Hard Beat

Tanner Thomas is a household name on the foreign beat. I’ve heard he’s a strict professional who is returning to the field after a tough blow with the loss of his partner. The unfortunate turn of events is admittedly horrible, but it makes him a perfect match for me. Someone who probably doesn’t want to team up with anyone new and by the laws of human nature won’t want to get close to anyone right now.

Laughter erupts on the other side of the room, causing me to glance over to where I last caught a glimpse of Tanner’s back. As always on a mission, disinterest is my best friend. It allows me to slip below the radar, slide seamlessly into the flow of things, and always remain on the periphery.

But as I observe the various reporters, producers, and photographers working their way toward him, it strikes me there is something different in the atmosphere tonight. The general mood in the room is lighter, energetic, and in some inexplicable way has a sense of hope.

I don’t want to attribute it to the presence of Tanner Thomas. It’s ludicrous to believe that a single person can breathe life into a community as has happened tonight.

But there’s no denying it either.

And it’s not just the alcohol flowing more freely than normal. There’s a current in the room that’s indescribable. It’s like they know he’s finally returned, so things are going to start happening here again instead of the day-after-day monotony that has been the norm since I arrived more than two weeks ago.

“C’mon, T-squared!” someone yells with a slap of his hand on the bar, and I start craning my head back and forth to see between the crowd of bodies from my spot on the other side of the bar.

“I’m game if you’re game!” A voice booms before I can catch a glimpse of what’s going on. I don’t need to see whose lips are moving to know it was Tanner speaking, because chills raced over my skin at the sound of the familiar baritone I know from watching his broadcasts. It’s likely just the knowledge that I’m so close to pulling my boots up and wading straight into the thick of my cover that causes the goose bumps to come. That undeniable thrill of anticipation.

That has to be the cause of the sudden fluttery feeling in my stomach.

Another reporter I’ve spoken to on a few occasions, Gus, I believe is his name, hands me a shot with a whoop of a laugh, and before I can even ask why, a hush falls over the room.

“Shh. Shh. Shh.” Pauly, a fellow reporter, climbs atop a chair, a shot glass filled with amber liquid in one hand and his other motioning for the lot of us to quiet down. He looks down to his right, and for the first time I catch a fleeting glimpse of Tanner’s face before the crowd shifts and I lose sight of him again. “Tanner Thomas… we are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shithole. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the story first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!”

“Slainte!” I say back in unison with the rest of the crowd; then the sound of swearing fills my ears as the burn of the alcohol hits everyone’s throats.

Needing to appear to be a part of the group, I take a sip, but I know well enough that a drunk woman in a city like this is just asking for trouble. And I get in enough trouble on my own, thank you.

When I glance back through the crowd again, I’m startled when I lock eyes with Tanner. It’s only a split second of time, just long enough for me to tip my shot glass to him before someone moves and blocks our connection, but it’s enough to have me holding my breath and for that fluttering to return in my belly.

I sit there in complete indecision for a second, since that momentary connection disarmed me for some reason when I’m hard to rattle. Jesus, Beaux, it’s not like you’ve never met a mark before. Exhaling slowly, I tell myself that I need to keep my wits. It was stupid for me to search him out since I don’t plan on introducing myself to him face-to-face until our assigned meeting at ten tomorrow morning. Besides, my new boss, Rafe, might not have even told him about me yet. He warned me Tanner was going to resist the idea of a new partner, that he might be tough on me. Little did Rafe know that in my line of work, tough is an everyday norm.

So if I don’t plan on meeting Tanner until tomorrow, why do I keep looking back to where he’s sitting? What am I going to gain with one more glimpse of him?

Absolutely nothing.

And yet I look again. This time there is a complete break in the crowd, and I catch Pauly’s eyes. By the way he smirks at me, then looks over to Tanner and throws his head back with a laugh, I know they are talking about me. Call it woman’s intuition or just plain curiosity, but I know. And now I definitely can’t look away.

The problem, though, is that not looking away means that my gaze moves from Pauly to Tanner, and this time I’m afforded more than just a glimpse of him. I’m granted the whole entire package.

Dark hair frames his tanned face, and there’s something intriguing about his eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on across the distance. I don’t have a chance to consider it for very long because when he shifts his gaze and his eyes lock on mine, I freeze in place – lips shocked open, heart skipping a beat – and a flash of something I want to deny as being attraction flickers through me.

But this time I recover quickly and turn my lips up into a slow, knowing smile as we hold each other’s gaze. In contrast to the flash of hunger I catch in his eyes, he nods his head nonchalantly with an arrogant curl to his mouth before looking away.

But I keep staring.

And there’s something about the whole exchange that infuriates me.

I need to remember he’s just my cover, the man I need to partner up with to protect my ass. So there’s no reason to be irritated that he just reeled me in with those eyes and then disregarded me without so much as a second look. Ironically it’s the exact same thing I had planned on doing to him – use my looks right off the bat if I sensed any attraction in order to catch him off guard enough to use my brain and intuition to do my job.

I may be an agent, but first and foremost I’m a woman, and no woman likes to be made to feel inconsequential. For the first time in forever I am pissed about someone not noticing me.

Agitated and irritated, I’m suddenly tossing back the shot I had no intention of drinking. The burn comes fast, and I hope my sense follows suit, because no man has ever thrown me off my game when it comes to work, romantically or otherwise – and yet with a single glance, Tanner Thomas has done just that.

I turn the glass around in circles on the scarred tabletop as I try to figure out what exactly it was about the exchange that instantly had him getting beneath my skin. It was ten seconds tops, and yet those ten seconds packed a punch I never expected.

It had to be the look he gave me. While I’ve seen him a hundred times filing live reports – and I’ve both appreciated his looks and admired his skills – nothing prepared me for the absolute intensity in his eyes. Not to mention the flash fire of heat that surged in my lower belly when our gazes met.

And with that last thought, I’m immediately shoving my chair back. All my best laid plans have gone out the window: play it cool, meet face-to-face for the first time tomorrow, fly under the radar. I’ve made a living on being able to read people, and in that brief meeting of our eyes, he was able to get a visceral reaction out of me. That in itself is rare. Even more unheard of is for me to take the bait and say fuck it to my rules, which is exactly what I’m doing by walking across the bar to face this head-on.

There’s something about the contradiction between the look in his eyes and his rigid posture that tells me he doesn’t like to be handled. Wants all of the control. And God yes, in a lover that’s sexy as hell, but in a man I have to work with under difficult circumstances, it’s not so appealing. I need to get the upper hand here so I can control the situation before it even starts.

Fate has to be on my side because the barstool next to Tanner is vacant when I approach. So I slide into the seat, face him, and wait for him to look my way. I know he senses my presence. I can see the stiffening of his posture, the fleeting tension in his fingers, but he doesn’t lift his eyes from where he’s tracing lines over the grooves on the scarred wood bar top.

He’s attractive in an odd combination of rugged mixed with preppy pretty boy. Camera-worthy looks but with a hint of edge to the lines giving character to his face.

The seconds pass as I wait him out, questioning my decision to come over here, but I won’t back down now. I’m not wishy-washy. Hate women that are. I didn’t get where I am professionally by being a damn doormat. But standing here waiting for him to glance my way suddenly unnerves me.

“Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him,” he says without looking up.

The part of me that felt uncertainty sags in relief and welcomes his hostility. I can definitely work with his lack of warmth, hold on to it, and use it to my advantage to find my footing. He has no clue that we’re about to enter into a partnership.

“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” I feign nonchalance, don’t want to give him any more than he is giving me and yet at the same time hope it brings a reaction out of him. Something. Anything.

“Good.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but at least he hasn’t gotten up and left. I glance up to the bartender and then back toward Tanner. “Whiskey sour,” I order from the bartender, and notice a slight startle of Tanner’s head in my periphery. I smirk, his reaction giving me the perfect in to get his full attention. “And put it on his tab.”

Bingo. Tanner snaps his head up and immediately meets my gaze. If I thought the intensity in his eyes was powerful before, it’s tenfold now. The problem is that it’s not just the intensity that pins me immobile, but also the unique amethyst color of his eyes mixed with his undeniable good looks. Proximity to him might not have been a good idea because I find myself captivated by him.

A completely foreign and unwelcome feeling hits me so fast that I shove away from the bar top. I maintain my smirking expression and the challenging look I’m giving him even as my insides somersault into nothingness and that quick ache of lust hits me head-on. The flash of intrigue commingled with amusement in his eyes tells me that he’d love nothing more than for me to be the typical female I’m sure he’s used to dealing with: compliant, starstruck, fumbling over her words.

He’s got another think coming if that’s what he’s expecting.

“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” He leans back and angles his head, eyes assessing and daring me all at once.

“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” The comment is off my tongue before I can think it through. We stare at each other like two caged animals circling, each trying to figure the other one out, and knowing regardless of our indifference, there is definitely a game of some sort being played between us. Good thing I know what that game is.

“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” He grunts the words out, and I don’t know whether I should be glad or upset about his response.

On one hand, his lack of interest could make this whole mission easier. He’ll leave me alone, let me do my thing, so long as I get my work done when he needs it. On the other hand, he’s damn attractive, and it could be extremely beneficial to use sex appeal to my advantage. Reel him in, keep him under my wing, and get my job done quicker by playing the innocent-female card.

The problem with using sex appeal, though, is that I’ve watched other female agents play theirs up, draw lines, erase them, redraw them, and in the end get hurt by becoming too emotionally invested.

All my training has warned me that there will be one person who will make me cross that line. No way. Not me. The job, the mission, the objective, all three mean way too much to cross any lines, regardless of the sexual chemistry I feel licking at my heels as I stand here and hold his stare.

I wait for the comment I can see forming on his lips to come, but just as unexpected as this conversation has been, he breaks our eye contact without saying another word and refocuses on the glass in his hand.

“So you’re the one, huh?” My thoughts turn to words before I realize what I’m saying, and disbelief robs me from saying anything else as Tanner turns to look at me again, glass stopped midway to his lips, and that way he has of staring straight into you and seeing every single thing you want to hide.

“The one?”

And without any pertinent words being exchanged or even so much as an introduction being made, I know without a doubt that Tanner Thomas is the one person who’s going to make me question crossing that damn line. Call it a gut reaction or a psychotic episode, but I have a feeling that this mission is going to be anything but the easy get in, get out, get done type that I had planned on it being.

And it will have nothing to do with the mission but rather everything to do with the attractive man before me and his inquisitive eyes.

Once I process the thought, try to laugh it off, and ferret it away to worry about and obsess over later, I scramble to answer his question hanging heavy in the air between us. Make the comment relevant somehow, some way.

“Yep, the one that every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time,” I explain, speaking nothing but the truth I’ve come to learn while waiting for him to arrive.

Skepticism causes him to narrow his eyes, and amusement has him pursing his lips as he tries to figure out if he believes me. I’m not sure if he does because he breaks our stare and motions to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. The exchange of money for the bottle happens quickly. Tanner scoots his chair back, grabs the neck of the fifth of alcohol, and gives me a half-cocked, arrogant smirk.

“Yep, I’m the one.” He turns his back to me and strides away.

Cocky son of a bitch. And he most definitely is, yet I still watch him leave the bar, lifting the bottle up to the protests of the other journalists gathered to welcome him back.

And even when he’s cleared the doorway and I can no longer see him, I’m still watching. There’s just something about him when I most definitely don’t want there to be.

He’s the one all right.

Hopefully he’s the one I can avoid.