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inside, gingerly lowered herself onto the leather sofa and stretched her legs out. Her feet were already bare. She must have kicked off her sneakers as soon as she’d entered the room. In her purple scrubs, her shape reminded him of a ripe eggplant—a comparison he knew he shouldn’t mention. They were just beginning to connect, and he didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize his chance to get close to her.
    There was one thing all women loved. “Foot rub?” he asked.
    “Yes, please.”
    He sat on the sofa and lifted her feet onto his lap. Her toes were a little puffy. When he took her heel in his hand and gently kneaded her instep, she responded by wriggling herself into a comfy position against the sofa pillows and closing her eyes. Her fingers laced on top of her belly.
    As he stroked and rubbed, he studied her face. Seldom had he had the chance to observe her at rest. She was lovely. Though she had dark circles below her eyes, her lightly tanned complexion was flawless—not exactly glowing, but close. Tendrils of blond hair curled alongside her high cheekbones.
    “That feels so good.” Her lips parted as she made a low, sensual hum. “I don’t want you to stop, but I do want you to call room service.”
    “You have a call of your own to make,” he reminded her.
    “Mom and Dad.” She sighed. “My father is going to love you. The way you poked around the suite when we came in was exactly what he would do.”
    Checking the security was a natural instinct for anyone in the intelligence community. “Your dad and I have a few things in common.”
    “More than a few,” she said. “You’re a lot like him.”
    “I doubt that.” Troy had seen photos and had read dossiers on the career of Richard Laughton. He was the kind of spy who looked good in a tux and worked in a high-class political arena. “From what I can tell, your father is slick and sophisticated. That’s not me.”
    “And what’s your style?”
    “Down and dirty,” he said.
    “But you’re both spies. I know that military intelligence is different from the CIA, but you’re still gathering information. You’re still tracking down the bad guys.” As he continued to rub her feet, she kept humming. “What are you working on right now?”
    He was making a transition in his work, preparing for the next phase of his career. “Let’s just say that it involves a terrorist cell.”
    “In the United States?”
    “That’s right.”
    She wiggled her toes. “Unfortunately, I have to use the bathroom. Can we do more foot rubbing later?”
    “As much as you want.”
    She pulled her feet away from him, sat upright on the sofa and confronted him directly. “I knew from the first time we met you that you were involved in dangerous work.”
    “Like any soldier,” he said with a shrug.
    “Like my father.”
    He met her gaze. Though she was obviously tired, her blue eyes glowed with an inner strength that reminded him of the seven-year-old girl who had fought to protect her mother. Her childhood trauma formed a basis of fear for the adult woman. “You blamed your father when you and your mom were kidnapped.”
    “It wasn’t his fault,” she said, quickly defending him.
    If she was thinking rationally, she had to know that her father hadn’t done anything that he thought would bring danger to his family. After the incident in South America, he’d gone to great lengths to protect them, bringing his wife and daughters to Washington, D.C., to live. Those were the facts.
    But reality was always colored by emotion. He imagined that when Olivia thought of kidnapping, she remembered the feelings she’d had as a little girl. At some level, she would hold her father responsible.
    “I promise you,” he said, “that my work will never endanger you or our child.”
    She jabbed her forefinger at the center of his chest. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
    Her sudden hostility ticked him off. He hadn’t yet told her about the