Covert Evidence by Rachel Grant

wasn’t a bad one. Especially since it was damn close to the truth. Ian congratulated himself for coming up with it and thereby securing her cooperation, because he couldn’t take the catch in her voice when she’d panicked.
    Except now she let out a choked shriek, which was sort of worse, actually. “Todd or Hejan?” she asked, her voice cracking on the second name.
    “What?”
    “Was the d-d-dead man Todd Ganem or”—she struggled for breath—“Hejan Duhoki?”
    “The second one. Duhoki. Who is Todd Ganem?”
    She shocked him by flopping against his chest. Apparently, her need for comfort was greater than her fear of him. Ian wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back, telling himself it was what John would do, but knowing he held her because he wanted to, not because it was his damn role.
    “Okay, forget Ganem. Who is Hejan Duhoki?” His quick lie was even better than he’d hoped. He could question her, finally.
    “My translator.”
    “You mean the guy who set you up with Berzan, the mugger?”
    “We don’t know Berzan was my mugger.” She pulled away from his chest and swept back a lock of long dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. “I barely knew him, but his death must be my fault.
    “How so?”
    “My last night in Antalya… Jesus, was that just yesterday ?” She rubbed her temples. “Please. Let’s continue on to the safe house. I can tell you on the way. I need a bed.”
    He nodded and put the car in gear. “What happened yesterday in Antalya?”
    She got her emotions under control enough to tell him about Ganem showing up first at the bar, then her hotel room door. She briefly described Ganem’s arrest, followed by her own, and the fact that Ganem had fled the US with the aid of his powerful uncle in Jordan.
    He pulled into the carport of the safe house. The neighborhood—old, run-down, and largely abandoned after the 2011 earthquake—was quiet.
    The house itself was little better than a shack; half of it looked to be on the verge of collapse, but the support beams were solid, making it the ideal hideaway.
    “Is this where you take all your clients?” Her tone was skeptical.
    He laughed. “No. This is a fallback position, in case something goes wrong, and we need to hide the CEO of Microsoft. No one would ever think to look here.”
    “Is the CEO of Microsoft your client?”
    “No, random example.”
    He stared at her, trying to decide his next move. Too risky to leave her in the car while he checked out the house. No choice but to enter together. He kissed her, a brief press of his lips to hers. “Please don’t shoot me,” he said and dropped the Sig and magazine into her lap, then pulled out his own pistol.

    C ressida followed John into the run-down house, hardly able to believe the place was habitable and longing for either of the two hotel rooms she’d paid for in the last two nights. The interior was as dilapidated as the exterior, but the tidy rooms smelled of cleanser.
    Even as she willingly followed the man who may have abducted her into the house—although the fact that he gave her back the gun argued against abduction—she wondered if her trip could possibly be salvaged. Her academic career had ridden on success here, and her universe, her essence, everything she’d worked for since she was seventeen years old had been entirely based on academic success and the respect it could bring.
    She would never be rich, but she’d have a career that made her happy, because she knew from her mother’s example that happiness wasn’t to be found in relationships. Now, with a Master’s degree under her belt and well on her way to a PhD, she was still the bastard who craved acceptance and respect. A shrink would have a field day inside her brain.
    But everything had changed in the last few hours. This wasn’t about academics anymore. She had reason to believe her life was in danger. And she didn’t know if John Baker was her savior or her warden.
    Fight him, or work