go into details, he simply answered with a
confident, “Yes.”

“You’re stopped for the night?”

“For a couple of hours,” Trace clarified.
Morning was rushing in on them faster than Trace cared for
it to,
and as soon as the sun was up, they’d
have to be on their way.

“Good. Holler at me when you’re back on
the road. You can fill me in then.”

“Will do.”

“And Trace…”

“Yeah?”

“You did
good
.
Now get your asses home safely.”

With that, Trace ended the call. He had
plenty of information to give his father, but he couldn’t go into detail on an
unsecured line, not to mention, he didn’t want to share the gory events of the
night with Marissa in the room. She’d been through enough; there was no reason
to shed light on the fact that there’d been a dead body in her house prior to
their expeditious departure.

When he turned back around, he found
Marissa staring at the bed.

“You okay?” he asked, realizing as soon as
the words were out that he should’ve kept his mouth shut.

Marissa was shaking. Her arms and chin
were trembling, and he figured she was on the verge of a breakdown, perhaps
going into shock. After all, she’d narrowly escaped death tonight, and Trace
was pretty sure she knew that. Without thinking, Trace moved forward, sliding
his phone into his pocket and then pulling her into his arms.

When she buried her face against his
chest, he cradled the back of her head and held her there, the wet strands of
her hair sliding through his fingers. He tried not to think about how good she
smelled or how soft her body was against his. He
simply
continued to hold her. Partly to reassure her that she was
all right but more so to reassure himself.

For the past
week,
Trace had been keeping tabs on Marissa, huddled in a
conveniently vacant house directly across the street from where she’d been
staying.
He knew every single move she had made
from the moment she woke up in the morning until she turned in for the night,
right down to the fact that she didn’t turn off her bedroom light most nights.

He was also aware that he should’ve
whisked her away from that house long before now, but he’d been following
orders.
Knowing there was someone else watching
her, someone intent on getting their hands on her, Trace had taken on the task
of observing, hoping like hell he’d be able to catch whomever it was who wanted
her—dead or alive.

Instead, he’d barely gotten her out of
that damn house before they’d both been fried to a crisp.

Marissa’s hands slid beneath his jacket,
fisting his shirt as she held on tightly. He could tell she was crying, but he
knew her. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She didn’t want anyone to see her
cry.

So instead of saying anything, attempting
to make things better with words while knowing it wouldn’t help, Trace
merely
held her.

He just hoped Marissa didn’t know how much
he needed this, the comfort that came with holding her, touching her, knowing
she was all right.

Or that he likely needed it more than she
did.

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Trying to maintain her composure became
downright impossible the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. And then,
Marissa lost part of herself when Trace wrapped his strong arms around her and
held her close. He’d never done that before. Never held her, never consoled her
like this.

Although she’d known him
all her life, had known that if it ever came down to it, Trace—and the rest of
his family—would be there for her if she needed them, Marissa hadn’t expected
this.
Hadn’t expected him to be the one to come for her.

He had added his name to the long list of
people who had risked their lives to save hers. If she had to guess, he easily
could’ve assigned one of the many Sniper 1 agents to come to her rescue, but no
… Trace had been there. He was still there, his muscular arms wrapped around
her, his scent infusing her with a sense of security she hadn’t known
for
so long.

For the last year, Marissa had been
shuffled from one safe house to another, trying to escape whatever danger was
lurking in the shadows. It seemed that the bad guys—whoever they were—always managed
to find her no matter where her family tried to hide her.
And though she never argued with her father when he
insisted on shipping her off in an attempt to protect her, there’d always been
the sliver of concern that she wouldn’t make it back home one day.

Today could have easily been that day,
except Trace had saved her.

As she clung to him,
gripping his shirt, allowing his warmth to push out some of the cold that still
swirled on the inside of her chest, Marissa tried to ignore the other heat that
generated due to their proximity.

For as long as she could remember, she’d
been attracted to Trace. Far more than she’d ever been attracted to any other
man. Trace had been her first crush at fourteen years old. And though he had
pretended not to notice her, Marissa knew he had. Being that he was only two
years older than she was, they’d practically grown up together. The
Trexlers
and the
Kogans
were close, always had been. Considering her father and
Trace’s had created Sniper 1 Security together, their lives had been
practically intertwined from the beginning.

But the truth was, Marissa had never
expected to be this close to Trace. Being in his arms was almost enough to
shatter the fear that had consumed her since he’d grabbed her in her house—scaring
the ever-loving shit out of her in the process—and successfully led her to
safety.

Almost.

“What do we do now?” Marissa asked softly.

“We wait for morning. You need to get some
sleep,” Trace said, his voice a mere whisper in her ear, his breath warm
against her skin.

“So do you,” she told him, forcing herself
to pull back, looking up into his eyes but not releasing his shirt from her
grip.

Clear gray eyes peered down
at
her, and Marissa did her level
best
not to look at his mouth, not to think
about what it would feel like if he kissed her. It seemed he was battling the
same thoughts because he wasn’t looking her in the eye.

But as powerful as this attraction between
them was, Marissa knew Trace. He wouldn’t give in. He wouldn’t let her in, let
her get too close. It was his way of protecting her. He’d always been the man
who thought keeping people at a distance was the best way to keep them safe.
Other than friends and family, Trace Kogan didn’t have relationships.

As much as she wanted to believe Trace was
a player, a man who used a woman and then tossed her aside, she knew that
wasn’t the case. In all of the years she’d tried to pursue him without really
pursuing him, she’d never seen him with a woman, although she suspected there
were plenty. But he didn’t bring them around, which, to her, meant he hadn’t
been serious about any of them. From what she could tell, he was merely a one-night
kind of guy.

Marissa didn’t want just one night with
Trace. She never had.

Trace surprised her, freeing her from the
steel band of his arms and wrapping his hand around hers, tugging her toward
the bed. Once he pulled back the skimpy beige comforter, he urged her forward.
“Get some sleep. I’ll watch over you tonight, Marissa.”

Nodding because she didn’t know what else
to say, she climbed into the bed, curled up on her side, and sighed when he
pulled the blanket over her. It wasn’t enough to warm her. Not even close.

She shivered, but it wasn’t from the chill
in the air, it was from the ice encasing her insides. Closing her eyes, she
willed herself to go to sleep, but the events of the night once again played
through her mind.
The sound that had pulled her
from her dreamless state, the feel of Trace’s hand on her mouth when he’d
scared her, the brutal wind that had bitten into her skin when he’d dragged her
out of the house, the bullets, the explosion…
It was as though she were
reliving those treacherous moments all over again.