Aimpoint by Candace Irving (e reader pdf best TXT) 📕

duty mesh with what she'd seen and heard in the bar last night between this man and Sergeant LaCroix? Not to mention the blistering stare down she'd just witnessed?

Suddenly, every instinct in her body converged—and she knew. She'd been collecting up the evidence in that revealing pulse and in the captain's body language, right here and right now with her, and earlier up on that stage with the general. Whatever LaCroix was plotting, Garrison was not in on it.

In fact, every tense, overly generous shred of sinew in his body underscored the opposite.

Garrison was trying to protect the general.

But from what? The captain wasn't privy to LaCroix's plans, whatever they were, or he'd have come in to CID and reported him. Garrison did know something, however, something about Ertonç. And he was actively working to conceal it from her.

But why? He had no idea she was a CID agent. That left her supposed job with Public Affairs. Which meant Garrison didn't want—couldn't afford—to have a reporter snooping around.

What had he said? "Why the hell would you want to interview me? And why now?"

Her interest in him wasn't the critical element so much as her timing. Last night he'd sought her attention with a tenacity she hadn't been able to shake, not without pissing him off and risking her case. The only thing that had happened between then and now was Ertonç's early arrival. She'd bet her badge that whatever Garrison was concealing from her had everything to do with the real reason Ertonç was in Hohenfels. The curious body language between the men on that stage and the perplexing deferential nod she'd observed confirmed it.

And so much more.

Garrison didn't need his new collateral duty to get close to Ertonç; he was already there. It was Ertonç who needed Garrison.

Regan tucked the stunning turnabout away and located the twin of the easy smile she'd begun all this with. She infused it with as much warmth and teasing as she dared as she leaned into the captain. "I should warn you: I'm tenacious. I already know that General Ertonç wasn't scheduled to give that painfully bland speech I just heard for another five weeks, and that his premature arrival has had everyone scrambling. So, why's he really here? Of course, I'm happy to take my curiosity, and go off and satisfy it myself. Or…"

She left the word dangling, exploiting the cloistered intimacy of the tiny closet he'd trapped them within to keep a host of other, more enticing, possibilities dangling as well.

Fortunately, she saw his hand coming up. She was able to brace herself as those callused fingers slid in to lightly cup her neck. His thumb scraped beneath her chin so he could tilt her face further up as he leaned down.

"…Or what?"

"Or you can help me get there first. On the record. And—" She allowed her smile to deepen, adding a hint of laughter as she stretched all the way up to his waiting ear to whisper, "—with much less bloodshed."

She pulled back. Just far enough to watch as that intense focus of his shifted inward. She could actually feel him weighing his options—her.

As far as he knew, she was new to the military. To Public Affairs. As of yet, untested by both. Was she still more reporter than soldier?

It was a critical question.

Even if he decided to contact Captain Vaughn to officially, if confidentially, steer her away from General Ertonç—which he could do—Garrison had to believe there was a real risk that, if she did identify more as a reporter than a soldier, she might well pass on the tip to someone not beholden to Uncle Sam's military publishing dictates.

"Dessert."

Her confusion must've shown, because a low chuckle warmed the tiny space. His.

"Dinner. Tonight." He'd texted her his address before she'd even had a chance to pour her morning coffee. His eagerness hadn't surprised her. But the fact that the address wasn't the one she and Jelly had on file for him had. Even more surprising, the address he'd texted had come back not to an apartment, but a house.

When had he moved—and why?

"You're still coming over, yes?"

"Of course." For reasons piling up faster than she could count.

"Good. Give me a few minutes, and I'll see what I can do about your request to interview the general."

"And in exchange?" But she already knew.

"You don't put me on the record until after dessert."

This smile wasn't even scripted. "Deal."

Evidently she wasn't the only one fine-tuning her agenda. He was adjusting his as well. He'd accepted her story regarding her determined pursuit of the general's interview. Their dinner had simply provided him with an opportunity to pursue other, emerging, goals. An opportunity he wasn't above capitalizing upon. Specifically, his need to discern what she learned from said interview and intended to publish—as well as his own intention to control the information. And her.

She actually respected him for it.

But she still had no intention of letting him know he'd met his match.

Not even when his head dipped, bringing those intimidating shoulders too close for her peace of mind. For a moment, she was afraid he intended to push this meeting beyond the bounds of professionalism, but he finally paused, just shy of touching her.

His murmur warmed her ear much as hers had done his earlier. "Wait here."

With that, he straightened, turned around, and left.

She reached for her phone as soon as the door snapped shut, furiously typing the first in a slew of texts to her faux boss to aid in covering his ass along with hers, should Garrison stop to phone Captain Vaughn to verify the pertinent aspects of the story she'd just spun.

She'd been honest with Garrison. Partly.

Terry had asked for an interview with the general earlier that morning. He'd also been shot down. Though at the time, neither of them had known on whose authority the firm no had come. But Terry—loyal soldier though he was—was also very much a rabid reporter. The no had burned.

Hence, as she finished typing her