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with her chin. “I have a drink."
    He snatched the cup out of her hand and dunked it in a nearby garbage can. “I'll buy you another.” Grabbing his carryon bag and hers with one hand, he took her by the elbow and steered her toward the nearest coffee bar with the other.
    CNN flickered on a TV in the dimly lit bar. Midweek, international flights at that hour were few and the place was mostly empty. A businessman sat at one end of the bar, Bluetooth in his ear and a laptop taking up space beside his Perrier. A young mother feigning interest on the latest scandal in Washington flashing across the TV screen rocked a baby dressed in blue as she fed him a bottle.
    Lawson scanned the room just like she did as she slipped into a corner booth. Catching the attention of a female employee working the counter, he held up two fingers. “Coffee,” he said over the din of piped in music and the news. Light from the TV bounced off the clerk's multiple piercings as she gave him a seductive smile and a nod.
    Zara had spoken to Lawson a total of two times since that morning in France. After handing Dmitri over to his second-in-command, Johnny Quick, Lawson had checked her over from head to toe. She'd tried to brush his physical assessment aside, but he'd been thorough, picking grass out of her hair with the same diligence he used to check her vital signs and examine her bruised rib cage. His gentle touch was in stark contrast to the powerfully hard look in his eyes. She knew that look. He was angry because she'd scared him.
    While her fingers trembled, his were steady. While she blubbered incoherently from shock, Lawson remained businesslike. At least until it came time to hand her over to a medical doctor in Paris. If it was possible, his intensity ratcheted up a notch.
    But he didn't talk to her, only to the doctor, as if she were a four-year-old. She should have cared, should have pushed him and his meticulous concern away, but due to the shock or the drugs or the feeling in her bones, she closed her eyes and let the wave of his vigilant duty take her under.
    Back at Langley, during her reckoning period with Flynn, both he and Annette mentioned Lawson had discreetly checked up on her. But when Zara had come face-to-face with him in the halls of CIA Headquarters, he'd still been businesslike, reserved. He didn't seem like the type to seek out glory, but she wondered if he expected her to fall at his feet with gratitude or shower him with praise for saving her life. She'd tried to thank him, but for some reason the words wouldn't come. Each time she'd looked in his eyes, the rescue at the farmhouse flashed through her mind like a storm. If he had intercepted Dmitri five minutes sooner, she would have been saved from creating the distraction that shaved ten years off her life from pure fear.
    The intercom above their heads announced a boarding call while Zara watched Lawson watch her. He reminded her of a chess piece with his strong chin, unsmiling mouth and detailed cheekbones. A knight carved out of stone.
    Not a knight. A king . His features were exactly the way she remembered them, not to mention his eyes, the color of aged moss, which were now locked on hers. Energy hummed around him and her pulse danced under her skin as she tried to read his mind. Flynn's orders or not, she wasn't leaving the country to hunt down Dmitri with Lawson unless he passed her personal test.
    He leaned over the table between them, his eyes snapping with controlled anger, and lowered his voice to a growl. “Didn't Flynn explain to you that tracking Dmitri is a covert operation?"
    Point one to the commander . Zara fingered the bracelet on her left wrist, willing herself not to smile, and matched his lowered voice. “I don't need Director Flynn to explain anything to me concerning Alexandrov Dmitri. Having firsthand experience with the jerk, you can bet I know what I'm doing."
    His attention dropped to the silk fabric clinging to the deep V of her cleavage.