STILL NOT LOVE

AN ENEMIES TO LOVERS ROMANCE

NICOLE SNOW

ICE LIPS PRESS

 Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in February, 2019.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters
in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author’s hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced
or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or
promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Rafa G. Catala.
 CONTENTS
About the Book

1. Tale as Old as Time (Faye)

2. Sonata (James)

3. Reunion (Faye)

4. Close Quarters (James)

5. Under Wraps (Faye)

6. Everything We Shouldn’t (James)

7. No Alibi (Faye)

8. Ace of Hearts (James)

9. Smoke to Flame (Faye)

10. Wax Doll (James)

11. Winter Maze (Faye)

12. Truth to Flame (James)

13. Heavier Than Winter (Faye)

14. Lava Talk (James)

15. Good Intentions (Faye)

16. Slow Motion (James)

17. It Aches Like Winter (Faye)

18. Red-Handed (James)

19. Incendiary (Faye)

20. Like Velveteen (James)

21. Move the Earth (Faye)

22. With This Ring (James)

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 ABOUT THE BOOK

Not the heck again. I’ve had my alpha-jerkface fix.

Now he’s my sworn protector…
I’m about to go nuclear.
Yet I have to smile and pretend I won’t slap him into the next
century.
James Nobel and I have history.
Raging hearts. Dueling kisses. Firestorm nights.
A man like him breaks laws with that suit and that smirk.
How could I ever forget my first?
Or pelting an Adonis with balled up love notes in class?
We were young and dumb and lied about forever.
Spoiler alert: he did the lying. Then he disappeared.
Maybe I always wanted to know why, but not like this.
James, my personal bodyguard.
James, my flipping bunkmate in a luxury cabin for newlyweds.
James, who still makes me crave one more night of bad
decisions.
Even worse, we’re snowed in with my VIP father and his
scary friends.
It’s a date with chaos. And Mr. Hell No Hero-Man makes me
do the asking.
What if there’s more to us than scalding banter and I-hate-you
glares?
What if there’s still – do I have to say it – love?
 1

TALE AS OLD AS TIME (FAYE)

L et me tell you one thing.

Belle, I most certainly am not. Even if she just so happens to
be my favorite fairy-tale heroine.
Don’t get me wrong – I love being a librarian. Every book is
an entire hidden world waiting to be discovered, one page at a
time.
I get the pleasure of endlessly introducing people to new
things. My happiest days are when I get to see a kid discover
how much they can love reading when I pick the perfect book
for them.
What I love most about my job, though, is the smell of old
pages, binding, book glue, ink, leather.
Guess what part I hate most?
Just guess.
It’s that the scent of a library is lacking. It doesn’t have the
smell of gunpowder and hot, stinging adrenaline that really
gets my blood going.
That, plus sometimes, it’s too damned quiet.
That’s how it is today until the glass double doors out front
slam open, letting in a hint of crisp Portland air that’s half
winter, half asphalt, and one hundred percent crunchy granola.
I glance up from checking the condition of a few returns
before re-shelving as the commotion starts.
Over a dozen men in black suits rush the room in militant
quickness, all of them nearly identical carbon copies of each
other: sharp-cut hair, sunglasses, and those little clear coils of
earpieces stretching down to their collars. They bark orders to
the library patrons as they sweep in, flanking the perimeter,
commanding startled, confused people to clear out.
With how they’re dressed, the air of authority they give off, no
one even questions it – not even the library managers, who
find themselves herded out in a flurry of surprised little gasps,
tumbling into the crowd streaming toward the exit.
I sigh, grinding the heel of my palm against the bridge of my
nose, and set my books down.
God damn it, Dad.
Sometimes, the whole Secret Service schtick is a little too
extra.
But at least he knows how to make a selfishly dramatic
entrance.
And he really pulls off the drama now. Because once the
library’s clear of everyone but me, two Secret Service agents
hold the double doors open like they’re announcing the
entrance of a king. America may not have royalty, but a U.S.
Senator is pretty damn close.
The other agents swarm the single-room space, almost too big
for the small, cozy, brick-walled area, an old house that was
converted to a library some time during the fifties.
When Dad walks in, I can almost hear the grand fanfare.
Especially when, as he passes, the two agents holding the door
salute him with a barked, “Mr. Harris!”
Je-sus.
My father comes gliding across the room like a razor, cutting
the space. If the Secret Service agents are black daggers, he’s a
sword.
All tall, sharp-edged, and PR-ready, his suit the color and
hardness of steel, his eyes like polished jade blades.
Sometimes I look at this man, with his silvered, backswept
hair and stern jaw, wondering who he is and how we’re
related.
I don’t see my father in him, even if I know he loves me and
would do anything to protect me.
That’s the whole reason I’ve been squirreled away in this cozy
little piece of Portland like a secret waiting to be discovered.
But in him, there’s something missing. Like the man who used
to carry me around on his shoulders disappeared, leaving
behind a skin that some dark, cold, grim thing shrugged on
over its tense, bristling shape.
Yet, there’s nothing cold about the way he reaches for me
when I stand straight with a fond, exasperated sigh and round
my desk to approach him. He pulls me into a hug, wrapping
me up in his tall frame, resting his scratchy beard on the top of
my head as he holds me tightly.
“Faye,” he murmurs, his voice as scratchy as his trim beard,
deep and raspy and comforting. “You look like you’re doing
well.”
I lean into him, squeezing him tight. “Well, until you barged in
with the entourage, I was bored.”
“Boredom is good for your health.”
“Is that what they’re saying in your top secret briefings? Or is
it just the latest science fluff piece you read on your way
over?” With a laugh, I draw back, looking up at him. “What’s
with the theatrics? This is pretty heavy, even for you. Feels
like you’re about to usher me into a panic room. Or pull some
kind of Liam Neeson stunt. Look, Dad, if you want me to keep
a low profile, you can’t do stuff like this at my job. I don’t
know how I’m going to explain it tomorrow.”
“You won’t need to,” he says, voice firming, and he takes my
arm gently in one knobbed, large hand. “This isn’t your job
anymore.”
I blink. “What? But I –”
“Faye, there’s no time to explain. Especially not here.” His
gaze darts around, and I can see his old military training in that
look. He’s assessing the perimeter, expecting danger, looking
for any access holes, points of egress, vulnerabilities.
So, in other words, this is serious.
“We shouldn’t be out in the open,” he whispers gruffly, giving
my arm a light pull. “We’ll talk in the car.”
Part of me wants to resist, but there’s something bothering me.
A tension in the air, a sour omen, and my own training kicks
into high gear.
Situational awareness is something you never forget. Not even
when your Dad drags you out of the FBI not long after you
even finish your first field assignments. It’s been years, but in
the back of my mind, I’m still an agent.
And that agent is saying there’s danger in the air, and the time
to talk isn’t now.
So I keep my mouth shut, for now, as I nod and follow them
outside. The Secret Service agents form a cordon around us,
flanking us, and I realize they’re acting as human shields.
That’s never a good sign.
Neither is the fact that Dad arrived in a limo flanked by half a
dozen black SUVs, and I can tell from the plating and window
thickness that every last one of them is bulletproof. This is the
kind of gear and protection reserved for a presidential
motorcade, not for a Senator.
Holy hell.
This is serious.
But I don’t realize just how serious until I’ve allowed myself
to be maneuvered into the back of the limo. The doors close,
leaving us alone with just the privacy window walling us off
from the driver and the agent in the front seat.
I’ve been in enough of these vehicles to know it’s soundproof,
double-plated bulletproof glass. So that even if someone tries
to take out the driver, they’ll never be able to shoot through
the front windshield to get a hit in on the people in the back.
I settle in my seat and cross my legs, eyeballing my Dad.
I’m trying to figure out a delicate way to ask while he’s gazing
out the window with that glaring, brooding look I’ve seen so
often ever since Mom died. That’s what changed him, really.
The night she fell asleep behind the wheel on the way home
from a charity function and drove her car off a bridge. It’s
been eight years, but I don’t think he’s ever grieved properly.
He’s still living in that moment. That night he got the brutal
phone call and showed up at my college dorm with tears
streaming down his face, saying I had to come with him to
find Mom.
I still hurt, too.
I still miss her. Miss the way she smiled, the way she smelled,
the laughter, the way she got me the way moms love to get
their daughters, the way she always had paint on her fingertips
and her cheeks and all over from one of her latest projects.
Most of all, I miss the way she was a bridge between me and
Dad. We’re both churning passions and crashing heat while
she was this cool, soft touch making the burning air between
us safe. She knew just what to say to defuse teenage angst or
stop me from saying something to my father I knew I’d regret.
Or to stop him from getting in the way of his little girl growing
up.
I’m not like her. I don’t know how to be calm and quiet and
gentle.
Defusing explosives, not people, is my thing.
And I don’t know how to be careful with Dad right now.
But I try. I really do, keeping my voice soft and low as I ask,
“Dad? Are you okay? Did someone try to hurt you?”
“Yes,” he says, with such bluntness it takes my breath away.
“And they’ve threatened to hurt you, too. That’s why I’m
here.”
I sit up straighter. My heart slams against my ribs and then
ricochets back in place.
God. He doesn’t even change his pensive gaze out the window,
delivering the information with such coldness it’s like he
doesn’t truly care if someone kills him. Or me, though I know
he does.
He wouldn’t have dragged me out of my job if he didn’t.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I need a little more. What’s going
on?”
“I’m not sure how much I should say.” He’s grinding his
knuckles against his chin, the faint light through the blackout
windows reflecting off his worn, well-polished wedding ring.
“Someone’s put a hit out on me, Faye. On us. On anyone
connected to us.”
“What? Who? Why?”
“I don’t have answers for that just yet, but I’m looking into it,
believe me.” Sharp eyes slide to me abruptly, locking on. “I
just know they’re serious. This isn’t your typical anonymous
crank calls or talcum powder in an envelope scare. Last night,
someone shot out the window of the house. They missed me,
but they also got away. Security wasn’t able to catch them, and
they’d apparently been casing the grounds long enough to find
the one blind spot in the CCTV coverage.”
Just like that. As casually as talking about going out for drinks.
There’s this weird detachment in his voice while he’s talking
about someone who tried to kill him.
Right about now, I hate him.
I hate him because I love him, and he didn’t call.
He doesn’t seem to care that he could’ve died last night and I
wouldn’t have even known until he was already a police
report, a memory, a nationwide news shocker – and nothing
more.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” I gasp, glaring at him. “Why didn’t you
call me last night? Are you hurt? Are you –”
He stops me with a raised hand. “Listen. I wasn’t even close
enough to the window to be hit by the flying glass. I didn’t
have time to call you when I was arranging an investigation
and increased security coverage. Everything’s under control,
but I’d like it to stay that way, Faye – which is why I’m
relocating you until the threat is neutralized.”
“What? No!” Anything calm and reasonable goes out the
window when he tells me so flatly that he’s just going to move
me around like a chess piece on a board. I clench my fists.
“That’s not fair. You forced me into this life and now…now
that I’m finally settled into it, you’re just going to rip me
away?”
He grinds his teeth but doesn’t react.
Oh, how I want him to react, but of course he’s got to be
Senator Harris and not my Dad and the man who gave me my
own explosive temper.
“It’s temporary. And it’s for your own safety. Please don’t be
childish.”
Stung, I recoil. “So it’s ‘childish’ to want to control my own
life? Funny, I thought it was childish to let my father order
everything for me when I’m twenty-seven years old and I can’t
even go to the damn Co-Op store without a security escort.”
“Please don’t exaggerate.”
“It’s how it feels.” I fold my arms over my chest, glowering
out the window. “You don’t get to do this to me again, Dad. I
can handle a little suspense. I used to be a freaking FBI agent.
Still would be, if you hadn’t been doing this to me my entire
life, pulling strings where they don’t belong.”
“Don’t give me that. You know damned well that was for your
own good.” There it is – that spark of anger, that growl in his
voice. “You nearly blew yourself to kingdom come when –”
“Because I was an explosives expert!” I fling back.
“Explosives, Dad. Explosives experts deal with bombs –
surprise, surprise. What matters is that I know what I’m doing.
I wasn’t in danger then, and I’m not in danger now. I know
how to handle myself.”
I have to believe that. I have to.
Because I’ve been holding on to that idea for years, if I’m
honest.
I still train, almost every day in my basement with a punching
bag, a jump rope, a treadmill.
I still keep up on the latest FBI statutes and changes in
surveillance and criminal investigations.
I still re-certify for firearms with a concealed carry license
every year.
I still avidly devour info on new developments in explosives
tech and neutralization techniques, because as long as I’m
doing these things, I don’t feel like I’m stagnating, rotting
away as this useless little mouse tucked in the corner of a
bookshelf.
I’m the deadliest librarian in Portland.
Hiding a skill set that could save lives while I run story time
for preschoolers on weekends.
All because Dad decided I wasn’t allowed to have a life and
tore me away from my job, my world…and the man I thought
I loved, until he turned as cold and strange as my father.
And there he goes again – taking a deep breath, pushing down
any feeling behind his façade of Senator Harris, looking at me
with the same calm, stern command he uses in the office,
where he intimidates people into doing his bidding and cutting
through the bullshit and politics and red tape every day.
“This is not up for discussion, Faye,” he says. “Obviously, I
understand you have your feelings, but I didn’t ask for your
input. And it won’t change the outcome. You’re my daughter,
damn it. It’s my obligation to keep you safe. If feelings have to
be collateral damage, then so be it.”
“Whatever. I might feel better about it if you didn’t call me an
‘obligation’ right after telling me my opinions don’t matter.”
He sighs, dragging a finger down his chin. “You’re too much
like your mother.”
“I’m nothing like Mom, and you know it. That’s the problem.
I’m too much like you, and that’s why I piss you off so much.
That’s why we –”
“I’m not angry.”
“I wish you would be.”
I wish you’d feel anything at all for more than half a second.
More than the frustration streaming out in his tone because I
don’t just fold without questions.
I let out a heavy sigh. “Is there anything I can do to change
your mind about this?”
“No. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying. We’ll be
coordinating with an external security company. We need the
privacy, the secrecy, someone who isn’t connected to the
Washington insiders.”
I suck in a breath, my anger draining, replaced by – okay, I’ll
admit it – interest. This case smells like conspiracy.
“You think it’s an inside job? Someone with connections?”
“I have my reasons to believe so. Which is why I’m turning to
an old friend who knows enough about Secret Service protocol
to do the job right, especially at the fundraiser event next
week.”
Oh, no.
Oh, hell no.
I know what he’s going to say before the rest is out of his
mouth. I know because the only old friend in security that I
know he’d actually trust, when he doesn’t trust anyone, is
Riker Woods – another Gulf War veteran who was in Dad’s
unit, a soldier about fifteen years younger who served under
Dad’s command. Which means…
“We’ll be meeting up with Enguard Security at the luxury
lodge in Soda Springs,” he says, and my stomach sinks. “It’s
some kind of asinine ski event – I didn’t plan it – but
apparently it’s meant to attract certain types of donors. Good
for campaign photo ops. It’ll be easier to secure the event than
my home or yours, and if anyone tries anything there, they’ll
be easily caught in a public place. In the meantime, my
connections will follow any leads both here and in D.C.”
I hardly hear him. Even though every ounce of my training is
telling me Dad’s holding something back, trying to shelter me
by not telling me something, I can’t focus on that right now.
Everything recedes into white noise, this blankness settling
over the here and now, dragging me back into the hollow,
ringing echoes of the past.
That past is James Nobel.
A whirlwind. A sweetness. A sting.
A sunset and a storm of blinding tears so real it still cuts me
with a raw, salty edge every day I let myself think about it.
And you’d better believe most days, I don’t let myself think
anything.
My heart feels savaged to the core, and for the first time in a
good, long while, I want to run. I’ve disarmed explosives with
only a second left on the timer and never felt anything like the
dread and cold, sick nervous tremble I feel now.
This is it. This is life post-librarian.
I’m going to be trapped in Soda Springs for at least a week, in
close proximity to the only man who ever broke my heart.
And the only man who still holds the pieces.
I’m seeing James for the first time in over five years and
there’s no way around it.
He’s a senior part of Enguard. I’ll admit I kept tabs on him.
Just for a little while after I left the FBI. I found out he also
left not long after something happened, some disaster that was
kept hush-hush but that still shoved him out of the agency.
He never answered my calls after that.
Never spoke to me at all, and it hurt.
It hurt so fucking much, and I want to hate him for it, but I
can’t.
The fire, the hurt, the loss turning my blood into molten
magma for half a freaking decade has to come out one way or
another.
And I can’t trust what it’ll make me do when I finally see him
again.
 2

SONATA (JAMES)

T he only time I ever find peace is at the darkest time of

night.
That’s when there’s nothing but me, the faint moonlight
streaming through the window, and the caress of ivory keys
beneath my fingers.
Schumann, tonight. Scenes from Childhood.
Probably ironic, when I’m in my grandfather’s workshop,
stealing a minute alone with the sleek, majestic grand piano
he’s been restoring for at least the past three years. The sound
is almost perfect, mellow and sweet.
The keys respond beneath my fingers, flowing with every
touch to raise soft, sad notes that wind over the room like
they’re trying to bleed life into the antiques. They line every
shelf, these strange, gilded objects, debris from other people’s
memories, perched all about like judgmental owls in the night.
Watching over me, asking again and again, who, who?
James Nobel, who the hell are you?
I haven’t known the answer to that fucking question in a long
time.
But I feel the most like my true self now. Whenever I can pour
myself into each haunting note and for just a few minutes, feel
halfway human again.
Feel anything at all, when somehow in the last few years,
that’s become so very, very hard.
They call me cold at work. Detached. Quiet.
Landon, Gabe, Skylar, Riker – they always say they can count
on me because I’m cool as ice. To stay in control, while
everyone else worries about things that I know will work out
one way or another.
They act like I choose to be this way. As if I’m naturally just
calm and focused, gracefully in charge of myself like some
magic, tortured, half-human thing.
The truth is, I don’t have a self to be in control of.
Not anymore.
That James was left behind years ago – my ghost, my soul,
ripped out of me in a single moment and left behind in that
burning, terrible night when I lost everything that ever
mattered.
This thing that’s moved forward wearing my face for all these
years? It isn’t me.
I’m gone. Marooned. Missing in action.
But sometimes, when I slip into the music this way, I start to
find myself a little.
I start to find the man my mother raised me to be before life
tore her away and shattered everything that made me happy.
I manage a faint smile in the darkness, remembering her
teaching me to play.
I’d been small, so small, my feet dangling from the bench,
unable to even touch the floor. She’d stand behind me with her
long, golden hair falling over me, her hands covering mine to
show me how to play scales.
Then scales became Chopin, then Beethoven, all the classics
up to obscure modern jazz. She’d always delight in finding
something new and strange, some gem buried in the lost halls
of composition history, something that fit her strange and wild
Bohemian spirit that made her everything she was and
everything she was never supposed to be.
It’s not the mechanical action of pressing keys that does a
damn thing for me.
It’s memories that truly make me feel human again, if only for
a second.
They make me feel like there’s still something left inside
besides whispers.
I’m almost through Schumann, pulling from memory to
remember the final fingering, when I hear creaking
floorboards in the hall outside the workshop.
Grandpa must already be two fingers in or more with his usual
extended nightcap, to be walking so heavily. Either that, or just
waking from a blundering sleep and still staggering around.
I let my hands fall still on the keys and glance at the yellow-
faced antique wall clock, its bronze hands faintly gleaming in
the moonlight through the window. It’s nearly two in the
morning.
I’ve been down here for three hours, without even feeling time
pass.
Grandpa leans around the doorway. In him, I can see myself in
another thirty or forty years, tall and rangy and silver at the
temples, blending into pale blond.
But there’s a warmth in him, too. Like he was shaped by a
kindness and wisdom I’m not sure I’ll ever possess.
That warmth shows in his smile now as he settles in the
doorway, a half-full glass tumbler dangling from one hand, a
whiskey bottle in the other. The smile he offers me is a little
fuzzy, but generous, quiet, searching. Understanding.
Sometimes I hate how his eyes seem to see me in all my raw
glory.
You shouldn’t be able to see a ghost.
“You’re still good,” he murmurs. “For a minute, I thought it
was her.”
“That would be something.” I muster a faint smile, happy a
piece of my mother lives on in my fingertips. “I’m sorry if I
woke you. Didn’t realize how late it was.”
“You didn’t, son. I keep myself awake. Can’t hear a damn
thing on the top floor, anyway. But I knew I’d find you down
here. I always do.” He pushes away from the door and steps
into the workshop to deposit the glass on the top of the piano,
within my reach, then takes a swig straight from the bottle
before nodding toward the smaller player piano in the corner,
gleaming and freshly restored and repaired.
I nod, too. Respectfully. This is his pride and joy, bringing
these old, forgotten things back to life.
“Feel like putting that pretty girl through her paces? I’ve got to
drop her off at the neighbor’s next week, but I don’t have your
ear for the finer notes. Help me make sure it’s perfect before it
goes back?”
“Of course.” I lift myself from the grand piano’s bench, catch
the tumbler in my fingertips, and cross the space to the smaller
piano, settling on the bench. With a small sip of smoky,
stinging whiskey, I run through scales, making the piano sing
like rainfall notes, a glissando of escalating delicate plinks.
Grandpa closes his eyes in quiet pleasure, just listening.
It’s a moment of communion for us, in a way. A quiet in the
space between notes where we can remember we’re more alike
than we are different, no matter how we may disagree on
things.
And I can already feel a disagreement coming, sure as a storm.
Even now, he’s weaving his way toward the old filing cabinet
tucked behind his cluttered corner desk, just as I finish
playing.
I know before he finishes opening the bottom drawer what I’ll
see. Fuck, not again.
The letter.
We call it the letter, but what it really is?
More than three hundred meticulously handwritten, yellowed
pages, the ink starting to fade, the pages curling at the corners.
It feels like a letter from beyond the grave, and it has since the
moment Grandpa found Mom’s unfinished manuscript hiding
in the attic, tucked away among her old things that we just
can’t stand to throw away.
It’s her novel. A beautifully crafted story of love that’s just
waiting for one of us to do it justice with an ending that would
honor her properly.
The loosely bound pages thud against the desk, the wind of
their landing making the stacks of invoices and inventory bills
rustle. My grandfather’s chair creaks almost as loudly as he
does as he lowers himself with a groan, then thunks the bottle
down next to the stack.
He flicks through the first few pages, then riffles to the end.
I’ve stopped playing without realizing it, my hands resting
loose and quiet on the keys as I watch him silently across a
cluttered room that still, in this moment, feels too empty.
“It should be you,” he says, gruff, raw, his voice thick. He’s
always been an emotional man, but the whiskey makes it hard
to keep it inside. “I can’t do this. Every time I look at it, every
time I see it cut off like this, I just keep thinking about her
being cut off and…and I break down like a damn old fool.
Can’t do it, son. I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin it, James.”
“Like I’ll do any better?” I say, trying to control the sharpness
creeping into my tone. “Whatever emotion that story needs…
there’s nothing in my life that compares. No reference to draw.
No inspiration. It would feel inauthentic, shallow, and false if I
–”
“If you what?” he flares, smacking his palm down against the
desk hard enough to make the books and pencil cup and
trinkets scattered all over it jump. “If you stop acting like your
life is already over and start to feel something again? Look, I
know the accident screwed things up. But it sure didn’t kill
you. James, you have something left inside. You think you’re
cold, but that girl –”
“Leave Faye out of this,” I snarl, almost by reflex.
Just saying her name out loud makes me feel like my lungs
have been punctured, but I’m still trying desperately to suck
air through the ragged, painful holes anyway.
I can’t stand this bullshit lunacy.
I can’t stand to feel this, to worry whether or not the old man’s
right. That’s why it’s easier to retreat behind an icy wall, push
it down, swallow it until it’s buried so deep I don’t even know
where to find it again.
I take a deep breath. Then another and another before
smoothing my hand over my shirt and standing. “The piano is
fine. Your client should be pleased. I’m going home.”
“James…”
“Goodnight, Grandpa.”
“James!”
I stop. Just stop where I stand, my hands hanging at my sides,
while I stare blankly at the door.
It’s pure hell, knowing I can’t walk away from him when
there’s so much emotion in his voice.
He’s like a vessel filled to bursting. One more tiny drop and
he’ll shatter and spill all over me. I can’t leave him when he’s
hurting.
“Please,” he asks softly while I shake my head. “Finish it for
her. You’re the only one. If you’d try –”
“I can’t. Hire a ghostwriter. Anyone but me.”
“It has to be you,” he growls. “There’s more of her left in you
than anyone!”
“I’m nothing like my mother.”
“Only because you don’t want to be.” His chair creaks again as
he stands, the floorboards groaning under him as he steps
closer to me. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and the old
tobacco scent of him, as he stops at my shoulder. “I’m asking
you again, James. Just think about it. Please.”
Something rustles at my shoulder. I look down.
It’s a thick sheaf of pages.
Not the entire book, but what looks like the last chapter with
its terrible final, empty page left hanging for so many years.
He waits in silence, watching me with his rheumy eyes wet,
and I close my eyes with a sigh, then snatch the pages from
him. The paper has been so worn by repeated handling that it
feels like touching soft skin.
“I’ll take a look,” I say. “But no promises.”
He nods and lets me go without a word.
I walk out into the night, to my car, and to my solitary
apartment, which feels much too big for me right now.
I’d barely touched my drink at Grandpa’s house. At home, I
pour myself a fresh two fingers of bourbon and sink down at
my desk, staring at my closed laptop and the pages stacked on
top of it.
It’s a sick joke.
Who the hell knew I’d be scared by a stack of paper? I deal
with bullets, blood, and non-stop danger working for Enguard.
I’m sure as fuck not laughing.
I press two fingers to my temples, closing my eyes. I’ll try
because I told him I would. I’ll try, even though I know the
outcome.
This won’t end well. There’s no way.
I’ve bought myself time, and lately, there’s plenty of that.
Things have been fairly quiet at Enguard the past few months,
ever since we last tangled with a dangerous crime syndicate
called the Pilgrims.
The calm almost defies Riker’s superstitions about bad things
coming in threes. My friend can’t really say the Pilgrims bust
ended badly, considering it landed him a wife.
We’ve spent the last few months protecting easy, predictable
clients. Then the tedium of coordinating with the police to
provide additional info as they chase the last few Pilgrims out
of their ratholes, as well as depositions about using justifiable
force during the last operation.
At the moment, there’s nothing that requires my complete
focus, so I’ll take the time to play Hemingway with Mom’s
magnum opus. Even if I don’t have the first clue where a man
should start playing editor with a goddamned romance novel.
Is Gone With the Wind on Netflix for inspiration?
Still, I have a strange, eerie sensation I might never get the
chance. A wicked premonition tingles down my spine.
Maybe it’s something in my grandfather’s genes. He doesn’t
trust quiet times any more than Riker does, and always insists
things have a way of blowing up.
I’d rather prefer they didn’t.
I insist they won’t by faith.
That’s the problem, though. Faith isn’t ironclad.
And life doesn’t care what I’d prefer.
Life doesn’t slow down to wait for me to be ready to deal with
it.
Life operates on its own timeline, its own rules, and in order to
keep up, I find my ways to cope.
Healthy or not, they keep me moving and functioning.
They save lives.
They make sure I don’t break down when people are
depending on me.
That’s all that matters in the end. Anything that happens to me
as a result is just collateral damage.
I toss my drink down, pursing my lips as the last of it explodes
in my guts. The haze of bourbon settles over me in a warm
shroud, heating my blood and making that sense of danger, of
warning, feel far away.
I sink back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, just letting
myself drift.
In a few moments, after the initial burn fades from my blood,
I’ll go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.
“Just another mundane, ordinary, goddamned day,” I whisper
out loud.
I have to tell myself it’ll blend into the others without
changing. No matter what happens, who’s missing or hurt or
hunted or dead, nothing ever changes for me.
And nothing ever will.

I REALLY SHOULD HAVE LISTENED to that premonition.

When my phone buzzes at four a.m., I’m awake in a second.
Old training makes me ready in an instant, immediate
minuteman awareness the moment I open my eyes and hear a
noise.
There was a time when the FBI could wake me up in Portland
at two o’clock in the morning and have me in Baltimore by
seven, and I’d hardly feel the strain.
Now, all I feel are the last dregs of booze leaving my body.
Slept away, leaving me clear-headed as I sit up and swipe my
phone from the nightstand, reading the text from Landon.
Everyone to HQ. We have a job, and it starts now.
It’s a group text, sent to the whole senior staff.
But I still don’t have a clue what’s waiting for me until I’m
dressed in a freshly pressed suit and joining the others at our
big board table. This late in the year, there’s a lingering
darkness by the time I arrive at five.
The only lights are the street lamps over the parking lot and
the fluorescent bars inside the office’s war room. In the cold,
pale, fake morning light, everyone looks, quite frankly, like
hell.
Guess we all have our reasons to be exhausted.
Riker’s graying brown beard is a mess, dark hollows under his
eyes, even when he’s smiling. Probably so smitten with his
family man blessings he can hardly keep up. With an adorable,
creative wife and a brilliant little girl, who could blame him?
Meanwhile, gigantic Gabe looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
The only thing keeping him moving must be the sheer bulk of
his muscle. It’s possible he really hasn’t slept, considering his
half-asleep, very tired, very pregnant wife is leaning against
his side.
Skylar’s pale-blue eyes are half-closed and her little pixie-cut
bob looks disarrayed. I’ve never been married, but I’ve heard
the stories with late-term pregnancies. Up at all hours of the
night tossing, turning, having hot flashes, going to the
bathroom, kicking your spouse, struggling through three a.m.
cravings.
I’ll deal with my empty bed, thank you very fucking much.
Landon, our fearless leader, he’s the only one who looks fresh.
Maybe it’s because he’s the only person in the room who
knows why we’re here.
He’s almost restless with a vibrant, frustrated energy, his blue
eyes snapping as he paces back and forth in front of the
projector screen, raking a hand through his thick, dark hair. He
gives me a sharp look as I settle into my chair, folding my
hands over my knee.
That gets my attention.
There’s something in his glance that raises a wary intuition
under my skin, a voice that wants to whisper into my ear and
that I very doggedly ignore. Trouble is, that intuition is highly
irrational and illogical. The last time I listened, I got in more
trouble than I ever wanted.
But it turns out the intuition’s nagging little voice was right.
Too damn right.
Because the first thing Landon says, once he’s sure he has our
attention as we all settle, is, “We’re shipping out within the
hour on a protection gig for Senator Paul Harris.”
Harris.
Father of Faye Harris. The man who ruined my life, and the
man who tore me away from the woman I loved.
I feel numb from head to toe. I’m listening to Landon,
processing the information, but I can’t really formulate any
clear thoughts about it.
I’ve shut off, switched into robot mode, recording data to be
processed later when I think I can actually handle a mountain
of preposterous this-can’t-be-happening bullshit.
“This is a last-minute favor,” Landon says. “Apparently Harris
is an old friend of Riker’s.” Riker tiredly raises a hand as if
accepting responsibility for this, snorting, before Landon
continues, “Someone took a shot at him in his home this week.
The place was evacuated, and when the security team returned,
someone had been there. They left this.”
He flicks the projector on with a remote control, bringing up
one of the most grisly images I’ve seen since my time with the
agency: a severed human hand, the stump a meaty congealed
red, the fingers folded around a wad of crumpled hundred
dollar bills.
It sits in the middle of a marbled counter, next to a message
scrawled on the white marble with a fingertip of blood:

GET OUT OF THE WAY OR YOU’RE NEXT.

T HERE ’ S a number written on it. Its structure is quite familiar

for a Senator – the labeling for a bill up for a vote in the House
and Senate.
And Landon confirms it when he continues. “That number
represents a bill currently going to a vote before the Senate
Appropriations Committee. A bill our Senator Harris has
repeatedly challenged because of the size of the budget
allocated to Homeland Security and multiple externally
partnered contractors. One of those contractors is our friends
over at Pershing Shield.”
Riker rolls his eyes. Sky groans, dragging a hand over her
face. “Don’t do it, boss. Don’t you dare mention Hook
Hamlin. Don’t you dare.”
Landon grins. “I’ll save my private admiration. But you’ll
need to deal with him, because Pershing Shield will be
working with us on this job. It’s high-profile, a little more than
either of our firms can handle alone, so we’ll be coordinating
tightly.”
“And you just so happen to get to pick your idol’s brain,”
Riker groans.
“He’s the best in the field. Second to us, of course. We have
things we can learn from each other. And –” Landon holds up
a hand to stave off more ribbing. “They might just be able to
let us know a few likely suspects for who’d be pissed about
Harris’ opposition to the bill. Bipartisan politics, messy as they
can be, usually don’t warrant assassination attempts. So it’s
likely someone on the outside. Or one of the many contractors
with a dirty underbelly who’d get cut if the budget was
trimmed to push the bill through.”
“How many they got?” Gabe asks, his Louisiana accent
drawling deep.
“Fourteen total,” Landon answers. “If the cuts to the bill go
through, that would cut it down to six. Pershing Shield and a
few other heavy hitters, while the smaller ones would lose
their contract.”
“So that’s where we start investigating,” Riker says with a
nod. “I’m assuming we’re going to track their movements
around the location of this gig?”
“Correct,” Landon says. “We’ll be going to the resort at Soda
Springs. The Senator’s hosting a ‘sport and ski’ fundraiser
there for a week-long event to court some big donors for his
next election. It’s our job to sniff out who’s a threat and make
sure they don’t take advantage of the opportunity to get too
close.”
“If they had any damn sense they’d just cancel the fundraiser,”
Sky mutters, tossing back her head. “Who goes courting rich
people when someone dumps a hand in their kitchen? Whose
hand was it anyway?”
“We don’t know. Police took it and forensics are working on
that part,” Landon answers, before continuing with something
else. Something that flies over my head, because the longer
they talk, going back and forth, the more I feel shut on the
outside.
A normal feeling for me.
I put myself on the outside. I’m a fringe walker, always
watching, and I have a habit of making myself so invisible, my
friends forget I’m in the room.
Useful for an agent making himself unobtrusive and unnoticed
to gather intel.
Not particularly useful for a functioning human being trying to
thrive among others.
Especially when I’m clearly not functional enough to realize
Landon has been talking to me for the past minute. Not until
Sky elbows me and hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Pay
attention.”
I blink, shaking myself, refocusing my attention on Landon.
They’re all staring at me, and I wonder if my mask cracked,
when I was sitting here numb and lost in the past. Can they see
it on my face?
Can they see the plane crash? The night then-Congressman
Harris ripped away my soul?
I knew. And I didn’t turn him in, for all the wrong reasons.
All because I couldn’t stand hurting her.
But they’re still looking at me, waiting for a response, and I
straighten my tie. “Pardon? Could you repeat that?”
Landon eyeballs me, then says, “I’m assigning key targets to
key personnel. Shadowing one-on-one. I’ve got the Senator,
with Gabe and Sky for backup. Riker’s handling his primary
aide. We’ll put contractors on the rest of the staffers. I’m
assigning you to the daughter, Faye Harris. Can you handle
that, James? You’ll have to transport her from their current
location to Soda Springs. The Senator will provide an armored
car.”
They’re all still staring at me while my boss is asking me to do
the impossible.
And I’m not saying a word.
All I can think of are flashing green eyes. Vivid red hair.
Curves to all seven heavens that still make my dick way too
hard.
Zero sense of her own personal safety, and enough fearless
recklessness and bright spirit to not even care. The way she’d
laugh, when we were young and innocent, together in training.
And suddenly I’m back there.

Seven Years Ago

Q UANTICO . A university classroom, a massive projector screen

depicting crimes so macabre they’d turn any civilian’s
stomach, and little scratchy whisper-punches hit the back of
my head.
Balls of paper.
I’m trying to pay attention to the instructor, and she’s lobbing
balls of paper at the back of my head and snickering behind
her hand in tiny sounds. I’m trying my damnedest to ignore
her.
Is this a fucking high school chemistry class, or where I’ll
learn to be a federal agent?
Is this what I signed up for after Iraq?
Sometimes, I really wonder.
Here I am, fresh faced and bright eyed and eager to learn…and
I’ve got this silly Tinker Bell creature laughing her sweet little
ass off as she lobs another wad.
Then one of her little papers gets stuck in my hair and slips
down the back of my suit collar.
I reach back to fish it out before it can fall down and get
caught in my belt, scowling as I uncrumple it to see what
childishness she’s tossing my way now.
I find a little scrap torn from a corner of notebook paper, blue
ink scrawled in her little hand.

H EY N OBEL ,
Made you look.
;P

T HIS GIRL . This girl has no sense of appropriate timing. This

girl is –
“Mr. Nobel,” the instructor snaps coolly. “Since you have time
to pass notes like this is high school, then you have time to do
ten extra laps in the morning. Understood?”
I close my eyes. It’s on my tongue to protest it wasn’t me, but
no one here wants to hear excuses and I’m not the kind to
make them. I tuck the wrinkled bit of paper into my own
notebook, pick up my pen, and sit up straighter. “Yes, sir. Got
it.”
Meanwhile, the entire time, she laughs under her breath behind
me.
The extra laps can’t be worse than what I had in basic training,
or running for my life on the narrow streets of Mosul.
Faye Harris, on the other hand, might be a bigger problem.

Present Day

“J AMES ? J AMES .”
For a second, Landon’s voice is the instructor’s – the same
setup, the projection screen and the dim-lit room and the
people all around me. Except, rather than disapproval, Landon
stares at me with concern and confusion while I look back
blankly at nothing.
“James,” he repeats. “You okay?”
“No,” I say bluntly. “Sir, I cannot work with Faye Harris.
Assign me to the aide. Assign Riker to Ms. Harris instead.”
Everyone is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I’m
not surprised.
I’ve never directly challenged a company order unless I felt
there was a logistical issue that might cause problems. This
isn’t like me.
I don’t feel like me. Everything suddenly seems wrong and
twisted up, and I wish I’d never opened my mouth, but I can’t
take it back now.
Almost warily, Landon asks, “Is there a reason why?”
I search for a reason, then admit, “I know her. We have a
history.”
That much, I can say.
I simply can’t tell them why, or when, or how. “I once lived in
the Congressman’s district. Ms. Harris would attend stump
speeches with him, and meet and greet constituents. We grew
occasionally friendly. I fear our…familiarity would be a direct
conflict of interest. It would hurt my ability to perform my
best, plus our client’s comfort.”
It’s a shameful fucking half-lie, but a believable one.
Landon lets out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not how conflict
of interest works. If anything, since she knows you, she’ll be
more comfortable having you on hand as her personal
bodyguard. I’m aware you’ve got some fancy notions about
women and propriety, James, but we’re not asking you to
follow her into the shower.”
More than a few crooked smiles pop up around the room. I’m
sitting like a stone, showing nothing, even if there’s a small
part of me that knows I’ll never live this down.
I can’t really tell Landon that I’ve been there, done that with
Faye.
Hell, I can’t tell Landon anything, or do anything but
acquiesce.
Because if my boss knew the truth, it could cost me my job –
and the life I’ve built since I left the FBI.
I’ve already had one life torn away from me without any
choice.
I can’t let another one slip through my fingers because I got
careless and loose-lipped.
One day, I know, my lies will catch up with me and it’ll all be
over. I’ll lose people’s trust. I’ll be fired and shut out from this
strange little family that I do feel affection for, no matter how
distant I may keep myself.
After all, who would want an employee or a friend who
covered for a high-level criminal guilty of sabotage?
Sabotage and murder.
 3

REUNION (FAYE)

I stare at my phone, reading an article on Enguard Security

and the explosive events of a Milah Holly concert over a
year ago, where the pop star would’ve been poisoned to death
and several others murdered by a rival security agency if the
good people of Enguard hadn’t stepped up and brought down
the bad guys.
He’s there.
Right there, on the front page of the article.
James Nobel looks just like I remember.
No, maybe better.
Dashing, heroic, and ice-cold sexy blond, this man like a
shining steel sword transformed into a human being.
There’s something dangerous about James and the blade
analogy is way too fitting.
He’s beautiful to look at, to admire, to crave. That’s half of it.
But it’s also knowing he can cut so deep, be so deadly, that
makes being around him a pure adrenaline rush.
There’s just something about men who can be as calm and
collected in the middle of a firefight as they are while
checking the mail that takes my breath away.
And he leaves me completely breathless in that front-page
photo, caught mid-stride by a security camera as he positions
himself in front of a half-conscious woman and a beaten man,
his Ruger drawn, making himself a human shield with
complete and utter fearlessness.
He’d been captured in black and white, but my memories are
all the color I need as I look down at that slicked-back,
platinum blond hair, those features like a saber’s edge, those
gleaming grey-blue eyes behind those sternly aloof glasses, the
broad set of his shoulders in his perfectly meticulous suit.
Even mid-combat, there’s not a hair out of place, and in
arrested motion he’s just…
Graceful.
It’s the first and best word.
Graceful, lethal, perfect.
Three fatal qualities far too good at causing heartbreak, fury,
longing, and so much confusion. All over questions I’ve
needed answers to for many, many years.
I set down my phone numbly, just staring at his image – and
then in a sudden jerk, I make myself look away.
I can’t do this again.
I can’t look at him like he’s the man I once knew. Not
anymore.
It hurts too much, and it’s not making this miserable situation
any better. I’ve managed to delay having to see him by a little
bit, but probably not for long.
Because the second I found out he was assigned as an escort to
my father’s team, I managed to slip past the Secret Service
agents at the hotel where my father stashed me, hooked myself
up with a rental car, and skipped down to Soda Springs a day
early.
I’d probably have caused a minor national emergency if I
hadn’t called my father and left a voicemail once I was an hour
out of town, before anyone could really catch up to me. It’s not
like he isn’t already there, departed a few days ahead for site
scouting and prep.
I’m only supposed to be there for publicity. Politically
calculated optics. All so he can keep me under lock and key.
In fact, keeping our movements separate is part of the
protection plan, making it harder to track us when we’re
operating on different itineraries.
But with James, just waiting around for him, I couldn’t.
Couldn’t sit there in that hotel room and wait for him to show
up.
Couldn’t look him in the face and see nothing there while he
did his job, shepherding me to the resort.
I mean, can you even imagine that car ride?
At least I’ve got a little time to myself for now. This cabin is
small, but I’m used to small.
I’ve never really wanted the kind of lavish houses or lush
penthouse apartments you’d expect a Senator’s daughter to
have. My rental in Portland is a cute little modern deco cottage
fitted out with clean air and water catching tech, solar, even
my own little greenhouse atrium in the rear.
I could live off-grid if I wanted. It’s one of my daydreams that
lets me fantasize about something remotely resembling
independence.
Now that I think about it, that’s actually kind of pathetic.
But it also means I’m used to the kind of rustic setting in the
cabin.
This is one of those resorts where you pay extra to live in
conditions a few centuries behind modern times. Or pretend to
when all the modern conveniences are tucked away behind the
raw wood cut siding and hand-carved furniture and fireplace
ovens, if you know where to look.
It’s just the illusion of roughing it. You don’t ask a billionaire
donor to actually go to the bathroom in an outhouse and wipe
with a pinecone if you want campaign funds.
It’s cozy, though. And I’m currently curled up on the plaid-
patterned quilt on the bed, sorting through the print books I
brought with me along with the books on my Kindle, when I
hear a clamor from outside.
It’s loud enough to be heard over the howl of the evening wind
that’s just started kicking up now that the sun is setting over
the snow. The light casts bright washes of color, reflecting off
glittering fields and hills, throwing spangles of light through
the cottage windows.
I’m grateful it’s too late in the day to be with the
photographers. That particular hell won’t start until tomorrow
morning. Then my father needs me to appeal to the kind of
demographic who’d vote for a single father and widower left
to raise his cute, button-nosed, redheaded daughter alone.
He likes me to look spunky in these photos. The kind of All-
American Girl people would root for in a made-for-TV movie,
even if I’m drifting into my late twenties.
Pretend. Fragile. That’s what he wants.
Not the kind of woman trained to be at her best in the middle
of a terrorist attack, using the skills I’ve learned to save lives
rather than letting them – and myself – molder and go to
waste.
Sorry, is my bitter showing?
My curiosity shows, too, and I remember that noise.
Unfolding myself from the bed, I walk over and press myself
to the window. The resort is set up like a little village, with the
large main lodge for meetings, receptions, and communal
dining, as well as saunas and spas and all sorts of other guest
services inside, including a freaking mini-mart.
It’s a comfortable pace away from the little cabins where
couples, singles, and families scatter around with snow-lined
paths leading in between and a single central road running
down the middle. It’s been quiet enough due to the road being
covered in a light dusting of snow with no tire tracks in it, but
now the snow sprays lightly to the side as two heavy, armored
black SUVs come rolling up the hill like gliding leviathans,
cutting through the powder.
I don’t know if what I’m feeling is a thrill, pure terror, or the
thrill I get from pure terror.
Because I don’t even need to wait for the doors to open to
know that James is in one of those beast-cars.
I rub my hand over my aching throat and tell myself to go out
there.
Get it done.
I don’t like being a coward. If I’d had the life I really wanted –
the life I feel like I’ve half-fallen back into since this entire
mess of scares and assassination attempts started – I’d have
stared fear in the face every day and refused to back down.
And I can’t back down from seeing James again. Especially
when this time he can’t ignore me.
This time, he can’t shut me out.
We’ll be together all day, every day, and even if that might kill
me inside just a little…
Eventually, I’ll get my answers.
I’ll get them if I have to annoy them right out of him.
Although after seeing him, after the feel of excitement and
danger riding the crisp, snowy air, I don’t know.
I don’t know how I’m going to go back to my old life. My
boss was so confused after I called her from the hotel.
People at the library manage to forget who I am. They let me
just be Faye instead of Senator Harris’ daughter. But she was
understanding, at least, and I’ll still have a job when I go back,
even if I’m not quite sure I’ll want it.
I’m still mulling my career prospects when a new shape
catches my eye. I suck in a deep, trembling breath.
There. It’s him.
The driver’s side door of the lead SUV opens, and even the
way the door opens reminds me of those meticulous, careful
movements, like he’s aware constantly that his own body is a
blade and with the slightest wrong movement, he could
destroy an innocent bystander.
It’s an instant slug to my gut. Something between hate and sad
and longing.
Even dressed for the weather in black gloves and a thick jacket
over his suit, he’s neat and crisp and so perfectly put together.
That subtle air of menace around him always reminds me
exactly why girls always love those sinister, elegant, wickedly
sadistic movie villains.
It’s not just that he looks like he could kill a man with his
pinky finger.
It’s that he looks like he could twist your body up into a
million knots without even trying, and then smile in that slow,
serpentine way he has as you explode into stars everywhere
and completely fall apart. He could be Lucifer himself, fallen
angel and master of hell. Or maybe just the quintessential bad
boy.
Unfortunately for me, the way my lungs pull tight and the heat
in the pit of my belly tells me far too well how true that is.
James Nobel is dangerous in more ways than one.
He’s a complete and utter demon in bed, and he’ll make you
develop kinks you didn’t realize were possible. My toes
scrunch and I’m instinctively biting my lip.
I had no idea, until one fateful night on a training mission, that
I apparently have a thing for lying naked and vulnerable under
a fully-dressed man in a three-piece suit, while he strokes
every inch of my body, slips his fingers inside me, works me
into a fever, and then leaves me breathless and hovering on the
edge.
Refusing to bring me over the edge until I admit in broken,
gasping whispers that I need him, crave him, can’t live another
second without his fire.
He’s got such sensitive hands, too. Hands that can play a
woman’s body the same way he plays piano keys…and he
used them ruthlessly.
Until I came completely undone. Always after I thought I’d
gotten under his skin and broken his control.
Instead, I’d only learned he was just as good at controlling my
body as he was at controlling his own.
Oh God, I can’t be thinking about this right now.
Not while I’m watching that fluid, sexy way he moves.
Not as he opens the back of the SUV and retrieves a simple
rectangular black duffel bag.
Even though my body tries to light up with heat, I can’t help a
fond memory when I see the bag. I recognize it. It’s a standard
FBI issue field bag, and I guess he’s just as bad as I am at
letting go of those old bits of the past.
Okay. I’m going to do this. I can do this. I have to.
Instead of waiting for him to come to me, I’m going to go to
him. I step away from the window and pull on my thick, wool-
lined hiking boots and heavy winter coat, then rake my fingers
through my hair, tug on my gloves, and head for the door.
By the time I step outside, he’s already disappeared.
Damn!
He tends to do that. He moves like a wraith, this ghost who’s
never where you expect him to be, silent and undetectable
until it’s too late.
It used to be a game for me when I first met him at Quantico.
He fascinated me then, this silent man in my training class,
this handsome mystery man straight out of the Army. He could
capture every eye in the room, and then somehow vanish even
with so many people watching, completely captivated by him.
He’d been so antisocial, never wanting to talk to anyone. But
when he did, there was mischief and elegance in his voice. A
rare, refined charm that said he wasn’t all street smarts with a
college degree.
I’d half thought he’d run ahead of the pack during morning
training laps, not just because he was stronger and faster than
everybody, but because it let him keep them at a distance.
So I’d become a James hunter.
I tracked the traces he left behind, learned to recognize the
tell-tale signs of where he’d been even when he seemed to
leave no mark. I’d swear I could catch his scent in a crowded
room, his trademark earthy cologne and raw masculinity.
Slowly, I developed a sense for where he’d be until I could
feel his presence like a prickle raising the fine hairs on my
skin.
And I feel it now. Somewhere close by.
I can’t see him, but he’s here.
I move slowly, careful not to let my steps crunch in the snow.
If he knows I’m on his scent, he’ll go to ground like a sleek
white fox, elusive and impossible to catch. I’m practically
holding my breath, making it all too easy to hear the roar of
my own pulse.
God.
I shouldn’t be feeling this anticipation, this excitement, but he
always brings it out of me. Something about James Nobel
makes me want to bat him around like a cat with a toy, even if
I’m never sure who’s the cat and who’s the mouse.
All I know is the moment I saw him, in another life, I knew I’d
love to let him sink his teeth into me again.
I turn haltingly, gazing in all directions as I move toward the
road and the SUVs.
I’m out in the open, peering at the trees scattered beyond the
cabins, no way anyone could sneak up on me.
Which is why I nearly scream when I turn for one more sweep,
and find James standing right behind me, practically in the
footsteps I’ve left in the snow.
As it is, I suck in a little squeak and stumble back, nearly
falling, before I catch myself and straighten. “Jesus!”
He says nothing.
He’s too close. He always smelled like gunmetal without his
cologne, and that scent hasn’t changed now, carried to me on
the cold, nose-stinging winter air.
My breaths puff out in smoky clouds of frost as I stare up at
him. He invades my senses without even trying, as if he’s
taking me over from the inside out.
I’m not sure he’s even alive. Unlike me his breaths are nearly
invisible, almost like they’re the same temperature as the icy
air.
And if he’s as torn-up inside at seeing me as I am at seeing
him, he doesn’t show it.
He just studies me with a narrowed gaze, his grey-blue eyes so
pale, they’re like faceted white diamonds, giving away nothing
that could ever be called a feeling.
I try to say something. Anything.
Where did you go? Why didn’t you call? Why are you here?
Why me, why now?
Even a hello would do.
Instead, all I have is this wild screaming feeling in my heart
and racing blood. It’s freezing outside, but I feel so hot, so hot.
Until he parts those sensuously stern lips in a smirk, with
smooth and almost formal precision, and says, “There are
approximately sixteen locations here where a sniper could
easily conceal themselves and still maintain an open line of
sight for a clear headshot. Why the hell are you outside,
Faye?”
There it is.
This man is a flipping Vulcan. So logical, it’s insane.
And there’s my temper, too, deflating that petrified needy-
angry-hungry, messed-up, confused feeling inside to just leave
me irritated, disgusted, and folding my arms over my chest as I
scowl at him. “Hello to you, too, James. Long time no see,
James. It’s good to see you, James. Now this is the part where
you say ‘Hello, Faye. Long time no see, Faye. It’s good to see
you, Faye. I owe you a hell of a lot of explanations, Faye.’”
He tilts his head, eyeing me – then bows briefly, sardonically.
“Ms. Harris.”
Oh my God.
I’m going to punch this man in the face.
Groaning, I push my hair back with clumsy gloved fingers.
“Don’t you ever Ms. Harris me. And I’m fine. I did my own
sweep, and there’s no ninja-assassin sniffing after me. You
can’t expect me to stay locked up for this whole week. The
term ‘cabin fever’ exists for a reason, you know.”
“Sure. Reason being a poor understanding of modern mental
health and the stressors of a closed environm—”
“Stop.” I cut him off with a raised hand. “Just stop, James. If
you’re going to do that pedantic human dictionary-slash-
computer thing this entire time, we’re gonna have ourselves a
miserable week.”
“Fair enough.”
I glare so hard, it burns.
So smooth. So impenetrable. So infuriating.
Maybe I really am the only one affected by the memories we
once had together, a past that never got a happy ending or any
kind of ending at all. I can’t help staring at him, taking in the
sharp-edged contours of his face, the lethal cheekbones and
chiseled jaw, the Prince Charming elegance that makes him
seem so courtly and just a little dastardly.
James hardly looks a day older than the last time I saw him.
Hardly looks different at all besides being hardened by age
like a fine wine, and maybe that’s the worst part. It could be
just yesterday when I was waking up in his bunk with his
tightly crafted body pressed against mine, every inch of naked
skin on skin.
I want to reach up, touch his face. Crave it, and I actually
catch myself reaching before I pull back, stabbing my fingers
into the ends of my hair instead just to keep them busy.
“You don’t look burned at all,” I murmur, looking for telltale
signs of the plane crash, then instantly want to kick myself.
No-Filter Faye. That’s me.
But he doesn’t react in the slightest.
If I hurt him, if I annoyed him, if I amused him…I can’t tell.
He only flicks me over with an unreadable look, before his
gaze fixes over my head. “And I see you’re as enchanting as
ever.”
I don’t know if he means that – if he’s really telling me I could
ever be anything beautiful to him again – or if he’s being
sarcastic about my ever-so-charming personality and complete
and utter lack of tact.
But I don’t get a chance to ask, to needle the truth out of him
when he continues, “I take it you know your way around better
than I do. Why don’t you show me to our cabin?”
It’s like the snow around my ankles turns into ice, grasping my
ankles like frozen hands and capturing me there while that
chill cuts down to the bone.
What did he say?
Our cabin?
“I…you’re…staying with me?” I ask faintly.
“Naturally.” He says it slick, calm, utterly unruffled, as if we
don’t have years of painful history between us, binding us
together like stitches in bloodied red. “If I’m going to be a
proper guard, I must be in your presence at all times.”
“Guard?”
“Yes.”
“As in…you’ve been assigned as my bodyguard…” I’m
choked off by my own sour laughter. “Holy hell. You’re
joking?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “I should think the truth would be
obvious.”
“Damn it, James!” I explode.
He always did this to me. Forced me to realize I’m that girl
who falls for men who are just like her father.
Only, where I always manage to whip a reaction out of Dad,
with James, he’s the one who always pushes me into losing it
when I can barely even claw a scratch in his ice-cold façade.
Okay, shock over. This insanity is happening. Time to deal, I
tell myself.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look away from him
and back to my cabin, nodding toward it. “It’s over there.
Have at it. But you can’t stay with me. There’s only one bed.
I’ll talk to Dad, figure out alternative arrangements.”
“No need,” he says, shouldering his duffel bag and brushing
past me. “I’ll sleep on the floor, Faye. I’m here to do a job, not
steal your damn beauty sleep.”
He leaves me standing there, open-mouthed and quietly
shattered, hardly able to breathe.
Holy flipping Hannah.
I can’t share a cabin with this man. It’s one thing to see him
like this, just sparring words in the open and hidden memories.
But I can’t share a space with him.
Especially when I realize now that there’s nothing inside that
sleek, polished façade of the James I used to know.
Somehow, since the last time I saw him, that sweetness that
made him so redeemable is gone.
The hidden light inside him has gone out.

Seven Years Ago

T HE REAL WORLD doesn’t feel real right now.

Not when I’ve been living and breathing Quantico for months.
Training scenarios, life in the dorms, my every day caught up
in the regimen that makes a successful agent. To suddenly be
ejected with my badge and full-fledged agent status, already
on my way back to Oregon for my first case?
I feel like I’m dreaming.
Like Quantico was real, but this is a dream of life outside the
training center, and I’m not quite sure how to wake up.
It’s me, five veteran agents…and James.
The only other new graduate on the team, but he looks like
he’s been doing this his entire life, seasoned and calm and
rakish in his tactical gear, seeming to command authority even
though he’s the second lowest ranked in the SUV.
We’ve got SWAT with us, too, in another armored car trailing
after us, but we’re supposed to be the first on the scene. A
month ago, one of the local FBI teams caught wind of
someone concealing large caches of high-powered rifles and
other black market contraband in shipments of tractors.
Farm equipment isn’t exactly typical when it comes to
smuggling, and the fake farmers embroiled in the scheme
might have gotten away with it if not for a mistake during a
run from Tacoma to Klamath Falls.
The local agents almost kept it under wraps until they could
get the intel they needed to bust the rest of the ring – but
somehow something got out.
And we’ve now got two agents captured, possibly dead. But
we’re going to try to negotiate them out in a tense standoff
with the smugglers who’ve turned the farm they use for cover
into a compound and a very bad hostage situation.
Because they’re swearing they have explosives, and if anyone
sets foot on the premises, they’ll blow it to kingdom come.
Which is where I come in.
This is my specialty.
The plan is that we’ll park on the perimeter of the farmland,
out of sight, and infiltrate covertly.
Survey the land, figure out who’s where, make sure there’s no
deadman switches or anyone with their hand hovering over the
button. SWAT and the senior agents will rush the smugglers,
disarm them, get them under control, and rescue our people.
My job is to defuse any explosives on-site immediately, or
notify the agents to evacuate right now if it’s not possible.
James is here as my cover. My shield. My protector.
While everyone else goes after the smugglers, his job is to
shadow me and make sure no one stops me from doing what I
need to do.
It’s comforting. My blood is somewhere between lit dynamite
and a shaken can of soda, my entire body jittering with
anticipation and excitement, but James’ calm, collected
composure is a comfort that reminds me everything’s going to
be okay.
I know what I’m doing.
He’s got my back.
And we’ll get in and get out with everyone in one piece.
It’s dark when the small convoy of armored vehicles finally
pulls up far from the farm’s perimeter.
We don’t want them to see us coming. It’s amazing how a
group of heavily armored men and women can move so
silently, but we’re like a murder of black-winged crows flitting
through the dark silhouettes of the trees. The air tastes like
autumn and loamy earth and my own nervous sweat.
I fight to ignore it, following the faint green light shining off
James’ tactical goggles.
There’s a square of brilliant white up ahead, through the trees.
A window? No curtain, no shades, easy line of sight in.
Which also means an easy line of sight out, and anyone inside
that rickety gray-walled barn could see us if they happen to
look up.
A shadow passes in front of the window, a clear silhouette of a
man with a rifle.
A signal passes through the team, and we all go to ground,
dropping low, finding places to conceal ourselves while
tactical does a perimeter scan looking for cameras, traps, any
other form of surveillance. When the all-clear comes in
whispers, we circle in slow, avoiding line of sight.
I’m moving at a low crouch, my hand at my hip and close to
my sidearm, while James is a lithe shadow in front of me, a
panther in the night with his carbine at the ready.
There’s a moment of frozen silence as everyone takes their
position, all of us poised like a whip on the verge of cracking.
Then the signal goes up, and the whole damn night explodes.
SWAT storms the building.
There’s a shattered window, tear gas tossed inside, doors
kicked in, and suddenly there’s shouting and gunshots and my
heart racing like a turbo engine as the SWAT lead roars,
“HARRIS!”
I know I’m up, so I slide the gas mask down my head to fit
over my face. James’ hand brushes on my back so we stay
locked in tandem as he slips his mask in place and takes off.
We’re moving like a single unit, a well-oiled machine. I
remember these moments in training when we’d be assigned to
each other, and somehow, we’d fall into this wordless, perfect
synchronicity where we didn’t even need words to
communicate.
That synchronicity hits now.
Hits so hard I can almost feel every breath James takes, the
power and coordination of his body, as if it’s my own – and
we’re wired with the same impulse as we dive through the
door after SWAT.
He’s going high, I’m going low, ducking underneath the
swinging arm of a smuggler even as James brings the butt of
his carbine down on the man’s hand with a loud crack!
I roll up, take the outstretched hand waiting to lift me to my
feet with effortless strength, my gaze sweeping the room
before I land on the explosive device. It’s a messy tangle of
wires positioned right underneath the chairs of the two bound,
gagged, coughing agents writhing above it while SWAT and
the rest of the FBI team subdue the smugglers amid fading
clouds of tear gas.
We bolt forward as one.
But just as I’m about to drop down to cut the agents loose,
James has me by my collar, hauling me back and shaking his
head as he flicks a finger toward the agents. “Look.”
I lift my gas mask, breathing shallowly in the still-fogged air,
and peer at them.
That’s when I realize James just saved our lives.
I stifle a gasp.
Thread-thin wires, almost invisible, run from underneath the
agents’ seats down to the explosive device. Freaking pressure
plates.
There are pressure plates underneath their asses. And if I’d cut
them loose, the second they’d have stood up, they’d have
blown the entire place sky high.
I’m angry with myself that I missed it – even if I’m new, even
if I’m green, even if this is my first mission and this is why
they put us in pairs – but I don’t have time to be upset when
the SWAT team leader shouts, “We’ve got a detonator!”
I whirl just in time to see one of the smugglers wrestle his arm
free from the officer tackling him to smash the button on a
small device in his hand. A shrill beep comes from behind me,
and both the agents start sobbing against their gags, half-
shouting.
The explosive device is armed.
“Agent Harris,” James says coolly, “I believe you’re up.”
“Clear the room!” I cry, slipping into mission mode and
dropping to my knees behind the chairs, taking a quick look at
the setup.
It’s a homebrew bomb. Clip the right wire and it’s done and
dead, but the timer has thirty seconds and it’s not waiting for
me to guess which one. Oh, hell.
“I’m going to switch the signals for the pressure plates,” I say.
“So it’ll think off is on, and on is off…but that means any
pressure will trigger a detonation. I need you to untie them,
and the second I say go, you get them out of here.”
James lifts his mask, eyes dark as he watches me. “What about
you?”
“I’ll be fine, and we only have twenty seconds left, so don’t
argue with me. Untie them and be ready to move!”
I’m unrolling my kit with lightning speed, counting the
world’s slowest seconds by the beat of my heart. I’ve lost ten
just to give instructions, and we’re at twenty.
I trace the wires to their source. Nineteen.
Rip away the cover to expose the circuit board. Eighteen.
Take just a moment to evaluate the connectors. Releasing the
pressure would trigger an electrical surge that would toggle the
state of a switch wired to the detonation mechanism.
Seventeen.
Quick switch of wires, lightning-quick, so quick I don’t even
breathe, and now –
“Go,” I gasp, my stomach rising up my throat, my entire body
buzzing. “Go, go, go!”
The agents are scrambling away from the chairs, just like that.
I don’t move, waiting, hoping I did it right. Sixteen. Fifteen.
They’re gone.
And James, who’s supposed to be running with them? He
isn’t.
Still here. At my side.
He’s standing over me, tense, staunch, stalwart, dependable,
looking down at me expectantly.
Fourteen. “I told you to go.”
Thirteen. “And I am not leaving you.”
Twelve. “Then I’d better move fast. Afraid the only death I can
handle being responsible for is my own.”
Eleven, and a long, lingering look that both tells me how brave
he is and reveals how much faith he has in me. For just a split
second, his cool façade slips and I see the heat, the brightness,
the burning light underneath. “You won’t let me die, Faye.
You’re too damn good.”
Then I have ten seconds, and a bomb ready to go off.
I don’t know if it’s the wild rush of my own excited nerves or
the bolster of his confidence in me, but I’m lightning in a
bottle.
I know which wire to pull, which one to cut, just how to hold
it when it’s right on the verge.
Eight. Seven. Six.
Five. Four.
Snip.
And everything is quiet.
I slump forward, gasping heavily as my heartbeat re-boots,
then break into a shaky laugh and drop my clippers, scrubbing
my gloved hands over my sweaty face. My heart comes alive
again, pulse dialing up to ten.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. I did it, James. I actually did it.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” James growls.
And for the first time since the very first day I saw him in
training, something insane happens.
He smiles, clear and real and genuine, and I know right then
and there I’m going to fall head over heels.
I’m not wrong.
Because something forged a connection in those thirty seconds
where every scenario became too real, and it was only us. Me
and James, knowing we’d live together or die together and
nothing in between.
It changes us.
It changes everything.
And even if I rarely see him smile again, it doesn’t mean I
don’t hear the laughter in his voice as the following weeks
draw us closer. It doesn’t mean I don’t suddenly understand
the dry humor underneath that aloof mask he wears, until he
makes me laugh more often than not, and I feel warmer and
warmer in his presence. And it doesn’t mean I don’t trust him.
Enough to tell him who I really am.
Who my father is, and why I want to prove myself a raving
success away from Dad and his choking, oppressive vigilance.
And when he takes my hand and squeezes it and says, “I
understand,” looking at me with shining silver-blue eyes that
don’t seem so cold anymore when they glow in the sunlight
with an admiration I crave like a flower craves the sun…
Holy crap, I know.
I know. I just know.
This man is going to wreck me.
 4

CLOSE QUARTERS (JAMES)

I t shouldn’t be such a relief that Faye chooses not to follow

me into what will, for at least the next week or longer, be
our space.
After seeing her face-to-face, standing so close I could almost
feel the warmth of her breaths melting the frost on my
cheeks…
Fuck.
I don’t think I’d be able to handle being shut up in this cabin
with her so soon.
Though I’d better get used to it. Orders are orders.
We’ll essentially be living underfoot without even separate
bedrooms whether I like it or not.
The cabin is a single-room space, with the only separate room
being the spa-style bathroom with its elevated, wood-sided
square bath and mixture of wax and electric candles. Designed
for lovers, which we most certainly aren’t.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
And that’s sure to make things awkward in close quarters with
only a single bed.
Make that a bed too small to even be a queen, tucked in the
corner of the open space and underneath one of the large
panoramic windows. The living room area is slightly recessed
into the floor, creating something of a fire pit atmosphere in
front of the hearth.
The deep, plush L-shaped sofa will be my bed as long as this
ordeal lasts. If I turn my back to the bed and face the fire each
night, not only will I conserve heat, but I’ll be able to pretend
that the woman in the bed behind me is anyone besides Faye
Harris.
Anyone but the beautiful, brilliant, and all-too-fucking-
infuriating whiplash woman I used to call Tink.
She’s off looking for her father now.
Probably to blow up on him, ask him what he was thinking
hiring Enguard, although the Senator doesn’t know my history
with Faye.
No more than Faye knows my history with the Senator.
Or the secrets I’ve struggled to protect her from for all these
years.
Now, seeing her still so bright and fiery, her spirit unbroken, I
know I’ve done the right thing, protecting her from the truth
about what sort of man her father really is.
He’s all she has left. It would fucking gut her, after losing so
much else.
Her career. Her mother. Me.
It’s just a few days. It’s just another job. I can get through this.
And I need to stop brooding and go find her.
This is my job, after all, and I can’t let her out of my sight.
I set my bag down on the foot of the couch. I’ll make up a bed
later.
For now, I kneel to set a fire in the hearth. The room is cold,
chillier than the gas heating should warrant, and if I’m going
to protect Faye like any other Enguard client, that means
everything – including ensuring her comfort and health.
As much as this resort might fall back on that distasteful thing
known as glamping to create the illusion of roughing it out, the
weather conditions outside are nothing to trifle with.
Ski weather in the Sierra Nevada’s can rapidly turn into
blizzard conditions. I make a mental note to raid the firewood
stores and stock up on extra in case something happens.
I may have medical training as a first responder with the FBI,
but there’s little I can do for frostbite if we end up trapped here
in whiteout conditions with no source of heat.
That familiar, ominous prickle runs down the back of my neck,
that premonition.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. It feels like inviting trouble
in all the worst ways.
So once I have the fire kindled, glowing orange, and the logs
crackling away with a faint smoky smell almost like chicory, I
rise, pull my gloves back on, and head for the door to find out
where my missing lady has disappeared to now.
Only to pull the door open and nearly walk right into her.
Her hand reaches for the doorknob and instead lands squarely
on my stomach.
Fucking hell.
Even through the layers of my coat and my suit, I can feel her.
Faye.
She’s always been that way, this human hotspot generating
nonstop warmth even in the coldest weather, until it’s possible
to feel her coming from dozens of feet away.
It’s like her hand is a hot brand taken straight from the forge’s
fire, scorching through the fabric to imprint that small, delicate
palm against my bare skin. It reminds me too much of how
good it felt years ago, after she’d torn my shirt open, stroking
her splayed fingers over my body like she wanted to learn the
shape of a man for the very first time.
I’d taken her innocence. And then I’d taken so much more,
wrapping her around me on long, tense nights, fucking soul-to-
soul.
She used to whimper when she came. Sometimes, she’d bite
my ear, her little teeth the last thing I left her to control as I
pinned her down hard, owning every inch of her sweetness.
It takes everything in me to hold completely and utterly still.
To wall myself away from the instant hot reaction to her touch,
raw memory tugging at both my heart and my cock until both
are pulsing just a little too hard, a little too hot, and far too
angrily.
I arch a brow, sweeping a frustrated hand through the air. Then
I step back to make room for her, releasing a slow breath
through my nostrils as the firestorm breaks with distance.
“Ms. Harris,” I say, schooling my tone to formal politeness.
Faye rolls her eyes. Predictable.
She remains there for several moments, her hand still
outstretched, before she flashes a smile that’s half
sheepishness and half pure irritation.
“You know my name, James. Use it.” Her hand drops and she
steps inside. “Dad’s too busy to talk to me and it’s getting
dark, so I guess we’re stuck with each other for tonight. I’ll
see about getting reassigned to someone else in the morning.
Maybe that big guy with you won’t mind putting up with me,
but until then…we can deal with each other if we’re asleep
most of the time, right? And then you won’t have to see me for
the rest of this stupid stunt of a trip.”
My fingers clench into a fist.
Sleep? I’m not ready for that. Hell, not for any of this.
The bitterness in her voice, the active attempt to get away
from me. And I have a feeling it’s not for her own sake that
she took that last step away.
She thinks I hate her, I realize.
Because of the way I cut her off. Because of the way I shut her
out of my life.
She thinks I must hate her and must loathe being assigned to
her when, if anything – despite the pain of it, despite the
torture of her proximity, despite the ache of memories and loss
and fury attempting to claw their way through my protective
armor – the exact opposite is true.
And I can’t let a bit of it slip. I have to make her think I’m Mr.
Fucking Hyde.
I bite my tongue, holding my peace.
Correcting her assumptions won’t make this any easier for her,
or for me.
But deep down inside, I rebel at the idea of turning her safety
over to anyone else. It’s not that I don’t trust Gabe. He’s a
married man, a loyal friend, exceptionally skilled at his job.
It’s that at my most secret core, I still think of Faye as mine.
I’m stark raving jealous. Even though I gave up my claim
years ago.
Fuck, I don’t want her in anyone else’s hands. I need to see for
myself that she’s safe for as long as I’m here with her.
This may be the last time in my life I’ll ever see her.
I close the door in her wake, and as she begins shrugging out
of her coat, I reach to take it. She freezes, tossing a wide-eyed
glance over her shoulder, before letting me ease the coat down
her arms.
Surely, the flush in her cheeks must be from the cold.
I find my eyes lingering on her red sunbursts even as I hang
her coat up on the pegs just inside the door.
She’s still a pretty thing like a lit candle, snow in her hair as
she pulls her knit cap off and shakes down a vivid tumble of
red so deep it’s like burgundy and copper and wine, falling
around her pale, freckled face and drifting across her
delicately impertinent features.
Her eyes are pure witch-fire. A green that snaps with pure heat
despite their electric-coolness, flecked in bits of gold like stars
reflecting in glass.
She’s breathing hard. A shallow, swift, flushed breathing that
comes from being out in the cold as she peels her gloves off
and rubs her fingers together.
One more sight I really don’t need.
Because all I can think of, as I watch her chest rising and
falling against her pale lavender sweater, is how those rushed
breaths sounded against my ear once upon a time.
I can see her as she clung to me, raking her fingers through my
hair, clasping my hips between her thighs as she begged
James, James, oh God, James over and over again.
Double fucking hell.
Do I honestly think I can spend the night alone with this
woman? And still feign indifference to her presence?
Who knows, but I have to.
Faye’s gaze catches mine, her eyes luminous and questioning,
and I realize I’ve been staring. I look away sharply, finishing
with her coat, while she clears her throat softly.
“It’s freezing in here,” she murmurs.
“I’ve just lit the fire,” I answer mechanically, turning to brush
past her without fully looking at her. Perhaps if I simply avoid
eye contact, I can prevent the rush of vivid memories
assaulting my body and mind every time I look at her. “The
room will warm shortly. I’ll run you a bath if that’ll help warm
you, though.”
“James.”
Her voice at my back, low and imploring, stops me.
I halt in place, staring straight ahead without really seeing the
rustic log walls of the cabin. Every sense fills with the
memory of her taste, her scent, the touch of soft skin beneath
my fingertips as I skim over every curve and hollow and swell
of her body.
“You’re not my servant,” she says. It’s barely a whisper. “You
don’t have to act like this, waiting on me hand and –”
“I’m doing my job,” I say coolly. “That’s the reason I’m here.”
“Yeah, sure. I guess that’s the only reason, huh?”
I don’t answer.
I simply walk away, escaping into the only private space I can
find when there’s not a single wall in this place that can guard
me against the feelings she’s awakening inside me.
She doesn’t follow me into the bathroom’s sanctuary.
I settle on the wooden edge of the large square spa-style tub,
the interior gleaming white ceramic. As I lean over to turn on
the faucet, it throws my reflection back at me.
I don’t like what I see.
My face is troubled, distant, and cold. This hardened mask
locked in a constant expression of thinly veiled disapproval
and disinterest.
I stare down at my image, even as the water begins washing it
out in the polished porcelain, swirling me into nothing but
fragments of colors.
Is this who I am now?
Is this all that’s left of me, when the rot inside me has slowly
been eating away at the soft organic bits of human meat inside
this frigid shell?
I tear away from staring down into the water, and busy myself
lighting the candles in the room to fill it with a soft golden
glow, before laying out towels. There’s a separate glass-walled
shower that I’ll be using later, but for now, I can’t help the
instinct to want to make her as comfortable as possible, taking
care of her in more ways than one.
I clench my jaw, hating every second of this. I’m at war with
myself right now.
Everything I say has to keep the wall between us, maintain the
appropriate distance.
For her good and mine.
But I can’t help the compulsion to give in to these quiet,
simple actions that sate my need to look after her.
That say, more than any words, how much I care.
I can’t let her get under my skin like this. Not even for a few
minutes, and I’m cracking in under an hour.
If I let down my guard, if I get emotional, I’ll just endanger
her even more.
She makes me lose focus on the world around me.
That’s the last thing I can afford to do while there’s some
unknown actor threatening her life.
Still, I linger until the bath is full, giving myself a little more
time to breathe, then shut the water off.
Then I take a deep, fortifying breath, and step out into the
main cabin.
She’s settled on the bed, one leg swinging over the edge, as
she pouts at her phone. When I emerge, she glances up at me,
and turns her phone to show me a weather map on the screen.
“Looks like there’s a bad one coming in,” she says. “I know
Dad planned this months ago, but you’d think he’d have called
this off when he saw the forecast. I don’t think the campaign
money’s going to keep rolling in after people freeze their toes
off and get stranded up here.”
“Under the circumstances, your father couldn’t cancel the
event. Particularly when this gives us a prime opportunity to
potentially identify who threatened you.”
“It’s like Clue, don’t you think?” She grins, swinging both legs
now, leaning back to slouch her shoulders against the wall.
“Get all the suspects together in one place so you can watch
what they do and wait for them to give themselves away.
Somewhere isolated where they can’t leave.”
With an exasperated sigh, I shrug out of my coat, lay it over
the back of the sofa, and sink down on the cushions to unzip
my bag. “You shouldn’t treat this like a game. Nor should you
be so excited. Someone’s already dead, and you and your
father are targets.”
“Whatever, James. I’ve felt dead for years, rotting away in a
Portland library. I guess it takes someone trying to kill me to
make me feel alive again. Isn’t it a riot?”
“I’m hardly amused.”
“You never are. Or at least, you pretend not to be.”
That girl.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, praying for patience.
Fortitude. Something.
The thing about Faye is she excels in driving me crazy, and
somehow manages to annoy me into enjoying it.
“Your bath is ready,” I deflect carefully. “You should take it
before it cools.”
“Sweet, finally some warmth. Want to join me?”
There’s that bitterness in her voice, again – that certainty my
answer is no.
But there’s just a touch of hope, too.
A glimmer of soft, sweet, compelling warmth, desire, longing.
I ignore it.
I have to ignore it because she can’t know how painfully close
I am to saying yes.
So I hold my silence. Listening to a soft, hurt sound as she
stands, just a collection of small noises at my back, but I can
track her movements by the rustle of clothing, the soft tread of
her boots, the creak of wooden floorboards, the sound of the
bathroom door opening and shutting.
Then I’m alone, with nothing but haunting memories and the
ache in the pit of my stomach that knows, that just fucking
knows.
On the other side of that door, wrapped in heat and coils of
licking steam against naked flesh, is the one woman in this
world who can make me human again.

I KEEP myself busy by checking the weather report.

Not fucking thinking about the naked, lush woman soaking on
the other side of a very thin wooden panel.
Not clenching my jaw to smother the fire in my blood.
Not wanting her under me so bad I could lose every bit of
genteel self-control I cling to like a drowning animal.
Faye’s right about what’s coming. There’s a severe winter
front heading in overnight.
There’s a good chance the mountain will either trap or dilute
the coming snowstorm, but there’s an equal possibility it’ll
move in directly over us and stay there. Locked in by seasonal
winds and high crags, blanketing us in snow, rabid winds, and
plummeting temperatures for days.
It’s in the low teens right now, but it’s projected to drop below
zero overnight.
That tingling on the back of my neck keeps getting worse,
though I want to ignore it.
I don’t like the feel of this.
Just to be safe, I do another check of the cabin, looking over
our stores of food and bottled water, plus the firewood. Cell
signal up here isn’t the best, but there’s wired internet if we get
buried enough to need to summon help in some way, as long
as the power stays on.
It better.
That’s what sends me back out into the lightly drifting evening
snow, wrapped up in my coat and my boots crunching through
the top cover as I check the backup generator. The gasoline
looks topped up to full, and the rating indicates it can power
the cabin at full for up to seventy-two hours on a single tank.
There are multiple backup fuel containers, too.
More than enough time, I think, as long as nothing goes
catastrophically wrong.
Then again, Murphy’s Law can be an absolute bitch and a half.
The moment I think it, I’m struck by an irrational urge to
knock on wood.
Just as I’m completing my perimeter scan, I catch a hint of
motion in front of the main lodge and pause, looking across
the snow-strewn road.
Landon stands before the door, a tall, dark figure, bundled up
in sleek, black cold-weather tactical gear. His breaths puff out
in thick wisps as he speaks, gesturing with a bulky behemoth
of a man with a close military cut of dark hair and an easy,
engaging, almost fatherly smile framed in rough, graying
stubble.
Hook Hamlin, owner of Pershing Shield.
And apparently, I’m the only one here who’s not completely
suckered in by his charm, given the excitement in Landon’s
movements.
But then, I’m the only one here besides Senator Harris who
knows who Hook Hamlin truly is, what he does…
And why he may well be responsible for more than one
murder.
That he’s here, now, is no coincidence.
I’m well aware that hardship makes strange bedfellows, but I
sure as hell don’t trust his alliance with Senator Harris.
Supposedly, they’re so deeply entangled, it makes it
impossible to conceive of either of them betraying the other.
If one goes down, they both do. Honor among thieves.
Still, someone left that bloodied hand at the Senator’s
residence, and it’s generally those closest to you that you can
trust the least.
Or maybe that’s my cynicism talking.
It’s just as likely some rival contractor wants Harris out of the
way. It’s also in Hook Hamlin’s best interests to protect the
goose that constantly delivers him golden eggs.
Fuck. Can it get more complicated?
I can’t help feeling I should warn Landon, but I doubt he’ll
want to listen.
Not when he’s got a professional crush on this man.
Even worse, he’ll want to know how I know these things, and
then I’ll have to explain more to him than just Hook Hamlin’s
involvement in some dirty government deals and black market
arms trades.
I’ll have to explain how I let the man funding it go and
covered up the murder of one of my closest friends.
I’ll have to expose my soul and send it straight to hell.
I kick at the blowing snow on the ground, angry at the
impossible.
Landon will never understand doing something so despicable
just to keep from hurting the woman I love, but can’t ever
have.
That’s why I’ll keep my lips shut. Teeth in tongue. Grinding
every word until it’s this bitter, mangled secret I can keep.
“Hey.” Gabe’s soft Southern drawl startles me, coming up at
my shoulder. For such a large man, he moves with remarkable
stealth and silence.
I turn to watch him approach, sludging through the snow, his
gaze fixed past me and on Landon and Hook. “So that’s the
big guy, huh? I missed meeting them Pershing folks since they
came up in a separate convoy.”
“You aren’t missing much,” I murmur.
“Ouch, James. Thought we were all fans of Hook Hamlin
here?”
“That’s only Landon.”
“Aw, yeah, I don’t get the obsession myself, but still…”
Gabe’s smile vanishes as he scratches his chin. “What’s your
beef with Hamlin? You sound pretty sore.”
“It’s personal,” I snap, but I can’t stop watching him.
On the surface, Hook seems so disarming.
The easy way he moves, laughs, and grins with his whiskey-
dark eyes. Most people, you can sense a criminal disposition
by the guilt that slowly eats away at them until it either boils
out on the surface or swallows the last of their humanity. Most
people with something to hide can’t help projecting it, one
way or another.
Hook Hamlin is a man without guilt, without shame for what
he’s done.
A man without a conscience.
That’s the difference.
And he’s as easy and calm as a man who sleeps soundly every
night, without a moment’s consideration for the lives he’s
destroyed. He doesn’t have to wear a mask to hide who and
what he is. He hides in plain sight.
Someone who can commit murder, who profits off illegal
weapon trades that kill people…
Someone who smiles big and easy as he enjoys a snowy
evening beneath the dark mountains and brilliant stars.
“Hey,” Gabe muses. “Is that his real name, anyway? Hook.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s part of his legend, his mystique in
this industry, I suppose. A nickname.”
“What, like…Captain Hook?”
“Right,” I answer, gritting my teeth.
The fucked up analogy is too apt. Just like the good captain
from Peter Pan, Hook Hamlin is as charming as he is
dastardly. He’s just missing the infamous claw for a hand.
“If you’ll recall, there was an alligator who swallowed the
clock in the story, right?” I wait for Gabe to nod. “They say
when he’s on a target, he’s like Captain Hook. Totally
obsessed. That’s because he’s got a reputation to recover.”
“Reputation, huh?” Gabe cocks his head, looking so much like
a big, overly friendly dog it makes me want to smile.
“His grandfather made a fortune in mining years ago. He came
home from the Second World War a hero, saved a whole
division in the Philippines from being cut off by a ferocious
Japanese attack. Then Hook’s old man ruined it. His father had
a terrible gambling addiction. He bankrupted them and ran off
with some supermodel he met in Vegas on top of it.”
“Damn!” Gabe whistles. “If that ain’t just a swift mule kick in
the balls –”
“Quite,” I say, brushing snow off my shoulders. “It shaped
who Hook became. A man working against time to undo
everything his father ruined. He’s done well on the reputation
front, but the money…he’s a rich man by any measure. But it’s
not a fraction of the billions the Hamlin North Range Mining
Company used to be worth. The steel made from their ore
changed whole nations.”
Gabe shrugs. “Funny how some boys just can’t learn to be
happy when they’re ahead and winning.”
I nod, staring into the night.
He has no clue.
Hook may have his grandfather’s frantic drive, but like his
father, no moral compass. He’ll knock down anyone in his
way, whatever it takes to bring the Hamlin name and fortune
back to being a household name and a Fortune 100 king.
“No man ever masters time. Hook still isn’t where he wants to
be, despite his great success. That ticking clock follows him
everywhere, inescapable, counting down the moment until he
inevitably gets his mark.”
Or gets devoured. I keep that last part to myself.
“Huh. I guess that makes sense.” Gabe makes an amused
sound and nudges my shoulder. “Well, better get inside.
You’re gonna freeze your britches off out here.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, still watching Hook as he turns next to
Landon, and then they head inside.
There’s a subtle tension in his shoulders that says he knows
I’m here, too. That he can feel my eyes cutting into him from
afar, and he’s pointedly not looking at me.
“I’m just fine,” I lie to Gabe again.

I’ M NOT FUCKING FINE .

Not when I walk back into the cabin just as Faye steps out of
the bathroom, wrapped in a thin, translucent silk robe that
clings to her damp flesh.
The pale, violet fabric slicking over the heavy swell of her
breasts and clinging to her hips gives me a deadly view of the
lace panties molding between her thighs. The robe’s silk
chases after it like it’s trying to lick and tease at forbidden
flesh.
Like it wants to do every filthy touch and taste running
through my head.
She freezes with one arm raised, caught in the middle of
toweling off damp hair that tangles and pours all over her. It’s
the reason her robe is so soaked when her hair keeps dripping
nonstop, plastering the cloth to her flesh.
I freeze as well, standing stock-still in the doorway.
Her wide eyes lock on mine, pink flushes washing over her
cheeks, her lips parted but motionless—before she abruptly
stammers, “S-sorry! I heard you leave and I –”
She breaks off with a slight quiver in her voice. A shiver
ripples through her body, prickling over her skin, rousing her
nipples to hard, straining peaks against her robe.
I can even make out their color, a deep blush pink against
cream skin, making darkened discs against the wet silk, and
then I’m thoroughly fucked.
Remembering every moment of how they felt against my lips,
their sweet texture, how they burned in my mouth as I traced
my tongue over their tips and flicked and sucked.
How I kept on until she was owned, writhing under me with
her legs clenched together in a pair of pretty little panties just
like these, like she could’ve hidden just how wet she was, how
hot, how hungry.
Fuck.
My mouth is torn between watering and going desert dry, but I
finally remember to move when I realize the cold wind is
gusting in and icing her damp skin. Clearing my throat, I turn
away quickly to shut the door, giving her my back and sorely
needed space.
“Sorry,” I say stiffly. “If I’d realized you were like this, I’d
have knocked first.”
“Um, I…” Her shaky breath is loud behind me. “I didn’t bring
anything in with me. This was all they had in the courtesy
stuff.”
“Then I guess you’d better get dressed.”
There’s an icy pause full of hurt as loud as a scream, even
though she doesn’t say a word.
Until I hear her fling “Asshole” back in a broken hiss.
I don’t turn around.
Not with my dick throbbing so hard in my pants it hurts.
I wait until I hear the flump of her suitcase on the bed, then the
scrape of denim and the rasp of the zipper on a pair of jeans.
Then, and only then, do I open my eyes.
Christ, if I look at her right now…I can’t trust what I might do.
This woman is pure medusa – stealing every good sense in my
skull and turning every last part of me to stone.

WE SPEND the rest of the evening in uneasy silence.

Faye curls up to read something on her phone, tucked into the
corner of the bed against the wall and huddled there in this
small bundle. Sometimes, with the force of her personality, it’s
hard to remember how delicate and fragile she is.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, see her fine-boned as
a bird and all shivering glass edges.
But right now, it’s that fragility whispering how upset she truly
is, being forced into this space with me, after I made it damn
clear I couldn’t stand to look at her too close to naked.
It’s too bad doing my job means being a giant asshole to a
woman who’s taken more than her fair share of it over the
years.
Though she’s shut off in her own little world, I know she’s
watching me too when she thinks I’m not looking. No doubt
wondering what she did to deserve this special torture.
I wish I knew, Faye. I wish like hell I knew.
I use the time to watch the incoming storm, making
contingency plans for an escape route if necessary, using map
data showing every possible road, trail, and footpath leading to
the resort.
The ski lift is another option, but any scenario requiring
transportation down the mountain that quickly would likely
disable the power.
I don’t like the looks of this storm. I like the idea of being
trapped here with a potential assassin even less, although I
can’t say I’m fond of being snowed in with Senator Harris and
Hook Hamlin, either.
So much for being able to pick my poison. I’m having every
bad kind rammed down my throat in one go.
I’m still splitting hairs on backup plans an hour later, but it’s
the distraction I need to keep from losing my mind.
Trying to pretend the very woman I’ve been assigned to
protect isn’t in this room.
Faye and I even eat dinner separately, heating pre-made
gourmet meals that are essentially the wealthy version of a TV
dinner. Not exactly haute cuisine, but serviceable.
By the time the night begins to wind on, however, Faye’s
yawning turns contagious.
I’m more exhausted than I want to let on.
I get up to put a few more logs on the fire, curling my lip when
I sense a small draft.
The cold is coming in through the cracks by the bed. I worry
about her sleeping beneath that window with frost riming the
glass and the chill seeping through. But she seems
unconcerned as she climbs off the bed and tosses me an acid
look.
“I’m changing for bed, James.” She plants her hands on her
hips with a challenging twist of her lips that’s half smirk, half
dare. “You might want to close your eyes so I don’t upset your
delicate sensibilities.”
I sink down onto the sofa again, back to her, and settle my
laptop across my knees. “Not looking suffices just as well, Ms.
Harris. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Faye,” she insists. “Use my goddamn name.”
“Ms. Harris,” I repeat. Unsure whether there’s a snarl or a
smirk needling my lips.
“Faye. Say it.”
Of course, I don’t. I’m too lost in this fiery game I knew we
shouldn’t be playing.
I start to glance over my shoulder but stop when she lets out a
squeal. “Don’t turn around!”
Too late. I glimpse just a few whirlwind hints of naked flesh
before she’s stumbling back with something clutched over her
chest, and I obligingly close my eyes before turning my head
away again.
I don’t open them again until I’m sure the only thing I’ll see in
front of me is the weather tracking app.
Not the tempting invitation of slender limbs.
Not the lush little ass that makes my palm itch with wicked
memories.
Not the sour scorn on her delicate lips, begging to be bitten.
“You decent now? It’s nothing I haven’t seen,” I mutter under
my breath – and that’s the pure torture of it.
That I know every inch of her body as well as I know my own,
and yet I sit here locked inside myself in sheer, terrible denial.
She makes a huffy sound. “What did you say?”
“Not a thing,” I reply smoothly, and then, unable to resist, add
one more thing I shouldn’t say. “Nothing at all, Ms. Harris.”
“I hate you,” she hisses, then a few moments later, softer, more
forlorn, “Good-fucking-night.”
I can’t help but smile, as long as she can’t see me.
This is Faye to the core, even when she’s pissed. Maybe
because she’s pissed.
Larger than life and yet so very vulnerable.
All big explosions so you can’t get close enough to see the
softness and the need all that fire and fury hides. Yet, she let
me that close once upon a time.
She let me know her in a way that hadn’t seemed possible at
first – and I betrayed it for her own good. But I can’t stop the
longing inside me that remembers knowing her, feeling her,
testing the limits of a strange connection we can’t forget.
With her, with each other, we could be who we truly were with
no masks, no lies, none of the misunderstandings that make
human beings these strange ego-machines always reaching and
never figuring out how to touch another soul without getting
burned.
We did it. We had it. We reached, we touched, we held, we
loved.
Before I blew it all to hell, creating these ruins I can’t resist
exploring half a decade later. Unsure whether I should curse
the pain or laugh at the irony of whatever we’ve become.
We’re nothing now.
I see the chasm when we look at each other across a distance
we can never cross.
“Goodnight, Faye,” I whisper, after I’m sure she can’t hear
me, and I listen to the sounds of her drifting into sleep.

T HE FIRE BURNS down little by little, leaving the cabin quiet

and dark, but cozy with contained warmth.
By the time I let myself look at her, I’ve been staring at my
mother’s novel for hours.
Another huge, heaping slice of nothing.
It feels like Mom left a single thread dangling at the end of an
unfinished tapestry, and I’m supposed to find a matching
thread somewhere inside myself to weave into her design. And
to be perfect, that thread has to match precisely in color, in
texture, with my fingers insanely skilled in the weave.
I can’t find anything in myself with the same brilliant hues of
emotion that my mother gave off, and what little bit I can tease
out is just clumsy.
I sigh. Mom always lived in another world – one where the
colors were richer, the food more flavorful, the emotions more
powerful.
She lived everything with such intensity, dismissing the
practical for the strange and airy place her imagination took
her.
I often wonder, bitterly, if that was why the cancer took her so
quickly, so easily.
Because she burned so bright, maybe she burned through life
too quickly. Maybe she ran out before it was her time.
Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid to be anything like her, too.
She was a child of the air, unconcerned with material things,
while I had to nail myself to earth.
That’s why I’m the wrong person to finish this story.
My heart just isn’t in the same place.
I’m going to break my promise to Grandpa and feel like a
fucking tool for doing it.
This book, it’s all flights of fancy and daydreams.
Love told by people who still believe in happy endings.
The title, 1000 Love Notes, fits too well. In it, the heroine tells
the hero she won’t forgive him for a past transgression until he
writes her one thousand love notes. She thinks she’ll scare him
off with such a daunting task, but rather than give up, he takes
it as a chance to prove his devotion.
Suddenly, she’s finding love notes damn near everywhere – in
her laundry, taped to her fridge, on the hood of her car, written
on the side of her cup at Starbucks. At first, she finds it
annoying, but over time it grows on her with fondness until
finally, she stands on the verge of admitting maybe she just
might love him, too.
That’s the part where I struggle.
I understand the rest all too well because I lived them.
Crumpled bits of paper thrown across the lecture hall, lodging
in the back of my shirt.
I never breathed a word about Faye’s notes to my mother, but
it’s like she just knew.
Can’t blame the heroine in the book either. Admitting love so
easily, so freely, so real seems like nothing but raw fiction.
I set my laptop aside, rubbing my eyes. Then I turn to lean my
arm against the back of the sofa, watching Faye as she sleeps.
Even with the winter night breathing through the window,
she’s kicked the covers off and curled up in a shivering
bundle. Her oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder, bunching
around her hips to expose bare, shapely legs, her thighs thick
and soft but her calves slim and toned.
She’s prickling all over with goosebumps.
With a sigh, I push myself off the couch, cross to the bed, and
pull the layers of quilts and heavy down blankets up over her.
She’ll probably kick them off again, but just to be safe I tuck
her in tight and hope it’ll keep her warm until morning.
The blankets will have to do the job I can’t.

I T ’ S WELL after midnight by the time I strip down to boxers

and hit the couch, using a throw cushion for a pillow and
scrounging up some spare blankets from the emergency supply
cache in the closet.
It’s warm enough, but I still spend a restless night listening to
Faye’s every breath.
The slightest creak jerks me awake. It’s all too easy to imagine
an intruder on the front step, rather than the weight of snow in
the eaves and branches coming down in piles.
Still, near dawn, I manage to drift off.
Only to bolt awake at the sound of shouting outside.
I’m up in an instant, Faye a second after, wide-eyed and
drowsy but flinging the covers off. In one heartbeat I’m in my
suit, in two in my shoes, coat, and gloves.
She starts to get up, fumbling for her jeans, but I point at her
firmly.
“Stay,” I command.
Her eyes flash, and she scowls. “But –”
“No. I’ll check on it.” I don’t have time to argue with her, not
when the shouting just grows louder, more urgent.
Checking for my Ruger tucked into its shoulder holster, I
stride quickly to the door and fling it open.
There’s just a wall of impenetrable white.
Snow sheeting down in huge, frigid waves that make it
impossible to see more than an inch in front of my nose.
I’m near-frozen in an instant, icicles accumulating on my
eyelashes, and I quickly close the door behind me to keep the
heat from escaping before pulling the neck of my coat up high
over my face to warm my breath.
Straining, I listen.
A second or two later, I finally catch the sounds of more
shouting from my right. Not far from a few of the other cabins
where other Enguard members are staying, along with some of
Hamlin’s crew from Pershing and the photographers that were
apparently snowmobiled in last night before dinner.
It’s dangerous to move into the white, cold chaos. Wouldn’t
take much at all to get turned around in this whiteout in an
instant and wander into the snow to freeze to death a few feet
from the cabin.
But the bellowing voice seems familiar – and after a moment,
I hear another coming from the opposite direction, closer to
the main lodge and the larger luxury cabins surrounding it.
“Shitfire, hang on! I’m movin’.”
The first voice is definitely Gabe’s.
The other, unfamiliar, but I catch a call of, “This way! Follow
my voice!”
Then Gabe comes looming out of the white, first a dark
silhouette and then color and shape and distinction, ice
rimming the fur of the hood on his parka and crusting his
scarf.
His eyelashes are all frosted snow. He’s shouting at the top of
his lungs, from the bottom of that big barrel chest. “Keep
talking! I’m almost th—”
He stops just short of plowing into me, then stands in place,
huffing out frozen breaths and rubbing his gloved hands
together. “James? What’s going on?”
“I was about to ask you the same,” I answer, muffled through
my coat. “Is there an emergency?”
“Emergency? Nah, man, just shift change.” I can’t see his
mouth, but I can hear the smile in his voice and see it in the
crinkle around his eyes. “One of the Pershing guys radioed,
and we didn’t put down guide ropes and stakes last night, so
we’re playing a little Red Rover.”
“Red Rover?”
“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Gabe right over.” He laughs,
deep and just a little hoarse with the cold. “He’s hollerin’ his
fool head off so I can follow his voice and not get lost.”
I sigh, practically deflating, and push my glasses up my nose,
dislodging them from the frost that had already started
freezing them to my skin.
False alarm. Thank hell.
“Come,” I say, reaching for Gabe’s arm. “I’ll shadow you.”
He blinks down at me. “But how’re you going to get back on
your own?”
“My keen and catlike reflexes,” I retort dryly, twisting my
head toward the sound of the Pershing guard’s raised voice,
sounding worried at no response from Gabe. “Let’s go join
your friend.”
Together, we forge through the storm. A total slog.
The cold slaps us in terrible sheets, alternately damp and dry,
sucking the moisture from inside my nostrils to leave them
crackling and burning. Together, we make a better
windbreaker than one person would, allowing us to make a
shield of our bodies that clears a path.
We tamp down the snow as we go, making a furrow in knee-
high drifts that’ll likely cover over our footsteps in less than an
hour. Luckily, I only need minutes, and I only need to be able
to retrace my steps back to Faye.
Even when I try to keep myself distant, everything always
draws me back to Faye.
Once we finally arrive at the lodge, I take a minute to warm
up, stepping inside just to let myself breathe before I have to
turn around and forge back into pelting snow and needles of
ice.
Pushing through the door, I pull my hood back, raking snow
and crystals out of my hair and breathing in deep. The air feels
so damn warm it’s like fire scorching down my throat.
Then I come face-to-face with Senator Paul Harris.
My lip curls into a snarl, watching him.
He’s just exiting one of the back rooms, looking far too casual
in his knit sweater vest over a crisp shirt, every bit the family
man dressed for the holidays, on performance at all times.
His graying hair is swept back. He’s cultivated that perfect
poker face of the stern but kind older man who’ll love you
even while doing what’s best to keep you safe and happy.
It’s all about image with Harris, hiding the cold, bitter, utterly
calculating man underneath.
You have to know him to see the glint in his eyes, the
sharpness that’s quietly seething, constant rage.
There’s something dangerous about him.
Something that makes the approachable, fatherly image he’s
crafted one hell of a lie.
I suppose we all wear masks here.
And his is flawless as he stops in his tracks, looking up from
the aide he’s speaking with, and locks eyes with me. There’s
only a second’s flash, a pause, before he’s all smiles, coming
toward me with his hand outstretched.
Oh, hell, here it fucking comes.
“James Nobel,” he says cordially, and again I think I’m the
only one who catches the cool, threatening edge under the
warmth in his voice. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.
How have you been?”
Miserable, I want to tell him.
Fuck, I want to shout it at him.
Grind it into his face with my fist.
Miserable, furious, grieving – I want him to know it all with a
single sharp blow. The explosion of white-hot rage inside me
churns like lava, this wildfire I’ve tried to cage for years.
Now, it’s close to finally breaking past the bars of ice I’ve
locked around it.
Only the measuring, expectant look in the Senator’s veiled
eyes keep me under control.
He wants a reaction. He’d enjoy it, especially when my job
right now is to protect him.
And, of course, if I lose my temper, Landon will be obligated
to discipline me. This is chess, and he’s just made his move,
trying to bait me into exposing myself and giving up the game.
Not today. I’ve always been good at chess.
It’s a game I never lose.
So, I just hold steady, maintain my neutral calm, and reach out
to shake the Senator’s hand.
There’s a certain firmness to his grip, an iron strength, that
says he’s testing me. I don’t waver, holding his eyes as I give
his hand a solid shake and let go, tilting my head.
“Senator Harris,” I say coolly. “I’ve been well. And you?”
“Despite recent troubles, I’m quite well.” There’s something in
the inflection there, something that says he’s pleased about
something I’m sure I don’t want to know about. Yet his voice
is heavy with mock sympathy, gravity, empathy as he
continues, “You’ve been in my thoughts for some time. Not
just because Faye used to talk about you constantly. After the
plane crash…”
“What plane crash?” Gabe asks, stepping up behind me and
blinking between us. His golden retriever friendliness shatters
the building tension between me and the Senator, making more
space between us. I tear my gaze from Harris, glancing at
Gabe.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “It happened a long time ago.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his head.
I hold in a sigh. Sometimes I wish I could be as easy as Gabe,
accepting people and things at face value with pure warmth.
“So you two already know each other?”
“We have quite the long history,” Harris replies, so smoothly
you can almost slip on the words. “In fact, I helped James here
get his first job. And he made me proud.”
Enough.
No one at Enguard needs to know about my time with the FBI,
or how it ended. Even as Gabe stares in puzzlement, I grip his
arm with a tight smile for the Senator and steer Gabe away. “If
you’ll excuse us,” I say, “we’ll put coffee on. Won’t your
guests be arriving soon?”
“They will,” the Senator agrees. “If they can get through the
snow. I certainly do appreciate your attentiveness, James.”
I don’t bother with a response, though Gabe is craning back to
stare at Harris even as I marshal him away.
And I feel Harris’ gaze boring into me, tracking my every
move, even as his voice drifts after us, low and ominous and
promising.
“You’ll take good care of us all, won’t you?”
 5

UNDER WRAPS (FAYE)

S omething about this doesn’t feel right.

I’ve been thinking it all day, ever since James went bolting
outside this morning, ordering me to stay in place.
Only to come back with his face set in a forbidding mask, his
icy aloofness twisted into a grimness I’ve rarely seen.
Of course, he wouldn’t tell me what’s really going on.
Typical James.
Just that the photo shoot’s been put off until tomorrow,
possibly even until after the guests arrive, due to the inclement
weather. We’re supposed to hunker down here, keeping an eye
on the TV weather bulletins.
But all the cold front warnings in the world can’t prepare me
for the waves of ice radiating from James whenever I’m ‘in his
vicinity.’
Obviously his choice, eternal-stick-up-the-ass words.
And when we’ve been told to lock down and stay put while
the wind whips and howls around us, there are few places in
the cabin that aren’t in his vicinity.
Somehow, he still manages to avoid me anyway.
I feel invisible, while he speaks on his phone in a low murmur
to the other members of the Enguard team, then switches to a
video chat on his laptop, talking through logistics and
planning.
He goes strangely quiet when the other security team from
Pershing patches into the virtual meeting, though. A big man
named Hook dominates the discussion with a few other
contributions from a voice I recognize as James’ boss, Landon.
I’m stuck messing with the library catalog on my phone,
catching up with some digital archiving work while I’m away,
feeling like nothing has really changed.
Is it wrong? Once again, I’ve been shoved into a corner, the
little girl told to behave herself and play with her books while
the big, brave men handle everything.
Honestly, I’m getting so impatient to be part of this drama that
I’m ready to set something on fire just for a little excitement.
Possibly James, if he keeps refusing so much as eye contact
with me.
I should be nearly clawing his eyes out.
This quiet withdrawal, this retreat, this waiting isn’t like me.
I tell myself it’s because I’ve grown up and matured. Maybe
I’m not the impulsive girl I was when we were lovers.
I’m older and I can sense the danger in the air. Holding back
until a more appropriate time just makes sense.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m scared. Freaked.
And not because of the storm or the tension or the pointed
secrecy.
It’s because I told myself I was over James after the shitty way
he dropped me.
I’d moved on and left him behind.
Then yesterday happened. The ridiculous way my body
remembers him every time I look at him, the way my gaze
can’t stop straying in his direction even when he’s wholly
oblivious to me.
The awful proof it’s impossible to keep lying to myself with a
pretty little smile on my face.
I’m not over him at all.
I must’ve dozed off in my rage, though. Because when I wake
up it’s dark, the evening falling through the windows in shades
of blue reflected off deep, still plains of silencing white, snow
blanketing everywhere.
James is nowhere to be found. But I can smell food, faintly,
and there’s the sound of running water from the bathroom.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly midnight.
Holy time-slip. The endless snowfall must’ve made me tired,
sending me into hibernation.
I follow my nose to the little open kitchen island.
There’s a covered dish on the counter, the outside of the metal
still warm, and when I lift it away, I’m greeted by the warm
scent of spicy chicken, tantalizing my nostrils.
My stomach growls like a grizzly bear.
It might be what heaven itself smells like, even if it’s really
just one of those fancy prepared meals, arranged neatly like a
proper meal, with a little folded note card under the plate.
Please eat. Help yourself, Ms. Harris, the note card says in
James’ crisp handwriting, the letters slanting and narrow.
Just that, nothing else.
Okay. So, maybe I still want to kick him square in the face, but
I can’t help but smile.
I fish a fork out of the drawer, then prop my elbows on the
counter and lean there to eat right in the kitchen like the
etiquette-heathen I am.
The chicken is good, surprisingly, peppered and fried with
broccoli and tomato. A little bit of rice pilaf on the side helps
calm my angry stomach.
As I’m happily devouring it, staring out the far window at the
shifting night and wondering if the festivities will resume
tomorrow, the bathroom door swings open.
I glance up instinctively, drawn by the motion from the corner
of my eye.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Now I know how he felt when I walked out of that bathroom
dripping wet.
At least, how I hope he felt, when I can’t be the only one
dealing with this needy ache in the pit of my stomach, this
emptiness food can’t fill.
No way. Nope. This can’t be happening.
I can’t be this weak for him when he’s impervious to me.
So I need to believe that when he’d seen me half-naked in that
bathrobe he felt the same instant jolt of burning, throbbing
hunger I feel as he walks out in nothing but a pair of loose,
light pajama pants, his entire body nearly steaming with heat
that practically dares the cold to touch him.
When he’s like this, James is…he’s raw.
Feral.
Scary hot.
Almost like how he is in his slick suits with his hair smoothed
back, a polished soldier, but when you take away those elegant
mannerisms and stylish clothing, he’s just a raw, unfinished
thing underneath.
Pure jagged maleness no one could try to tame into a proper
shape.
His body is powerful and toned and tapered, lightly tanned and
marked with scars I know by heart because I’ve traced every
last one of them with my lips.
Though I’m sure he’s earned a few new ones since the last
time I saw him naked.
He has that kind of Apollo’s belt that flares out just a little
before dipping inward in that hard cut, arrowing down and
pointing to the forbidden.
The shape of his hips makes it hard for anything without a belt
to ever stay up around his waist – instead falling down,
hanging so low I can see a hint of blond hair tufting above his
pajama pants before vanishing.
Just before the point of temptation where his cock begins.
His hair is loose, for once, damp and tousled and tangled, a
few strands drifting into his face and teasing at the corners of
those cold, sensuous lips.
Lips that are currently parted now, stuck on unspoken words,
as he watches me with half-closed silver-blue eyes that glitter.
Completely unreadable. Completely maddening.
All while I’m just hoping it doesn’t show on my face just how
bad I want to lick the last lingering drops of water from his
neck and those strong shoulders and those rippling, corded
biceps.
Holy hell.
Time to get a grip.
I don’t think he has the slightest idea how his monk-like
aloofness turns him into pure sex. Makes him this dark and
dangerous thing you want to torture you and hurt you as much
as you want him to take you every which way and leave you
sore and dazed and ruined for any other man for the rest of
your life.
That’s what I really hate him for. The ruining part.
I haven’t been able to be with anyone else since him.
And I don’t want to know if he’s put those long, devious,
intimately talented hands on another woman since me.
I definitely can’t stand picturing it.
Maybe it’s the sobering thought that lets me tear away from
staring at him, sucking in a deep breath and trying to ignore
the hellfire in my cheeks.
I fix my gaze on my empty plate. Somehow, while I was busy
ogling him, my dinner disappeared.
At last, I clear my throat, busying myself with carrying the
dishes to the sink and turning on the water to rinse them off.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say weakly. “It was decent.”
“Ms. Harris,” he acknowledges coolly.
Oh. My. God.
For a second, I’m afraid I’ll snap a finger as they curl into a
shaky fist.
I sniff so loud I go light-headed.
This man. This horrible, confusing, too-gorgeous-for-life man.
I can only tell he’s moving by how the sound of his voice
shifts, when his bare feet are silent on the wood. He moves
like a huge cat, stalking and lithe, and even though I keep my
eyes on my hands, I can picture the writhing muscles slinking
under his skin as he prowls through the cabin.
I want to kick him in the teeth just for existing, right now.
And for that stupid, formal Ms. Harris.
Still, I try to keep my voice mild as I say, “Looks like the
storm finally broke. Are Dad’s guests still coming?”
“Possibly,” he answers. Neutral, factual delivery of
information. “Only the first wave of the storm front has
passed. This is a lull. Heard the local ranger stations have
already issued new advisories about driving on the roads. It’s
possible the Senator’s people might arrive by chopper. Or they
may just call off the entire event like sane people.”
“Oh.” I frown, idly swiping a dish towel over the plate.
“Wonderful. So we came up here for nothing?”
He’s dead silent.
But he’s not ignoring me. His silence is its own language,
James-speak, and one of the rules is it’s possible to say
everything with nothing. He isn’t answering because…why?
If he answers me, will he have to lie?
Will he have to shield me from the ulterior motive for this
little getaway, this unspoken thing I can feel skulking around
us like a hungry wolf slinking through the snow?
What’s really going on at this fundraiser, where everyone here
knows someone wants to kill my father – and me?
I don’t know what to say into the silence, so I don’t say
anything at all.
But when I hear him moving again, it’s enough to draw my
gaze up, watching over the kitchen island as he settles into the
couch and draws the blankets over him, eyes closing as he
rests his head on the pillow.
“Goodnight, Ms. Harris,” he murmurs. “Another early
morning tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I answer numbly. “Goodnight.”
I try to be quiet about finishing up with the dishes in case he’s
really sleeping and not just pretending so we don’t have to talk
to each other.
Ugh.
It’s hard to tell with him.
He sleeps like an android with an off switch and always has.
James just goes completely still, only subtle indicators in the
boyish relaxation of his face hinting that he’s truly out like a
light.
He wakes up the same way, too, that switch turning on and
flooding him to full awareness in less than a second, not a
moment’s drowsiness in between.
It’s almost unnerving when he does that, creepy.
Guess I must have something wrong with me because it’s one
of the things about him that turns my blood so hot, so wild, so
needy, so thick.
It’s one of those things that’s adorable about a man who tries
to show the world he doesn’t have a sweet bone left in his
body.
Changing for bed, I take a risk that he really is asleep.
He’s right there in front of me, his back to me but that
powerful body right there.
God. It’s never been harder to strip out of my sweater and
jeans, unclasp my bra, and for a moment just…stand there.
Naked except for my panties.
Letting myself feel the air touching my skin, teasing that
terrible ache that’s just gotten worse and worse until it’s like
an addiction.
And my fix is so close it’s pure hell.
I want his hands on me.
I want to remember, relive how it feels when he touches me.
When my flesh gives in for him and he strokes every inch of
me until I can’t do anything but arch and open my legs and
gasp out his name.
His lips, his tongue, his fingers, his terrible thrusts…they’ve
never been nearer or had me needier than now.
Shame blossoms on my cheeks.
What the hell is this, anyway?
This hurt? This need?
But I fight to ignore it as I slip on a pair of little jersey shorts
and an old faded baseball tee to sleep in.
Hardly sexy, but the way the fabric clings to me and teases
against my aching nipples makes me nearly whimper.
I’m so sensitive all over, shivering and unsatisfied and ready
to lose it.
Slipping into bed with my teeth sunk in my lip, I burrow under
the covers, telling myself to let it go.
But I can’t.
It’s something about James.
Some crazy, beautiful gravity that’s like a force of nature for
anything female. Or maybe anything Faye.
Before I met him, I’d always gotten my thrills off that hint of
danger as I learned how to defuse explosives and rode the
adrenaline rush.
Before that, I’d found it snowboarding, horseback riding, any
sport that let me go fast with something only barely in my
control, whether it was a straining beast or Mother Nature
herself. I’d been curious about sex but not particularly
interested in seeking it out.
And then he happened.
The day we met at Quantico, something about his aura of
menace called to my inner thrill seeker.
Woke something primal.
Something I’d thought died in his absence, but it’s wide awake
now.
Awake and loud and trying to swallow me in its hot, licking
mouth, sucking down my body until I’m a throbbing mess and
I can feel the steaming wetness slicking against my folds.
Oh, hell.
Even if I’m in denial, my body knows what I want, what I
crave, what I’ve been deprived of for too long.
It’s right there, and it’s so damn ready and doesn’t understand
that what it needs will never, ever happen.
Worse, I still remember our last time.
We’d just come back from an operation to assess a bomb
threat at a foreign embassy in Kent.
Ever since the black market arms sting that was my first trial
by fire, we’d been inseparable.
Together on every mission, tearing each other’s clothes off
right after.
James, the dangerous and sinister beast in bed.
But after, quiet and sweet while I ran my fingers through his
hair, listening to him talk softly about his sick mom, and how
afraid he was of losing her to the disease that was eating her
alive.
His unexpected sweetness was just as irresistible as his
unpredictable and thrillingly unnerving command in the
bedroom…but that night, after that mission, we’d been less
sweetness and more a pure firestorm.
Clothing was shed on the floor of our hotel room while we
grasped and clawed and kissed so deep it felt like sex incarnate
every time our mouths locked.
His tongue sought mine in searching, domineering caresses.
I curl up on my side, pressing my thighs tightly together as I
remember too much.
Like how, rather than shoving me down on the bed like he
sometimes did, he’d lowered me with masterful control,
rendering me completely submissive.
Like how he pinned me down with his body braced over mine,
his shirt hanging open over his delicious sculpted chest, one
knee pressed between my bare thighs.
Like how his slacks rubbed against my bare pussy.
Oh, I can feel it even now.
That sense of sweet, sweet vulnerability when I’m undressed
under this predator who wants to devour me, and every cutting
look both scares me and takes me even higher.
I bite down on my knuckles to keep from whimpering, my
other hand slipping down, cupping myself over the shorts, the
panties, then inside.
I can’t resist.
Can’t even fight when he’s so close his scent fills the air.
It’s like he emits some strange, hypnotic pheromone that
completely destroys my mind and leaves me empty of all
thoughts but him. As I trace my fingertips over my own
wetness, lining the edges of my folds with soft strokes, I curl
up tighter, my entire body alert and prickling and aching with
the need to be touched by one man.
Every clenching, dripping pulse inside me demands it, and
although I know what I want, I need to draw it out a little more
and savor it.
Because in the morning, I’ll be mortified.
And even though he’ll never know, I’ll never be able to lie in
this bed and enjoy this again when I’ll be too afraid of getting
caught.
But that’s then, and this is now.
So I don’t think. I carefully pull my hand away from my
mouth and cup my breast, filling my palm with its heaviness
and sinking my fingers in.
It feels so good to imagine it’s not my own small, cool hand
but his.
James’ hand is large and rough enough to span the entire swell
of my flesh, the strength of him sinking into me and making
me soft as he kneads deep and flicks his thumb against my
tingling, sensitive nipple.
Mirroring the imaginary James in my head, I flick the tip of
my fingernail against my nipple through my shirt, sucking in a
sharp gasp as pleasure bolts down to my clit.
I graze a fingertip against the pulsing, screamingly hot little bit
of flesh, and have to turn my face into the pillow to muffle a
cry.
One little touch ripples through me.
Makes my thighs quiver, spearing up into my stomach and
radiating out to my fingertips.
I do it again and again and again, biting the pillowcase harder.
Until my entire body jerks and shivers each time as I set off
tiny quakes inside myself, every muscle within me contracted
tight and wanting, begging, pleading for what I can feel so
deep.
It’s like James is engraved on me, and my body knows only
him.
I can’t breathe, and I gasp hoarsely, wetly into the pillow as I
let my fingers glide fully along my slit, soaking myself in
every blinding throb between my legs.
It’s not the same, when I finally give in and slide my two
middle fingers into my body, using my index and pinky finger
to spread myself open.
Searching for that delicious feeling of being exposed as I delve
in, seeking to touch that red-hot sweetness that feels like a key
to ecstasy.
It’s not the same as his cock inside me, his hard body hovering
over me, pinning me in place as he slams in deep. Like he can
infuse the power in his tense, rock-hard frame into me with
every rough, hard thrust.
But my flesh remembers.
My flesh remembers the shape of him too well.
The way his bulk forces my thighs open.
The way I could barely hold him when he was so thick, so
thick, too big for me.
And yet I opened wide for him anyway and almost dared him
to tear me apart.
I remember the intensity in his eyes, capturing me with that
darkened, stormy silver gaze as he pinned me by my wrists
and left me helpless as he took me harder, harder, harder.
How I begged for him, how I wept for him, how I lifted my
hips into him the same way I lift them now, rocking up into
that familiar rhythm, plunging my fingers into his imaginary
thrust.
Stroke after stroke after stroke.
Each slip and caress of my fingers evoking the shadow
impression of his cock splitting me open, and for a moment I
almost forget he’s in the room as I arch onto my back, thighs
spread, as I circle my clit with my thumb and toss my head
back and nearly claw at my breast.
He’s with me. He’s with me so deep I can almost feel his
vicious thrust into my belly, surging so deep inside my cunt,
it’s like he’s carving out new places for him to fit.
Not just in my flesh, but in my heart.
And I remember that night how I’d trusted him – how I’d said
forget the condom, how I’d drawn him down and kissed him
and whispered his name with my throat tight and my eyes
stinging.
I’m reliving his abs, his hips, his thick ridges and veins, that
molten wet rush as he arched his back and shuddered his hips
and locked us together, snarling so he could come inside me.
I’m gone.
I fall apart, toes curling against the sheets.
My body jerks forward into a taut knot as my pussy tenses
around my fingers, gripping and sucking and leaving my entire
hand wet, spilling over to soak my panties and my shorts.
I come so hard I lose myself in a muffled shriek on my lips.
James!
By the time the last wave passes, I’m so sensitive I can’t even
move, afraid to even pull my fingers out when it’s going to
hurt as my nerve endings sizzle and burn.
But after a shaky, gasping moment, I manage, pulling out
quickly and then wiping my hands on the sheets as I curl up on
my side to watch what little I can see of him over the back of
the couch.
Just one bare shoulder and a hint of moonlight off platinum
hair.
I still feel too hot, but this time with a kind of delicious shame.
I can’t believe I just did that.
With James right here, completely oblivious, and right now
I’m such a wet, spent mess I can’t bring myself to worry when
it felt so good.
I need this delicious afterglow, too.
I’m just lucky he didn’t wake up toward the end. I had almost
no control over myself or the little gasping sounds I was
making in the back of my throat.
Even now, melted and sated, I’m still not fully satisfied.
Even if I made my body sing with memories, it wasn’t the
same as having him.
It’s more than animal lust, this craving.
It’s love.
I’m still in love with James flipping Nobel.
And that stupid, walled off asshole can never know it.

W HEN I WAKE up in the morning, I regret going to sleep

without cleaning myself up.
Especially when someone banging cheerfully on the door
wakes me up, accentuated by the loud buzz, whirr, and grind
of the snow blowers that say the resort staff have come to dig
us out of waist-high snowdrifts, clearing a path between the
cabins.
It’s even worse when the person knocking turns out to be Dad,
urging me to get dressed with no time for a shower.
Purely because the photographer’s waiting outside and the
light is just right for the shot he wants to get.
Shoot me.
That’s right. I’m going to have to walk around doing this
ridiculous photo op crap all day still feeling last night, making
me think about James with every step.
James – who’s as coolly indifferent as ever.
A silent, protective shadow trailing along a mere four feet
away from everything we do as I bundle myself into my
cutest, most photogenic ski gear and let my father drag me
outside to pose right on my doorstep with a shovel in my hand,
twin to his.
It feels so fake.
Dad makes me uncomfortable when he’s like this.
For him, it’s second nature, smiling for the camera with his
friendly gonna win some votes face.
There’s still this darkness in him that didn’t live there before,
that took root and made him its home after Mom died.
I wish he wore that darkness honestly rather than hiding it so
effortlessly behind the harmless, friendly politico who just
wants your support so he can take care of your best interests.
But this is, unfortunately, part of being a Senator’s daughter.
I wonder if Chelsea Clinton ever wanted to smack her own
father this badly?
I mean, probably.
It’s half an hour of different poses and different smiles before
the photographer lets us loose for now, promising he wants to
get a few other shots of us around the lodge, having staged
father-daughter moments. While the photographer packs up his
gear, my father catches my arm lightly and pulls me aside, just
around the corner and out of James’ watchful eye.
“The donors should be arriving today,” he says, leaning in
closely like I’m one of his aides and he’s confiding a secret.
“Hook sent a crew from Pershing to fetch them with a
helicopter. Driving in these conditions is too dangerous.”
“Lovely. Don’t you think being here is dangerous, then, too?”
I frown. “This is really weird, Dad. Shutting down an entire
resort so people can be cold and bored. We can’t even ski.”
His smile is strange and remote. “People do interesting things
when you give them idle time to expose themselves.”
My eyes widen. “What? You…you think one of your donors is
the one who’s threatening us? Not another Senator?” I shake
my head. “Why? If they’re supporting you financially, don’t
they believe in the same things you do?”
“Some people,” he says, something hardening in his voice,
“think financial support means total control. They’re willing to
give me money, but only if they can use me as a puppet they
can manipulate and maneuver.”
I fold my arms over my chest. It’s the kind of cold outside that
makes you feel blistery hot, but either way, it’s uncomfortable.
I’m hugging myself for warmth more than taking a moral
stance. “So someone in your PAC has financial interests in that
Homeland Security bill and its budget?”
“Very likely.”
Just that short answer lets me know there’s something he’s not
telling me. I narrow my eyes, studying him.
“Dad.” I curl my hand in the sleeve of his coat, gripping
through my thick gloves. “Let me help you for once. Talk to
me.”
Talk. Very funny.
He doesn’t even look at me, his gaze empty, trained
somewhere distant. “No, sweetheart. The best way you can
help is to stay with James and keep safe, Faye.”
“That’s not helping. That’s passively waiting for someone else
to fix the problem. Damn it, Dad, I’m an FBI agent –”
“Former FBI agent,” he reminds me coolly, as if that isn’t
entirely his fault. “And you don’t have enough field training to
handle something like this.”
I’d be angry if it wasn’t for the fact that at least he’s being
honest right now.
It’s the darkness speaking, not my fake politician Dad, and that
darkness is more real than anything he’s ever shown the
cameras.
What used to be real, though, was my father.
My real Dad, a man of integrity and open warmth,
communicative and kind and loving.
I’d wonder where that man went, but I know.
He’s buried with my mother.
Deep beneath the earth surrounding her gravestone.
Anything else I might say is cut off by the photographer’s
voice, calling my father’s name. “Senator Harris?” he calls, the
sound of slushing snowy footsteps approaching, leaning in so
he can talk to Dad privately. “Did you want to go ahead and do
the fireside shoot, or wait until dark? We can just curtain the
windows, if you want to do it now.”
My father’s hello, friend smile comes back, just like that.
“Let’s do it now. Whatever you need for the lighting.”
And just like that, I’m whisked away again. And I can’t help
but notice, as we emerge from around the cabin, that James is
gone.
It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
Too bad I feel like James is in on this invisible web of secrets I
can feel tangling around me.
I feel trapped in something I can’t even touch or understand,
and it’s making me tense and antsy, more so when he’s out of
my sight and off doing who knows what.
I’m so restless that the photographer barely stops short of
snapping at me.
He has to ask me to hold still for the fiftieth time while Dad
and I pose in front of the perfectly staged fireplace in the rustic
lounge area of the main lodge.
Faking, of course. Feigning at whatever happy families do
when there’s a fireplace and bourbon involved.
So ridiculous.
I’m surprised we don’t break out board games. When people
look at the photos, they’ll probably wonder why we look so
delighted and stunned by the fir wreath over the hearth.
Real families are never like the photos.
Even when you wish they were.
It’s not until this leg of the shoot is over and the photographer
leans in with my father to discuss other photo ops that James
materializes at my side in that way he has.
This time, he doesn’t get the jump on me. I felt him coming in
that way I have, static against my skin, so I’m not at all
startled when suddenly he’s there, offering me a tall paper cup
with steam wisping out of the little hole in the lid.
“Coffee,” he says simply, regarding me quietly. “You missed
breakfast.”
“Oh. Um. Thanks.”
It’s awkward when our fingers brush.
I feel like he knows that those same fingers still smell faintly
of my desperate arousal, and for a moment we both hold still.
Both our hands on the cup.
Then with my heart thumping, I turn away quickly, clasping
the cup in both hands and inhaling the nutty aroma from
within.
Hazelnut. I know the scent before I even taste it. He’s flavored
it with hazelnut creamer, my favorite.
Maybe his ghost act can’t surprise me anymore…but the sweet
twist in my stomach when he does things like this still does.
Bastard.
I take a slow, warming sip, letting it burn down inside and
chase away the lingering chill better than any fire ever could.
As the door opens behind us, though, I glance up, drawn more
by the sound than the sudden stab of icy wind that cuts into the
room.
Hook Hamlin walks in, all broad shoulders and thick clothing,
shaking off like a yeti.
He’s a big man. Hell, his whole presence is just imposing, yet
there’s something bearish about him that says he’s probably
more likely to hug you than maul you. Probably.
Nonetheless, James goes stiff at my side as Hook shuts the
door, stomping and clapping the snow and cold out of his
hands and feet. Then he crosses over to my father, leaning and
murmuring in his ear, his bluntly square-cut face grave.
James is standing straighter. My brows knit together.
There’s an eerie, heavy weight in the pit of my gut.
I frown, leaning in close to James. “Jeez. Wonder what that’s
about?”
He’s watching them with a piercing gaze, expression tight, but
still he deflects calmly, “Likely security protocol matters.
Nothing important. Are you enjoying modeling?”
“Like I enjoy a hole in the head. God, I’m just glad it’s almost
done. I’m not staying for the rest of this.”
That gets his attention. Brows furrowed, his penetrating gaze
whips around on me. “You’re not?”
“No. I feel like a prisoner. If Dad wants to keep me safe, it’s
not exactly the best idea to have me locked up here with
someone he suspects of trying to kill him.” I shake my head. “I
don’t want to play this game anymore. So I’m not. I’m leaving
of my own free will and not letting him decide for me.”
“Faye –” James starts toward me, one hand outstretched.
He stops mid-stride, drawing himself back like he’s pulled on
a cord, lifting his chin. “Ms. Harris, listen. While you’re right
things are far from optimal and perhaps there’s more to it than
it may seem…I don’t think you’d be safer alone, outside of
protective custody.”
“Well, good thing you don’t get to decide that, Mr. Nobel,” I
fling back. “Look, I’m tired of everyone trying so hard to
make me happy. If you’d just ease up and –”
“Excuse me, everyone! Lend me your ears.” Hook Hamlin’s
booming, commanding voice echoes over the room. It’s not
hard to tell he’s ex-military with the way he drawls his words
with a confidence and authority that immediately draws
attention. “I’m afraid we’ve got bad news.”
My stomach sinks. That uneasy feeling I’ve had is heavier
now, weighing on me like lead.
I hate this. I already know I’ll hate whatever he has to say
even more.
“It looks like the backup crew and our VIP guests won’t be
coming,” Hook says, his hands spreading in open apology.
“The storm’s far from over and it’s about to get worse.”
Meanwhile, at his side, my Dad looks quiet and strange, his
expression so rigid he almost looks like James. But there’s
something in his expression I’ve rarely seen.
It’s troubled and almost deferential, as he lets Hook take
command.
“And until further notice, we won’t be leaving at all,”
Pershing’s head honcho finishes, a firm, but apologetic smile
curling his beard. “Settle in. Stay safe. Make yourselves
comfortable. Some people call me Captain Hook – all in good
fun, I assure you – but I do know how to run a tight ship in a
storm. You’re in good hands as long as you’re with Pershing,
and with me.” He pauses, assessing several bright-eyed,
waiting looks around the room. “And, of course, our friends at
Enguard.”
Are we?
Somehow, I’m worried I already know the answer.
 6

EVERYTHING WE SHOULDN’T (JAMES)

I don’t like the sound of this.

It’s too staged. Too convenient. This entire affair, the threat of
being snowed in, only to make it through the other side of the
blizzard.
Then the moment we think everything might be going
smoothly, here’s Hook Hamlin to tell us why we’re about to be
isolated with each other exactly where he wants us, when he
wants us.
It’s too fucking convenient.
I’m far from the only one disturbed. Several of Harris’ aides
murmur among themselves in a worried hush.
That’s when I notice just how many of Hook’s men from
Pershing Shield have entered the room, standing spaced along
the walls like a regiment with their hands clasped.
Landon and the others from Enguard are nowhere to be found,
when they should’ve been summoned first thing before any
kind of operational briefing.
No. This doesn’t sit right at all.
And I make a point to stay close by Faye, even though I bite
my tongue to keep listening.
“What do you mean?” one of Harris’ aides asks. “Why can’t
we leave?”
“Impassable roads,” Hamlin answers easily, smoothly, as if
he’d been waiting for the question. “Last night’s snowfall
created avalanche conditions down the mountainside, and
most of the roads leading out are completely buried. The ones
that aren’t are too steep for large vehicles and aren’t safe.” As
worried, upset murmurs erupt around him, he holds up his
hands. “Calm yourselves, ladies and gents. We’re absolutely
fine. We have power, gas, and all the essentials. Enough food
and water to last for weeks. The mini-mart alone is stocked
with plenty of rations to support a small village. We have
shelter, plus several people trained in emergency medicine.
The storm will blow over in a few more days, at which point
we’ll be airlifted out by chopper if they can’t clear the roads.”
“Why can’t we be airlifted now?” It’s the same aide, a note of
shrill panic in her voice, but other agreeing whispers rise all
around us. “You hear that? We have to leave!”
“Sorry, ma’am. The winds are too strong for aircraft. Next to
zero visibility. That’s why the secondary crew and our political
guests aren’t coming, either. It’s not safe, and the storm will be
on us again before we can fly out of it.”
“The snowmobiles!” someone else calls. “They can handle the
steep roads, right?”
Hamlin shakes his head gravely. “There aren’t enough to get
everyone out – and the storm would sweep in before we made
it down the mountain. Leaving anyone on snowmobiles
exposed and trapped. It’s a death sentence to try.”
I want to ask where Hamlin is getting this info.
If he’s been speaking with the local ranger stations. Or if he’s
just saying what’s convenient for an end goal I’m still trying to
work out.
“This is weird,” Faye whispers at my side. “Really weird.
Something’s not adding up.”
“Ms. Harris,” I mutter, “keep it to yourself. Because you’re too
damn right.”
The civilians around us, Harris’ team plus a few members of
the photography group and skeleton crew of on-site staff, are a
riot of uncomfortable, unhappy mutters. They’re milling
around, growing more restless by the minute, anger and upset
simmering off them.
That’s when Senator Harris steps forward, ever the statesman,
projecting his voice to carry with calm and authority.
“Everyone, please settle down,” he says. “I assure you, it’s not
as dire as it sounds. We’re safer here than we could be
anywhere else. Just look at it as an extended snow day.” He
smiles that ever-so-practiced grin. “Frankly, our biggest
concern is going to be running out of marshmallows.”
I suppose it’s the mark of a man with a talent for public
speaking that they actually calm down, even if there’s still a
nervous energy in the air. My teeth pinch together.
It’s infuriating, but here, it might be helpful.
They believe in his authority unquestioningly. They want
someone to take the lead and tell them it will be all right. The
very assurance that makes them trust him is what makes my
senses tingle with suspicion.
Whatever reason Hook Hamlin has for us wanting to stay, the
Senator knows it.
Which means it can’t be anything good.
And every last part of me lights up, warning me of danger as
Hamlin and the Senator lean in to murmur into each other’s
ears.
Less than a second before both their gazes cut to me.
I feign boredom, as if I haven’t been watching them. Glancing
at Faye, I say, “Perhaps you should return to your cabin.”
She frowns. “Nope, too easy. Besides, I really hate how you
and Daddy and everyone with a dick tries to shuffle me off
somewhere out of the line of fire at the first sign of danger.”
I almost can’t resist the urge to smile. “Maybe because we all
have a vested interest in keeping you safe.”
“That’s a really backwards-ass way to say you care, James.”
I say nothing.
I can’t tell her that I care, not when she wouldn’t want me to if
she knew the things I kept from her.
About myself.
About her father.
About what happened that fateful night.
And about how her mother died.
I’m saved from having to answer – but it’s not a rescue I
particularly want, when Senator Harris calls my name, flicking
his fingers at me like he’s beckoning a puppy.
Biting back a snarl, I balk for several long seconds, pride
flaring. I ignore him just long enough to make it clear I’m not
a damn pet to be summoned.
But I have to go eventually, see what he wants. With one last
nod for Faye, I pull away from her, crossing the room with a
sick churn in my guts.
I know what has to happen.
Even if I loathe Harris and blame him for the death of one of
my closest friends, there’s no escaping this.
For now, I need to play the game.
And a fucking game is what this is when Harris gestures to
Hamlin and says, “James. I want you to meet Hook Hamlin,
owner of Pershing Shield and one of the most dogged
lobbyists for gun reform I’ve ever met. Hook, James Nobel.”
Hamlin sizes me up with a slow, narrow-eyed look, then offers
a shark’s smile. Wide, but it’s all teeth and flat, depthless eyes
underneath his warmly authoritative mask.
He extends one thick, meaty hand to me. “I’ve had a chance to
meet Landon, but not the rest of his boys and girls. If you’re
former FBI, I’m amazed we haven’t met before. A third of my
crew used to be with the Feds, and I’m at every conference the
boys from the alphabet agencies love.”
Thank God the room is too noisy for anyone to overhear him.
I almost choke. My past is no one’s business but mine, and the
fact that Harris told Hamlin says something is up. Nonetheless,
I force myself to reach out and shake Hamlin’s hand.
“I left the FBI some time ago for private security,” I say. “And
since then I’ve had little occasion to cross into your line of
work. Homeland Security isn’t really something Enguard deals
with.”
He starts to let go of my hand, but pauses on my last words,
holding a grip just tight enough to let me know it could be a
good deal tighter.
Fuck. Almost challenging me, while I keep my grip firm and
steady with no need to show off like him.
I know my own strength. I also know when to use it, and right
now I only need enough to make it clear I won’t back down
while he studies me as if he’s wondering just how much I
know.
Everything, you asshole, I think to myself. All your dirty
laundry.
I know everything.
Then as Harris leans in and murmurs something I can’t quite
catch, Hook’s grip relaxes, then lets go.
That’s when it hits me – they’re playing a game of cat and
mouse.
Not with me, but each other.
Playing at being allies, friends, in bed together on quite a bit of
dirty business. Now, the tension seems undeniable.
It’s all niceties on the surface, while underneath, it’s pistols at
dawn, squaring off across sharp-edged smiles and easy words.
Only thing I can’t figure out is the reason for this game, and I
don’t like it one bit.
I just have a chance, right now, to make myself a part of it.
Let them think I’m willing to be their pawn and wait for my
chance.
While they’re circling, these jackals vying for territory and
blood…
Maybe they won’t even notice the lion sneaking in.
“Don’t worry,” I say, slipping my hands into the pockets of my
slacks, giving a thin smile. “Senator Harris can attest to my
talent for…confidentiality, shall we say?”
“In short,” Senator Harris adds, his tone just a bit too friendly,
“James doesn’t talk. Never says a word to anybody. This is
probably the most he’s said in a week.”
“That a fact? There’s a lot of value in a man who knows when
to listen, and when to speak,” Hamlin says, his look this time
more considering.
Then he offers his hand again, pretending he hadn’t just tried
to squeeze mine off in an asinine caveman dominance act not
thirty seconds ago. Still, I make myself play along, shaking his
hand once more.
His grip is warmer this time, that clasp like a binding
agreement. “A true pleasure, again, Mr. Hamlin.”
“Hook, James. Use the name everybody else does. I look
forward to getting to know you, too. Maybe at some point we
could even talk about more collaboration between Enguard
and Pershing.”
Fuck, no.
But I will my eyes to beam back the opposite, even while I
swallow bile.
What he means, of course, is that he wants to use me as a lever
to pry the doors open and get to Landon.
Landon, who in his hero worship, doesn’t even see Hamlin for
what he is and would need a great deal of warming up to bring
the crew over to Hamlin’s side. Riker, Gabe, Sky, they’d all be
mighty skeptical hearing it from the boss, but from someone
like me backing him up?
Goddamn. It’s too devious to contemplate.
Having Enguard under his thumb would let Hamlin expand his
eyes and ears. He works mostly on the East Coast now,
keeping him close to the political heart of D.C. and the people
who line his pockets.
If he could rely on Enguard for his West Coast contacts, he’d
have his entire illicit trade locked down on auto-pilot across
the continent.
I have no intention of ever letting it get that far, but he doesn’t
need to know that yet.
“It’s always possible,” I deflect. “Perhaps we should see how
well we collaborate on this particular endeavor, first.”
“Perhaps we should,” Hamlin echoes.
Meanwhile, Harris watches us with narrowed eyes, quietly
calculating, but he definitely seems pleased with himself. I
wish I knew why.
What’s in it for him?
Others might not notice the subtle change when he’s stone-
faced and impassive…but I know his daughter.
I know those little things that give her away even when she
tries to be cool and calm, and she got this mannerism from her
old man.
A certain something in the eyes, a certain arch of the brows,
subtle but undeniable.
And suddenly, I want to be back with the woman who taught
me those subtleties more than anything, instead of cozying up
to the man who betrayed us both.
Before I throw up, I sweep a mocking half-bow and step back.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, duty calls,” I say. “I’m sure
you’re well aware what kind of trouble she can find if I leave
Ms. Harris alone too long.”
“Oh, I know,” Daddy Harris says with a sigh. “I know my
daughter. Don’t let her burn anything down, James. I’m
counting on you.”
“No worries. I’ll do my best to keep her away from any
incendiary devices, but I make no promises.”
They both chuckle.
As I’m drifting away, I hear Hook lean toward the Senator and
whisper another sickening phrase. “Damn, do I like this guy.”
If only they knew I’m hardly joking. Not when it comes to
Faye and fire.
Hell, Tinker Bell herself is an incendiary device, able to ignite
anything in her vicinity with her own special heat. And as I
stride back toward her, meeting her wide, curious eyes, I
remember last night.
Last night, lying on the sofa in agony for what seemed like
hours.
Last night, listening to those soft, hitching sounds from the
bed while she thought I was asleep.
Last night, when I thought I’d have to pull myself off just a
few feet away from her with my back turned, long after she
made her last little muffled whispers.
Pure goddamned torture.
Every little mewl in the back of her throat painted so many
vivid pictures in my mind.
Memories of those same sounds rising, gasping in tandem with
my own harsh breaths as I spread her open, wrapped her thighs
around my hips, discovered just how deep her heat went as I
hurled myself into her body again and again.
I may joke, calling her Tink like she’s some fairytale thing, but
there’s nothing funny about what that woman can do to me
between the sheets.
All magic. All fire. All tight, wet, and electric.
And even if I’d kept my back turned last night, even if I’d
feigned sleep while she’d touched herself again and again, it
didn’t help in the slightest.
I’d been awake for every moment, picturing her arching her
back in the moonlight, seeing her fingers touching and
working her flesh with such demanding need.
I kept my control. Barely.
It’s all I have now so I don’t breathe her in when I step closer.
Because there’s still a faint scent around her, carried on the
cold air, creamy-tart and enticing as an aphrodisiac perfume. I
can’t breathe her in, or I know it won’t even be a question. I
will lose my mind.
Keeping a safe distance, I incline my head. “Ms. Harris.
Considering the inclement weather, I think it’s best if we retire
to your cabin.”
She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Why? If we’re going to be snowed in, isn’t it smarter for all
of us to remain together here in the lodge?”
“Sure, but there are also practical issues. Let’s go. I’ll explain
on the way to your cabin.” It’s all I say before I reach out, take
her hand, and pull, ignoring her little gasp.
I hope she understands, holding her eyes firmly.
A second later, hers widen, before she nods almost
imperceptibly before flashing a flirty smile.
“Oh, whatever. If you wanted to get me alone so bad, James,
you just had to ask.”
Then she jerks her hand away, saunters past me, curving hips
swaying.
Damn it all.
I sigh, exasperated, closing my eyes and pushing my glasses
up to press my fingertips to my eyelids.
Some days, I think she loves testing me more than anything.
I pull my coat closer, then follow her out into the snow.
The noon sunlight is almost blinding, reflecting from sparkling
plains of white, and the sky is hard and blue and cloudless. But
I know the peace won’t last. Far off over the mountains, a low,
brooding line of clouds makes me worry that Hamlin’s
projections may be all too accurate.
I rush up to Faye, falling in to walk at her side.
“Apologies,” I say. “There are certain things I couldn’t say in
front of your father’s aides or the Pershing staff.”
“You think Hamlin’s up to something,” she says almost
gleefully. “Dish.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Tact was never your strong point,
Ms. Harris.”
“I don’t want your tact; I want intel.”
“Fair enough.” Yet I consider my next words carefully, not
wanting to implicate her father, not when she’ll likely deny his
involvement. And even if she doesn’t, I’d rather put off having
to destroy her family until I have irrefutable evidence against
Harris. “I believe Mr. Hamlin is involved in some rather dirty
fucking deals in Washington, particularly with Homeland
Security. And I believe he wants us to stay here because he has
some end game in mind regarding your father’s opposition to
the budget bill.”
“Jesus.” She sucks in a soft breath. “You think he’s the one
who tried to kill us?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “The motive isn’t there. Not
clearly. Even if your father’s budget cuts go through, Pershing
Shield is safe. They always get the largest cut of any
appropriated funds for top contractors. So I can’t imagine what
motive he’d have for targeting the Senator – or targeting you.”
“But if he wants to keep us isolated,” she tells me, tapping her
chin, “he’ll find a good reason to poop on any ideas about
consolidating everyone in the lodge to minimize energy
consumption and stretch our resources. Especially when, if
everyone’s scattered, it’s easier to isolate the people he wants.”
I lift both brows, glancing at her mildly. “Did you just use the
phrase ‘poop on’ to describe a possible conspiracy to murder
your family?”
She smiles brightly and nods, her hair so vivid against the
snow, like blood on silk. “I sure as fuck did.”
I can’t help myself.
I’m laughing, shaking my head. She brings it out in me, even
when I feel like there’s no reason to ever laugh again.
Even when I feel like the light has gone out in my world
forever, she burns so brightly that she chases back the dark,
the poison, the bad.
And when I can’t stop laughing a second too long, she beams
like the sun, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Tink
knows what she does to me, and this has been her grand plan
all along.
At least that’s one plan I can figure out.
Pulling myself together, I cast her a mock-stern look. “Your
crude words aside, yes. It might make more practical sense to
consolidate everyone in the lodge, but we’d also face the
difficulty of moving the individual caches of emergency stores
to a single depot at the lodge, as well as draining and storing
the fuel from each cabin’s generators as backup for the lodge’s
main generator. The logistics would likely be more than we
could handle before the storm returns.”
She tilts her head, looking up at the sky, her eyes so clear and
bright green that they capture the sky, mixing their colors until
her gaze glows luminous teal. “But it doesn’t look like snow at
all.”
“Look over the mountains. There.” I point.
Frowning, she turns to scan the peaks of the Sierras, marching
along the horizon in snow-capped triangles. “But that’s…so
far away.”
“You’d be amazed how quickly strong winter storms can
travel.”
We stop outside her cabin. All around us, trails of footsteps
make patterns in the snowdrifts. Snowy fractals like art and
mundane trackings of people’s motions to and from their
cabins.
She looks up at me with a small smile, her eyes softening, yet
her lips ever impudent. “Well. This is me. I’d wait for you to
kiss me on the doorstep, but that’ll get real awkward when
you’re staying here too.”
Just the thought of kissing her has me torn to pieces.
It’s not the right time.
I have things to do, leads to follow, suspicions to confirm, but
with just two words, she completely steals my attention and
burns everything else out of my mind.
Fuck.
I cannot kiss this woman.
I cannot give in to the lure of her scent, the desire to lick her
fingers and see if they taste like that scent that’s been teasing
me all morning.
My cock twitches hotly as I step closer to her, crowding her
back against the door.
“Inside,” I growl.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her lashes trembling subtly.
“You heard me.” I nod firmly.
Then she reaches behind herself to twist the doorknob and
nearly stumbles backward through the door. I step in after her,
snow sheeting down from both of us in cold crumbles on the
mat as I close the door behind us.
I swear – and I’ll keep swearing until my dying day – that my
only intent was to usher her inside, to safety, where at least if
Hamlin is attempting to isolate us all from each other, I can be
sure she’s tucked away somewhere safe.
Somewhere he can’t reach her without going through me.
But then her heel catches on a puddle of water that five
seconds ago was slush melting in the thick heat of the room.
She slips.
Without thinking, I snake my arms out to catch her, wrapping
them firmly around her waist and pulling her close even as
gravity sends her careening against me.
There’s not even time to blink.
Her soft, lusciously curved body molds against mine, and even
through the multiple layers of her coat I feel her breasts
pressed against my stomach. That special way the round, soft
flesh yields and gives as it crushes against the hardness of my
body.
She lets out a muffled, sheepish laugh, mumbling against my
chest. “Oops.”
Yeah. Oops is right.
Because something in me snaps.
Something pure animal.
Faye starts pushing herself upright, lifting her head, leaving
her mouth poised like vulnerable prey.
Prey I want to devour, prey I want to savor with every nibble
and bite and lick before consuming her whole. And before I
can stop myself, before the voice of reason in my mind shouts
at me to keep my distance, remember my place, I’m undone.
I’m fucking leaning down, capturing her lips in mine.
There’s a moment of startled shock.
An instant when she freezes, her arms curled between us and
hands balled against my chest, before she melts with a low
purr and becomes the firestorm I remember.
The woman who would let me own her, but only if I won it,
worked for it, fought for it.
Faye.
Tinker Bell.
Mine.
She crushes her mouth against me, her lips succulent and
burning and ripe. Her slick caresses tease me, combust me,
ripping me apart in a whirlwind of heat as she teases with
every enticement, every promise that’s always caught me and
lured me in over and over again.
And I willingly let myself be burned, sinking into her. Taking
her teasing moans and giving back bites, raw taunts against the
shape of her mouth.
I give it back hard. Wild.
Until her lips go soft and gasping and I can feel how they
swell from every abuse as I torment her with sharp edges and
delicate licks. She shudders, leaning into me with a moan, this
time louder.
My dick jerks. There’s instant recognition.
It’s that same gasping moan from last night, the one that filled
my dreams.
Then she drapes her arms around my neck, slipping her fingers
into my hair, opening to me completely as I delve deep to taste
her, to relearn her, to rediscover what a sweltering well of
madness and beauty and pure, lush desire lives inside those
dark, inviting depths.
I’m going to devour this woman.
But when she strokes her fingers along my cheek, that scent
invades me, and I can’t hold back.
Groaning, I tear my mouth from hers, capturing her fingers. I
trace my hot breath over them, drawing them into my mouth to
suck, catching those last faint hints of her that still linger, that
tell me every wicked thing she did to herself last night while I
was barely five feet away.
It was shameless and erotic and as wanton as I’ve always
wanted her to be.
I sink my teeth into her flesh, loving how she trembles,
gasping with surprise.
Faye tastes like scorching, tart things and just a hint of
something hotter. She watches me with startled eyes and
flushed cheeks and rapidly shuddering breaths.
All while I taste what makes my cock throb hard against my
slacks and drives me fucking mad.
I don’t realize I’ve pushed her up against the door until there’s
nowhere left to go.
My body is on auto, my senses hazed in lust, everything in me
driven by primal compulsion. Frenzied, hot hunger with a
mind of its own.
Then suddenly she’s trapped against me, and I’m dragging my
lips down her throat, ripping at her jeans, flinging the zipper
down while she gasps and arches against me, raking her
fingers feverishly through my hair.
Fuck yeah, Tink. There you are. And here I am.
I need this.
We need this, too.
I need to remember who I am in every kiss, every scratch,
every taste.
So that I can’t forget again while I play at showing one face or
another to Harris and Hamlin until I can expose and destroy
them both.
Right now, when I’m leaving bite marks over the delectable
skin of her throat, when I slip my palm down inside her jeans,
relishing when she arches against me and pushes the soft flesh
of her belly into my hand, her thighs quivering against my
fingertips as I delve lower, I remember.
I know.
I feel like I’m being honest for the first time in years, if only
through the desperation of my touch.
When I slip my fingers into her panties, she’s wet – deliciously
sopping wet, and I can’t stop myself from stroking my fingers
over her smooth skin languidly, taking my time delving lower,
flirting with the edge of soft, slick flesh and then away, until
she lifts her hips, her dilated eyes flashing dark frustration.
“James,” she hisses, digging her nails into the back of my neck
in bright points of sweet pain. “Don’t…don’t tease.”
“No?” I bite down harder on her throat, just to make her gasp
and whimper. Just to make her arch her body, her thighs
spreading wider for me, baring her to me. Then with a snarl, I
slip my fingers deeper into her heat, reclaiming that pussy,
running them firmly from the fluttering pink of her entrance
up to the tiny, delectable node of her clit. “Is this what you’re
asking for, Tink? Is this what you need?”
Her mouth pops open in pure swoon.
She doesn’t answer with words, but with high, gasping cries
that burn me down.
Fuck.
She could scorch this winter straight into summer with the
way she writhes, that soft flesh gripping my fingers like she
could guide me inside her cunt with nothing but clenching fire.
Lucky for her, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t oblige a
lady.
After teasing her a moment more, I slip my fingers through her
wetness, coating them.
Then slowly, one stroking fingertip at a time, ease my two
middle fingers inside her.
Her reaction is instant and intoxicating.
“James!”
A high, broken call of my name, as she slams her head back
against the door, rocking her hips toward me. I devour every
hint of passion in her lax features, lingering on her lovely lips,
the way her chest rises and falls in swelling gasps, the flutter
of her lashes against flushed cheeks.
She’s pure siren arousal right now, and she gives herself over
with complete and utter wanton willingness as I stroke my
fingers in and out of her again and again, circling her clit with
my thumb in taunting pressure, pushing deeper every time I
fill her.
She’s so fucking tight inside, these heavy convulsions
gripping, making it hard to pull my fingers free for each new
thrust.
Faye’s always been like that.
Once she has you, it’s almost impossible to break free.
I know I don’t want to, either. Not when it’s hard for me to
breathe.
Not when I’m throbbing with the desire to fill her with more
than just my fingers, to take her until we’re flesh to flesh and
writhing on the floor in a plunging, grasping, hungry mess.
But I still have some sanity left, some last bit of self-control
that tells me not to cross that line.
Not today.
I hold myself back by the thinnest thread. For a moment, I feel
almost like I’m punishing her for making me want her so
much when I add a third finger, stretching her sweetness,
searching deeper, twisting inside until she goes stiff with a
strangled, needy cry and rakes her fingers through my hair.
“James, fuck – James!” she whimpers every syllable.
The only warning before her body bucks harder in a clenching,
shuddering rush. Her hips rock wildly, her flesh locks around
my fingers.
She’s gorgeous. She’s lost. She’s pure, raw, undiluted lust
captured in the shape of a woman…and I’m privileged to
watch her fall apart before my eyes, surrendering to my touch.
She comes real sweet for me.
Head tossed back in pure rapture, red hair flying, lips parted in
a tight, endless, straining gasp I want to pull down my throat.
But if I do that, I know I’ll lose my last thread of control.
I’ll either pop off in my pants, or I’ll tear open my fly and fill
her wet, calling, irresistible heat.
No, damn it. Not now.
Slowly, I ease my fingers out of her as her tremors soften and
she slumps against the door, grasping limply at my shoulders. I
try to be careful touching her sensitive flesh, but still she
flinches subtly until I’ve pulled my glistening hand fully free.
I want to lick her taste from my fingers. But something about
how she’s looking at me, with a dazed, sweet, satisfied smile
and her eyes half-closed, throws a sudden icy guilt over me,
cooling my desire.
Faye reaches up to touch her fingertips to my lips. “There’s the
man I missed,” she whispers. “It’s nice knowing you missed
me too.”
Fuck.
Fuck me, what have I just done?
All I’ve done is give her false hope.
Because I was reckless, careless, caught up in a fury of temper
and desire, needing something to ground myself, a bitter
reminder I’m more than just a pawn in anybody’s game.
Hello, unthinkable. The world drops out under me.
I’m quietly cursing myself for letting Faye think we could ever
have an us again, when that’s something I can’t give her.
I shake my head, drawing back without words.
I can’t even find the right thing to say to apologize. Not when
I know everything I’ve done here is entirely selfish. She stares
up at me, that sweet, warm expression crumpling in the most
terrible way as she starts to straighten her clothing, drifting
away from the door and toward me with one hand
outstretched.
“James?”
I can’t stay here.
Not with the plea in her voice, begging me to forget my
purpose, to forget every reason why not.
I take a deep, shaky breath, trying like hell to steady myself.
“I’m sorry for my indiscretion,” I tell her tonelessly, and
incline forward, wiping my fingers dry on my pants leg. “If
you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
It’s cold. I know it’s pure killing.
But it has the desired effect since she can’t even bring herself
to say anything.
And her silence haunts me, even after I step around her and
pull the door open.
Haunts me, I said, and chases me out into the sub-zero
brightness of a day that nonetheless feels like the darkest and
coldest of my soul.
I’ M NOT SURPRISED when Faye doesn’t follow me.
What I just did was, to put it in her terms, a total asshole
move.
It takes the frigid snow to clear my head as I force myself out
on a perimeter sweep.
I always keep the cabin in sight, technically doing my duty to
protect her, but also making a full and clear assessment of our
environment.
For what I’m thinking, I need to know this resort inside and
out.
I need to know everywhere Hamlin might stage backup.
I need to know every vantage point a sniper could take
advantage of.
I need to know every safe space where I might conceal myself
and the woman I’ve made it my mission to guard, even if I
might be the thing she really needs protection from.
A plan slowly takes shape in the back of my mind, but I need
to know certain things first. Need to be certain what Harris and
Hamlin are planning – with each other, and against each other.
Which means I need to get access to Harris’ rooms. His laptop.
He’s a smart man and wouldn’t leave incriminating things in
writing. He’s been in politics long enough to see dumber,
dirtier people burn for their own messy mistakes.
But some things are unavoidable, leaving behind some trace,
especially when your self-serving black market plans are tied
up in congressional spending bills.
Everything has to be documented and described to death.
It’s just a matter of finding the hidden message in all the
legalese and determining what it truly means for his future
plans.
Maybe, just maybe, whatever I find will give me the opening I
need to pry apart Hook Hamlin and find his weak points.
Sure, Harris may be my primary target, the one who makes my
blood burn with a quiet but festering need for vengeance.
However, there’s no love lost for Pershing.
Hamlin is just as tangled up in this, and he deserves to fall just
as far, topple just as hard.
I only wish I could confide in someone at Enguard. Landon,
Gabe, Riker, anyone.
But telling them what I know about Hamlin’s arms deals and
black market ops and misappropriation of funds using Harris
as a funnel? That means telling them about my past, and
covering up for Harris’ involvement in the murder of a
talented FBI agent.
My mentor, and my friend.
I still hate myself for doing it. And I still question myself
every day – why?
Did I truly do it to protect Faye from losing the last living
parent she had left? Or was it a cowardly choice made in a
haze of grief, pain, and loss?
That night I lost my friend, lost my career, lost the love of my
life.
And lost my mother when the plane that was carrying me and
agent Tanner Egon crashed, nearly killing me.
Leaving me hospitalized, unable to even close the last distance
between myself and my mother as she lay dying, that
unfinished novel of hers waiting for an ending when she could
hardly hold a pen with cancer-riddled hands.
That grief, that loss, are too tangled in my hatred for Senator
Harris.
He may not have killed my mother the way he killed Tanner,
but he stole her last moments from me.
And that, I can never forgive.
I’m just coming around from checking the large generator
array at the back of the lodge when I hear my name echoing
across the snow in Hook’s ringing, grandfatherly voice.
Damn, now what?
“James, I thought that was you,” he calls, raising a hand as he
steps out from the lodge and into the snow. His bulk is so
large, so monolithic, that even though others have tamped
down a path in the snowdrifts leading from the front steps, he
still sends snow sluicing out in sheets to either side as he
widens the path with his sheer size, forging toward me. “How
are things going with patrols?”
I force my rage down. I don’t report to anyone but Landon, but
we’re supposed to be at least pretending to collaborate with
Pershing Shield, so I offer a clipped, mock-friendly nod. “Well
enough. I was simply assessing the layout of the resort and any
problem areas.”
He stops in front of me, watching me with those penetrating
eyes. He really does remind me of a shark, something flat and
empty in eyes that don’t reflect the light.
Yet he still smiles, easy and affable, as he asks, “Find anything
interesting?”
“Not particularly. I’m concerned about the generator array,
however. It seems old. I’m worried that repeated freezing and
defrosting has created a questionable safety situation and
possible fire hazard.”
“I love how you say that like you’re talking about what to
have for tea.” He chuckles. “You’re cold as ice, aren’t you?”
I cock my head, sizing him up. “More someone who prides
himself on self-control.”
“Self-control, eh?” Hamlin rubs his chin with one thickly
gloved hand, mussing his beard. “I’m a firm believer in
discipline. Don’t think enough men in this day and age have
it.”
“Is that so?” Careful, neutral answers. I want to let him guide
the conversation, see where it takes me.
“Yup. A man starts to crack, and soon…well, there’s no telling
how damn far he’ll fall.”
I pinch my jaw. It isn’t hard to sense the reference to his own
father, the gambler and womanizer, the man who squandered a
fortune and a good name.
Then Hook gives me another of those assessing looks. They’re
the kind that undoubtedly are meant to put a man in his place
and remind him of Hamlin’s authority, yet it slides off me like
water off glass. “So,” he muses. “You’re Harris’ man, are
you?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that.”
“He says he helped you get a job.” His eyes narrow. “What
kind of job, exactly?”
I shrug, letting my gaze shift away from Hamlin to rove idly
over the sun-dotted resort. We’re alone outside, save for Gabe
in front of the cabin he shares with Sky, looking as though he’s
actually enjoying the effort of digging out a clearer path.
From the fervor with which he sends snow arcing out in
glittering sprays, there’s very little doubt that he’s making the
extra effort for his very pregnant wife. Watching Gabe gives
me something to do while I consider my response.
“He gave me a reference for a role with the FBI,” I answer.
Just enough detail to make him curious. Not enough to leak
too much.
A thoughtful, growly sound rumbles in the back of Hamlin’s
throat. “Wow. So you owe him favors then?”
I flick my gaze back to him, jaw clenching so tight it might
fucking pop. “No. I owe Senator Paul Harris nothing.”
Careful. Not too much, I tell myself. Bring it home.
Hook offers me a small smile that I suppose is meant to set me
at ease. “Is that a touch of resentment I detect?”
Fuck yes.
Because it’s exactly what I want him to perceive.
The mask I’m crafting right now is new, an intricate lie. By the
time I’m done, if I’ve done it right, Hook Hamlin will believe
I’d do anything to get to Senator Harris.
While Senator Harris will believe I’ll do anything to get to
Hook.
We’re alone in a hostile environment, soon to be cut off from
the outside world in dangerous conditions – and conniving
men tend to be paranoid men.
When the shit hits the fan, paranoid men need to believe they
have the right people on their side.
So I’ll let Hamlin’s paranoia do the heavy work for me and
slowly feed it.
Just enough until he believes I’m the only one who can make
it go away.
Hamlin is still considering me, while I give back stony silence,
offering nothing.
His lips twist thoughtfully before he asks, “Tell me something,
James…are you keeping Harris’ secrets, or is he keeping
yours?”
“Do you really need an answer?”
“No?” he retorts, deceptively mild, a smile forming on his
face. “So you don’t want to be free of him? Is that what you’re
telling me?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Hamlin. I’m lost. I have no idea what you’re
referring to,” I answer coolly, inclining my head. “Please
excuse me while I check the maintenance sheds.”
I give him what he expects – plausible deniability. And just
enough he can ferret out between the lines.
That’s how this works, these illicit, tense conversations that
shouldn’t be happening.
A few minutes later, I walk away, leaving him.
On the hook, as it were – and there’s Faye’s humor creeping
in.
But I can’t let myself think about her right now.
The goal is to make Hamlin think that I could be an ally
against Harris, but not that I’m disloyal or easily swayed.
I’ve given him plenty of motive to work with and something to
pry at. This game of chess is only just beginning, pawns
moving across the board in careful single steps.
Shame Harris and Hamlin don’t realize the obvious.
They aren’t the only ones playing.

I DON ’ T RETURN to the cabin, even after I’ve finished a

meticulous mapping of the grounds, discovering a few
interesting things stowed away in the maintenance sheds.
Namely, long black canvas duffel bags filled with automatic
rifles.
Somehow, I don’t think the skeleton crew of resort staff left
them there.
You don’t need an AK-47 to deal with bears.
Maybe they’re worried about the Abominable Snowman, but I
don’t think so.
After I’ve finished my rounds, I take up a vantage point on the
roof of the lodge.
The interesting thing with people is they never tend to look up.
No one notices me crouched to one side of the chimney,
watching the patterns as people drift back and forth. It’s
mostly worried aides and resort staff, seeking each other out
for reassurance and asking if they should huddle up together,
including a few trading cabin assignments in the hopes of
being trapped with the object of their interest.
Landon and the other members of Enguard, too, walking the
perimeter with Pershing staff. They’re discussing how to
secure the place and ensure communications stay open in the
event of an emergency, as well as helping the resort staff with
disaster prep.
Storm shutters go up quickly. Buried power cables get checked
for insulation. Generator fuel tanks are topped off from the
large drums in the storage sheds. Cases of bottled water are
redistributed to each cabin with a backup supply at the lodge.
It brings back memories of home.
Of how my grandfather, Dominick, always wanted to be
prepared in the event of the “big one” that’s supposed to hit
the West Coast any time now.
You know, the apocalyptic earthquake that would destroy us
all and damn near fling most of the West Coast into the
Pacific. He was always stocking up on non-perishables,
portable solar panels, batteries, and all other sorts of
emergency supplies.
My mother, free spirit that she was, would watch him with
fond indulgence, laying her fingers against the piano keys.
She’d tell him he worried too much about all the wrong things.
In the end, she was right.
It wasn’t a natural disaster, some phenomenon we could
predict, that brought disaster to our family.
It was the frailty of the human body, and nothing else.
I track Landon and Hook Hamlin as they disappear into the
lodge, catching a bit of their conversation.
Landon discusses how he’d hired several more low-level
security team members for this, the screening process, how we
more than doubled our staff to be ready for this job.
It’s not hard to tell he really wants to impress Hamlin, perhaps
even looks up to him as a mentor.
It guts me a little inside, to see someone as honorable and
whip-smart as my boss currying favor with a fucking pirate
like Hook Hamlin. Whenever the truth comes out, he’ll be
devastated.
And it’ll be my fault.
Maybe that’s what’s casting doubts over my grand plan.
Will I make the wrong choice again?
Just to protect someone I care for from losing faith in their
idols?
It’s interesting to me, though, that all of Pershing Shield’s
personnel have been assigned to the outlying cabins ringing
the main resort cluster, leaving Enguard personnel and Faye in
the inner ring of cabins.
Harris and Hook are both staying in the two master suites
inside the main lodge. The assignments would’ve been
different had Harris’ guests been able to make it up the
mountain.
They didn’t. Now that there’s more space to spread out, it’s
looking like Hook has made some strategic changes.
Almost like he wants to box us in.
I see my chance to make a move, though, when I notice Gabe,
the setting sun reflecting off his knit cap and parka as he
trudges through the paths cut into the snow and toward the
main lodge. He must be on shift tonight, guarding Harris’
room.
Perfect.
I couldn’t pull this off with Riker or any of the more canny
members of the Enguard crew, but Gabe is like a big, trusting
dog – and he’s also too new to our team to know those little
tics that give us away when we’re lying.
Or planning to deceive someone, even with the best intent.
I drop down from the roof, landing lightly at the lodge’s rear,
and slip in through the back entrance that most of the staff use.
It lets me cut through the temperature-controlled wine cellar,
where I snag a bottle of Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand
Cru.
The name is as impressive as its price tag – over five thousand
dollars a bottle, normally.
No one even notices me take it.
I’m sure the Senator won’t mind when I put it on his tab.
Stepping out into the main room of the lodge, my timing is
impeccable.
I show up just as Gabe comes in, blowing on his ungloved
fingers, stomping the snow from the treads of his boots in little
chunks all over the mat. As he catches sight of me
approaching, his eyes light up.
“James,” he says jovially, spreading his arms as though he
might hug me. “I’ve hardly seen you around. Where you been
hiding?”
I sidestep. I’m not a hugger.
“Pretty busy with Ms. Harris,” I say, and then immediately
regret my phrasing when it reminds me just how busy I was
with her a few short hours ago.
She’s likely still simmering her way into an explosion that’s
going to scorch my eyebrows off when I make it back to the
cabin. To distract both him and myself, I raise the bottle. “But
look what I found in the back.”
Gabe falters, wincing. “I…”
I tap the bottle again with one finger. Come on, big guy, no
excuses.
Glancing over his shoulder, he leans in, dropping his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. “I shouldn’t. Sky can’t drink right now
so…it makes her real mad when I do.”
“She’ll never have to know. Our little secret.” I toss my head
toward the seating arrangement in front of the fire. The lodge
is empty, at least, all the bustle and preparation to batten down
for the coming storm sending people scurrying, but it worries
me that Harris has been notably absent.
For now, though, I focus my attention on Gabe, guiding him
toward the plush couches and pausing to snag two wine
glasses from a concierge cart against the wall.
“James, man, I appreciate the gesture and all but –”
“But we’ve never had a drink to congratulate you on your first
child. Come on. Just one before you start your shift.”
Gabe lets out a shaky southern laugh. “Well, don’t
congratulate me till I survive that baby girl being born.”
I raise both brows, sinking down into an upholstered easy
chair, carefully using my thumb and precise strength at the
right angle to ease the cork out of the bottle with a pop. “So
it’s definitely a girl?”
“Yeah.” He flushes with a broad, goofy grin. “Found out right
before we came up here. And she’s a fighter, just like her Ma.
Kicking all the time. Problem is, every time she kicks, I think
Sky wants to kick me.”
“She just might.” As I’m talking, I’m pouring. I fill a glass,
then push it toward Gabe before filling my own. “Have you
discussed names yet?”
“Aw, shitfire, don’t get me started on that.” And just like that,
he’s downing half the glass in a heartbeat, while I pretend to
sip at mine. “I keep wanting to name her Belle, but she says
Belle’s a granny name. Then when I get mad ’cause Belle’s
my mama’s name, she’s sorry. Then I say it ought to be
Martha, my grandma’s name. But she ain’t sure, naming our
kid after her because it’s the same name as Clark Kent’s
mama.”
I raise both brows. “Batman’s as well, I believe,” I point out.
Gabe groans, dropping his face into his palms.
“You’re not helping,” he mumbles, but all I do is lean forward
and refill his glass. “Gotta say, though, this wine’s mighty
good.”
Exactly, big man. I’m helping in my own way.
Both Gabe, the entire team, and myself.
I’ll feel guilty for this later.
We talk for nearly an hour while emptying the wine bottle. He
empties it, mostly, while I’m very careful to make it look like
I’m drinking my fair share when in fact I’m watching the
clock.
He’s not due on shift just yet.
He came in early so he wouldn’t be trudging through the snow
after dark. I need to get him out of the way before he’s due on
the clock, then report back in to take his place.
Fortunately, Gabe’s a lightweight, considering his massive size
– and Richebourg Grand Cru is a rather potent red. Twenty
minutes before his shift is set to start, he’s sliding over to one
side.
Then his head hits the throw pillow, and he’s out cold, snoring
like the big bear he is.
It takes a good amount of my strength to heft him up, draping
his arm over my shoulders and supporting his weight as I drag
him out into the snow.
The sunset has just finished painting pink and gold on its
reflective, glittering canvas of snow. The light show fades to
softer hues of violet and blue as twilight sinks in.
It only makes the glow of vividly bright red against Faye’s
cabin window stand out that much more.
I can feel her watching, beaming daggers that cut holes
through me. Just like lasers burning hot against the snowy
wind slicing through me right now, but I need to keep my
focus just now.
Especially because this wind worries me.
So do the dense, dark clouds it keeps pushing onward.
I manage to haul Gabe back to his cabin, his horse-like breaths
puffing against the back of my neck with his snoring the entire
time. At least it keeps me warm.
When I thump the door with my elbow, a very pregnant Skylar
waddles to answer it, bundled up in no less than three
bathrobes and wearing her snow boots inside. She eyes us both
shrewdly, her lips pursing. “I thought Gabe was on night shift
with Harris?”
“My fault. You have my apologies.” As she makes room to let
me drag Gabe inside, I step over the threshold and into near-
blistering warmth. Gabe’s feet thump on the mat, then drag
over the doorway and inside. “We settled in for a chat and got
a bit carried away. I forgot he can’t hold his liquor.”
Sky snorts, shutting the door behind us. “And you can?”
“Apparently with more fortitude than your dear husband.”
Trying not to wheeze when Gabe is a veritable tank, I haul him
toward the rumpled bed. “Here. Let’s put him to bed.”
Quickly, Sky moves to pull the covers back. I groan again as I
haul Gabe over and drop him onto the mattress.
He doesn’t even stir, still snoring, sprawled out cold.
Sky gives him a fondly disgusted look, then sighs and helps
me tug his boots off, loosening his coat before covering him
up again.
“What about Senator Harris?” she asks.
“I’ll take Gabe’s shift,” I answer. “Faye’s safe in her cabin,
and I have a clear view of it from the window in Harris’ suite.
It’s the least I can do to make up for…” I gesture at Gabe.
“This.”
She folds her arms tightly over her chest. “This is going to be a
hung over wreck in the morning,” she says, before sighing, her
gaze softening as she sinks down on the edge of the bed.
Smiling softly, she brushes his hair back from his brow. “He’s
such an idiot sometimes.”
“And yet you love him.”
“Yeah. I do. More than anything in the world.” Sky cups
Gabe’s cheek, tracing her thumb gently along the crest of his
cheekbone. “That’s part of love, I guess. Holding on to
someone even when they do stupid things, or aren’t their best
selves, or something goes wrong.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Fuck, I don’t know how to feel about that.
So I simply take my leave, heading back up to the lodge as
night descends.
Harris isn’t in his suite when I take up my post outside.
He’s been oddly absent ever since the photo shoot and panic
over the storm, and rather than make me worried for his safety,
it makes me wonder what he’s doing. Why he can’t be seen in
the public eye.
His room is locked, but like all other members of the senior
security team, I have an all-access keycard for emergencies.
I can justify this as an emergency later, if I get caught.
Glancing around the upstairs hallway, I take a good look
before making my move.
It’s just a small landing off the stairs with two doors for the
luxury suites and a single window at the end of the hall, giving
me a clear line of sight to Faye’s cabin.
No one’s here. No one can see me from outside, and Faye is
curled up against the windowsill, tucked into bed in a pair of
those damnably tight, short shorts and a t-shirt.
Squinting, I see her nose is buried in a book, her temple
resting against a glass pane.
I want to go to her, to tug her gently away from the window to
remind her not to sleep there or she’ll catch a cold. To bundle
her up and keep her safe. To do more of everything I shouldn’t
have done to her earlier.
But that’s not my place anymore, damn it.
And she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
She’s already wrapped up in blankets, and I remind myself that
she’s fine.
She’s not the real target here, anyway.
She’s leverage someone might try to use to intimidate the
Senator into getting their way.
But she’ll be safe, out of my sight for just a few minutes.
I slip my keycard from my pocket and into the slot. The light
flashes green, and I catch the doorknob before the automated
latch makes its distinctive click, instead easing it in silently.
Slowly, I push the door open. I leave it cracked behind me so it
doesn’t make a sound sliding shut. Then I hold my breath.
Just because Harris didn’t answer doesn’t mean he isn’t in here
after all. But the room is dark, with that familiar emptiness that
comes when people are distinctly absent, like a body without a
soul.
The Senator’s suitcases are stacked neatly next to the luxe
king-sized bed, completely untouched, the massive and lushly
decorated room as pristine as if its occupant had never settled
in – except for the desk.
It’s noticeably covered in the riot and clutter of a busy, busy
man.
Intrigued, I steal one last glance over my shoulder, then step
deeper into the room and shut the door behind me. Six steps in
and I’m rifling through the desk with gloved hands, looking
over printouts, but it’s nothing but drafts of campaign
speeches, invoices for travel to the lodge, several other
mundane documents as incriminating as a grocery list.
It’s the laptop that’s the real target.
Too bad when I flip it up, I’m greeted by a lock screen asking
not for a password, but a biometric fingerprint.
Fuck.
Good thing I came prepared.
Slipping a little kit from my pocket and snapping it open, I lift
out a thin sheet of clear polarized film with a light coat of
transparent ferrous iron on one side. This baby will do
miracles.
Carefully, I press the other side over the fingerprint plate on
the corner of the laptop.
A perfect imprint of Harris’ thumbprint comes back.
The imprint isn’t enough. Next a quick pass with a little square
magnet. Then the coating that imprinted the fingerprint
activates, pulling at the iron on the opposite side, until it
clusters in lines following the swirls of the Senator’s print.
Now I have a raised surface I can work with.
Next comes the little ball of flesh-toned putty in the kit.
Rolling it between my hands quickly, I warm it until it’s close
enough to skin temperature for a biometric reader to sense it as
the temperature of skin.
Finally, I press the little die-cut fingerprint into the surface of
the putty.
When I pull it away, I have a little round, warmed fake
fingertip complete with Harris’ print.
And when I gently press it to his laptop, it spins its little
wheel, before the screen clears and it greets me with Welcome
back, Paul in bold white letters.
I smile. My old FBI training is still with me.
I don’t have time right now to go through all the documents on
Harris’ laptop.
I’m not here to copy everything. Just a quick scan tells me he’s
got nearly a full terabyte of info on here, and I know the SD
card in my phone won’t be able to handle that much.
Damn. I just need to leave myself a backdoor so I can freely
access the intel later without being detected from my own
laptop.
I cast another furtive look over my shoulder, my heart racing
in a way it hasn’t in years.
Call it a clandestine rush. The kind you get working against an
intelligent enemy who could catch me at any second.
Quickly, I tuck the fingerprint kit away and replace it with my
phone, spooling out a USB cable to connect it to the laptop.
I’m just leaving behind a few presents from a little folder I
keep tucked away in my phone’s files for moments like this.
They won’t work on an Android phone, but they’re perfectly
designed to be undetectable on Windows laptops.
First, a program to capture and transmit all the Senator’s
keystrokes to a remote server I can check from my own laptop.
Then a remote backdoor that’ll allow me to log in from
another device and either view Harris’ screen as though it
were my own, or take control of his machine.
Once I’m out of here, I can explore his files at my leisure.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned during my time with the
FBI, it’s that politicians are notoriously careless with
technology.
As soon as the files are done installing, I check the task
manager list to make sure the processes are hidden, and I’ve
left no trace. Then I swiftly unhook everything, shove it in my
pocket, and shut the laptop down.
I need to be out of this room soon, and by the time Harris
comes back, I’ll have found someone else to replace me on
shift so he’ll never even know I was here.
Landon might be willing, if he’s not attached to Hook Hamlin
again. Landon always likes to keep busy when he’s away from
Kenna to keep the restlessness at bay.
One last scan to make sure I’ve left no trace of my presence,
not a single paper out of place, before I’m gone, easing the
door shut. Not even a print to give me away. I never took off
my gloves.
I’m almost reluctant to go. The fresh charge of alertness in my
veins demands I do something now.
Feels like I’ve been in limbo for years, but I’m only just now
waking up.
Taking action brings something to life in me, all right.
I’m lingering on that as I descend the stairs, brushing past a
sleepy-looking housekeeper who’s just closing up her cart at
the foot of the stairs. She flashes me a worried but warm
smile, and I dip my head in a nod.
On I go – only to freeze as I look up to see exactly who’s
waiting for me.
She’s perched on the sofa in the commons room like she knew
she’d find me here, her legs crossed and her arms tightly
folded and her soft red mouth set in a line that says I’m in
more trouble than I would be with the Senator.
Faye.
 7

NO ALIBI (FAYE)

I ’m going to murder him.

I’m going to fucking murder James Nobel.
And by the time the snow thaws and they find his body at the
bottom of a hill somewhere, I’ll be in Bora Bora with a new
name and a new life and zero memory of his hands on my
body, in my body, while he kissed me like he still actually
feels something for me.
Right before shutting me out, putting on that fucking android
act he uses to keep everyone at a distance.
Including me.
And right now, I’m not having it. I want answers.
Like why I went upstairs looking for my father and found
James in his darkened room, bent over Dad’s laptop, doing
something that didn’t look entirely on the up-and-up.
I guess I never shook off my training, because he never even
heard me, walking on the balls of my feet and making sure the
light from the hall wouldn’t cast a shadow to alert him to my
presence.
I’d watched him for only a minute before jerking away,
flattening myself to one side of the wall as he’d glanced over
his shoulder. When I’d peeked back, he was looking at the
laptop again, so I’d hotfooted it out of there with my heart in
my throat.
Then I stopped in the commons room, wondering what the hell
I was running from.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
It’s James who owes me, right now.
He owes me a lot.
Right now, he’s standing at the foot of the stairs, one foot still
on the bottom step, hand frozen adjusting his cufflink, looking
at me with the kind of blank stare that says he knows he’s in
trouble.
But after a moment he glosses over, face shuttering, and he
nods to me briefly. “Ms. Harris,” he says smoothly in that oh-
so-punchable way. “I was just on my way back to our cabin.”
I narrow my eyes, pursing my lips.
Nope. No freaking way.
My temper is boiling. He’s lucky I’m keeping myself in one
place, or I’d be at his throat.
I’d probably punch him, if I’m being honest. “Uh-huh. Our
cabin. Was that before or after you finished messing with
Dad’s laptop?”
I’d hoped to get a reaction out of him, but he’s ready this time,
not even blinking, batting it back at me with, “Laptop? I have
no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me. Not to me, James.” It hurts that he’d try, even
if I knew he would.
He’s still Agent Nobel all the way. Everything hidden behind
that perfect gloss, dissembling his way through everything.
Hostile situations. Conflicts. Commitments.
“Don’t even.” I push to my feet, glaring at him, my throat
tight. “I saw you, James. I came upstairs and saw you
tampering with Dad’s laptop.”
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, shoulders squaring,
before he steps closer.
“Lower your voice, please,” he says tightly, looking down at
me with pale eyes like sleet. “If you insist on discussing it…
fine. Not here.”
I scowl at him. I’m hardly ready to roll over just yet,
especially not when I’m basically being told to be a good girl
and shut up. “So there’s an it to talk about? Wow.”
He arches a brow, cool as ever. “Depends on which ‘it’ you’re
referring to.”
“Both!” I hiss, but still drop my voice. “You did two bad
things tonight, James. Two really, really shitty bad things.”
A silvery-blue glance like a razor blade slides over me from
head to toe, leaving too much behind.
First shivers, then heat in its wake. I hate how he does that to
me, even when I’m ready to take his head off.
Especially when he glides right past, heading for the door with
a final quip. “Interesting choice of words, Ms. Harris. You
didn’t seem to mind one ‘shitty bad thing.’”
I whip around, glaring at the back of his head, my cheeks in
flames.
God Almighty. If I had something, anything heavy enough
close by right now, he’d be suffering from blunt force trauma
to the skull.
I hate how he makes me want to kiss him and kill him at the
same time.
Yeah. Hate.
That’s the thing I’m feeling most.
But I turn to follow him – only we don’t get very far at all.
Not when the second he opens the door, people come pouring
in, shouting and trading panicked whispers. My father is with
them.
And from the way James looks at my Dad, there’s something
going on here I probably don’t want to know about, but need
to.
Dammit all.
When I said I missed the excitement of the FBI, I didn’t mean
I wanted conspiracies and messes with my own family.
Before I realize it, James is back at my side, standing like a
knight protecting his queen.
I can’t miss the way he angles himself to block the line of
sight to me. My father speaks, trying to get the panicking mob
under control, and I strain to listen while he gets everyone
quiet, gathering them around him like a flock of trembling
baby birds.
“Calm down,” he says firmly, pitching his voice with an
orator’s practiced ease. “I know you’ve all seen the troubling
news, but there’s nothing to worry about. This is, hands down,
the safest place we could possibly be.”
“What news?” I hiss to James, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
For once, I believe him.
“For those of you who haven’t heard,” my father continues,
casting a glance my way. “One of my closest aides in D.C. was
shot this afternoon. The news is just reaching us here. I know
you’ve all been patient with heightened security here, but I’m
asking for a little more. The fact that the cowards targeting me
took aim at my dear friend, Manny Price, in D.C. says they
haven’t traced us here. We’re safe. And you’d better believe
I’ll work like a dog to get answers and drag them to justice.”
I don’t believe it.
He’s my own father, and I don’t believe it.
Something just rings false.
Despite the emotional pitch in his voice, it’s like he knows
why this happened. Like there aren’t more answers to uncover.
And I have an ugly feeling that even after we leave here, going
back to a normal life won’t be possible. Not as long as people
are still trying to kill us.
I turn to ask James another question, but he’s gone again,
forging across the room toward Dad. I sigh, pressing my
fingers to the bridge of my nose.
God damn it, James.
I’ve heard enough. I don’t want to be here for this, and I
double don’t want to stand around feeling this doubt, watching
my father bald-faced lie to people with those hints only I can
read.
I don’t want to stand here while James ignores me, with all
these questions hanging between us and more coming by the
second.
So while no one’s looking at me, I slip through the crowd, out
of the lodge and into the night, back to my own cabin.

Five years Ago

I’ M WORRIED ABOUT J AMES .

He’s normally not like this. Maybe he’ll always be a rock, but
there’s a warmth in him, a kindness, a gentleness I’ve come to
love.
That stony shell just can’t hide the man underneath forever.
But lately, he’s been closed off. Withdrawn. Cold.
Locking his emotions away even after he told me why: his
mom’s cancer took a turn for the worse.
She’s dying, and he’s doing everything he can for her while
also dealing with an unexpected house guest. His friend, Agent
Egon, ended up couch surfing at James’ place after life gave
him a big swift kick in the balls.
Tanner’s house is being foreclosed. He’s dealing with a
pending divorce and two kids.
And James has a lot on his plate right now, a lot on his mind,
but he still couldn’t resist helping a friend.
Something about that touches me so deeply I hurt for him.
I’m scared for him, too. Frightened like never before.
James shouldn’t be on this mission.
But we’re already here, poised with the SWAT team, ready to
go in on a raid. We’re positioned in close formation on the
streets around a seemingly abandoned warehouse on the south
side of Portland, where months of tracking have uncovered a
secret contraband weapon distribution hub.
Whoever they are, they’re using this warehouse as a meeting
point.
The directors are worried the ringleader doesn’t just have guns
in there. They’re worried he has incendiary devices, and that’s
why I’m here.
Because someone’s holed up in the warehouse, armed and
ready, and after a standoff with local police, it’s the Feds’ turn.
I’m going in first. It’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating,
but it’s on me.
As the explosives expert, I’m just supposed to talk to him, find
out what he’s sitting on, maybe defuse him as much as I’m
able to defuse a human being instead of a bomb. Disarming
explosives is as much about knowing how to handle the people
wielding them as it is knowing how to handle the deadly
weapons.
James has my back, at least. I know that.
He’s with me as I separate out from my hiding place around
the corner of an old mall, my flak jacket on, half an inch of
Kevlar between me and a bullet, my hands up to show that
even if I’m not unarmed, I’m not brandishing a weapon right
now.
“Mr. Keuhler?” I call toward the open slit of a narrow window
where he’s been spotted watching us through a sniper rifle. I
tilt my head back, looking up, but the glass is covered in some
kind of reflective yellow film and I can barely make out a
shape, movement. “My name’s Faye Harris. I’m with the FBI.
I’m here to talk.”
There’s a long pause, a hesitation, and then a sullen growl.
“Not talking to any Feds. Fuck off.”
“I can understand your frustration, Mr. Keuhler,” I answer
soothingly. Just like the negotiator told me. “But right now, the
FBI is the closest thing you have to an ally. The local cops
want to send in SWAT to shoot first, ask questions later. Me
and my fellow agents, we just want to talk. And we’ve got the
power to do what the police can’t.”
Again, more silence, hesitant, suspicious, then, “Yeah? What’s
that?”
“Cut you a deal without anyone having to get hurt.” I slowly
start to lower my arms. “Now I’m going to lower my arms,
you’re going to lower your weapon, and maybe we can have a
nice talk –”
“Faye!” James snarls, half a second before I hear the gunshot
go off.
It’s possible I wouldn’t have died.
Not with the Kevlar vest, but if Keuhler had aimed for my
head, I’d be a goner anyway.
I’ll never know.
Not when suddenly James is there like lightning, shoving me
aside, shielding me with his body. The bullet zings between us,
hits the wall, then everything is chaos.
My service pistol appears in my hands, drawn by instinct.
Then there’s James’ carbine discharging loudly. Muzzle
flashes and shouts explode everywhere as SWAT storms the
building, hoping there’s nothing rigged to blow up inside.
Only Keuhler’s not alone in the warehouse.
It’s my first real firefight since I graduated Quantico as a true
agent, and it’s nothing like what I expect.
The movies show you people being mowed down in waves by
scattered, desperate shots. In reality, it’s a lot of ducking,
peering, taking precisely aimed shots at opportune moments,
breath racing and heart pounding and veins throbbing against
your throat while you can taste gunpowder in the air and you
don’t know how to feel when you fire a bullet. Or when you
hear that thunck sound of it striking flesh, when you smell
blood and you may hate to kill, but you don’t want to die.
All I have is in my training. My instinct. And James.
And I don’t know how to feel when every time I catch
movement out of the corner of my eye, it’s the gorgeous man
I’m in love with, picking people off with icy precision,
standing over me like he would keep the world from me with
his body and take a thousand bullets so I’ll never have to feel
one.
It’s so scary and sad and sweet, I’m numb.
Yet somehow, even when a bullet grazes so close to my head, I
feel the burn of its velocity and heat against the upper curve of
my ear…
I’ve never felt more alive.
There’s barely a moment to collect ourselves once the
gunshots die down and suddenly everything is quiet. Still.
We have a moment to search the premises. I do a thorough
check for explosives. SWAT searches for more men hiding, but
neither of us find anything.
We wait for the field specialist to give the all clear.
That’s when I remember how to breathe. The entire time
James and I are locked on each other, hot-eyed and wordless,
every glance sizzling with the adrenaline that’s still surging
inside me.
It’s like the battle heat never quite died, never quite calmed.
My body still thinks it’s fight or flight time.
Part of me wants a fight. Just not the kind where anyone
bleeds.
And the second no one’s looking…somehow James and I are
in a dark crevice in an alley, tearing at each other’s clothes,
kissing hot and deep and with a wild desperation.
God, if we weren’t in public, if we were alone…
But that kiss is enough to keep my battle-hunger going,
stoking the fire high until we’re dismissed and can slip away.
His place is closer. Even with his friend on the couch, we’re as
quiet as possible as we burst in tangled up in each other and
locked in mid-kiss, whispering and stumbling around the man
sleeping on the couch until we can tumble into James’
bedroom and onto the bed.
It’s as wild as the first time.
Hell, maybe wilder – something new awakening between us,
something primal and animalistic.
He’s a shadow with burning quicksilver eyes, moving over me.
Intense, fierce, silent, keeping me totally in his thrall as his
hands shape my body and I arch to his touch. His mouth sears
me everywhere, devouring me from head to toe, leaving my
body tingling, singing, screaming with need.
My pussy feels so good underneath his tongue.
Then good becomes amazing, and a few licks more makes
amazing oh-my-Gawd.
Every last bit of me is scrunched. I’m so close to coming I can
hear my own heartbeat whispering O in my ears.
James knows it, too. He rears up, gives me this dark, wildfire
look, his tongue sweeping across my slickness on his lips.
“Please,” I whimper. “So close.”
“Fucking bite your wrist,” he growls, just before a loud
whimper ignites off my lips. “Bite it, Tink, and I’ll bring you
off so hard you see stars.”
So that’s exactly what I do.
It’s ridiculous and crazy and kinda hot, but I do it just for him,
just like he asked.
I hold up my wrist and sink my teeth in. Bite down so hard it
adds an extra wicked brushfire to my nerves when his face
returns beneath my legs, bringing back the delicious heat of
his tongue.
Oh, hell!
James pushes his licks faster, deeper, so deep, setting off an
explosive release and a need for more, more, oh God, more.
Thankfully, he’s happy to oblige.
I feel so exposed, so naked, so open, but I’ve never felt safer
in anyone’s hands.
I give myself over completely as he touches me until I writhe,
until my wrist is hardly enough and I’m biting the soft part of
my palm to keep from screaming loud enough to wake his
friend.
He wrings my flesh until I’m nearly sobbing, dripping with
pleasure as he toys with me some more with his fingers, his
tongue, slipping in and out of me again and again, licking and
tasting, nibbling gently on my clit before biting my inner
thigh.
That crisp love bite of his brings every sensitive, sultry nerve
alive with a sharp, sweet shock of pain.
Oh.
Oh. Holy. Hell.
I’m already coming apart again before he’s even in me,
panting and spent and shaking.
Then he’s perched neatly between my legs, a devilish silver-
blue glint in his eye.
If you’ve never had sex with a man who just saved your life,
let me tell you one thing.
Nothing else compares.
Absolutely nothing.
No drug, no joy, no money could ever take me higher than I
get when James Nobel fucks me that night.
He nudges the head of his cock against me and the string of
my body snaps tight. I’m biting my lip, whimpering
wordlessly, begging because I need him in me now.
Not want. Need.
In one burning thrust he plunges into me, and I arch back on
the bed, wrapping my legs around his hard waist, digging my
heels into the small of his back, pulling him deeper.
He’s all raw heat inside me, pounding pleasure against my
flesh over and over again as he takes me, claims me, makes
me his. It’s a friction I’ll never forget. A steady, rising burn in
every nerve, starting near my womb, entangling my mind,
finishing my soul.
His cock does honest freaking miracles.
And some that are far too dirty to be honest at all.
I’m adrift in his beastliness, caught in a tempest of pleasure
and muscle and grunting, thrusting, painfully gorgeous man.
James slams himself into me. I see his teeth appear behind his
lips, feel his hips quicken. Then he’s in me to the hilt,
growling this sweet madness, the swell of his cock one fiery
pulse away from the inevitable.
There’s no such thing as pretending I could take his come
without it setting me off.
And I burn hotter and hotter by the second, winding ever
tighter, letting the wild liquid friction of every last thrust from
his erupting cock carry me with him to a dizzying peak.
Coming!
I’m crying when I shatter. Crying in wordless, moaning,
gasping overload.
And maybe something more.
I want to say his name. I want to say it so much, but I’m afraid
if I do, it’ll sound like the one thing I’ve been afraid to say to
him all this time, especially when so many heavy things weigh
on his shoulders right now.
I love you.
And when we crash, we crash together, and I know I’ll never,
ever love anyone else again.
 Present Day

E VERYTHING after that is a haze in my memory.

I remember drifting off to sleep in James’ arms, and waking
up to find him and Egon talking about the case…and a name
that seems familiar now.
Pershing Shield. Oh my God.
Now, I remember where I heard the name. A former employee
of Pershing was behind the black market weapons hub, and it
was far from over after that man, Keuhler, died.
They’d found copied checks, the secondary imprints used as
receipts.
I’m waking up for real even as I realize I’m dreaming, reliving
a memory in my sleep, but before I can fully register the hand
on my shoulder and the voice calling my name, I remember
that night.
Tanner Egon waking up, talking to James about the checks
long into the night. The names on them.
And that one of them was made out to a Senate exploratory
committee.
Was it Dad’s?
I feel sick even as I flutter my eyes open, taking in my
unfamiliar surroundings, only to realize I’m still in the cabin at
the lodge, and someone’s leaning over me.
Someone’s saying my name softly in a way that turns me
inside out and makes me feel too weak.
James.
 8

ACE OF HEARTS (JAMES)

W atching Faye sleep does something to me, soothing the

turmoil in my soul.
She must’ve fallen asleep waiting for me to come back from
the lodge after a rather fruitless conversation with Harris. Her
father danced around my subtle leading questions, implying he
might or might not be aware of any plans to isolate us up here.
The situation left me uneasy. Getting back to Faye was more
important than prying at the Senator for nothing, especially
when I don’t want to make him suspicious.
Besides, I owe her answers. She caught me red-handed.
It’s time to face the music.
I pause for a second next to the bed, staring down at her. Fuck,
she’s beautiful.
Whatever else she became over our years apart, and whatever I
turned into, nothing changed what happens when she’s caught
in my eyes.
Phoenix red hair. Curves to tomorrow. Delicate snowy skin.
The demon in my slacks starts to throb, hounding me to make
another big mistake. Clenching my jaw, I try like hell to ignore
my own lust. Sobering up for a hard talk instead.
I grip her shoulder and shake gently, whispering, “Faye. It’s
me. Wake up.”
She stirs with a sleepy whine.
Then rolls away from me, giving me her back, burying her
face sullenly into the pillows, shoulders hunched.
I hold back my smile, nudging her again. “Tink.”
This time she comes more alert, yawning and opening her
eyes, glancing over her shoulder.
“What?” she mumbles drowsily. Her features sharpen as her
gaze focuses on me.
I look at her firmly and nod.
Then she’s on fire in half a second, eyes alight as she pulls
herself up, twists around, and promptly shoves me in the chest.
“You asshole!”
I rock back a couple inches but don’t lose my seat on the edge
of the bed. “I deserved that.”
“You think?”
“My apolo—”
“No.” She sets her jaw, folding her arms over her chest and
plumping up her breasts in a way I can’t help but find
distracting, even as I keep my gaze on her snapping green eyes
and the furious line of her mouth. “Just don’t. Every time you
say, ‘my apologies,’ it sounds like sarcasm. I want a real
apology, James. Be a normal person and say I’m sorry.”
I give her a long, aching look. It’s fucked up because she’s
right.
She’ll never know how sorry I really am for what happened,
but I can at least give her this. I nod, then offer a whisper, “I’m
sorry, Faye.”
“Hmph.” Her cheeks color, and she looks away from me,
turning her nose up. “It’s a start.” Then she unfolds her arms,
thumping my shoulder, hard. “But it’s not enough. You don’t
get to walk out of my life, then come gliding back in and treat
me like a stranger only to fucking pin me up against a wall and
kiss me and finger me before snooping around on my Dad.”
“When you put it that way, I suppose the past twenty-four
hours have been a touch extreme,” I say wryly. The hot death
in her eyes tells me she’s not amused. “I know I fucked up.
Went too far after someone kept me awake last night, and I
wasn’t acting like myself.”
“Kept you awake? How did I—” Her eyes widen, the flush in
her cheeks turning furiously red, and she lets out a mortified
groan, burying her face into her palms. “Shit. You heard me…
oh, God. You heard me.”
“I did. And it was nothing to be ashamed of, Faye.”
Saying her name this often instead of the formal Ms. Harris
seems too intimate, but this is a moment for intimacies when
she knows that I heard her.
Knows she drove me so wild I lost control in a flash of
frustration and passion and pure raw need for her. She peeks
over her fingers at me, her eyes dark.
“I’m so confused,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “And that’s my fault. I’ll own it.
Unfortunately, I’d gotten so used to keeping secrets that it’s
second nature, even if they might fare better spilling out.” I
smile faintly. “Two minds are better than one. We’ve always
done well when we combine our intellects.”
She takes a sharp breath. It’s amazing how all I ever have to
do is give her an implication for that sharp mind of hers to
click every piece together.
“Pershing,” she breathes out. “You really do think Pershing’s
dirty, and my father might be tangled up in it?”
I eyeball her quietly. Even now, I don’t have the heart to tell
her I think her father might be more than a victim tangled in
Hook Hamlin’s web. Or that I know her father is simply the
other side of a coin with two faces, and both of them belong in
a damn mug shot. So I only ask, “How’d you work that out so
quickly?”
“I remembered that stakeout, years ago. The arms warehouse
in Portland. The main guy was a former Pershing employee,
remember?” she says, her eyes lighting again with breathless
interest as she lets her hands drop. “So, obviously, most of the
time you can’t blame former employers for the actions of the
people they fired…but what if they only fired him as cover?
So he could work for their other business interests…”
“Just like I’ve suspected,” I say with a nod. “But you should
absolutely keep that information to yourself, for now.”
Or you could meet the same fate as your mother.
Or, God forbid, Tanner.
Faye practically bounces like a kitten who’s caught a toy.
She’s sitting on her knees with her thighs spread, her little shirt
barely falling down to conceal that warm, soft mound of flesh
pressing against the tight clinging shorts that have bunched up.
She leans toward me with her hands braced between her legs,
tits straining against her shirt, caged between her upper arms.
Sweet fuck. I adore how carefree this woman can be when
she’s excited.
I just wish she knew how distracting she can be. But when she
speaks, I drag my attention back to her face, her mouth…fuck.
No. The words she’s saying.
“I can keep a secret, James,” she says breathlessly. “So come
on. What’s going on? You’d be fired if anyone else knew you
were tampering with Dad’s computer. Not to mention up for a
felony charge. You wouldn’t risk it if it wasn’t really
important.”
“I believe Hook Hamlin has other motives for keeping us
here,” I tell her slowly. “You saw the same thing I did. His
whole damn grandstanding performance? It was staged, with
your father backing him up.”
The excitement goes out of her eyes, replaced with something
else. Fear.
“So, what? You think Dad’s being…blackmailed?”
“It’s possible,” I answer carefully. “That part, I’m not certain.
His cuts to the appropriations bill for securing contracting
wouldn’t harm Pershing Shield very much, if at all, so I don’t
see a clear motive if they’re really in bed together. However,
Pershing collaborates with many smaller contractors who
would lose out if funds dried up. What if those ‘collaborations’
are actually part of Hook’s black market trade? And without
funding, he can’t move his contraband without getting
caught?”
“Jesus. Meaning…he’d go all assassin-like to threaten my Dad
without actually letting Dad know it was him.” Faye shakes
her head. A small gasp escapes her lips before she scowls.
“Talk about a real dick move. Playing all nice and friendly,
even to the point of guarding everyone, when he really wants
to kill us, get us out of his way.”
“Hook’s no fucking gentleman,” I counter, angry but amused.
“But it seems like your father is more aware of Hamlin’s
schemes than he lets on. He may have an ace up his sleeve.”
She frowns. “I know Dad can take care of himself, but –”
“He’s in over his head. He’s still a politician, never trained in
espionage or counter-surveillance.”
Her eyes glitter. “But we are.”
“Trained, yes. Technically, no longer licensed to conduct either
of those activities. Former FBI agents don’t have the same
latitude.”
“Yeah, but current security contractors do, and you’re an
Enguard officer. So. What’d you do to Dad’s computer?”
“Logging his keystrokes,” I answer. “And I gave him a packet
sniffer, as well as a backdoor I control. I can capture any data
from his machine as long as it’s online, and even log in to
view his activities in real-time or take control of the device.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“Incriminating emails, mostly. Possibly documents in private
folders that may contain information he wouldn’t save
anywhere else. I want to know what he knows about Pershing
Shield, and if any of it qualifies as evidence.”
She frowns, knitting her brow. “Why not tell him you know so
you can work together if you’re after the same guy?”
I can’t answer that honestly. I just fucking can’t.
This honesty is new, and there are limits. I can’t just up and
tell her, Because I’m after your father, too.
Because I want to take down the man who murdered my friend
and the man who killed your mother in one fell swoop.
Your father will pay for Tanner, for your mother, for my
mother.
And Hook Hamlin will pay for every unknown life he’s ever
claimed.
Faye still doesn’t know.
She still doesn’t know how her mother died, or she’d have
already tried to take her father’s head off – and possibly
succeeded. I can’t be the one to break the truth to her.
It’s not my place.
So I only shake my head, offering, “The less your father
knows, the better. He’s not equipped for handling a big career
criminal like Hook and Pershing.”
“That’s a lame excuse.” She sighs, pouting and slumping a
little. “Jesus, James. If you’re going to lie to me, at least come
up with something interesting.”
Fuck. I tighten my lip, staring her down, pulling every bit of
acting I have.
“I’m not lying, Tink.”
“Yes, you are.” Her smile is weary, shaking off the nickname I
thought would soften her like nothing. “Your left eye always
twitches just a little bit when you lie. It’s the worst poker tell
ever.”
I scowl. “I don’t have poker tells.”
“Everyone does.” She’s smirking. “And you’re just sulking
because I know yours better than my own.”
Little brat. Little monster. Little minx.
A low growl in the back of my throat pushes pointedly out.
“You’re missing the point, Faye. Hook has a reason for
keeping us here, and it involves your father. Last I checked,
our reports estimate we’ll be stuck here a week or more,
considering the storm. Plenty of time to do Hook’s dirty
work.”
“So he’s that type? The ones who take forever to just bring it?”
She frowns, tapping her finger to her lower lip. “I don’t like
the slow ones. The teases. They take their time, plan ahead,
and cover contingencies. It makes them harder to catch. That’s
no fun.”
I almost smile. It’s fascinating watching her work, dissecting
and breaking down people’s motivations. “He’s forgotten one
thing, though,” I tell her.
“What’s that?”
“We’re not trapped here with him,” I point out. “He’s trapped
here with us.”
“Oh my God.” She bursts out laughing. “You stole that from
Watchmen, nerd.”
I frown. “Watchmen?”
“Rorschach? The prison scene?” When I just stare at her
blankly, her laughter redoubles. “Holy hell. You actually said
that seriously. Somehow, that’s even worse than ripping off
movie quotes.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, you usually don’t. For someone so attractive, you’re
clueless with women, James.” She arches a brow pointedly.
“So now since I know why you were snooping on Dad…
maybe we need to talk about the other thing.”
“No time,” I say, rising to my feet. “I took over guard shift for
your father, but still haven’t found someone to take my place.”
She stares after me, her eyes wide. “You’re really going to do
this again?”
I have to.
I can’t let her close, and I can’t let myself break again.
What I did this morning was not only a dick move – her words
– but a mistake that’ll get us both hurt, no matter how willing
she might’ve been. “Good evening, Ms. Harris,” I say, heading
for the door. “I’ll be back later to make sure you’re sleeping
safe and sound.”
Her wounded silence chases me long after I’m gone.
Reminds me what a terrible fucking thing I’ve become.

N EARLY MIDNIGHT .

I’m back at the lodge, ostensibly to keep an eye out for

Hamlin, Harris, or anything interesting.
Truly, I’m avoiding going back to that cabin. I can feel fairly
certain Faye is safe right now, when Hamlin is still in the setup
phase of his plan and the storm hasn’t yet fully rolled over us,
the clouds a black smudge on the horizon. He’ll make his
move once we’ve been snowed in, people trapped in their
cabins, unable to summon help.
Faye isn’t a target, for now. I’ve kept her safe in the world’s
most ham-fisted, fucked up way.
But I just can’t go back and face her when I can’t trust what I
might do.
What she’ll let me do, willingly and wholeheartedly.
It’s not my touch she hates. Even though she should.
It’s when I stop and walk away. That’s what guts her.
Better, then, not to start at all.
So I give my attention to the piano in the commons room.
I need something to ground myself, a healthier indulgence
than a red-haired woman who’s nothing but trouble. I need to
clear my head, too.
Chopin comes out of my fingertips. Familiar, easy, delicate
melodies that wrap around me, quietly calming my thoughts as
if washing them away with rainfall patters of sound.
Until a voice at my back pulls me from my trance, interrupting
with, “You’re quite skilled. A man of many talents, it would
seem.”
Hook.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the wall,
watching me shrewdly, that insufferably pleasant smile of his
locked in place.
Fuck. I should pretend to be flattered, but the most I can
manage is a nod. “I learned from a very young age and kept up
the habit.”
“Your mother, I’m guessing?” When I sit up straighter, arching
a brow, Hook offers an almost self-deprecating smile. “Boys
who learn piano at their mothers’ knees grow up to be quite
the refined gentlemen, I’ve learned.”
It’s maddening that he knows me so well. Or thinks he does.
Hook’s little psychological profile that’s supposed to impress
me isn’t me at all.
I wear the gentleman’s mask to reconcile a past born in low
roots, poverty. My father nowhere to be found, my mother too
gentle and strange to survive this world, left leaning on my
grandfather for support and barely struggling through.
Grandpa’s stories used to embarrass me when I was young. I’d
hear them when he dragged me out fishing with his buddies,
anecdotes about faces full of trench mud and rescuing stray
dogs from burning buildings outside Saigon.
They were always too happy, too sweet, too glamorous to
reflect the realities of war.
I didn’t realize until I was sixteen how he hid behind masks,
too. Not until the day one of Grandpa’s stories turned into a
tale of how him and his buddies spent two days of hell trying
to get the dog tags off a fallen friend. And two more good men
died doing it.
I realized it then. Grandpa’s grit, his jokes, his bawdy laughter,
they weren’t there to hide the reality of war. They were meant
to paper over what it did to him, how it made him the rough-
as-nails man he still is in hellfire and grief. And maybe, having
a part of him in me wasn’t so bad after all.
It wasn’t until long after Mom died that I fully learned not to
be ashamed of that person.
Grandpa was never more shocked the day I said I’d follow his
footsteps into the U.S. Army. That’s where, just like him, I
began finding my soul.
His old war stories were all I had to cling to in active battle.
Two dozen hellish firefights in Baghdad and Mosul that killed
half the men who rushed into the storm next to me.
House to house. Bullet to bullet. Blood to blood.
There was fucking nothing genteel or civilized about the
fighting.
There was no room to be a gentleman in an active combat
zone.
A hero, maybe, but not a gentleman.
I didn’t get that privilege again until after I was discharged
honorably and went to Quantico for FBI training.
Hook thinks he has me figured out? Is he fucking joking?
Maybe. And I’ll let him think I’m exactly what he sees – a
slick, refined sneak who moves in the shadows and is too good
to ever get his hands bloody. Because then, if I’m lucky, he’ll
never see the rest of me coming, the part I inherited from
Grandpa Dominick and grandfather war.
“James? You hear me?”
I look up from staring down at my hands, resting lifelessly
against the keys. “Yes, good guess. I did learn from my
mother,” I answer, offering nothing more than what he’s
already assumed.
Let him think he’s found his insight into me.
Let him think he’s getting under my skin, finding a way to
make this personal, until I’ll confide in him.
He steps closer, pushing away from the wall, settling to lean
on the piano instead, bending over it with his arms folded
against the glossy wood. He tilts his head, eyeballing me
closely.
“You’re a lucky man,” he says. “All I learned from my mother
was how to hide.”
I arch a brow. “Hide?”
“Yeah.” His smile is bitter, grim, self-mocking. “Can’t be
found, can’t be hit.”
I say nothing.
This is the frustrating part about real life: the villains are never
as clearly defined as they are in stories.
Never as easy to hate – especially when every last one of them
has a touch of humanity at their core, and it’s often that last
shred that drives them to horrors when it’s the last bit of
themselves they can protect.
You also never know when they’re lying.
Did Hook really have an abusive mother on top of his reckless
gambling addict father? Or is it just another lie manufactured
to win me over?
Regardless, even knowing this maybe human thing about
Hamlin, I can’t offer him sympathy.
I can’t offer him forgiveness. The words die cold on my
tongue when I murmur an obligatory, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Another life, another time.” His unfocused gaze
clears, lingering on me. “I guess I just start remembering,
tucked away up here in a place like this. I’m from up north.
Juno. Used to live in a world of winter, and I guess this takes
me back there.”
I thought you were from Boston, asshole, I think, but don’t say
it. I remember what I dug up on him. He didn’t move to
Alaska until he was older, out of the military, a full grown
man.
“Do you ever visit home?”
“Nah. No reason to.” He shrugs, smiling. “I think this is the
most snow I’d ever like to experience again. It’s nice to be on
familiar turf, but I’ll be damn glad to get out of here and find
warmer waters.”
There’s something unspoken here.
He’s asking me something, but I can’t quite figure out what.
“Do you think we’ll actually be here for an entire week?”
“Depends how long it takes the storm to blow out. Honestly,
we probably could’ve made it out by car by the skin of our
teeth during the break in the storm, but Harris insisted on
staying for safety’s sake. The Senator’s a cautious man.”
I have trouble believing that.
It also contradicts his grandstanding speech, where he made it
ever-so-clear the roads were totally impassable.
Another goddamned lie.
Still, it’s interesting that he’s maneuvering to blame Harris
already. “Do you not think we’re safe here?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re plenty safe,” he answers. “Safest place in the
world. I can just imagine a lot of people who’d rather be
home, snug in their beds, versus freezing off their
unmentionables here.”
“I don’t see how anyone is any safer here than they would be
in their secured homes.”
“No?” His laugh is quiet, but hearty. “Then I guess you aren’t
as sick of politics as I am, my friend. No lobbyists here. Even
Harris’ donors and pack of fellow Senators couldn’t make it.
It’s just us and the snow, peace and quiet. Not even a two-term
Senator can turn that into a stump speech.”
He’s laying out more of his animosity toward Harris, carefully
waiting to see if I’ll bite.
I look away from him, back down at the piano keys, and play a
soft scale. “I suppose he does have a tendency to argue his
point. Loud and often.”
“You can say that again!” Hook gives a rough snort. “Damn,
you get it. Thought you might. You don’t seem like a man
who’s overly political, James. Neither does your boss,
Landon.”
My hands fall still on the keys.
I don’t like this.
Not how he’s fishing about Landon, and what it could mean
for his plans to lure Enguard into his sickening machine.
I won’t let it happen.
I won’t let this fucking pirate destroy my colleagues. My
company. My friends.
Before I get a chance to brush him off, the door to the lodge
flings open.
Several shivering Pershing men step inside, laughing among
themselves and stomping snow off their feet, rubbing their
hands together. Hook straightens, watching them with
narrowed eyes, while I close the cover over the piano keys and
stand.
“Perhaps,” I say, “you should ask Landon about his feelings.
Not me.”
Then I just turn and walk away, leaving Hook Hamlin alone
with his loyal men.

T HERE ’ S a brief meeting in Landon’s cabin, the entire crew –

minus Gabe – gathered to discuss logistics. He wants to go
over our individual assignments in Hamlin’s emergency plan.
I’m silent, watching through the window as the first warning
wave of snow begins drifting down outside, igniting an
urgency beneath my skin. This kind of snowfall starts off
gentle but avalanches quickly into a blizzard.
And I don’t want to be trapped somewhere without Faye,
leaving her alone in the cabin, whenever it hits full force.
Once the debriefing is done, I’m the first out the door.
I can’t stand being shut in this little cabin with its flickering
fire that reminds me too much of burning, catastrophic flames.
It’s more than just wanting to trade one confined space for
another. I can’t explain this urgency when I’m running hot and
cold, giving mixed signals even to myself.
But the scent of snow in the air worries me, metallic and heavy
and promising something bad. The night sky overhead is
black, not a single star in sight.
All clouds and drifting flakes of white so cold they nearly burn
every time they find a patch of naked skin.
Back at the cabin, I’m relieved to find Faye asleep.
She looks so small, so peaceful, curled up in bed and bundled
under the blankets.
She looks so alone.
Settling on the edge of the bed, just watching her for God
knows how long, I feel it.
This is my last chance to imprint her on my memory.
My last chance to lock these little moments in my mind like
pages in a book.
Like the thousand little notes she left me over the years.
Everything from a cheery Good morning, Mr. Smirky-Smirk!
to the more dire Can we talk?
That one led to her telling me that treating this, us, like an on
again-off again fling wasn’t enough. I’d promised her we’d
talk as soon as I came back from witnessing my mother’s final
moments.
But that never happened, the path of my life shattering off
course in a single night.
I trace the curve of her nose, the bow of her heart-shaped lips,
the way her lashes rest against her cheeks with a lingering eye.
Then I make myself pull away, slipping into the bathroom to
change before settling on the couch with my laptop. The first
thing I do is check the remote server I’ve set up to capture the
data transmitted by the spy goods I left on the Senator’s
machine.
Nothing.
Damn.
I frown, trying to pull up the remote login screen to activate
the snooping app, but it flashes Cannot connect to host device.
No matter how many times I enter the masked IP, the app
should have assigned to Harris’ laptop.
Something’s wrong.
Either Harris cut his laptop offline immediately after I
installed the apps, or he’s more tech-savvy than I thought, and
some advanced firewall detected and blocked the ports I’d left
open for easy access.
Or maybe it’s just the lodge’s wi-fi going dead.
Except with the entire resort on a shared connection, it seems
oddly specific that only the main lodge would lose its
connection.
Unless someone was blocking it.
Fuck.
There’s no time to dwell on it, though.
Not when a sound behind me warns me Faye’s woken up, and
she’s already locked on my screen with a bright, curious
question. “Hey, James Bond. Find anything good?”
 9

SMOKE TO FLAME (FAYE)

I ’m so disappointed in myself right now.

I keep letting James jerk me around and I still find it in me to
smile. He won’t talk to me, won’t give me the answers I know
I damn well deserve.
And I just let him walk away from me again and again because
I’m almost afraid to hear what he has to say. He never really
wholly ended us all those years ago. He never really started us
as a real, proper couple either.
He just cut me off.
And some naïve, lovesick, sucker-for-punishment part of me
apparently clings to the idea of rekindling the flame.
If he outright tells me no, that’s not possible, not now, not ever
like I expect…
It’ll hurt too much.
But it’ll hurt even worse to walk away forever.
How’s that for complicated? Considering someone at this
resort may be trying to put a bullet in my skull, I really can’t
afford to be distracted. Or turn into a curled-up ball of
heartbreak mush when I need to be alert.
So when I wake up to find James back, sprawled on the couch
in an effortless stretch of washboard abs and wicked
masculinity with the faint moonlight painting his bare chest
silver, I force my feelings down into a little box and tuck them
away.
The pang of heartache.
The rage at his indifference and mood swings.
The fear, knowing how easily he could crush me. All of them,
compacted into a knot so I can smile as I stretch, then bounce
across the bed and make my way over to the couch to lean
over the back, peering over his shoulder at his laptop.
I recognize the program he’s looking at. It’s a remote
infiltration app used for tapping someone’s computer.
“Hey, James Bond,” I say. “Find anything good?”
He stiffens, eyeing me warily from the corner of his eye.
“No,” he says slowly. “I have wi-fi signal, but I can’t connect.
It’s almost like…something’s blocking the connection from
that side.”
With a frown, I lean in closer to peer at the screen. “Maybe
Dad turned the laptop off. Or let the battery die.”
“Or you pulled the battery, Faye.” His eyes narrow. His speech
is slow, measured, every word as emotionless as the words of a
stranger. “I’m beginning to wonder how far you would go to
protect your father.”
That stings – that stings more than it should, hurt striking hard
and cutting deep, but it’s nothing compared to the sudden
realization what those words mean.
James has been lying to me.
He’s not using my father to spy on Hook Hamlin at all.
He’s spying on my Dad himself.
That asshole.
My heart is a flaming stone, as I stare at him. “You think my
father’s up to something,” I whisper. “My father. My Dad. The
man who even helped you start your fucking career.”
“Then ended it,” he points out tonelessly. “Just as he ended
yours. The man you call Dad now isn’t the man we knew then,
Faye. Tell me I’m not right.”
“Of course he’s not!” I flare.
The worst part is, it’s true, and I hate it. I don’t need another
reminder how different Dad is since Mom died from this lying,
conniving beast-man who I keep letting tear up my heart.
My throat goes tight.
I hate how my anger always makes me want to cry, when I
want to be fierce and proud and full of righteous rage. “Grief
changes people, James. Big surprise. It changed you. He lost
his wife. My mother. That’s no reason to think he’s behind
some kind of sick plot. Next you’ll say he’s faking the
assassination attempt, won’t you? Why? Why would he ever
do that?”
I’m so offended I could punch him. But I can’t move a muscle
when the way James looks at me with his silver-blue eyes says
my question isn’t insane at all.
“A number of reasons,” he whispers.
God.
Right now, I hate James Nobel more than I’ve ever hated
anyone.
Hate how calm he is, like this information means nothing.
Hate the way he looks at me without blinking, like he’s not
completely shattering my world.
Hate that he trusts me so little he couldn’t talk to me about this
so I could tell him how insanely, hellishly stupid it is.
And I hate that some small part of me is terrified he may be
right.
Because I don’t know my Dad anymore. I haven’t really
known him in years.
Or what he’s capable of.
While I hate-stare him down, sucking in shaking breaths, my
stone heart fighting to beat again, James continues, “Faye, I
don’t think your father orchestrated or in any way staged the
assassination plot. He’d never put you in danger. The threat is
very real, both to you and him. But it’s the motive that makes
him suspect. If your Dad has been dealing with the wrong
people for his own gain, they may well use violence to push
him into place once he steps out of line.”
I shake my head. I don’t understand. “What kind of wrong
people?”
“The very same people who use Homeland Security funds to
operate black market gunrunning rings.”
Holy hell. I feel like I can’t take another hit, but I have to
understand this.
“You think…you think Hook Hamlin is misappropriating
funds for illegal weapons deals? And Dad’s helping him?” I
shake my head. “Why? My…my Dad’s a good man. A
freaking Senator. He’d never, what does he even get from
this?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” James says with a growly
sigh, and some of his icy façade defrosts. His bright eyes turn
almost regretful as they flick over my face. “I didn’t want to
tell you, Faye. Not until I was certain. I didn’t want to hurt you
like this.”
“No, but you could hurt me by accusing me of sabotaging your
investigation?”
“I’m sorry. That was a knee-jerk reaction, and it was cruel of
me. But…” His eyes lower, then flick away, fixing on the
window. “I wanted to be wrong. I truly did.”
“You are wrong,” I force out around my knotting throat, my
chest tightening. “Is the rest of Enguard behind this, too? Are
you all fucking spying?”
“Hell no. This is my baby, an independent investigation. All
mine.”
“Why?”
He says nothing.
“Why?” I demand again, banging my fist against his shoulder.
This human wall doesn’t even flinch. “What did my father
ever do to you?”
“More than I can ever stand to tell you.” His gaze slides back
to me, dark and haunted, old hurts, things I can’t stand to think
my father caused. His hand rises to cover my clenched fist,
trapping it against his shoulder. “Let it go, Faye. I never
wanted you to get so involved in this.”
“No.” I yank my hand free from his and step back, shaking my
head fiercely, my eyes burning, welling. “I’m telling Landon.
You want to accuse Dad, then you’d damned well better be
able to prove it to your boss.”
I turn, stalking toward the door, barefoot in my little cami and
shorts sleep set.
I’ll march out into the snow just like this.
My fury will keep me warm against hypothermia, if it means
putting an end to this insanity – but James doesn’t even try to
stop me. He just sets his laptop aside and rises smoothly,
crossing to the small liquor cabinet next to the open kitchen
and pulling down a bottle of scotch.
While he begins to pour with almost fatalistic calm, setting out
two tumblers, I yank the door open and let in a whooshing gust
of air so freezing it slices through my skin with a razor’s
touch.
And I barely stumble backward in time as the ice spears
forming along the edge of the roof come crashing down like
daggers. Dislodged by me yanking the door open. I watch
them fall, breaking apart like heavy glass on the step right
where I’d been.
Oh, God.
As I stare, heart hammering, an avalanche of snow comes
sheeting down in its wake. It cascades off the roof in a frozen
waterfall, piling up in a matter of seconds, almost fully
blocking the door.
All I can see over the heap is maybe a foot of open space, but
even that isn’t much when there’s nothing but white whipping
beyond, snow piling higher and higher against the walls, the
windows.
The storm is here.
And we’re not going anywhere.
“You’re welcome to try burrowing your way to the lodge,”
James says mildly. “I’d suggest warmer clothing. And a
flashlight so I can find you and bring you back before you
freeze to death.”
I whirl back on him, slamming the door again before the wind
can blow any more snow inside.
Asshole. I want to open it and try again just to spite him.
But the internal temperature of the cabin plunged just from my
first attempt, and I can’t stop shivering. I wrap my arms
around myself, trapped, suddenly feeling pathetic and forlorn.
I’m locked in place and helpless and cold. I stare at James
miserably.
I hate this feeling, conflicted and confused and doubting.
Doubting everyone from him to my father to myself.
“What now?” I ask as he steps away from the counter toward
me, moving with that sinuous grace that’s always made him so
hypnotic, until he’s so close I can feel his annoyingly perfect
five o’clock shadow grazing my cheek.
“Now,” he whispers in my ear, pressing one of the tumblers of
scotch into my hands, “we wait. We stay warm.”
 10

WAX DOLL (JAMES)

I ’m sure there are a number of ways that conversation

could’ve gone worse, but I’m not sure how.
We’re firmly into colossal fucking disaster territory.
I never speak off the cuff.
Yet, I had to go and accuse Faye of sabotaging my work on her
father’s laptop like an imbecile.
It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s not even that I think she’s
treacherous or deceitful or two-faced.
It’s certainly not that I think she’s in any way involved in her
father’s bad business.
It’s that I know how unbelievably loyal she is, and right now,
she has more reason to be loyal to her father than she has to be
loyal to me.
Still. I’ve hurt her with both the truth and with half-truths.
I don’t know what the hell to do with that as we sit in
awkward, almost eerie silence, both sipping our drinks to
chase the warmth back into our bodies.
The fireplace helps, burning the cold from the room and
bringing it back to a safe, comfortable temperature. At least
I’d been right to get back to the cabin as fast as possible,
making sure Faye stays safe enough to wait this out.
We’ll be trapped here for days, whatever Hook says. I hate that
it limits my mobility.
Then again, if I’m stuck in one place, so are Hamlin and
Harris.
Unfortunately, with both of them occupying the master suites
at the lodge, they’re stuck together. Away from me.
I’m worried what I’ll find when the snow clears enough for me
to move on them.
I feel like hours pass before Faye finally breaks the silence
filled with nothing but our own thoughts and the crackling fire.
She leans forward, setting her empty tumbler on the table, and
casts me a mournful look before rising, unfolding those long,
lovely bare legs and smoothing her little camisole top over her
body.
“I’m going to bed,” she says softly. “I don’t know what to
think right now, but if we’re going to be stuck here for days, I
need rest.” She shakes her head. A tired ghost of a smile flits
across her lips. “We can fight more when we have the freedom
to storm out without dying.”
“Okay.” Fuck, I ache at the idea that we’ll have to fight at all.
“Sleep well.”
She gives me a long look, lips parted as if she might say
something else, before she only shakes her head a second time
and walks away.
I turn my head to watch her as she climbs back into the
rumpled bed, wrapping herself up into a little bundle in the
blankets.
Only after I’m certain she’s asleep do I move.
The scotch has done just enough to warm my blood without
making me fuzzy. My thoughts are racing as I get up to pile a
few more logs on the fire, then dig out a few of the smaller
spare quilts from the closet and circle the room, tacking them
up over the windows.
I have to winter-proof this place.
Whoever designed these cabins clearly did it for the view, not
for practicality.
The windows aren’t curtained or insulated enough to stop cold
like this from seeping in through the glass and leeching hard-
won heat from the room. The electric heater chugs along
quietly in the background to complement the radiant heat from
the hearth, but I don’t want to wake up in the morning to find
the power out, the fire dead, and all our heat escaped through
badly insulated glass.
When I cover the window over Faye’s bed, though, I can’t
help stopping.
Looking down at her, at the spill of red-rose hair, tumbling
across the pillow.
Gently, I brush back a few locks falling to tickle the tip of her
nose.
I hesitate for another second. Then I say fuck it.
Bending low, I brush my lips against her cheek, the fine peach
fuzz of her skin caressing my mouth like velvet.
I know I shouldn’t. I know.
But at least right now, damn it, she’s not awake for me to
confuse her more.
Only myself.
Because for some unholy reason, I can’t keep myself under
control around her.
But I force myself away after the lightest kiss, returning to the
sofa to try my laptop again.
Outside, the wind howls, a lonely and mournful sound that
seems to echo my own desolation.
Tonight, there’ll be no solace. No answers. Nothing to ease
this tension save for the sweet escape of sleep.
And since sleep won’t find me, I can at least get something
useful done.
The laptop still screws me over, though.
No connection – and the wi-fi in the cabin is beginning to
flicker as well.
Even if I could get an outbound connection, it wouldn’t hold
for more than a few seconds. Damn.
I check my phone. There’s no signal. When I try a call out to
Landon, then another to Riker, it confirms my worst
suspicions.
There’s absolutely nothing. The phone won’t even dial a line,
the 3G and 4G icons grayed out, even wi-fi calling not
working. There’s an ethernet outlet in the kitchen, but when I
plug the laptop in, the LAN icon shows a red X.
That means the landline internet isn’t connecting, and since the
wi-fi runs off the landline, that outlet is completely fucked.
The portable radio is my last resort. I’m not worried about
waking anyone when no doubt the others with Enguard are as
restless as I am, awake and planning for every contingency.
What I’m worried about, though, is this storm disrupting
communications so bad I can’t raise a single person on any
channel.
Of course, that’s exactly what happens.
Right now, there’s nothing I can do until morning. The sense
of building tension hasn’t broken yet, and I don’t think there’s
anything to worry about tonight.
I doubt the storm will break with the dawn, but there’ll at least
be enough visibility so if I need to go outside, I’ll have some
hope of finding my way back.
Finding my way back to Faye, some part of me whispers,
when it’s a lie.
It’s a bitter lie, a false hope, a dream that can’t come true, and
that’s my own damn fault.
So with one last look at her, I push it away and stretch out on
the sofa to pull the layered blankets over me, letting my real
dreams draw me into the dark.

Five Years Ago

I WASN ’ T THERE .

I wasn’t fucking there for her final breath, and now the first
I’m seeing of my mother since I left for a long-term
assignment in Washington is this wax doll.
Painted up to make her look like she’s still alive. Like she
might open her eyes any second and smile at me and tell me
it’s all right, she was just exploring other worlds for a little
while, learning new things for her book, but now she’s back.
Only she won’t be.
She won’t ever open her eyes again. The details are just wrong
enough on her face to be sickening.
Her skin is too tight and waxy, the laugh lines around her eyes
puttied over, too smooth, her lips artificially plumped as if
asking death for a kiss.
This isn’t my mother anymore. It’s just a shell that used to
hold her, but the vibrancy that made her so wonderful is gone
forever. Blown out.
Other people are lined up to see her, waiting to file past her
casket and cry, but I can’t move from my spot. I suddenly want
to reach in, to shake her awake, and I stretch my hand out,
unable to stop myself, my body like a zombie’s, taking
complete control of my will with no choice.
Grandpa’s hand settles on my back. “We’ll get through this,
son. It’s a miracle you’re here at all. Let’s not forget that.”
His words are completely lost on me, even if they’re true.
Yes, I survived a fucking plane crash. But this, missing her and
seeing her dead…how the fuck could anyone ever survive it?
With hands shaking, I touch the back of her hand, find it cool
and stiff.
Only, where I touch her, flame bursts to life. A flame that
smells like burning engine oil and machinery. A flame that
swirls out in a firestorm from that point of contact until it
envelops the funeral parlor in hellish orange, flickering
everywhere.
Breathing shallowly, sweating, heart racing, I stagger
backward.
“James? What’s wrong?” Grandpa’s just a silhouette, words
calling, fading, echoing after me.
I turn around swiftly, but the funeral parlor is gone. There’s
only the wreckage of an airplane, the mournful sobs of the
dying pilot, Tanner’s screams.
And my mother’s casket in the center of the wreckage, burning
and burning and burning away.

Present Day

I SNAP AWAKE SHARPLY , my heart trying to punch through my

chest.
“A fucking nightmare,” I mutter to myself, wiping a rough
hand over my face.
Christ. The furious sweat of my body chills on my skin,
sinking in like ice. It’s the cold that hits me more than
anything, chasing away the sick, dark horror haunting my
dreams, trying to work its way into my bloodstream to turn my
blood to black poison.
It’s too cold in the cabin. I sit up, wrapping the blankets tighter
around my shoulders. The fire has died down, but that’s not
why I’m freezing, my teeth chattering helplessly.
The bed is empty.
The bed is empty, and the front door is wedged open by an
avalanche of ice and snow with the clear shape of a body
churned through it, pushing the snow aside, only to send it
collapsing back so heavily it was impossible to close the door.
Faye’s gone.
She’s gone, into a predawn night that’s as black as the gates of
hell, completely eclipsed by whiteout snow.
The horror of my dreams becomes a real stabbing terror that
sinks into me.
I’m on my feet in an instant, bolting into my clothes, dragging
layers on as quickly as I can. I know where she’s going. To the
lodge, to her father, to find her answers.
But if I can’t find her in the snow, Faye may never make it
there at all.
 11

WINTER MAZE (FAYE)

O kay. This was a very, very bad idea.

I realize it thirty seconds in, wading through snow that comes
up to the center of my chest.
But the path I forged has already collapsed behind me, until
I’m a single island in a sea of white.
Snow everywhere.
Up, down, left, right. I can’t tell where the ground ends and
the sky starts when everything is a terrible colorless swirl.
It’s cold, so cold, like I’ve been plunged in liquid nitrogen…
but there’s something almost comforting about it, too. And
that’s the part that scares me.
Because as I trudge on toward where I know the lodge should
be – barely a couple of blocks along a road that I know is
buried under here somewhere, even if I can’t feel the
difference between earth and pavement under my boots –
there’s a part of me that knows it’d be easy to give in to
winter’s embrace.
The cold is like a lover. Always reaching for me, promising
that if I just stop struggling against the icy particles stinging
my eyes and slashing my cheeks, if I just stop resisting the
deep freeze sinking into my bones until I hurt down to the
roots of my teeth…
Then I’ll finally be warm again.
It’ll be so warm, if I just lie down and give up.
I could close my heavy eyes and rest.
But I know that’s the exhaustion talking. Panic trying to set in
when I don’t know which way I’m going, and I can’t even see
the trees, the lodge, or the other cabins through the white.
I can’t see anything at all.
I think I’m going in a straight line. That’s why I couldn’t turn
back once I started and realized the snow was filling in behind
me. I’d pointed myself in the direction I knew the lodge would
be.
If I turn back and go even one degree off course, I could
wander off into the wilderness after passing within a foot of
the cabin and die out here in the cold.
So straight forward it is.
I’ll have to hit something. Eventually. Anything.
And later, when I’m safe in front of a fire and asking Dad what
the hell is going on, anyone who wants to yell at me for being
stupid enough to go storming out into the cold like this can
call me every variant of dumbass they want.
I’d be calling myself a dumbass, too, if I could move my
frozen lips.
I’m scared.
Won’t pretend I’m not, but if I’m scared, it means I’m still
okay.
Fear gets my heart rate up, gets my pulse moving, keeps me
alert and on point. Fear raises my body temperature even if I
don’t really feel any warmer.
The fact that my limbs are still moving is something, even
with every step fighting through the snow making them
heavier and heavier.
It’s so weird how it’s so dark and so light when everything is
stark raving white.
But there’s no sunlight here. It’s like there’s no time, and I
don’t know how long I’ve really been out here.
Too long.
Too freaking long, when I should’ve smashed nose-first into a
cabin wall or the lodge by now.
That fear spikes up a little too high, shrilling down the back of
my neck, but I force it down, bow forward, and hunch into
myself to conserve body heat and give the wind a smaller
surface to hit.
My legs ache from slogging through the snowdrifts. My body
hurts from fighting the wind.
What little skin I have exposed between my hat, scarf, and the
hood of my coat is chapped and burning.
I can’t stop moving, or I’ll die.
My eyes sting, but I blink the promise of tears away. The last
thing I need is icicles stuck to my eyelashes.
My whole body nearly sings with relief as I bump into
something hard.
I’ll take it.
A car, a cabin, anything. I know how to pick locks and hot-
wire vehicles to get the engine going and the heater running.
But this is rough, catching on my clothes. It’s…
A tree trunk.
Lovely.
And scary as hell.
Because the area around the lodge and cabins was cleared of
trees for easy walking along the footpaths and the main road.
The first trees start farther away, as the plateau where the
resort was built begins to slope off in either direction.
Fuck. Fuck.
I have to stop now. Before I have a full-blown panic attack.
Slumping against the tree, I press my hand to my scarf to trap
heat so breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing icicles, panting
into my palm.
If I’ve made it to the trees, then I overshot somewhere. And
I’ve got to find some way to get my bearings, or I’m royally
screwed.
I won’t need an assassin to kill me if Mother Nature does the
job.
Closing my eyes, I swallow against the tightness in my throat
and tilt my head back.
This was really just so dumb, but I wasn’t thinking straight.
I was scared.
Scared to be alone with James after finding out what he’s been
hiding from me.
Scared of my father and how far away he might’ve fallen.
Scared for my father, if Hook Hamlin really does want him
dead.
Even now, Dad’s alone with that man and snowed under.
No one can help him except Enguard…assuming they haven’t
been compromised too.
I don’t know what I think I’m going to do.
Here, I’m not Faye the explosives expert, or Agent Faye
Harris, or Faye the fearless spy.
I’m Faye the librarian, and I feel so hammer-on-the-head
stupid that I ever thought I could protect Dad and sort this out
when he’s been controlling my life for so long.
I’ve never done anything on my own after the FBI.
I’ve practically signed my own death sentence trying this time.
Bad, bad timing.
I must be the fucking queen of bad timing.
And I can’t help but laugh, as I huddle against the tree to keep
it between me and the wind, and wonder how the hell I’ll ever
get out of this.
 Five Years Ago

“A BSOLUTELY NOT , F AYE ,” Dad snaps into the phone. His

voice is hard, dead, commanding in a way I’ve never heard
before. But ever since Mom died in that accident, there’ve
been a lot of unsettling firsts where he’s concerned. “I don’t
know what gave you the idea this was a request. You will turn
in your resignation. I’m not standing around until you get
yourself killed.”
“What makes you so sure I’m going to die?” I snap back. “I’ve
been doing this for two years now. I’ve handled explosives
that could’ve blown the entire city to kingdom come and
survived with hardly a scratch. Why now? What’s with this
whole protector act?”
“It’s not an act,” he bites off, low and grim. “Two agents and
their pilot just died in a plane crash, and one barely walked
away alive. That could be you next.”
Those words punch the breath out of me with hurt, with fury.
He’s practically thrown James in my face.
James, the sole survivor of that crash, and although I know
he’s alive out there somewhere…the fact that I haven’t heard
from him since ignites this terror in my heart.
What if he really did die, and my father’s just keeping it from
me? Telling me he didn’t like some kind of sick carrot
offering?
But a bitter part of me says Dad doesn’t really care about my
life, or James’.
This is about political grandstanding, and it’s hard to be a
family-first Senator when your daughter’s disarming
explosives and shacking up with a hot agent and possibly
dying disarming a terrorist bomb.
If both your daughter and wife are dead, it’s hard to present the
image of a caring family man, and he can’t crack.
It’s unfair of me.
I know it’s unfair, and it’s just my frustration talking when he’s
charging in and taking over my life, ordering me to end the job
I love, giving me no choice in the matter.
And I know if I refuse, he’ll have me dragged off by Secret
Service agents. Probably squirreled away in a virtual prison of
a safe house for the sake of ‘national security’ or whatever
stupid crap he’ll use as an excuse.
I don’t know this man barking orders. He’s not my father, not
the Dad I remember.
And there’s no one I can even turn to for a safe place to run, to
hide, to talk about it, when James is out of my reach.
According to a few of my coworkers, a resignation in his name
showed up yesterday…but no one saw him.
He hasn’t answered a single phone call or text. He wasn’t even
in the hospital when I went to see him, discharged without a
trace.
It’s like he never existed in my life.
Like the past two years were nothing, a figment of my
imagination.
And the fight goes out of me as I realize I don’t think I can go
back to the field office every day without James there at my
back.
“Yeah,” I say numbly, wondering why I ever thought I could
do this. Or if James Nobel ever cared for me. “Sure, Dad. Fine.
I’ll turn in my resignation tomorrow.”

Present Day

I SHOULDN ’ T HAVE GIVEN up so easily.

It’s the one thought I cling to as I’m falling asleep.
Wait. When did I start to fall asleep?
I feel warm, at least.
Warm, receding, safe. Away from the biting cold, from the
feeling of my body freezing in place and the blood slowing in
my veins.
Everything goes numb and then hot again. But it’s a pleasant,
distant warmth.
Maybe if I just take a small nap, I’ll wake up and the storm
will have blown over. I could just…
“Faye,” James says urgently out of nowhere. “Faye!”
But that can’t be James.
I must be dreaming.
James doesn’t care enough about me to be out here in the cold.
He doesn’t care enough to say my name that way, with such
harsh, raw emotion. Such fear.
He doesn’t care to be touching me the way he does now, his
hands stroking over my body and kneading some of the feeling
back into it.
In the back of my mind, the logical part of me knows he’s
checking for hypothermia. But my fogged, exhausted brain
can only dredge up an almost hysterical smile.
He’s touching me like I’m the most precious thing he’ll ever
lay hands on.
And even after all this – all the hate and words and ugly
secrets – I kind of like it.
I try mumbling something about him feeling me up, but my
lips don’t want to move.
Yet suddenly, somehow, I’m moving.
I crack my eyes open, even if it takes all my fading strength
when my lashes are frozen together, my vision rimmed in
uneven frost.
James is there.
He’s really there, picking me up, lifting me against his chest.
I can barely see past his cold weather tactical gear. Even his
eyes are covered with goggles.
But behind the clear plastic, his silver-blue gaze turns from
hard, cold edges into soft, liquid quicksilver, gleaming with
emotion.
I don’t have to see him fully to know he’s beautiful right now.
I know his expressions so well that I can read his relieved
smile in the subtle creases around his eyes, his fear in the
pinch of his brows.
It’s got to be a dream. I’m hallucinating.
Because the real James Nobel would never look at me this
way. The real James cut me out of his life and moved on.
This must be a ghost, some last little bit of comfort sent to
make it easier as I slip away.
But damn if I don’t fall in love with the fantasy.
“James,” I sigh, finding it in me to force a hand up to curl in
the front of his jacket, clinging limply.
A strong hand folds over mine, squeezing like it’ll be okay,
and always will be, as he holds me tighter.
So I let go, falling into the darkness with a smile.
 12

TRUTH TO FLAME (JAMES)

F or the second time in my life, I’ve nearly lost Faye

Harris.
Even when I pushed her away, closed her out, I still knew she
was safe, alive.
Then the fear that gripped me when I realized my secrets, my
duplicity, had chased her out into the killing storm…
Fuck.
I thought I’d known hell before. I had no clue.
Everything I’ve ever suffered up to this point was only
purgatory compared to the thought of her dead.
I can’t hold her tight enough. Even as I bundle her in thick
blankets on the couch, I have to remind myself she’s truly safe
now.
She’s alive and breathing. Just sleeping. Recuperating after the
cold took a vicious toll on her body. I’ve stripped her down to
just a shirt and panties, and for once, it’s not because I’m
thinking with my dick.
It’s because everything else clinging to her was soaked in half-
melted snow. Far more dangerous for hypothermia than bare
skin now that she’s inside, close to the fire and the cabin’s heat
cranked up as high as it’ll go. I’m sweating my ass off, but I
don’t care.
Nothing matters except keeping her safe.
I’m like a man possessed, moving all over. I check her pulse,
her temperature, gently moving between massaging her hands
and feet. Fighting to restore circulation and stave off
permanent nerve damage.
I was close to several medics in the Army. Their words whip
up from the back of my mind now, every bit of advice they
ever gave for saving lives.
I’m trying to stay calm. To remember my own field training in
the military and FBI alike, and remind myself that she’s in
good hands when I can do as much as nearly any EMT – but
the panic inside me, that blind animal thing, lost all reason
when I saw her crumpled, lifeless, barely breathing against
that tree.
What if I’m not enough, damn it? I want ambulances, sirens,
trained medical professionals, the safety of a hospital.
Everything we don’t have here.
Sure, I’m overreacting, and it’s not like me.
Or maybe it’s too much like the man I become around Faye,
and I’d forgotten for the longest time what he felt like.
Reluctantly, I draw away from her and try to get Landon on
the radio again, then try my phone, the wireless, anything.
Still nothing. Just useless white noise and dead calls that won’t
connect.
I need to update my boss on our status in case Faye’s condition
worsens, but I’m not getting out to anything with a pulse any
time soon. The storm still whips wild, and the only sounds I
can make out that even tell me it’s dawn are the whistling
wind and the distant, growling sound of the generators at the
lodge kicking up, probably drawing power to run the kitchen
as the staff wake up for the day.
Wait.
If the generators are starting at the lodge, that means one thing.
I thrust to my feet and rush to the wall panel in the kitchen,
where the generator power indicator is fading from green to
yellow. I’ve been running the heater trying to keep Faye’s
body temperature from dropping dangerously low, but I shut it
off now. Then I’m quickly piling more logs on the fire before
checking the windows and stuffing the blankets tighter into the
cracks.
I don’t know how long the power’s been out.
All I know for sure is we only have two spare gas canisters,
and those will run out fast if we’re not careful.
I need to get Faye the hell out of here.
The situation escalates from bad to worse. We’re snowed in
with a man who may want to murder her and the Senator. The
power’s out, and there’s no way to call for help.
I’m sure there’s a damn horror movie director out there
somewhere smiling in amusement.
Here we are, surrounded by evil. It might be dangerous out in
the snow, but I’m beginning to feel it’s far more dangerous to
stay. I know Faye will never leave without her father.
But maybe if I can find Harris, talk some sense into him, I can
convince him to abandon this game of cat and mouse with
Captain Hook.
For his daughter’s sake, if ours won’t do.
Once I’m sure I’ve sealed in as much heat as possible, I return
to her side. Gathering her in my arms, we settle on the floor
closer to the fire, cushioning her from the hard stone flooring
with my body.
I want to let her rest a while longer, but the sooner she’s
conscious and ready to move, the better.
Still, this moment will haunt me forever.
The crackling fireplace, the gold and orange light dancing off
her skin, her parted lips, the way she subtly shivers and shifts
to press close to me. Even pale and half-frozen, she’s
gorgeous, her hair damp with melted snow and slowly drying
in the warmth, her body soft and curving even through the
blankets.
Too beautiful. Too fragile. Too mine.
I don’t know how much time flits by simply studying each and
every last one of her freckles, listening to the reassuring sigh
of her breaths, following the flicker of firelight as it glides like
honey over the stubborn slope of her jaw. But as her eyes
begin to open, I snap my gaze to hers, watching her lashes
flutter as her brows knit together. She shifts weakly, restlessly
against me.
“Faye,” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”
She makes a low, protesting noise – and something inside me
nearly combusts as she curls up and burrows into me so
sweetly.
But it’s not her last drowsy mumble. She sighs a few more and
opens her eyes fully, peering up at me.
I know she’s about to pull away, to shout at me, to possibly
hurt herself demanding I finally break my silence and talk to
her. She wouldn’t be wrong.
Still, I don’t want to see her hurt herself more just for the
satisfaction of taking me down a notch. So I stop her the only
way I know how, before her drowsy expression can melt into a
scowl and mean words.
I kiss her.
Take her lips and chase her tongue and pull her open, hoping
some of the fire I breathe into her will give her back life.
It’s an impulse, wild fuckery, the sort of recklessness she’d do.
I can’t regret it, though.
Not when her mouth goes soft and luxuriant and sighing
against mine. Not when I feel like I’m bringing her home from
the brink with every pull of my teeth, chasing the cold from
her, replacing it with my own warmth.
For just a moment, she’s pliable against me, sweet and giving
and leaning in with a low sigh of my name. A sigh that cuts at
my heart, a sound that reminds the blood to move again in my
veins, as if she’s spoken me into existence.
Until she gives it back, biting down on my lower lip hard
enough to make me hiss, thrusting back enough to glare up at
me with snapping green eyes.
I wince, touching my fingertips to my lower lip. It’s not
bleeding, but it’s stinging enough to tell me she’s furious.
“All right,” I say. “I deserved that.”
“You’re damn right you did. I’m not your sleeping beauty,”
she growls, thrashing weakly against the blankets, trying to
shove back. “Now get me out of this freaking burrito!”
I sigh and just gather her closer.
I don’t want to force her, but right now it’s a matter of holding
her still until she stops trying to hurt herself. “Please go easy,”
I whisper. “You’re suffering from exposure, Tink. And while
I’m glad I found you before you could be hurt any more,
you’re still not well.”
Faye pauses, biting her lip, her eyes flicking over me
searchingly.
“You came looking for me, idiot,” she says wonderingly.
“Yeah. I did,” I say, nodding. “I couldn’t leave you to the
mercy of the storm, Faye.”
“That’s why I don’t get you,” she bites off, frustration
sharpening her tone. “You keep cutting me off, lying to me,
icing me out, keeping vital info from me, and you’re after my
father, but then you just…”
“Kiss you. Protect you. Risk life and limb hunting you down,”
I finish. “Believe me, I know. I’m well aware my behavior is a
bit frustrating, Ms. Harris.”
“James. If you call me Ms. Harris one more time, I will
dislocate my own arm to slap you.”
I can’t help the low chuckle that slips out before I clear my
throat. “Duly noted, Faye.”
“Right there.” Her voice is puzzled, aching, longing. “Right
there…I see you again. Not the mask. Just you. But you keep
throwing it back up…and you keep lying, James.”
“No,” I sigh. “I’m less lying and more obfuscating certain
truths.”
“But why?”
“Because sometimes those truths can be used as a weapon.” I
tuck her hair back gently. “And I never want to use those
weapons to harm you.”
“But you’re doing it anyway!” she flings back. “You keep
jerking me around. Hot one minute, cold the next, and you
actually think my Dad – my Dad –” Her voice cracks with all
the grim, unspoken suspicions about the Senator. “How could
you?”
Good fucking question.
“I have my reasons,” I say, the only answer I can pull.
“Reasons. Great. And you won’t just tell me what they are,”
she snaps bitterly.
“Not yet, Faye. Give me time.” I shake my head. “Time,
woman.”
Any more right now and I’ll give away things she doesn’t need
to know unless it’s absolutely necessary, when they have such
power to hurt.
She isn’t looking at me anymore.
I reach out, gripping her hand, until I’ve got her eyes. “I need
you to trust me, Faye. I know it’s fucking maddening, but
soon, once we’re safe, you’ll understand. I swear.”
“No. You haven’t given me any reason to trust.”
“A leap of faith, then.” I feel like I’m asking for something I
have no right to as my gaze deepens. “You trusted me with
everything, once upon a time.”
She holds her silence for a long time before she looks away,
fixing her glare on the fire. “Yeah. And I was a total idiot
because you walked away from all that.”
I have nothing to say to that. How can I argue with bald-faced
honesty?
So I don’t. I just hold her closer.
It’s not hard to see the conversation has exhausted her. She
doesn’t fight me and just goes limp in my arms, her head
resting on my chest.
I wish like hell I could offer her more than this. I wish I could
offer her a truth that won’t hurt her, destroy her, rip the last of
her family apart, but it’s not possible.
I can’t tell her that her Senator father is the reason I left her
behind.
The reason my friend and two other people were killed.
Possibly the reason her mother died, too, and still he’s flinging
himself on this reckless headlong charge into the dark, not
seeming to care that it could get Faye killed, too.
All I can give her right now is the warmth of someone who
cares about her and wants nothing more than to protect her –
even if I can’t tell her what I’m protecting her from.
Hell, especially if I can’t say that.
But I’m realizing something now, as I settle to rest my back
against the bottom of the couch, stretching to keep her against
me and hold her close while the fire bathes us in its yellow
warmth.
I can’t do this alone.
Not anymore.
Maybe it’s time to stop hiding from the only people who can
help. My team. Maybe it’s time to finally come clean to
Landon and hope it doesn’t blow up in my face.
I let out a long, tense sigh, knowing I’ve stumped on my only
sane choice.
Fuck it. Fine.
As soon as I can reach him, I’ll tell him everything I know
about Pershing Shield. About Senator Harris, too.
I’ve isolated myself so much I’ve forgotten what it can feel
like to have friends to turn to, when you’re desperately in need
of guidance and a steady hand. I just hope once Landon knows
the truth about me, about the things I’ve hidden, that he
doesn’t want to kill me where I stand.
That he’ll still have enough faith in me to trust me and to take
action. And once I’ve told Landon, once I know I have
Enguard at my back…
Then I’ll tell the exhausted woman falling asleep in my arms.
I’ll tell her everything.
Every last sordid detail about the night her mother died, about
the night a plane crashed out of the sky and ripped my life
apart, about her asshole father and the web of darkness he and
Hook Hamlin have woven together, one that threatens far too
many lives.
About how much I love, and always have loved her, even if
I’m not sure if there’s a man left for her to love in return.
Or just a hollow shell.
 13

HEAVIER THAN WINTER (FAYE)

T his wasn’t how I imagined falling asleep in James’ arms

again: frozen, heavy as lead, just reeling back from
death’s door.
And so, so hurt that he could look at me like he still has
feelings for me but refuses to just tell me a few simple truths
that would fix this entire mess.
Ugh.
But I’m too exhausted to dwell on it. Too exhausted to push
myself through more mental gymnastics.
I let myself lean into the breadth and solidity and warmth of
his chest, allowing his body heat to soak into me and chase
away the chill.
I don’t even know what I was thinking, honestly. If I’d gone
storming into the lodge, if I’d made it through the storm…
what would I have done?
Confronted Dad with James’ vague suspicions? Hoped he’d
tell me the truth? Or would I have tried to protect him from
Hook Hamlin somehow?
I’m not thinking straight. Maybe that’s the reason James won’t
come clean, even if he’s a real rat bastard for keeping those
furiously kissable lips sealed.
I’m pulled from my frustrated, sleepy half-thoughts when I
notice I’m suddenly alone in the cabin.
James is gone?
Why? Has the storm broken?
I can still hear the wind howling, a soft hiss blowing against
the blankets he put up around the windows. A sick feeling
starts in the pit of my stomach.
God. What if something went wrong, and he went out in the
snow…and there was no one to save him the way he saved
me?
A thump on the front step makes me sit up straighter, clutching
the blankets to myself, hoping.
Praying it’s James, just coming in from scraping ice off the
roof or checking the generators. But my hopes are dashed
when the door swings open.
There’s a wall of white snow coming down nonstop, piled so
high it must have buried the cabin up to the roof.
There’s also my father.
Dad’s on the doorstep with a chain of shivering aides behind
him, all of them strung together with safety ropes, each of
them carrying a high-powered Coleman lantern. The lights
create beacons through the snow, marking a path back the way
they came.
I’ve never seen a group of people so miserable, and I wonder
why people follow my father so loyally.
But aren’t I doing the same? Denying James’ suspicions
without even thinking?
I’m too confused to sort it out now – and too worried.
“Dad?” I gasp. “Where did James go? Is he with you?”
My father stomps his boots on the mat and gestures to two
other aides, murmuring, “His, too.”
I don’t understand what he means until the two scramble to
start packing up not just my things, but James’ stuff, too. Plus
all the blankets, food, water, and other emergency supplies.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Dad says, fixing his gaze on me.
“James is at the lodge. The power’s out through the resort. He
came to find me to let me know so I could get you and anyone
else safely into the lodge so we can conserve generator fuel
and avoid emergencies.”
It would’ve avoided a lot more if we’d done this to start with, I
think, but unfold my body from the blankets and stand. I’m a
bit wobbly, but I can move better than before, so it should be
enough.
“Let me get dressed,” I say.
I’m not sure how I feel about this. I feel like I’m being
maneuvered, still.
But I can’t deny it’s practical for our safety, and I just don’t
have the strength left to fight.
I also can’t spit on the fact that James made his way through
the blinding snow again.
Alone and directionless, to make sure someone could get to
me safely.
And I can’t ignore the fact Dad came for me, either. In person.
He didn’t send someone else. He didn’t ignore the possible
danger and settle in to wait it out, rolling the dice to see if I’d
still be all right on the other side. He came for me, came to
make sure I was safe and protected, just like any father should
do.
It eats at me fiercely, this reminder that underneath the dark
layer shrouding him, he’s there.
He’s still my father.
How can I possibly believe he’d do the things James keeps
implying?
It takes me longer than I’d like to get dressed. Both because
I’m weak and because I’m trying not to give Dad’s aides a
peep show.
By the time I’m done, they’ve carried all of my stuff outside,
but there’s no sign of James’ duffel bag – or his laptop.
Oh, boy.
He must’ve taken them when he left. And if he brought his
laptop along, knowing what it can do, I wonder if help was the
only reason he stormed off to the lodge?
I don’t know why I keep my mouth shut.
It just seems like something I shouldn’t mention.
As I zip my coat with half-numb, glove-thickened fingers, I
stop in front of my father and look up at him with a wistful
smile. “Guess I’m ready to build a snowman.”
He doesn’t answer my smile.
The father I remember years ago would’ve laughed and made
a terrible joke about letting it go. This one doesn’t say
anything at all.
I guess I hoped for too much, too soon.
But he dips down and catches me up, lifting me against his
chest, holding me close before he turns to forge our way
through the snow.
My heart thumps with a sense of bittersweet homesickness.
And even as the storm swirls around us, a curtain of lethal
white, Dad protects me with his body as a human shield.
Almost the same way James did.
God.
Apparently, there are two men who’d hurt themselves to save
me, to protect me.
But I’m supposed to believe one is good, and one is bad. One’s
wrong, and one’s right.
I’m supposed to choose a side.
Like hell.
I can’t. I love them both in different ways, and I need them
both in my life.
So I huddle against my father and close my eyes, anticipating
a long, grueling trek back to the lodge…but suddenly the wind
cuts, and I open my eyes.
There’s a car blocking off the driving wall of snow. It’s one of
the security team’s black SUVs, but it’s been outfitted with a
sharp metal nose – a snow plow.
My father did this the smart way. He came with ropes and
lanterns, and even now the aides who’d staked out our path
with lights from the car to the cabin are reeling everything in,
bundling it up, climbing in.
Dad settles me in the front passenger seat, where blankets are
already waiting. He lingers for just a moment too long. One
that tells me he’s not as detached as he pretends, and I catch
his hand.
“Dad.” I squeeze his fingers, looking up at my father with his
normally perfect hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind, snow
in his eyebrows. “Thank you. For coming for me.”
“You’re my daughter, Faye,” he says, but it’s soft and quiet
and lacks the inherent edge that seems to live in his voice
lately. “And I’m glad James came to me for you.”
There’s a touch of warm approval in his words. It guts me
even more, the contradiction.
Dad almost seems impressed by James.
Meanwhile, my snarly, smirky walking secret thinks my Dad
is dirty.
Can it get more complicated?
Shaken, I hold my tongue, burrowing into the blankets while
Dad shuts the passenger door and then trudges around the
front of the SUV to the driver’s side, always keeping one hand
on the hood.
Then he’s at the steering wheel, blowing out clouds of dragon
breath as he slams the door shut, brushes snow off, and
reaches over to turn the heat up to peak.
“Buckle up,” he says. “This is going to get rough.”
No kidding. It’s over an hour traveling less than a mile,
moving in start-and-stop jerks while the chains on the snow
tires grapple with the road.
My father wrestles with the wheel and limited visibility.
Other lanterns dropped in the snow light up like sentinels,
outlining the road in eerie ghost-glows beckoning us onward.
Through the whirlwind sheet of white, I can make out other
dark shapes heading toward the lodge.
Looks like…Pershing staff?
Out there with lanterns, collecting everyone from their cabins
and bringing them in.
What now? A chill that has nothing to do with the cold drifts
up my spine.
James and I worked out that Hamlin must have a reason for
wanting us all separated. But now they’re bringing us together.
Did the power outage change his plans?
Or is something worse coming?
Seeing people in the snow worries me, makes me wonder for
James, that he’d charge out into this weather but not come
back with my father to fetch me.
Until, as we slowly grind past, I see him.
He’s there, standing tall against the dagger wind and driving
snow.
Too proud to let it cut him down.
He’s stern and strong and firm with his feet planted wide and
those broad shoulders practically holding up the world.
And he’s playing human shield, moving one step at a time to
help shelter a pregnant woman, Gabe’s wife Skylar, while
Gabe himself carries her against his chest and curls around her
protectively.
That idiot. That gorgeous, reckless idiot, hurting himself to
save people like this.
He’s going to get frostbite. Even through the snow I can tell
his strong jawline glows red, wind-chapped. He’s thrown off
his heavy thermal coat for extra dexterity, carrying Skylar’s
things with a lantern in another hand.
I press my fingers to the window, loving him and cursing him
under my breath.
It’s like he feels my touch, lifting his head, and although I
can’t see much in the dark, I can tell he’s looking at the SUV.
Looking at me.
And I don’t know what to do, when I love my father and want
to trust him.
But I can’t deny my faith in a man as heroic and noble as
James, either.
By the time we get to the lodge, the SUV sputters, coughing
and threatening to die. My father doesn’t even bother parking
properly.
He just whips to a stop outside the lodge, and that old military
wit of his returns. He’s out of the car in quick, tactical jerks,
gesturing to his aides, barking go, go, go!
The aides are already moving, gathering things up and diving
inside, while Pershing and Enguard employees stand in snow-
crusted huddles. Right outside the lodge’s front door, helping
relieve people of their luggage and ushering them inside.
Dad yanks the passenger side door open, and the cold and
wind assault me again before he’s picking me up and charging
through the snow to the lodge.
Finally.
We nearly spill inside – and it’s nothing like how it looked
earlier.
The main room with the grand piano and grander fireplace
looks like a refugee center.
There are people bedded down on pallets made of folded
blankets, supplies stacked everywhere, lanterns glowing on
shelves and in corners, a few people being checked over with
first aid kits for blue-tinted fingers and rough scrapes on snow-
abraded skin.
“Dad?” I murmur as we stand outside the threshold. “What…
what happened?”
“Looks like the grid here isn’t as reliable as we thought,” he
sighs.
The door shuts behind us, then opens again as a few more
people come stumbling through. We move to one side, both of
us rubbing the feeling back into our numb fingers.
I look at him while he shakes his head like it’s suddenly a
hundred pounds.
“We miscalculated. Thought everybody could stay safe and
ride out the storm in their cabins, but with the power going out
so quickly…” His shoulders tense and he looks down.
“There’s not enough generator fuel at each cabin. This storm
won’t blow out for at least a week. People would die. So we’re
bringing everyone in, consolidating the fuel so we still have
one big generator running.”
My heart skips a beat. I’ve never heard my slick-talking
Senator Dad sound so ominous, so lost, so unsure.
That’s when I notice the huge canisters of gasoline stacked
along one wall, too.
Everything in me goes tense at that. The very idea of an open
flame in a room full of highly combustible accelerant makes
my inner explosives’ expert insanely twitchy. But I bite my
tongue.
There’s no sense in adding to the worry.
I also bite my tongue on the fact that people wouldn’t be
risking themselves in the snow like this at all if my Dad hadn’t
brushed off their concerns and just did this from the start.
And if Hook hadn’t made his big speech, telling us to stay.
Holy hell.
James is right.
We’re all being manipulated. Everyone here.
I’m just not sure by who.

T HE NEXT FEW hours are a blur.

I’m burned out, and Dad wants to take me up to his suite to
rest, but I’d rather be down here where the action is. Even if
I’m so tired I could collapse.
I stake out a corner on one of the couches and curl up with a
blanket snug around me. Despite the growing noise of dozens
of people in the room, I manage to fall asleep again and again
as exposure and exhaustion overtake me.
Every time the door opens, though, I jerk awake.
I won’t lie to myself.
I’m watching for James.
Gabe and Skylar are here. Skylar ensconced in a plush recliner
while someone with a first aid kit runs a stethoscope over her
pregnant belly…he shouldn’t be far behind.
But I barely caught a flash of James before he was back in the
storm, resolute and tireless, the grim determination on his face
making my heart do strange, wild things.
In ones and twos, the stragglers come in, escorted by Pershing
or Enguard staff.
But without James my blood feels too thin, watery with a slow
growing fear.
I’m ready to demand someone go out looking for him, anyone.
Until the door bursts open one more time.
James comes staggering in, skewed to one side by the weight
of a rather thick-set man.
I recognize the stranger. He’s one of the resort chefs, and he
looks barely conscious, one of his legs twisted at an odd angle
from mid-calf down. The leg of his pants is dark with what
looks like…
Oh.
Oh, no.
Frozen blood.
James must’ve dragged him half-conscious from the snow,
nearly carried him here with his broken leg.
He saved his life from the storm, but I’m worried.
Scared for that poor chef when freezing blood may be one way
to cauterize a wound, but it’s also a good way to lose a limb.
And while I watch with my heart in my throat, James lays the
man down on a free pallet with careful hands.
Then he goes to work with that intent and utter focus that’s so
James.
No matter the situation, he always seems to know what to do
to save a life.
He’s already snapping off sharp directions to aides and staff to
fetch this or that while he produces a knife from inside his coat
and slits the chef’s pants leg up, exposing the bulge of bone
pushing against muscle, threatening to burst free.
I can’t take it anymore.
Tumbling off the sofa, I straighten my wobbly legs and rush
over, dropping to my knees across from him. “Is there
anything I can do?” I ask breathlessly.
James snaps a silvery-blue look up at me over the groaning
man’s body. He may be cool as ever in this situation, but
there’s no masking his urgency, the demon drive telling me he
really cares about this man’s life.
“I’ll have to set his leg. You can hold his head, Faye. Make
sure he doesn’t bite or swallow his tongue from the pain.”
“Of course!” I quickly shift around to kneel at the man’s head,
coaxing him to rest it in my lap.
I fumble around the supplies for a minute until I find a gauze
pad, roll it up into a compacted tube, and urge the chef to open
his mouth so I can get it between his teeth.
“Bite down on this,” I tell him gently. “It’s okay if you need to
scream.”
There’s fear in his pain-hazed eyes, but no doubt he trusts us.
And he manages to force one hand up to curl against my
forearm as an anchor as he nods slowly.
I look up, catching James’ eye again.
A silent signal passes between us.
Let’s do this. Save him.
Then James abruptly yanks the man’s leg, stretching the
muscle tissue out while he snaps the broken bone back in place
with the heel of his palm. The chef roars, his fingers digging
into my arm.
I don’t blame him one bit, even if it’s the only morbid sound.
A hush falls over the room. Everyone staring. Waiting to see if
we can pull this off.
But James doesn’t let the pressure stop him, working quickly
to lay a wooden slat from the first aid kit along the side of the
man’s leg, then beginning to wrap it swiftly in gauze.
Slowly, the man’s moans soften…but the hush in the room as
James finishes working makes the noise sound like a jet
engine.
It’s nothing when there’s a thud like a gunshot.
One of the first-floor conference room doors bangs open
sharply, bouncing off the wall.
Out comes Hook Hamlin, trailed by a few Pershing staff. His
face is the kind of crimson that can only come from rage, his
jaw a steely lump.
He doesn’t even look at anyone in the room, just sweeps
upstairs, disappearing around the bend of the landing.
Dad emerges a few seconds later.
He looks less livid and more grim, even a touch darkly
satisfied, as he straightens his tie. His small entourage of
staffers is another story.
All of them are pale and shaking and giving each other wide-
eyed glances, asking without words if what they just saw was
real.
My heart jumps into my throat. Somehow, what’s happening
here is worse than the man writhing in agony with a busted
leg.
But my father seems calm. So whatever just happened in that
room can’t be the end of the world.
Right?
I can’t focus on it right now, though, not even when my father
starts moving among people to offer quiet reassurance. There’s
a sobbing, gasping man in my lap who needs me.
And so does James.
It takes me back to a time when it used to be this way all the
time, the two of us able to do anything.
As long as we worked together.
In love, we were indestructible.

B Y THE TIME everyone is accounted for, I’m ready to collapse

again.
I’m still recovering from my own near-death experience in the
snow. Yet here I am, whirlwinding between one frozen or
injured person and the next.
James and I move in tandem. Nothing’s critical, at least – as
long as we get out of here in the next few days.
There are a few more broken bones and a couple people we’ve
got to keep on close watch for frostbite.
But everyone’s safe and warm. No one missing. Every break
splinted.
We just have to keep alert for possible infections.
That’s what scares me, too, cooped up in here.
Technically, yes, everyone may be safer consolidating
resources and staying tight to keep warm and conserve power.
That also means just one nasty flu bug let loose in this
confined space could become an epidemic.
Without hospital services, real doctors, or medication, that
could be deadly.
Sometimes, we forget that things like the flu used to be more
than just seasonal nuisances and a few ugly days.
I want to ask James if he’s heard anything about the forecast.
My phone can’t get a signal and the wi-fi looks to be down.
But he’s gone again.
Disappeared the minute I looked up from rummaging around
for those neat little hand-warmer heat packs for a few freezing
people. He couldn’t have gone out into the storm again.
We’ve brought everyone inside, and there’s no reason for him
to risk himself out there.
The room is dim, quiet, most people bedding down on their
pallets or whatever furniture they’ve claimed to sleep on. Only
a few left awake, sorting through the perishables from the mini
coolers and freezers to determine what needs to be cooked and
eaten first.
We can’t have heavy-duty appliances draining power.
More disturbing, there’s no sign of Hook, either. I’m guessing
he’s retreated to his suite and left the peasants to fend for
themselves in the commons areas.
I see Dad, standing over the receptionist station, speaking
urgently with a few of his aides, maps unfolded while they
lean their heads together with Landon and Riker from the
Enguard crew.
It looks like they’re doing something proactive to get us out of
here, but…
I’m not ready to talk to him yet.
Not until James answers my questions.
The only person who looks even a tiny bit approachable is
Skylar Barin.
She’s perched at the bar, sipping a hot steaming mug of
something that looks like tea. If I’m being honest,
“approachable” is a stretch with her.
There’s something downright scary about this woman.
Something that says she could eviscerate you with a single
word and she has no time for nonsense, but her smile is polite
enough as I settle down on a barstool with one between us so
I’m not crowding her.
I can only imagine what it’s like when you’re carrying around
another human being inside you.
You definitely don’t want people cramping your space.
For a second, I wonder if I’ll ever know what having a baby
feels like. I’m pushing thirty, and no one’s touched me since
James.
I couldn’t stand it. I don’t know how I’ll stand it again after
he’s done confusing the hell out of me and disappears from my
life.
Ha. Looks like I’m set for spinster-librarian with secret ninja
skills.
I’d find that funnier if my heart didn’t ache so much.
But I push the thought aside and lean over the bar to snag a
clean tumbler and a bottle of Wild Turkey, before lifting it
with a wry smile for Skylar. “I’d offer you a drink too, but…”
I’m joking, of course.
She chuckles tiredly and pats her swollen belly. “Yeah, let’s
not get this one started on a habit that soon. With my luck,
she’ll be a lightweight like her father.”
“Just trying to be polite. You need more tea or something?” I
pour a couple of fingers for myself as she shakes her head, but
I’m not sure I actually want to drink it. The atmosphere of
danger here says I need to keep a clear head. No matter what.
So I only nurse my whiskey, tipping its strong taste against my
lips without actually swallowing much, and glance at Skylar
sidelong. “Heard any updates? I’ve been a bit busy playing
Nurse Nancy, so I’m out of the loop.”
“Not a damn thing.” She grimaces and takes another sip of her
tea. “If I go into labor here, I’m going to be pissed.”
My eyes widen. “Are you really that far along?”
“Not quite, but conditions like this can trigger contractions
from stress.”
“Oh…crap.” I sigh heavily. “That makes this even worse.
Gotta be too much to force our way out?”
“Not in these whiteout conditions.” She shakes her head.
“With all communications down, I haven’t seen anything in
hours. The last time I saw the weather map, it showed this
storm trapped between two mountain ranges. No wind to push
it anywhere. If we weren’t at this elevation, maybe we could
hope for it to move on by tomorrow, but seeing how it’s
parked right over us…” Skylar frowns, more than a hint of
worry in her eyes. “We’ll just have to wait for it to blow out.”
“Damn. And with how heavy those clouds are –”
“It could take more than a week,” she finishes for me.
“Oh,” I say faintly. “Fuck.”
That wins a smile.
“Exactly.”
“My Dad has really crappy timing.”
Skylar smiles wider, grimly. “Well, no surprise. Politicians
don’t check weather reports when they’re looking for money.”
I nod. She’s too right. Or I wish she was, so this whole strange
thing could be explained away by Dad’s clumsiness.
But the rest eats at me. The fact that Dad even tried to hold a
fundraiser at a ski lodge right after a haphazard attempt on his
life…it’s just weird.
He usually does charity galas, dinners, conventions, even the
occasional fun run.
Whisking donors away to this private, isolated place in
unpredictable weather? It’s not like him.
Not like him at all, even with the whole woodsy family man
vibe he was going for in the photo shoots. We could’ve done
the shoots without the donors, without this huge mess of
people carted up here – a mess that’s smaller than it would’ve
been if the others had made it.
“At least the plumbing still works,” I mutter, taking a deep sip
of my whiskey.
Because now?
Right now, with the confusion in my head, I really, really need
it.
Heck, I’m sure she does too, and I’m drinking for both of us.
Sky lets out a dry chuckle. “It’d better. I pee practically every
ten minutes.”
I can’t help laughing. “God, I’m not looking forward to being
pregnant.”
“You say that like it’s definitely going to happen.” She arches
a brow. “You and James sort your shit out, then?”
I splutter on my next sip, nearly choking on the sharp burn
before I set the tumbler down, coughing and wiping at my
mouth.
“Sort what?” I shake my head quickly. “There’s nothing to sort
out!”
“Look, girl, I’ve been around James Nobel long enough to
know he has two modes: Broody and Super Broody. He’s gone
up a level from Super Broody to Mega-ass-tastic Broody ever
since he found out he’s been assigned to you. You two clearly
know each other.” Her pale, sharp gaze skewers me. “And
you’ve got history.”
“I, uh…” I shrug uncomfortably and pretend to check my shirt
for stray whiskey drips. “It’s just that. History. He’s barely
even talking to me right now. I’d think he talks to you guys a
whole lot more.”
“For James, one extra word is ‘a whole lot more.’”
I crack a shaky smile. “That’s too true. He told you about his
issues with Pershing, though, right? How they were involved
with him leaving the FBI? It just seems weird that knowing it,
Landon would be all over Hook Hamlin like that.”
Skylar sits up straighter, her round belly sticking out, giving
me a strange look. “I think you have a very skewed idea how
much James says to anyone, considering this is the first I’ve
ever heard of him being in the FBI. You sure about that?”
I cringe. Fuck. Fuck.
With how secretive James can be, I hope I didn’t just spill
something he wanted to hide.
I smile thinly and pull a page from James’ book.
“History,” I tell her. Just one word, vague and uninformative.
Before I get up with a quick excuse me and take me and my
whiskey mouth toward the stairs.
God, I need sleep.
But really, I’m just going to hide away in Dad’s suite. Maybe
claim the couch for myself so Skylar can’t ask me the
questions hovering in the sharp gaze that trails me from the
room.
Honestly, I don’t blame her. I’ve got a few loaded questions
myself.
From what I’ve seen, these people aren’t just James’
coworkers.
They’re his friends. Yet, for some reason, he kept his old job
from them?
Why?
What’s James so determined to hide that he can’t even tell the
people closest to him the smallest things?
 14

LAVA TALK (JAMES)

T he only thing keeping me moving right now is the hot,

raw burn of bourbon spreading through my chest.
I shouldn’t even be out here, damn it.
But after quizzing a few resort staff and checking the rosters
for duty shifts, no one’s sure if there should be twenty
personnel on-site or twenty-two.
Not after there were a few last-minute shift changes before the
storm blew in. No one knows if two of the waitresses,
roommates who live down the mountain, made it in before
everything shut down. With phones out of commission – even
the landlines refusing to connect, which worries me – no one
can even call them to be sure.
So here I am, tied to my friend Riker by a rope around the
waist, more rope trailing behind us to the main lodge as we
forge through the snow. Out on one last unholy perimeter
check of the cabins.
Riker takes another swig off the canteen and passes it back to
me, pulling the insulated mask stitched into the hood of his
coat back up over his mouth.
His voice is a muffled shout through the fabric, pitched over
the wind. “When I get back home,” he says, “I don’t know if
my daughter and wife are going to kill me for getting into this,
or kill me for leaving them out of it.”
I can’t help a faint smile as I shove my own mask down for
another hot sip of liquid courage. It helps chase away the tired,
sore ache in my body straining to fight this never-ending
storm.
The last cabin we haven’t checked is a distant shadow in the
white wall ahead, just a smudge of brown that disappears and
reappears as the snow swirls on, glittering in the light of our
high-powered lanterns. “Young Olivia hasn’t gotten over her
thrill-seeker phase yet, I take it?”
“Nah, not even close. I’m under orders to take her skydiving
for our wedding anniversary. Fucking sky diving. It’s like she’s
trying to make up for all her sheltered years at once. Living
every rush she can.”
“Hardly sounds like a bad way to live with your wife,” I point
out. “As long as you’re all happy.”
“Absolutely,” he says, his voice softening, almost inaudible in
the shriek of the wind. Even in the snow and the dark, though,
I see the warmth in his eyes. “And Em is, too. Even if Liv’s
starting to turn her into a little daredevil.”
“Glad to hear they get along without friction.”
“Yeah. Two brainy peas in our family pod. I’m damn happy
my little girl loves Liv as much as I do.” He lifts a hand to
shade his eyes, peering through the snow. “Speaking of
friction…”
“I know,” I say grimly. “Things have grown rather strained
between the Senator’s staff and the Pershing team. Looked like
a real altercation earlier. I hope it doesn’t get worse while
we’re all stuck in close quarters.”
“That’s not what I meant, James.”
We’re at the cabin now, and Riker shifts around to the side. It
only gives us a little shelter with the wind blowing so hard, but
there’s a tiny corridor of calm under the eaves.
He stomps his feet, rubbing his gloved hands together as he
eyes me. I settle in next to him, glancing through the window,
searching for a distraction.
I have a wicked feeling I know where this conversation is
going, and it’s not happening.
The glass is fogged over, frosted, but the cabin seems clearly
empty.
Still, we’ll do one more thorough check soon. I’d like another
second to regain feeling in my nose, and I take another sip
from the flask.
Only to nearly spit it out as Riker continues, “Man, I wasn’t
talking about the words with the Senator’s people and
Pershing. I mean the friction between you and the Senator’s
daughter.”
Oh, fuck. Not now.
Snarling, I glug down a sip that suddenly burns like fiery
judgment, then give him a flat look. “You’re mistaken. There’s
no friction between me and Senator Harris’ anything.”
He arches both brows. “Bull. Come the hell on. You usually
have a better poker face than this.”
“I don’t need a poker face. Nor do I need a bluff. There’s zero
friction between me and Ms. Harris.”
“Dude. The fact that you can’t lie as smoothly as you usually
do says there’s plenty.” He elbows me. “You can tell me,
James. I’ll keep it a secret. What gives?”
I thin my lips. Secrets at Enguard tend to stay within Enguard,
yes, but are often freely passed around between the team, who
gossip like nosy siblings because to them, they are family.
To them, I am family, too.
They just don’t need to know I agree.
That I’ve always held myself apart, because if they truly knew
me, they’d disown me all too fast.
And I damn sure can’t stand disappointing them that way.
Then again, if anyone would honestly keep a secret, it’s Riker.
Older. Dependable. Wiser. To me, world’s best and most
annoying friend.
From the impatient way he watches me, he’s not letting me out
of this any time soon.
Fuck.
I sigh, then shrug tightly. “Look…it’s true we’re old friends,
Ms. Harris and I. We once knew each other in what feels like
another life.”
“Yeah?” Riker’s gaze is shrewd, penetrating. “Interesting.
Though somehow, I’ve got a funny feeling ‘friends’ is a
heaping understatement.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap, my blood lighting up.
“I think it does, buddy.” He claps my shoulder. “But you’ll tell
me when you’re ready. Tell us when you’re ready. I know how
it works for you. And Lord knows I’ve had plenty of secrets to
work through of my own.” His mask still covers his nose and
mouth, but I can see the movement, the outline of his smile.
“C’mon. Let’s have one last look for those girls, and then head
in and get some rest. We earned it.”

WE CHECK THE CABIN , but it’s empty.

Cleaned out. All water, food, blankets, and emergency
supplies taken.
It’s likely the girls just never made it up the mountain and are
safe at home. So Riker and I turn to retrace our steps,
following the rope we’d staked out toward the lodge.
I’m ready to drop, aching down to my bones, the searing cold
reaching through my clothing to nearly devour me.
We don’t hear the faint, tired shouts until we’re closer.
And turn toward the noise to see the smallest glimmers of light
down the road, on the slope leading up the mountain to the
lodge.
Headlights.
Riker and I exchange glances.
There’s hope in me, a flare of relief in my chest. Maybe
heavy-duty rescue vehicles made it here after all.
Together, we wind up the ropes and forge down the road. It’s
at once easier going downhill and much worse in the open
spaces, when there’s nothing to act as a windbreaker. It’s just
us against the driving force of the storm, moving toward those
headlights, hoping beyond hope that –
Nothing.
No hope at all.
Because all we have are two girls in a car that stalled on the
mountain just a few hundred yards from the lodge.
The missing waitresses are half-frozen, struggling to stay
warm. Their car battery dying from the heater draining it.
They’re crying and terrified, thinking no one would find them
until they saw our lanterns moving up on the peak.
We’re quick to bundle them up, raiding their car for anything
we can use, including draining the tank into the emergency gas
can in the trunk. We’ve got to think about survival right now,
and we’ve just added two more liabilities to our roster.
Of course, I’m real fucking glad we found them now, rather
than leaving them to freeze to death in the cold.
Their names are Becca and Amanda.
I remember that, as I carry Amanda up the slope. She’s too
cold and weak to walk by herself, Becca clutched firmly in
Riker’s arms behind me. Becca and Amanda might be a living,
breathing miracle.
I feel like death follows me.
When I actually get to help someone cling to life, just like the
chef who’s leg I fixed, I can’t help it.
I want to remember them.
I don’t realize how truly late it is until we slog our way back to
the lodge with our scared, shaking cargo and let ourselves into
the commons room.
It’s dark. Almost everyone has bedded down, the fire crackling
and dim and the shared body heat combining with the
generator’s to make the place toasty.
Amanda actually makes a pained sound in my arms as we
walk into the wall of heat – and that worries me.
For people with frostbite, the cold can make a sudden heat
blast seem painful.
Together, Riker and I find a free space for the girls, bundling
them up in blankets.
Skylar, still awake, mutters something about pregnancy and
restlessness. She’s quick to share the hot pot of tea she’s kept
brewing – between giving me bizarre looks I don’t have time
to focus on right now.
We work at finding the girls dry clothes and check their
fingers and toes for frostbite. I’m relieved to see the pink flush
in their fingertips as blood rushes back where it belongs.
It’ll hurt for a bit, as their bodies try to restore equilibrium.
They’re crying, flinching from the heat of the mugs, but also
clinging to them desperately.
But they’ll be all right. They’re safe. That’s all that matters.
Me, though, I’m not so damn sure of.
I haven’t been this exhausted, this battered, since the night I
pried myself out of the wreckage of a shattered plane with my
friend’s dead body in my arms.
I should get some rest so I can be ready to tackle tomorrow.
As an Enguard officer, it’s on me to help keep these people
safe and handle disaster management until rescue arrives. I
need to be on point. But as I pull away with one last reassuring
murmur for Amanda, Riker catches my arm.
“Hey,” he says softly, something meaningful in his gaze as he
studies me intently. “Landon’s probably still up. I think he
stole an empty pantry for a private bedroom and office.”
I smile dryly. “Are you trying to hint at something, Riker?”
“Less hint and more sledgehammer. If there are things Landon
needs to know…”
“My personal life has no impact on our work, if that’s what
you’re implying.”
“Doesn’t it?”
I can’t answer. Not when, if I’m honest with myself, I knew
the moment we stepped inside that Faye isn’t here. I feel her
absence keenly.
Her presence makes me biased. Makes me weak. Makes me
insane.
And in close quarters, over the length of this storm, it could
cause problems.
I swallow a growl, pulling away from Riker with a nod.
Goddamn it, fine.
If I have to do this, I might as well do it tonight, when I’m so
tired that no matter what old demons are eating me, I’ll be able
to pass out and sleep off the aftermath of whatever hurt fury
Landon sends my way.
I don’t know if I’ve braced myself so much as I don’t have
anything left in me to feel dread.
I head back toward the kitchen to find this pantry Landon’s
made into his own little bunker.
Before I even reach the kitchen, the sound of laughter draws
me up short. I recognize those voices.
One is Landon’s.
The other is Hook Hamlin’s.
Damnation.
Slipping to one side of the kitchen doorway, I instinctively
conceal myself beyond the wall and risk a glance around the
frame before pulling back. Landon and Hamlin are leaning
against the stainless steel prep counter, the room dark save for
one of the small power lanterns.
In the glimpse I’d gotten, Hook was in the middle of topping
up a tumbler of scotch for Landon, the two of them
companionable and relaxed.
What a fucking mess this is.
It tears me apart to see it. To see Landon so enamored with
this vile man, fully ensnared by his grandfatherly-mentor act,
starstruck by his many achievements.
That’s the real danger with Hook Hamlin. He’s made
deception an art form.
He’s every man you’ve ever known who’s done great things,
only to mask what a rotten snake he really is. Only, Hook has
managed to keep his crimes hidden so deep – more buried than
my own past rushing up to explode in my face – that Landon
has no clue the man he’s so glibly trading stories with,
idolizing, possibly even confiding in is a horror of a man.
A hand in the deaths of thousands. Hell, maybe even tens of
thousands, when he’s almost singlehandedly responsible for a
quarter of every illegal arms deal funneling out of this country
and into brutal wars abroad.
And I have no fucking proof.
Nothing but my own memories, hearsay, that sense of
brimming intuition that promises I’m right.
Captain Asshole Hook is up to no good.
Right now, though, there’s no way to get between them.
I can’t even try, especially not for this conversation I don’t
even want to have.
Landon’s too distracted, his hero worship too strong, and I’ll
need something more concrete before I bring my problems to
him and possibly trust him with them.
There’s only one way I can actually gain solid intelligence on
Hamlin.
It’s from the only man who knows more about him than
anyone else.
The one man who’s made all of Hook Hamlin’s illegal
activities possible.
I need to corner Senator Harris and force him to talk.
I KNOW where I’ll find him.
In his suite, hiding away where he doesn’t have to deal with
the little people, all huddled below in misery while he’s
ensconced in his own cozy private space. What else is new?
I pull away from the kitchen and head up the stairs, having
every intention of knocking on his door and confronting him
on his own turf.
But I catch him just as he’s stepping out, moving with a
careful quiet, easing the door closed behind him.
Harris stops as he sees me, the door still half-open.
He blinks for a moment, then holds a finger to his lips. “Shh,”
he says softly. I’m not expecting the almost familiar warmth in
his voice, as if something in his attitude magically changed
toward me.
Fuck, like something in him changed, when I’m accustomed to
cold, hard-driven, focused distance or the smarmy fake smiles
of a Senator. “Faye just fell asleep. She’s worn out.”
“Ah,” I say tightly.
In that one sound is every last conflicted emotion Faye’s name
brings.
The storm and the turmoil that makes it hard for me to think.
Harder for me to process my feelings toward this man in front
of me when for once – for once – he’s saying Faye’s name
with love.
It barely computes in my head. I still remember the look of
worried panic on his face when I fought through the snow to
tell him Faye had nearly gotten lost in the snow and needed an
evac to the lodge immediately.
Harris looks at me oddly, then offers a tired smile. “You know,
I never got the chance to thank you, James. I don’t know what
I would’ve done if I hadn’t been able to get to Faye, or known
she was safe. I’ll make sure you’re compensated, somehow.
Even if it’s just putting in a good word for Enguard with the
boys back in D.C. I assure you…”
Compensated? Compensated?
I’m not even fucking listening anymore.
He thinks I want to be paid for ensuring his daughter’s safety?
Of course.
Of-godddamn-course he does. That’s how men like Harris
think. Everything has a price tag.
And everyone has a price.
Something inside me snaps.
Something that’s been building for years, this tension coiling
inside me until I finally hit the last inch on my extremely long
fuse.
My voice feels like thunder pouring out of me, words like
lightning, striking hard as I snap, “Keep your fucking bribes to
yourself, Senator.”
He blinks back shock.
I’m too angry to find any satisfaction in Harris’ startled,
widening eyes. “The only reason I even had to save Faye was
because you put us in this situation. You’re engineering
something, and I don’t know what – but after everything
you’ve done, I won’t be surprised if even more people wind up
dead by the end of it. You murdered three good men, and
probably more. Who’s next?”
He blinks at me again, this time more blankly.
Gone is the mask of the Senator. I’m waiting for the dark,
calculating thing hiding underneath.
Except it doesn’t come.
He’s genuinely confused, his shoulders going stiff, a touch of
offense in his voice. “I haven’t murdered anyone. I don’t know
what the hell you’ve been concocting –”
“Don’t lie.”
“James…”
I take a step back so I don’t send my fist into his chin and
wreck everything.
He has to be lying – has to be. Because I can’t stand the
thought that after all these years, my hatred was misdirected. I
can’t believe this bullshit bewilderment is honest, not feigned.
“I nearly died the night that plane crashed, asshole. Tanner
Egon did die. So did the pilot, and another agent. How can you
sleep, knowing that?”
Harris’ face goes white. “The crash? You think…you think I?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No, James, no. Jesus. Now isn’t
the time to tell you everything, but I can promise –”
“Save it,” I fling back. “I know you’re in bed with Pershing.
And I know you’d do anything to keep those connections
buried. The two of you throw just enough busts to the
authorities so nobody ever suspects your little illegal
gunrunning business. You play world’s best gun reform
lobbyist in Congress, while Pershing Shield cleans up as
heroes and everyone’s favorite Homeland Security darlings.
Meanwhile, the weapons you ship all over the world just go to
the highest bidders. Blood money for fucking guns.” I
practically spit the last words.
“James,” Harris says tightly, his voice oddly hollow, “you
need to stop. Now. This isn’t –”
“Why?” Fuck. I mean it, why?
It’s like every word I’ve refused to say for years is barreling
out of me, impossible to stop, this torrent of fury and hatred
coming like lava now that I’ve cracked wide open.
I can’t stop this lava-talk for anything. Not to save my own
life.
“I covered for you once, for Faye’s sake, Senator. It was the
biggest mistake of my life. She needs to know the truth about
who you are. Everyone does. You nearly killed me. You
murdered three men. You fund and facilitate Pershings’ black
market weapons operation. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you
killed your wife when she found out about it.”
Silence. Dead silence, while Harris stares past me, somewhere
over my shoulder.
But I can’t turn around. Can’t look.
Because the door to Harris’ suite is swinging open, revealing
Faye.
Standing there, white-faced, her eyes wide and wet, her mouth
trembling.
And accusation and horror in every line of her sweet face.
 15

GOOD INTENTIONS (FAYE)

I don’t know what hurts more right now.

Hearing the man I love completely eviscerate my father?
Discovering Dad is dirty? So darkly flipping dirty he could be
responsible for so much evil, if James is to be believed.
Or is it finding out that Mom didn’t die in an accident? She
was murdered.
Or the sick, ominous sense of fear I get as two men from
Pershing Shield emerge from Hook Hamlin’s suite across the
hall?
And they’ve clearly heard everything James said, too.
I can’t.
I can’t breathe, because if I inhale then I’ll have to exhale, and
if I exhale, I’m going to burst out sobbing. This is officially
too much.
Sure, we were already in mortal danger with this storm and the
power outage and the generator only able to last so long, but
the elements? I know how to fight them.
What I don’t know is how to fight my own father, or the peril
he’s put us in by bringing us up here with that horrible man
from Pershing.
I still don’t know what’s going on.
But I’m more and more certain we came here for all the wrong
reasons.
And I’m terrified none of us will leave alive.
I only have a second to stare into James’ stricken face.
For once there’s real emotion in his cutting silver-blue eyes.
There’s surprise, sorrow, regret.
His lips work soundlessly like he’s trying to find the right
thing to say to erase all of this.
But he can’t.
No one can.
I feel like a rubber doll, moving numbly, just as Dad – his
expression strained, his voice grim – grasps my arm, drags me
back into the room, and slams the door firmly in James’ face.
At first, I think Dad is angry. Furious.
Then I numbly take in the strain lines around his eyes and
realize he’s not angry at all.
He’s afraid.
Oh, God.
Nothing makes it more evident than when he bolts the door,
and then shoves a chair up against the handle to barricade it
shut.
He stops. Looks at me grimly, breathing heavy, the mask of
that cold dark man back in place. Slowly, he steps toward me.
I flinch back instinctively, retreating, shaking my head.
Can it get any more messed up? I don’t want to be afraid of
my own father.
But I am.
I’m angry, too, and that’s what’s working away the numbness,
burning it off to let me function, let me process, let me move,
let me speak – even if my first words are a croak, broken and
wounded.
“Dad? What the hell was that? You…and Pershing…and
Mom…”
“It was the truth, Faye,” he says calmly, and every word hits
me like a bullet. “But it’s not the truth James thinks it is.”
I make a strangled noise. Here it comes – the tears, my throat
closing, but if I’m sobbing with anything, I’m sobbing with
sheer raw fury. “Explain,” I demand. “Now.”
My father just looks at me, then sighs and crosses the room to
sink down on the couch, brushing aside the blankets I’d used
to make it my bed.
At least we’re alone. The aides who were staying with him
moved downstairs for now, although the room’s adjoining
bathroom was supposed to be for public use until we get out of
this. Right now, though, I’m grateful there was no one else
here to overhear this mess.
A mess nobody ever should’ve had to hear.
Especially not me.
Because it shouldn’t freaking exist.
Leaning forward, my father braces his elbows on his knees,
laces his hands together, and presses his mouth to his
knuckles. A troubled expression crosses his face.
He remains silent for an eternity before beginning to speak in
slow, halting whispers. “James Nobel is right about one thing:
I’ve been collaborating with Pershing. Your mother was
murdered, Faye, but not by me. God, never! And someone did
engineer the plane crash that nearly killed James, but it wasn’t
me either.”
My legs drop out under me. My pulse roars in my ears.
I tilt into one of the easy chairs, nearly falling off it before I
curl forward and bury my face in my hands. “But why? Why,
Dad?”
“Because,” he says, so flatly it’s like he feels nothing at all.
“Hook Hamlin killed your mother. And he’s the one who
ordered the hit on me…and on you.”
My chest feels like it’s inverting, my ribs digging spears into
my lungs and heart.
And I just cry again – deep, hoarse, gasping, hurting things.
Every memory of Mom floods through me, then cuts off.
Maybe that’s what hurts so fucking much.
That in one night, one awful instant, I lost every chance to
ever make new memories with her.
And every day that passes, I risk losing the old ones to time.
Mom fades into a ghost of vague impressions of warmth and
cheeriness and dark cherry-red hair like mine.
And someone took her away from me, for evil reasons I don’t
even understand.
And Dad sounds like he doesn’t care at all.
It’s only when I scrub at my eyes, clearing my blurring vision,
forcing myself to look at him with my breath rasping and my
chest heaving, I realize I’m wrong.
Even if his voice was dead and toneless, his face gives him
away.
His eyes are wet. His trembling mouth is racked, ravaged, and
I understand the past years so much more now.
My father is hurting. Has been hurting, this constant raw
wound that will never heal or scar, and the only way he can
stop the bleeding is to feel nothing at all. To shut himself
away.
I shake my head, scrubbing at my nose. “I don’t…I don’t
understand anything right now.”
“Let me start at the beginning,” he says gravely. “You
remember what your mother used to do?”
I nod. “She was a clerk for Senate Appropriations.”
“Yes.” He pauses, then continues, “She was auditing records
one night when she noticed something wasn’t right. Numbers
didn’t add up. The notations on what the spending was for led
to initiatives that didn’t exist, or ones that died on the House
floor and never should’ve had funds allocated to them. She
didn’t tell me, not for a long time. Not until she was sure. She
dug through years and years of records for months, following
lies, paper trails…and uncovering the heart of Hook Hamlin’s
operation. Pershing Shield’s work with Homeland Security is
just a cover for what he really does: illegal arms deals, much
of it funded by the Department of Defense itself, even if most
of them don’t know it. And the ones who do are too powerful
to even think about taking down. It’s the perfect cover.
Pershing gets to play at being the good guys, working for
pennies in the name of justice, while really they’re making
billions off gunrunning.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I stare at him. “Then…the
accident?”
“She was run off the road, Faye,” he says wearily. “It took me
a long time to find proof, but I did. I don’t know how Hamlin
realized she knew, but her car was forced over the bridge. I
saw the traffic cam footage before it mysteriously disappeared.
And I had to pretend I knew nothing about it and believed it
was an accident.”
“Why?” I flare. “Jesus, why didn’t you tell the truth? Why
didn’t you –”
“Because Hamlin would have killed you,” he snaps off, eyes
flaring. “And if not Hamlin, then his DOD contacts. Men with
the world’s deadliest skills, compromised by bribes. I couldn’t
fight him from the outside. So I had to get him from within.”
“So you’ve…shit.” My voice chokes again, my throat closing.
“You’ve been working the long game, trying to take him down
by pretending to collaborate with him?”
My father nods. His voice drops, and he casts a wary glance
toward the door before looking at me again. “I’ve been trying
to get the information, the proof, I need to destroy Hamlin in
ways not even his high-level friends can prevent without
outing themselves. And take them down, too, if I can. But to
do that –”
“You had to get your hands dirty,” I finish weakly. “How dirty,
Dad?”
He regards me solemnly for long moments, before dropping
his gaze. “You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. I hate it.”
“Tell me!” I cry, clenching my fists. “You’ve kept so much
from me for so long – you can at least tell me this.”
“I’m sorry, my dearest Faye,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you
that part. Not for anything. But I can tell you I wasn’t the one
who engineered James’ plane crash. It was Hamlin, after his
friend Tanner uncovered damning information about Hamlin
and Pershing Shield on your very last case.”
My eyes widen. “That’s…that’s why you wanted me to quit.
Why you made me quit.”
“Yes.” He exhales heavily. “He nearly killed your friend
James. I couldn’t bear the thought of him killing you, as well.
And if he knew you were on the case…”
I hate it.
I hate that it makes a sick sort of sense.
All I want to do is shout. Scream up and down how I could’ve
protected myself, could’ve handled it as an agent if I’d gone to
my seniors and we’d worked out a plan, but I can’t deny it.
James is the best agent I ever knew. I admired him, learned
from him, looked up to him.
If Hook Hamlin could come that close to killing James so
easily…
He’d have squashed my rookie ass like a bug.
“Fuck,” I breathe blankly, and my father actually cracks a
smile.
“Yeah. Exactly.” He leans back against the sofa, watching me
worriedly. “You can’t say a word, Faye. Let me deal with
those two goons who overheard James, and deal with James as
well.”
I stiffen. “What do you mean, ‘deal with’ James?”
“I’ll talk to him. Bring him into the loop. Work together. He’s
a fine man.” He smiles sadly, and I get a glimpse of my real
Dad once more. “A better man than me. I don’t know if I’ll
ever be clean again. Not even if we take Hamlin down. That’s
what this entire trip was about. Cornering him where he
couldn’t run, then getting rid of him if it came down to it, with
as few witnesses as possible. Trouble is, it seems he’s worked
out the same plan for me.”
I want to say I understand. I want to say I forgive him.
But I don’t.
I know some men can be driven to extremes when grief and
loss are at play.
But if I’ve even half guessed at how far the gun operation
runs, not to mention the fact that arms dealing often supports
drug production and distribution, and sometimes human
trafficking…
I can’t look at my father the same way, knowing he was
helping with that.
The ends don’t always justify the means.
And I wonder how many lives have been destroyed by my
father’s actions.
How many lives are being wrecked now?
We’re all in danger thanks to Dad, Hook Hamlin, and their
stupid fucking games.
That’s why they wanted us to wait out the storm in the cabins.
So when someone’s dead body was found at the lodge later,
there’d be no witnesses to counter the story of how it
happened.
I can’t say that right now, though. I can’t really organize my
feelings at all, or my thoughts.
I only shake my head, and for a moment his brow wrinkles
before his expression smooths and he looks away.
“I understand if you’re disappointed in me,” he says. “The past
years have been sickening. I had no idea how deep Pershing’s
connections went. It’s like an infection spreading its way
through every limb, following the bloodstream down to the
tiniest capillary. I thought I could get in, get out, get done. But
it’s not that simple, Faye. That’s why I set up this fundraiser.”
“To get him alone.”
He nods stiffly. “I think Hamlin’s onto me, which is why I’m
not worried about those men. I wanted to give him a chance to
act on it, so I could enact my own plans. Either I’ll get
something solid from him that I can take to the DOJ, or
else…”
He doesn’t say it.
I don’t need him to.
Because I realize now that the man Dad has become is capable
of things I’d never imagined, even in his cold and quiet
withdrawal that left me shivering and alone without an actual
family.
My father is willing to kill Hook Hamlin here.
And honestly, right now, thinking about my mother – about
her car crashing over the bridge, how she must’ve felt as it
fell, as it sank, as the water rushed in on her and pulled her
into the cold – so am I.
I could wrap my hands around Hamlin’s thick throat and
squeeze until he just goes blank and stops breathing.
And I can’t deal with that feeling.
I can’t deal with this searing grief over Mom, or the new grief
over the loss of any hope of recovering the Dad I knew. Fury
over what Hamlin did to my family, what he’s taken away
from me.
And I can’t look Dad in the face right now.
I shove to my feet and grab my jeans, yanking them on over
my pajamas. My father stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” I bite off, pulling a sweater on over my pajama top,
then going for my coat. “I just…I can’t be here with you right
now. I need some fucking air.”
He’s up in an instant, ducking in front of me, blocking my way
as I head for the door and my shoes. “You can’t, Faye. I can’t
let you go out there alone. Can’t let you be unguarded around
Hook’s men.”
For a second, I look up at him.
Then I do something I’ve never done in my life.
I shove my father.
Hard.
I shove him with all the fury and hurt and loss pent up inside
me.
All the feelings of frustration.
All the times I reached for him and he didn’t reach back and
left me hurting and cold and scared because he thought that
was protecting me.
I’m sick of men doing this to me.
My father, and James, even if I love them both. And I pour it
all into my hands, into my arms, as I plant my palms against
my father’s chest and push.
He’s still so much larger than I am that even with combat
training, I can only make him stagger and stumble backward,
catching him off guard. He stares at me while I sweep past,
ducking to grab my boots and then yanking the chair from in
front of the door.
“You can’t stop me,” I throw back, ripping the door open to
storm out into the hall.
It slams shut behind me.
And he doesn’t follow, thank God.
I stalk to the head of the stairs and drop down to sit on the top
step and pull my shoes on.
But what I really end up doing is burying my face in my hands
and crying.
I feel like I’ve spilled more tears in the past few days than I
have in years, but every time I think I understand why, my
world rips open and shifts itself back together again in a new
ugly shape.
I’m ripped apart and reshaped, all these pieces of my heart
inside me broken and tumbled around like bits of sharp-edged
red glass in a jar.
And stupid me, stupid, stupid me…
I still want James right now.
I want James so bad for the comfort, when he’s been just as
bad as my father about keeping secrets and shutting me out.
But at least James never turned himself into a black market
kingpin, not caring who he hurt as long as he got his revenge,
his mission.
I sniff, wiping my eyes, and that’s when I hear the commotion
below.
I yank my boots on, then lean over the rail, watching,
listening.
No one knows I’m here. I’m grateful for that as Hook Hamlin
and several of his men pass below the upstairs railing,
murmuring urgently about James.
I catch words like perimeter sweep and wide area search.
My heart thumps painfully – and harder still when I see
Landon Strauss with them – listening intently and nodding as
Hook murmurs rogue agent.
No, damn it!
Landon is James’ friend, his trusted boss, isn’t he? He can’t
believe Hook’s lies. He can’t.
Riker and Gabe are next, hanging back from the others…and
speaking so low I can hardly hear them, but what I do hear
eases the ache in my chest just a little.
There’s no way and he wouldn’t go AWOL and if he did
something, it’s gotta be for a good reason.
Both of them are looking at the back of Landon’s head with
troubled expressions.
Good. Good that someone still has faith in James.
The same faith I do.
I can’t go down there right now, though. Not when they
probably think I’m locked away in Dad’s room, and they can
find me whenever they want.
It’s easy to paint James as a rogue agent, but I’d be trickier. So
Pershing is probably saving me for later when there’s not
really anywhere I can go.
I shouldn’t stay here, either. I’m too exposed.
There might be more of Hamlin’s men in his room, and if one
comes out in the hall and catches me…I’m cooked.
I can’t go back to my father, either. I back up away from the
bannister railing, out of the line of sight from downstairs, and
stop when my shoulders hit the cold-frosted window. I glance
over my shoulder – and freeze as I see something written in
the frost on the glass, left there with a fingertip.
Come down.
That’s when I realize there’s a light outside.
A single lantern glowing in the snow, and a shrouded figure
standing against a tree, watching, waiting.
James!
I don’t even hesitate. I pry the window open, letting in a gust
of cold wind. It’s two stories down, and I don’t care.
I squeeze myself through the opening, just as James tilts his
head back to look up at me. And even as he spreads his arms, I
do it.
I jump.
 16

SLOW MOTION (JAMES)

Five Years Ago

I DON ’ T KNOW how many times Grandpa can call to tell me it’s
ending.
I don’t want to fucking hear it anymore. I know.
I know the way I know the sound of my own voice, the way I
know the feel of cool white piano keys beneath my fingertips,
the way I know the dull beat of my own heart.
It’s burned into my flesh, into my bones, and I can’t escape it.
My mother’s dying.
There’s nothing anyone can do.
And soon she’ll be gone forever.
That’s why I’m on my way home, coming as fast as I can.
Right now, it feels like I’m on my way nowhere, when the
plane is still sitting on the runway and the clock is ticking
down. I thought I’d have more time.
Just yesterday she’d seemed better. No hope for the cancer to
go into remission, of course, but it’s the little things that buy
her days, hours, minutes to enjoy what life she has left while
it’s still hers.
I thought I’d be able to go home and at least spend a few days
with her and Grandpa.
Maybe take her for a walk through the daffodil gardens she so
lovingly cultivated in the backyard.
Play music for her, her old favorites from Rachmaninov.
I don’t like to think those songs could be a funeral dirge,
serenading her to the other side, but I’d have played them
anyway. For her and the way every boy should love his
mother.
I’d just hoped for a little longer.
But Grandpa’s phone call says I have hours. Not days.
Goddamn hours to get from the Seattle field office and back to
Portland.
I’d meant to take a commercial flight. I couldn’t justify pulling
FBI strings for a private plane, but Tanner had to go and be the
good friend and call in favors with Congressman Harris for his
daughter’s “special” friend.
So here I am, sitting in a private jet, Tanner strapped in at my
side, reading something on his phone, while I stare blankly out
the window as the baggage handlers load up our things.
Baggage.
Fuck.
Isn’t that just it?
I’m carrying too much baggage, including the guilt that I
didn’t fly home sooner. I’d been too wrapped up in work.
Too hellbent on cracking the Pershing Shield thing, gathering
a brutal litany of evidence.
Surveillance photos of shipments coming into Tacoma ports.
Mysteriously unmarked containers of unknown origin.
Shipments that somehow managed to avoid passing through
customs while men from Pershing Shield stood guard, waving
them through.
The almost militaristic Pershing security presence around
several large shipping containers bound for Portland, too.
Last I checked, Pershing wasn’t in the business of freight and
logistics.
And such a high-profile company doesn’t hire out on small
warehouse gigs.
It’s also bizarre Senator Harris’ signature is on funding for
many Pershing Shield projects that don’t seem to have an
actual purpose.
I’d been too wrapped up in that, and too wrapped up in Faye.
There’s something between us, something I can’t name just
yet, something I’ve promised her we’ll talk about once all this
is over.
I’ve known it for a long time, but my last mission drove it
home. I’d been sent without her because the recon team didn’t
need an explosives expert. But the way she’d looked at me
with those lovely green eyes, begging me to come back safe,
fuck.
That image stayed with me the entire op, reminding me why I
had to go in smart, go in strong, go in fast, and get out safe.
“You’re brooding again,” Tanner says.
I don’t look away from the window. “Yeah. Pondering the
many ways to kill you for arranging this.”
“I’m partial to strangulation. Just ask my ex-wife. And you
don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?”
Not really.
I’m grateful to him, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it.
But I don’t realize, in this moment, how much I’ll come to
regret those words.
Tanner, at least, lets me brood on as the plane finally gets
moving, taxiing down the runway and taking off. He loves
giving me a hard time for being so serious, but he’s more
sensitive than he seems – and he gives me my space to work
through my thoughts as the plane soars over the West Coast.
I don’t know how to prepare myself for Mom truly dying. I’ve
never lost anyone before.
My grandmother died before I was born, and my father was
never in the picture.
I don’t know if he’s dead or alive and have zero emotional
investment in him.
As an only child, I’ve always just been alone with my grandpa
and my mother.
When I think of Mom, I always think of light. She’s like a
butterfly in summer, energized by sun, always gravitating to
the rooms with the most windows when she’s not outside
soaking it up. Every memory of her is wreathed in gold and
warmth, gleaming off her pale-blonde hair, dwelling in the
laughter in her eyes.
Sometimes I think it’s not the cancer that’s killing her.
It’s those cold, windowless rooms in the hospital and the
cancer treatment center, where the only light is sterile and
white and cold.
That’s why she asked to spend her last days at home, too.
Our house is filled with light, floor-to-ceiling windows in
every room. It’s almost a house of glass. Her bedroom looks
right out on the garden, with tall French doors leading to the
patio and the waving daffodil heads.
I hope it can make her happy one more time, that those flowers
will be the last thing she sees.
That, and her family, my grandfather and me, gathered around
her to see her home.
Only I won’t make it.
Because I’m so sunk in my thoughts that I don’t realize the
plane is shaking until Tanner catches my arm, looking around
with alarm as the lights flicker, and the other agent on the
plane, a transfer hitching a ride, lets out a nervous yelp.
I look up as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom.
“We’re experiencing a little trouble with one of our engines,
guys, but we’ve got backups and should be able to get over
these mountains just fine before we make an emergency
landing on the other si—”
He never finishes.
There’s a flash of light, a burst of smoke, a loud explosion
from outside the window. The wing disappears in a cloud of
billowing black.
And then we’re dropping out of the sky.
The other agent screams, but Tanner and I are silent, stiff,
clutching at each other’s arms. Hoping our friendship would
somehow hold us stable, get us through this, save us from the
shrill adrenaline and tension as the plane plummets.
It’s so fast. Over in seconds, and I must’ve passed out from
cabin depressurization because I don’t even remember the
crash.
Just the shrieking whine of descent growing louder and louder,
a voice – I’m not even sure whose, maybe not even Tanner’s –
whispering James.
The awful realization I’m not going to make it, I’m going to
fail the people I love.
Faye. Grandpa. Mom.
Faye!
And then it’s all black.
Black nothing, dead and gone.
I don’t know how long I’m out. I only know it’s the smell of
burning fuel that wakes me up, tinged with something else.
A thought, tickling in the back of my mind. Shit.
If I’m close enough to smell it burning, then I’m close enough
to die if that fuel explodes.
The sense of danger drags me awake, back to full awareness of
my aching, sore, torn body.
I’m caught underneath a crushing weight, my nostrils seared,
and I can’t see until I blink several times and rub the blood
from my face with one shaking hand. The other is pinned
down, and it hits me.
I’m trapped under the debris.
I try to move and end up coughing as I inhale smoke in a
scouring rush down my throat. I can taste my own blood, harsh
and metallic.
Even worse, I hear a voice calling from the wreckage
somewhere.
It sinks in that it’s Tanner before it sinks in that we’ve actually
fucking crashed.
Suddenly, everything zeros in on his voice, and I have to get to
him.
I’m not sure how I’m moving, what I’m doing. I don’t have
any recollection of twisting and fighting my way free from the
crumpled metal on top of me, or struggling my way out of the
charred, torn-up seat I’m still strapped into.
I must have at least two or three broken bones, but I don’t feel
them. I don’t care.
All I care about is finding my friend.
I stumble through the flaming piles of wreckage, dodging mini
fires everywhere, searching through the cold, wind-torn night.
We’ve hit somewhere in the mountains, no roads or
civilization in sight, just rocky slopes and trees and snow at
greater altitudes.
I stumble over the body of the pilot first. His eyes are dead and
blank, the arm I trip over like rubber.
I linger only long enough to close his eyes out of respect
before forging on toward the sound of that weakening voice.
When I find Tanner…I know there’s little hope.
He was flung free from the wreckage but slammed hard into a
tumble of sharp, cragged rocks. He’s bleeding everywhere. So
much blood I can hardly tell where it’s coming from. Not
when he’s this lacerated, his clothing shredded, deep cuts torn
in his flesh over every surface of his body, contusions on his
temples. I don’t know how he’s conscious, or alive.
Or how he smiles at me when I drop down to my knees next to
him, reaching for him and then drawing back, almost afraid to
touch him.
“H-hey,” he rasps weakly. “Fuck. I th-thought you stood me
up. Bad first date etiquette, y’know.”
“Stop talking,” I gasp. “You’re straining yourself.”
It takes a second for my medical training to kick in.
I’m supposed to be neutral and detached in these situations,
but first responder training never really overrides the shock of
seeing your best friend bleeding out on the ground and most
certainly about to die.
But then something takes over. I search around quickly,
finding a few blankets in the wreckage and bringing them back
to make him more comfortable.
I fold one up behind his head to elevate it and manage to roll
him onto a couple others, layered to form a pallet that gets him
off the hard, cold ground. Then I peel his ruined shirt open to
get a better look.
I suck in a sharp breath, my stomach sinking with pure and
utter dread, horror, sorrow.
It’s not just the way his leg dangles, clearly broken. It’s his
entire abdomen, nearly black with bruises, and swollen
outward, firm and unyielding. Tanner’s a lean man, and that’s
not his belly.
That’s severe internal bleeding, building up under his skin.
That’s proof he’s going to die.
He’s going to die as surely as my mother’s going to die, and I
can only be there for one of them.
Even though I know it’s useless, I still try to make him
comfortable. And the entire time I’m working, he’s still
smiling.
His eyes are wet, pained, but he’s smiling with a sort of
fatalistic acceptance, refusing to go out broken and afraid.
“Hey,” he says again. “N-no one told you it was okay to f-feel
me up.”
“You’re not funny,” I rasp, my throat thick.
“I know it, Nobel.” His smile widens. “S-smile for me
anyway.”
And I do. I do because this man is my friend.
Because we’ve worked together through so many missions.
Because he’d do anything for me, and the least I can do when I
can’t save him is fucking smile like he asks.
I feel like I’m letting him down. But the dice was rolled by
someone other than me, maybe God, and I’m not the one who
crashed that plane.
Fuck, even now, I know no plane should ever go up in midair
like that. Not with even the most basic pre-flight checks and
preparation.
Which makes me think the plane was sabotaged. The crash
was staged.
Someone wanted to get me and Tanner out of the way because
of what we knew.
About Pershing Shield.
And about Congressman Paul Harris, the man who chartered
this flight.
In that moment, something black and hateful is born.
Something that knows only loss, only pain, only emptiness, as
the night wears on and Tanner’s ridiculous jokes devolve into
groans of pain and soft pleas.
He wants me to make sure his ex-wife and kids are taken care
of.
I hold his hand until morning, promising they will be. I hold
his hand longer still, even as he slips into unconsciousness and
I don’t think he’ll wake up again.
It’s a distant thing, when the rescue chopper finds us hours
later. I can’t feel relief, when I know that as they cart my
friend’s near-dead body away, it’s over.
I’ll never see him again.
Just like I’ll never see Mom.
And somehow, it’s numb, when they tend to my own injuries
and ferry me to the hospital.
I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything.
Because the only way to cope with the hideous and murderous
rage inside me is to go blank, go dark, and swear that
someday, I’ll make this right.
I’ll make it right if I never feel anything again.

Present Day

W HEN I GAVE Hamlin’s men the slip and left that note for Faye
in the fog on the window, I never expected she’d take come
down quite so literally.
But she’s wild-eyed and wet-faced, the tracks of tears running
down her cheeks. I know what she’s like when her emotions
are high and she’s upset, ready to set everything on fire.
She’s impulsive, reckless, spitfire incarnate, and I think I know
before she does that she’s going to jump, when she shoves the
window open and squeezes herself out with one foot braced on
the sill.
She looks down at me almost defiantly for a moment. Almost
daring me to break her trust, as I have so many times before.
Then – fearlessly, beautifully, wildly, madly – she leaps.
I’m moving before I’m thinking, but there’s no time for
anything else.
Faye comes sailing down through the snow with her hair a
brilliant red like flame. I drop the lantern and dart forward,
positioning myself under her with my arms open.
She’s a small, slight thing.
Damn if she doesn’t hit me like a cannonball, though, gravity
giving her weight and sending her crashing down into me.
I’m barely able to wrap my arms around her before we’re
tumbling back into the snow, hitting a soft drift so hard it
plumes up around us like a crashing tsunami, flinging snow
that’s just fallen down in the biting, tearing wind right back up
to be swirled away again.
For a moment, we just lie there, her on top of me, the cold
soaking in, the duffel bag strapped to my back digging at my
bones. She’s wheezing, and I can’t tell if she’s struggling to
breathe in the icy air or struggling not to cry.
But soon she pushes herself up with her hands braced against
my chest. The cool blue-white light of the Coleman lantern
teases against the fiery strands of her hair, making glowing
copper filaments that seem to shine with their own light.
“If you wanted to kill me, Tink,” I say, “there are easier ways
to do it.”
Her mouth trembles, and she glares. “That’s not funny. We
need to talk, James.”
I arch a brow. “If you want to gloat, I’m in no mood.”
Faye sits up, straddling me, glaring down.
Then she promptly picks up a double handful of snow and
grinds it into my face, whomping it down in a big pillowy
handful.
I almost don’t even feel it. But I do feel a smile coming on.
So fucking ridiculous.
It’s so Faye.
Here I am, lying on the freezing ground in the middle of a
blizzard, danger everywhere, bundled up far more than she is
while she pummels and pelts me with snow over and over
again, half-sobbing, half-shouting, and it’s only the howl of
the wind that keeps us from being discovered.
“You jerk,” she cries. “You jerk, you jerk, you jerk! I hate you.
Hate how you never tell me anything, hate how cynical you
are, hate you for being right. Hate you for being wrong…”
The only way to stop her – and by now she’s pounding my
chest, dull thuds I barely feel through my layered coat – is to
catch her wrists. Hold her in place.
She fights me for several more seconds. Then she goes still,
looking down at me with her face a mask of misery, her nose
flushed red and her mouth swollen pink and lush from crying,
her hair whipped everywhere, and her lashes dotted with
snowflakes.
“Faye,” I say softly. “Slow down. Tell me what’s going on.”
She swallows thickly, glowering.
“You’re right. That’s what,” she rasps. “Dad’s dirty. But
you’ve got it all wrong.”
Wrong? I frown, looking up at her framed against the darkness
and the swirling snow. “Not now. We should find somewhere
safe where you can explain, before Hamlin’s men notice the
open window –”
“No!” she hisses, scrunching up her face. “You’re going to
listen, and you’re going to listen right now, James Nobel.”
I sigh, then loosen my grip on her wrists. “Then stop trying to
hit me.”
“I make no fucking promises.”
But after a moment she climbs off me, plopping back into the
snow and rubbing at her nose, before shivering and pulling her
coat up around herself.
Even with the lodge blocking some of the wind, she’s not
wearing nearly enough.
I sit up, peel out of my outer coat, and settle next to her,
wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Here,” I murmur.
She eyes me mistrustfully, then sniffs and scoots into the coat.
And into the circle of my arm, tucking against my side. I blink,
and she scowls at me.
“I almost froze to death out here once already,” she bites off.
“I’m not doing it again. Body heat. Doesn’t mean we’re
good.”
I don’t point out we could find somewhere warmer and safer
to have this conversation.
Faye wants me to listen, so I intend to do it.
Even if I have to freeze a few fingers and toes off in the
process.
I wait in silence. She watches me hesitantly, curling her
fingers in the edges of my coat and pulling it closer. It dwarfs
her, makes her look so small and vulnerable that I can’t help
tightening my arm around her.
For body heat, of course.
What else?
After a few hesitant moments, she says, “Hook Hamlin killed
my Mom.”
Her voice sounds small, hurt, still so shocked and disbelieving
that it’s not hard to tell this knowledge is new to her, and it
shakes her very soul. “It wasn’t an accident, James. Dad didn’t
kill her. She figured out what Hamlin was doing with the arms
deals, how he was misappropriating government funds with
the help of some insiders, and he killed her. She didn’t fall
asleep behind the wheel. Hamlin ran her off the road.”
“Faye. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head fiercely. “He tried to kill you, too. That’s
where you’re wrong. It wasn’t my Dad, never. He got in bed
with Hook, trying to find revenge, but he got in too deep.
He’s…he’s done things. Things I don’t even know if I can ever
forgive. Things I don’t know if he can ever forgive himself
for.” Her lips tremble, then tighten, and she glares like she can
intimidate me into believing her. “But he didn’t arrange your
plane crash. I know he didn’t. It’s not his fault your friend
died.”
My raging, snarling instinct is to deny it. Tell her how fucking
wrong she is.
Christ. I’ve been carrying this grudge around like a lit torch
for five long years, the flame of my anger keeping alive, my
rage and my hatred for one man.
Yeah, those emotions were the only things I could feel forever.
The only things that reminded me I was still alive, not a ghost.
And now, to be told it’s been misdirected all this time…
I don’t know if it’s my own self-denial that makes me hate to
believe it, or my cynicism.
What if Senator Harris is lying again? Anything to stay in his
daughter’s good graces?
I shake my head. It’s all I can give her.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Damn it, I –”
“Don’t,” she hisses. “Don’t, James. Don’t make this worse.
Don’t tell me it’s not true. I haven’t had a father for years. And
now I finally get why. I saw him again tonight, the real man.
Not this obsessed monster I’ve been living with forever.” She
swallows hard. Tears form in her eyes, gather on her lashes,
and freeze into tiny glittering ice crystals. “I know what he
said. I know what I believe. You can believe what you want to,
but I can’t fight you over this.”
I don’t know what the hell to say.
I’m still skeptical – but I also trust her.
I’ve always trusted her, and while we’re all victims of our own
biases, Faye is no fool.
Even this upset, she’s smart enough to separate her feelings
about her father from the facts.
The question is…am I?
I don’t have time to wonder right now. Not when voices drift
in from the open window behind us, and I stiffen, shifting into
a low crouch, positioning myself between her and the wall of
the lodge.
She feels it too. Without being told, she scrambles over and
douses the lantern, breathlessly clutching at it like some kind
of safety object, watching me with wide eyes.
I look up at the window, watching for someone to move
toward it and spot us, but it’s only voices retreating.
Until I hear the closest door to the lodge open.
I rise quickly, offering her my hand. “We have to go. Now.”
She takes my hand and pulls herself up. “They’re looking for
you. Hamlin’s telling everyone you went rogue and did
something awful, but he won’t say what.”
“Because he knows it won’t hold water if he tries to convince
any of my team. Landon won’t come down on me without a
fair trial. The only recourse is to turn it into something top
secret and leave them guessing and working with him to find
me so they can get some answers.”
I grip her hand tightly, glancing over my shoulder, then turn to
lead her around the other side of the lodge, forging through the
snow. Using my body to break the packed ground cover and
make a path, while also shielding her from the blowing sheets
of white.
We’ve got maybe ten more minutes out in this cold before we
have to worry, but I don’t intend to take that long. I need to get
her somewhere safe.
I’ve already lost everything.
I’m damn sure not losing her again.
And once we’re somewhere out of danger, we’re going to sort
this out – and I’m going to figure out what to do about this
mess.
And about the feelings I can’t deny.
After all, my first instinct the moment I knew I was
compromised was one thing, crystal clear.
Find Faye.
Take her away from this horrible place.
Always keep her with me.

F AYE DOESN ’ T protest when I lift her up in my arms.

We’ve reached the far back corner of the lodge. She’s
shivering deeper and deeper now, and I’m worried not even
my coat will help her for long.
Just a few minutes longer. That’s all we need.
I lean around the lodge’s wall, peering through the blinding
curtain of snow toward the faint dark shapes I can barely make
out farther away.
Pershing men. They’re moving away from the building in tight
formation, fanning out as they go.
Bastard fucker. Hamlin must be real worried, if he’ll risk his
men’s lives in this to come after me.
He’s either scared or all too aware that I know exactly what
I’m doing, and he can’t just leave the storm to finish me off.
The moment I’m sure the snow gives enough cover so we
won’t be seen, I clutch Faye closer and dash toward the side
lot between the lodge and several cabins. One of the reinforced
SUVs is parked there, a snowplow fixed to its fender, tires
wrapped in chains.
Perfection.
I set Faye down next to the driver’s side door, fishing in my
pocket until I come up with a small spool of wire. It’s an old
habit to always keep certain little things on me so I can
MacGyver situations if I need to.
That wire makes it easy to slip the lock on the SUV when I
unspool a stiff length of it, make a hook out of the tip, and slip
it down the window well to hook the lock.
“Can you still hot-wire a car?” I ask, as I swing the driver’s
door open, glancing over my shoulder nervously as the interior
lights come on, making a beacon out of us in the dark.
“Please,” she scoffs, ducking under my arm, squeezing
between me and the car door to squirm under the steering
wheel, already ripping at the plastic casing and digging at
wires inside. “Thirty seconds!”
“You have fifteen.”
“I’ll be done in ten.”
She’s done in eight.
I’m just slinging my duffel bag down from my back to stuff it
in the back seat when the SUV comes on with a loud grumble.
She makes a triumphant sound and wriggles out. “Told ya.
Who’s driving?”
“I am. Get in, Faye, they’ll have heard the noise.”
I can already hear the shouts.
Then there’s lights bobbing toward us, the dark, distant figures
growing more solid. She tosses a wide-eyed look over her
shoulder before scrambling in through the driver’s side to
reach the passenger seat. I dive in after her, slam the door shut,
check the fuel gauges, and then fix my gaze on the rear-view
mirror before backing the SUV out of its slot.
Right into a snowbank, sending white plumes up in sprays.
Real smooth, I think to myself with a snarl.
Faye eyes me, smirking. “Drive much?”
“Save your impertinence, please,” I say flatly.
But I’m almost smiling.
Because Faye flushed with adrenaline and excitement, saw me
relying on skill and instinct to get us out of a tricky situation.
Just like old times. Almost.
When we were partners, near-lovers, instead of just lost, bitter
memories.
I flick the heater on to flood the car with warmth, then shift
gears and grind the engine. The chains on the tires churn,
digging down through the snow to find traction.
A second later, we’re chugging forward, cutting a tight arc in
the lot and surging toward the subtle dip in the endless plains
of snow that mark the road. I catch one glimpse of Hook
Hamlin himself, bundled up to his eyes.
But those eyes are cold and dark and certain, before they
vanish behind the wall of white that surges up on either side of
us, burying our pursuers as we blaze past.
Perhaps blaze is an exaggeration.
We’re doing thirty miles per hour tops, but we’re still moving
faster than men on foot can manage in this onslaught, and
that’s what matters.
By the time they get to any of the other few vehicles that
might be able to manage this storm without stalling out after
five feet, we’ll be too far away for them to ferret us out.
The snow is coming down hard enough, fast enough, to bury
our tracks as quickly as we make them.
Good for concealment.
Bad for safety. Because if we stall out halfway down the
mountain, we’ll end up buried in snow and rapidly running out
of what little air is trapped in the vehicle with us.
I check the rear-view mirror. No sign of pursuit, and the SUV
is holding up.
Faye has her gloves off, and she’s holding her hands in front of
the heater vents with a blissful expression on her face, teeth
chattering.
“My bag,” I murmur. “There’s a hot thermos of tea and a
map.”
She flashes me a quick smile, the tension and animosity left
behind for the moment, eclipsed by the synchronicity when we
found our connection again. Then she’s twisting into the back
seat to drag my bag into the front and across her lap.
Last, she retrieves my thermos and takes a deep sip, before
gasping and wiping at her mouth. “Blech! This stuff burns.”
“It’s meant for sipping, Tink. Not guzzling.”
“Yeah? Should’ve told me that before I scorched my tastebuds
off.” She drops the thermos in the cup holder between us and
fishes out the folding brochure map I’d grabbed from the
reception station, then spreads it out carefully against the dash
on her side. “So…where are we going?”
“Away,” I say grimly. “Unfortunately, every escape route I’d
plotted earlier is now null due to the storm. Right now, my
only interest is finding a safe way down this mountain and to
clear highways out of this blizzard, before we get back to
civilization and contact the authorities.”
She smiles faintly. “Old friends at the FBI?”
“It pays to have connections.”
She digs in her pocket and fishes out her phone – then frowns.
“Weird. My phone’s got 4G again. No bars, though. I can get
internet, but not make a call.”
“Weird is right. More like…fascinating that technology starts
working when we’re away from Hamlin and his crew.”
She stares at me. “Holy hell. You think he was jamming
wireless signals?”
“With him, anything is possible. I bugged your father’s laptop,
and yet I barely had a chance to get a quick data dump before
the internet crashed, even before the power went out. Both the
landline and the wireless were out like lights.”
Faye frowns. “But couldn’t that just be the storm disrupting
things?”
“Could be, but doubtful. The storm would be less likely to
impact buried cables,” I say. “Or it could be a convenient
excuse to keep people from questioning.”
She goes pale. “So Hamlin has…he’s basically got everyone
hostage there with no way to call for help? Including my
father.”
“Exactly,” I say grimly.
She takes a shaky breath, then diverts her gaze back to the
map. “Drive faster,” she says, tapping into her phone and
looking between the map on screen and the map on the page.
“I’ll find us a clear route from local ranger reports.”
It’s Faye who navigates us down the mountain using the map,
her phone, and the dashboard satellite GPS – why doesn’t this
thing have OnStar? – one grueling stop-and-start mile at a
time, pushing through heaps of snow.
We force a trail that fills in behind us almost immediately,
until it feels more like driving through water than snow,
flowing to fill the lowest space.
During a few slower stretches, I try calling Landon on my cell,
but this time it really is the storm and not any suspicious
business blocking the signal. I can’t get 9-11, either.
But we’re not even halfway to the main highway when we run
into another obstacle that’s not on the real-time danger maps
updated by the local ranger stations, and that we can’t drive
around.
A narrow rock passage, cliffs and forest high on both sides,
and an avalanche piled in the middle of the road. So big it fills
the miniature canyon from wall to wall.
Fucking great.
It’s taller than the SUV, packed gravel and snow and boulders,
and there’s no good way we can plow through it. I have a brief
thought of shoveling it out, but this time I don’t have the right
tools. And we’d damn near freeze to death trying to literally
move mountains.
I slam my hand against the steering wheel, closing my eyes
and swearing.
“We can back up,” Faye whispers. “I think…there was a turn-
off on a smaller feeder road about half a mile back. I ignored it
as I thought bigger roads would be clearer, but there might still
be a way around.”
I shake my head. “No. We’re too low on fuel. I don’t trust it.”
“What other options do we have?”
“Finding somewhere safe to shelter.” I brace an arm on the
passenger seat and twist to look behind me, at the blank white
canvas where a road should be. Then with a snarl, I jack the
SUV into reverse. “Even if we have to stay in the car, we’ll be
better off down that feeder road, finding somewhere sheltered
from the wind and any future avalanches. If we can even find a
good stable rock face, maybe we can avoid being buried in
snow dunes and wait the storm out.”
Faye looks troubled, folding her arms over her chest and
shivering. “Won’t we run the battery down trying to stay
warm?”
“There’s a recharge and jumpstart kit in my bag.”
She lifts a brow. “Really. And food?”
“Look in the back.”
“No freaking way. You didn’t stock the car…did you? You
couldn’t have. You didn’t plan for this.”
I don’t say anything. I just wait for her to twist around to
squeeze between the passenger and driver’s seat, craning
around to look over the back, into the storage area.
She swears, then plunks back down in her seat and glares at
me.
“How? You are not really James Bond. You don’t get to pull
crap like that. There’s like…six cases of water and a ton of
soup packets and stuff back there. Blankets. What the fuck,
James?”
I hold back my smirk. “We used the SUVs to bring in supplies
from the cabins before the snow got too bad. Not everything
was brought inside.”
Faye lets out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t look so smug, then.
This isn’t your super-secret agent planning. It’s just a happy
accident.”
“Operative word being ‘happy,’” I say, then shift the SUV
back into drive as I manage to get it turned back around and
pointed the way we came.
It’s another grueling ten minutes until I catch the faint green
flash of the half-buried road sign for the turnoff in the
headlights. I manage to grind the SUV down a narrow road
that I can only make out by the trees lining it.
The going is steeper, slower, and I’m worried about the snow
tires losing traction. Faye stays tense and quiet in the
passenger seat, watching her phone intently, only to look out
the window as if she’s checking for familiar landmarks.
“It says there’s a ranger’s station somewhere here,” she
murmurs. “But I don’t see it.”
I glance at her sidelong, keeping my eyes on the road. “Is that
why you wanted to go this way?”
“You’re not the only planner. Even if the power and signal’s
down at the lodge, the ranger station’s got to be working,
right? Assuming it’s still manned.” She bites her lip. “I hope
there’s someone there.”
“As do I.”
Then I see it – tucked between the trees a little ways off the
road, a break in the guardrail hinting there might be a
driveway under the snow. For a moment, hope flares.
Until I really process what I’m seeing, and my stomach sinks.
There’ll be no one at this ranger station. No power, no signal,
no help, no anything.
It’s abandoned, one wall collapsing inward, the roof sagging
under the weight of the snow and accumulated debris piled on
top. Possibly years’ worth of pine needles and bark and other
seasonal flotsam.
Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the roof is completely rotted
through. I bring the SUV to a halt. It’s eerily silent, the car
cutting the sound of the wind until it’s just us, the headlamps,
and the sense of rising dismay building between us.
“Crap,” she says.
I nod.
“What now? I mean, it’s a mess. Can we use this?”
I sigh. “It’s possible. We might be able to make it airtight, or at
least steal one of the rooms away from the collapsed room and
seal it off.”
“Ugh. Wouldn’t we be better off staying in the car?”
“I don’t think so. The jumpstart kit is a contingency, not a
survival plan. We don’t want to have to rely on it only for it to
let us down. We’re better off leaving the car for our getaway
and burrowing down here to wait out the storm until morning.”
She grimaces. “It looks terrible.”
“I know,” I say, reaching back for my bag. “But we’ve had
worse. Remember some of the hotels in D.C.? The FBI’s dime
didn’t exactly buy glamorous. We’ll make do here, and in the
morning, we’ll reassess.”
She says nothing, but she’s already bundling up, climbing into
the back to start sorting through everything to bring with us. I
didn’t even have to ask.
It’s just how we work.
When we’re together, we always know what we need to do
without being told, this quiet understanding that makes us a
single machine working together.
It’s something.
Even if tonight is hell, we’ll at least have shelter away from
Hamlin and his schemes.
We’ll have each other.
 17

IT ACHES LIKE WINTER (FAYE)

T his was supposed to be a relaxing resort getaway, despite

the irritation of playing Dad’s photogenic little doll and
pandering to his constituents.
Instead, I’ve been trapped in a cabin with my ex-lover, caught
fingering myself thinking about him, been slammed up against
the wall and fingered by him, only to almost die in the snow,
get rescued twice, discover my father’s a double agent who’s
gone too dark, find out Hook Hamlin killed my mother and is
trying to kill again, and run away with the very same ex-lover
to get stuck in the most dangerous blizzard I’ve ever seen,
leaving us camping outside in a dilapidated ranger station
that’s only fit for squirrels.
Lordy.
I’m pretty sure there’s a dozen squirrels hibernating in the
rafters, along with a few other little creatures – but the fact that
they feel safe and warm and sheltered here is actually a pretty
good sign.
The station isn’t as bad as it seems from the outside.
Mainly because it’s separated into five rooms – a front lobby, a
commons room, a bedroom with bunks, a kitchen, and a
bathroom. Wonder of wonders, there’s running water in the
kitchen and bathroom, though we can’t get any power to the
appliances.
I don’t trust the gas stove not to explode if we try to turn it on
– though it may be a last resort if we end up getting too cold.
The front lobby and commons room are open to the elements,
filled with snow and debris, the right wall caved in.
Luckily, the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom are on the left
side with their own shielding walls. One window in the
bedroom is cracked. Sure it’s a little drafty, but when I ball up
a blanket and stuff it in the broken pane, the place turns
downright cozy.
Okay. Maybe not quite cozy.
But we’re less likely to freeze to death in here, and we can
actually build a fire.
Though any hope of sleeping in a bed is doused by the fact
that the only wood we have to burn right now is the furniture.
That includes the frames of the bunk bed, which are so dry-
rotted they’d have broken under us anyway.
That also means they’re so dry-rotted they’ll burn too fast if
we’re not careful.
James and I exchange worried, tired glances as we finish
piling up the debris of everything we’ve broken down against
the bedroom wall.
It’s not looking good.
“Do you think it’ll last all night?” I ask.
“If we’re strategic about it,” he says. “The chair seats are
dense hardwood and haven’t degraded nearly as much as the
other pieces. We can scrape one out to get it going and put the
other wood inside it to burn. The seat itself will eventually
catch and hold a flame longer.”
“So we won’t die.”
“Possibly.”
“I’d like a yes, James.”
He lifts his head from studying the pile of wood, that intense
concentration on his face clearing as he looks at me solemnly,
intently, then says firmly, “I won’t let anything happen to you,
Faye.”
I can’t help how my heart skips – with warmth, with longing.
But also with fear. Because I know far too well the extremes
James goes to in order to protect someone close, and I can’t
stand the idea of him hurting himself for me.
I don’t say anything.
I’m exhausted, hungry, cranky, tense, and frankly, I think I’m
going to need a month of therapy once this entire clusterfuck is
over. Honestly, I just want to eat, sleep, and hope things look
more hopeful in the morning, especially since I’m worried
what Hook might do to my father.
All I want is to get the police and FBI up there to sort
everything out.
James and I set to work quickly. The heat we’d absorbed in the
car is already dissipating, the cold creeping in, and the sooner
we get a fire going, the better.
We pull the old mattresses from the broken-down bunks into
the least drafty corner, sheltered against the interior wall, and
cover them over with many of the blankets we’d brought from
the car to create a single large pallet.
An old cookie sheet from the kitchen becomes our hearth,
keeping us from setting the floor ablaze as we build our fire on
top of it. James uses a kitchen knife to hack out a little hollow
in a wooden chair seat, then uses the chips he cut out to start a
crackling fire.
It’s small at first, but even that bit of heat makes me feel
better, loosening my frozen limbs and making it easier to work
as I scavenge in the kitchen. Soon I’m rigging up a little camp
stove using the racks from inside the oven and a few inverted
pots.
James keeps feeding more wood into the fire until it’s roaring,
then frowns and gets up, turning his head slowly, looking
around.
I tense, instantly alert. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs. “I just think we could do a better job
conserving heat.”
The next time I look back, he’s gone. I catch a gust of wind,
the creak of the front door, and I realize he’s outside again.
That idiot.
I pick myself up from sitting on the edge of the pallet – which
is actually pretty comfy, four twin mattresses stacked two side
by side and two on top – and push to the window.
I can barely see James in the snow, but he’s trudging toward
the vehicle, not even a lantern in his hand. He’s quick, though,
opening the back of the SUV and rummaging inside, then
gathering up an armful of something before turning and
quickly heading back, head down.
The instant he’s back inside, shutting the bedroom door to
close off the wind whistling in from the front, I fling myself
against him and smack his shoulder.
“Stupid,” I growl, glaring. “You didn’t even have a guide
rope!”
He lifts both brows mildly. “It was less than a dozen feet to the
car.”
“People have gone off course and died traveling five feet in
storms like this.” And my heart races at the thought, fear hot
inside me, far more shrill and tense than it should be.
But this is James freaking Nobel and he flays my emotions too
raw.
I rub at my aching throat, looking away, looking down at the
bundle in his arms. “What is that, anyway?”
“A little more insulation.” He shakes the bundle out, revealing
several nylon emergency tarps and multiple hook-ended
bungee cords. I frown, shaking my head.
“What are you going to do with those?”
“Give me a minute, and you’ll see.”
I stand back, feeling a touch helpless, but also grateful to stop
clawing for survival and let someone else do things for a bit
when I’m so tired.
I still don’t get what James is doing when he uses the hooks in
the bungee cords to stretch a sort of latticework around the
mattress and the fire. Not until he drapes the tarps over them.
Suddenly, it’s a tent, another layer locking out the cold and
trapping in the heat. I can’t help laughing a little when it
reminds me of building forts out of sheets and couch cushions
as a little girl, then crawling inside with my friends to tell
secrets over flashlights and big bowls of popcorn.
That image hardens as James sets the lit lantern inside, its cool
radiance mixing with the warm flicker of the fire to make our
little tent glow. He pulls one flap aside, then sweeps a near-
mocking bow.
“Right this way, love,” he teases, “your chamber awaits.”
“Lame.” I roll my eyes, but laugh anyway, ducking to crawl
inside. Then I tuck myself into a corner to start rummaging
through the water bottles, supplies, and dishes I’d scavenged.
“It’s not the Hilton but…it’s actually pretty nice for a cold
night.”
James settles down next to me, draping his elbows on his
knees and looking into the fire. He’s quiet, firelight reflecting
in his eyes to turn them from silver-blue into flame, gilding all
his gorgeous edges.
“Will you be all right sharing the bed with me?” he asks softly.
“We should try to conserve body heat so the fire won’t have to
work so hard.”
O-oh. Oh.
I shouldn’t feel this hot, nervous flush snap through me.
It’s hardly a setup for sexy time.
We’re in mortal peril, camped out in a squirrel shack, relying
on a little bonfire and a few tarps to keep us alive…and I’m a
grown-ass woman who used to know what it felt like to fall
asleep next to this man with our bodies tangled and naked and
slick.
I’m no blushing virgin. He made sure of that. And I’m no
stranger to the feel of his muscles, his hips, his tongue.
But maybe that’s why everything in me is so twisted and tight
and breathless.
Because I have to lie here, fully clothed, cradled against him,
remembering how it feels to have his touch over every inch of
my flesh while he’s only holding me for warmth.
“I’ll be fine,” I manage faintly, focusing my attention on
stirring the bubbling pot of chicken noodle soup filling our
little tent space with its aroma.
I glance at the other pot of water I’ve started boiling for tea.
Anything to get heat in us, even with the tent helping insulate,
it’s still freezing outside our little fire. But I can’t look at
James as I smile and say, “I’m a big girl. I’ve seen boy parts
before.”
“Have you?” he asks tightly, and I can feel the stiffness and
tension radiating off him. I steal a glance at him sidelong, but
he’s glaring into the fire, his mouth tight.
“Yours,” I clarify, even if the word feels like a lump in my
throat, and his expression goes so deliberately blank I want to
shake him.
I suppose the only thing worse than imagining another man’s
hands on me is remembering when they were his.
“So.” I clear my throat, changing the subject as I ladle out a
paper cup full of soup and another of tea for him, then for
myself. “What’s the game plan?”
“For once, I didn’t think that far ahead, Tink,” he says with a
touch of grim self-deprecation. “My main goal was getting
you out of there. Safety first.”
“Yeah,” I answer faintly. “But my Dad’s still back there with
Hamlin. We have no idea what’s going on. And this isn’t
exactly safe.”
“Faye…” I can already tell before he says it that I won’t like
what he has to say. “I understand your concern for your father.
And I’d like to see him extracted from this situation as well,
especially if what you’ve said is true –”
“It is!”
He raises a hand. “I’m not arguing. Just speculating on
possibilities. The point is, we can do more away from the
lodge than we can trapped with them and equally vulnerable.
In the morning, we’ll get down the mountain, make contact
with the FBI – and not even this hell-storm will stop
specialized sweeper teams in military helicopters. They’ll put
an end to this and make sure everyone goes home.”
I bite my lip, sipping at my soup.
It burns, but right now I’m so hungry and cold that the
reconstituted freeze-dried noodles and chicken bits and thick,
chunky broth are the best things I’ve ever tasted. “And you?” I
ask softly. “What about you, after this?”
He pauses, staring into the fire over his tea, barely touching it.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I disappeared once. Started over.
Depending on how my team at Enguard responds to the news
of my past, and the secrets I’ve kept from them regarding
Hamlin, I may need to do it again. This might not be over and
done for a good, long while.”
“They’re your friends, James,” I point out. “Do you really
think they’ll reject you?”
“Are they? Will they be after they hear –”
“I think they are.” I smile faintly. “You should hear them when
they talk about you. They know all your grumpy, broody
habits. Hell, they adore you for them.”
“What they ‘adore’ is surface only,” he says flatly. “The man
they think I am.”
“If you say so.” I shrug.
God, he’s so stubborn.
I can’t help feeling the same fondness that the Enguard crew
display when they talk about James being exactly like this.
He’s such an idiot, and I love him for it. “Hey, if you go…if
you disappear…please take me with you?”
I don’t realize what I’m saying until it’s out. It wasn’t even
scary when the words first came, but now that they’re hanging
in the air between us, they feel downright terrifying, my heart
thumping.
James frowns, glancing at me.
“It’s not safe around me, Faye.”
“You’re wrong. After this, especially if Hamlin gets away –
God forbid – it might not be safe for me anywhere but with
you.” I bite my lip. “Stop pushing me away, will you? Do you
even know how bad I wanted to go with the night you got on
that plane, James?”
“Do you know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t refused?”
he flares, cold eyes going hot, crackling.
I do.
I might be dead.
And even knowing what I do now, it doesn’t change my mind.
I look at him, my throat tight. “You can’t spend your entire life
living in fear of what-ifs. And you can’t keep pushing people
away for those what-ifs, either.”
He just looks at me, something naked and harsh and scared on
his face. I don’t understand that fear, not when I’ve never seen
James Nobel so afraid in my life.
Until I realize what he’s afraid of.
It’s hurting me.
I realize he’s not going to say anything. Not one damn word
one way or the other, so I do the only thing I know how.
I shift over closer to him, tuck my legs up against my side,
leaning against him and resting my head on his shoulder.
Sometimes, when words are hard, warmth will do better.
Sometimes it’s easier to share the depths of a soul through
touch.
And he lets me, this once.
He lets me lean on him, and subtly leans back, giving me the
quiet understanding that he’s not shutting me out, not entirely.
He’s just not quite there yet, and while he takes the time to get
where he needs to be, I’ll wait. Just like this.
It’s okay to be close.
We stay like this for a while, both of us nursing our soup and
tea, until it’s almost gone.
James moves to feed a few more heavier bits of wood into the
fire until it’s burning stronger and not chewing through the
softer decayed bits as fast. Wow, between our shared body heat
and the insulation of the makeshift walls, it’s almost downright
cozy in here.
My eyes are starting to droop. I’ve hardly slept since we came
to the resort, and since then, it’s been a whirlwind of stress and
upset and near-death experiences and medical emergencies.
I’m exhausted, and there’s nowhere I’d rather fall asleep than
tucked up against him like this.
But then in the silence, out of nowhere, he suddenly murmurs
something that stops my heart. “I’m trying to finish my
mother’s book.”
I stir with a drowsy sound, realizing I’d drifted off still
clutching my near-empty tea cup to me like a squirrel with a
particularly fascinating nut. I blink sleepily, trying to process
what he just said, while I drink down the last of the cooling tea
before it loses its warmth. Yawning, I rest my head back on his
shoulder, nuzzling in.
“Her book?”
“She was writing a romance novel when she died. It’s a long
book, basically finished, everything except the ending.”
He says it so coolly, so flatly.
That right there’s a dead giveaway that he’s trying not to let
the words hurt him, like razors on his tongue.
I lift my head again, coming fully awake, watching how the
firelight paints those stern features in soft colors that smooth
them out and make them less harsh, less forbidding, even if the
light can’t wash away the pain lingering in those reflective
silver-blue eyes.
Curling my hand against his arm, I lean in close, as if I can
somehow offer warmth and comfort with my body heat.
“I never got the chance to tell you I’m sorry. For the way you
lost her.”
His jaw tightens, the handsome lines on his face straining. “No
need. I don’t think I deserve sorry. It’s my own fault, Faye.”
“No, James! No, it isn’t.”
His fists clench, arms braced against his knees. “I wasn’t
there.”
“And that isn’t your fault either.” I push myself up to fully
face him, setting my empty cup aside so I can touch his cheek.
He flinches, but then lets me stroke his skin, the first hints of
stubble marring his perfect smoothness under my fingertips,
like a great beast reluctantly accepting a taming hand. He
stares at me, waiting for the words at the tip of my tongue.
“James, neither was her disease. Cancer isn’t your fault. It’s
not anyone’s fault. It’s cruel and unpredictable and it just
happens. You can’t blame yourself.” I smile sadly. “But I
know it won’t stop you. Blaming yourself is what you do. I
just wish sometimes you’d stop.”
“Faye…” My name comes out ragged, hoarse on his lips, and
he closes his eyes as he presses his cheek into my palm.
“Hush. Come here.” I can’t help myself. My heart is bleeding
out of me in an invisible, molten pool, every bit of it pulled by
this beautiful, damaged man.
I curl my hand against the back of his neck, tugging, drawing
him in.
He’s hesitant, but then lets me coax him down to lean against
me, resting his head to my shoulder. “It’s okay,” I whisper as I
slip my arms around his shoulders, curling my hands against
his back, and taking the fullness of his weight leaning so
heavily into me. “It’s okay. Is that why you’re trying to finish
her novel? To atone somehow?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is muffled, his face hidden against
my shoulder, his breaths warm even through the layers of
clothing shrouding me. “I didn’t even want to know, at first.
But fuck, Grandpa insisted it had to be me. I have to play
goddamn Nicholas Sparks with a romance novel I don’t know
the first thing about.”
“Tell me about it,” I whisper, reaching for his hand. His
fingers come around mine, clenching like we’re on course for
the end of the world.
Oh, James.
“It’s about what you’d expect. This ridiculous flight of fancy.”
He sounds both bitter and amused…and totally freaking lost.
“A small town hero and heroine. Set in some place called
Heart’s Edge. The hero loved the heroine her entire life, but he
made a mistake, betrayed her trust when they were teenagers.
They’re older and have put it behind them, but she says she
won’t date him because of what he did. He asks if there’s
anything he can do to convince her, to win her back. She says
maybe if he writes her a thousand love notes.”
I chuckle, gently playing my fingertips through the soft hair at
the nape of James’ neck. “That sounds sweet. But kinda
difficult.”
“I suppose her aim is to discourage him. Of course, he doesn’t
go down without a fight. He begins finding more and more
creative ways to leave her notes. She finds them everywhere –
pinned to her front door, written on her lawn in flowers, drawn
across the sky in smoke. He even enlists the townsfolk, who
bring her notes when they’re paying at the register where she
works.”
“So instead of giving up, he sets out to prove she’s worth the
effort? And he’s willing to do it?” I can’t help smiling.
“Sounds a lot more romantic than my strategy. Remember
Quantico? Pelting you with balls of notebook paper until you
finally paid attention?”
Whatever I expect, it’s not his strong arms slowly creeping
around my waist, wrapping around me as tentatively as if
asking for permission. It makes something click inside me.
Something that feels like coming home.
Something that soothes all the hurts of the past few days in
ways I need so desperately.
Something like – oh, God.
Love.
I swear my eyes aren’t burning as I lean into him, taking that
vast embrace for as long as it lasts.
But it’s hard to breathe right now, and my chest is so very
tight.
“It worked, didn’t it?” he whispers hoarsely.
“Yeah.” It comes out thickly, my throat knotted, and I curl
forward, resting my brow to the top of his head. “What
happened to us, James?”
“I did.” It’s hurt, condemning, entirely directed at himself. “I
happened to us, Faye. I ruined us.”
“Not ruined!” I shake my head fiercely. “Just…cut off.
Delayed, maybe. You shut me out so much, James, and I didn’t
even have any warning. You put me out in the cold and left me
to freeze.”
“I’m sorry.” His shoulders are shaking. “So fucking sorry.”
Three simple words shouldn’t mean so much, but it’s the way
he says them.
Hard, cold, slick James Nobel, the icy, detached agent, fully
calm and in control…it’s not him.
This man’s voice is breaking. Ragged. Rough with emotion,
fervent and raw.
So real no one on earth could mistake what he means.
Wow.
Sometimes, I’m sorry isn’t shit if the other person doesn’t
mean it.
But sometimes it’s everything, when they rip open and bare
their heart and soul to say it.
“James, I…I…”
I want to say it. I want to say I still love you. I want to ask can
we start over? Do we have a chance?
But I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life.
Because I know this prickly, stubborn, stupid, overly noble
man far too well, and I know just how far he’ll push me away
because he thinks it’s for my own good.
I can’t stand to let him break my heart.
Not for a second time.
This time, it might just break for good.
There’s a silence between us, before he takes a shaky breath
and pulls back, looking down at me. His eyes are red-rimmed
but dry, pale silver searching me, as if looking for something –
but I don’t know what.
It makes my heart turn over, when those eyes aren’t closed,
aren’t cold, aren’t shielded and walled off.
They’re just wondering.
And as afraid as I feel. Like he’s just as worried that I’ll crush
him and say no, we can’t do this again.
“I need to show you something,” he whispers, twisting away
from me to retrieve his duffel bag from the foot of the pallet,
dragging it up to rest at his hip. “I’m not even sure why I
brought this with me. I suppose it seemed appropriate, when I
knew I’d be seeing you.”
He unzips the bag. Inside, everything is so militantly folded
into perfect squares, but past the clothing and a disturbing
array of weapons and tactical supplies is a small, worn wooden
box.
It’s plain, unvarnished, clearly old – and obviously it’s been
handled a lot. It’s got that certain weathering to it that only
comes to wood that’s been held and opened and cradled by
loving hands again and again. It closes with a simple little
swinging bronze latch, and he flips the latch open before
offering the box to me without a word.
Confused, I take the box. It’s as warm as skin, as if it’s been
absorbing the heat from the fire.
With a glance at him for permission, I lift the lid delicately.
The entire box is filled with…bits of paper?
All of them beginning to take on that slight faded softness of
age.
Yellow slips of folded paper from mini legal pads. Scraps from
a notebook, torn off and crumpled, then smoothed out again.
Folded up entire sheaves of note paper, and printer paper.
I catch glimpses of handwriting on them, but there are so
many pages layered on top of each other. I can’t make out the
words overlapping. But when I finally realize what it is, my
heart stops mid-beat.
Wait. Holy hell.
That’s my handwriting.
On every last paper.
I stare into the box and have to clutch it tighter when my
fingers begin trembling and my breaths come short, my entire
body lit up. “What…what is this, James?” I whisper, darting a
nervous glance up at him.
He’s watching me so strangely.
I’ve never seen James Nobel look fragile. He’s bold,
courageous, powerful, and handsome to his core.
But if he ever has, it’s right now, when he looks at me with
that odd mixture of open vulnerability, naked longing, and
careful withdrawal, as if holding his hand out for a wild thing,
ready to pull back if he’s bitten. He takes a slow breath, then
says the unbelievable.
“Every last note you’ve ever written me.” The words are
husky, soft, as if he truly cherishes each one. “Even the ones
that fell down the back of my shirt in training.”
Oh. My. God.
Wonder rolls through me.
Wonder, and a flush of heat, of shock, of sweetness, of love.
I can’t stop smiling, but I feel like I’m going to cry, too, as I
pick up one after the other.
Made you look. :P one says.
And Hey hey guess what crankyface? I’m thinkin’ ‘bout you.
I want to laugh at my younger self because she was so
stupidly, beautifully in love.
P.F. Chang’s in the fridge. Don’t forget to eat and I cleaned
your Ruger, you owe me and I hope you know the more you
scowl, the more I like you.
Yeah.
That girl was in love. So in love.
But so am I.
And it chokes in my throat as I let the box fall, old notes, old
memories spilling everywhere as I fling myself at him with a
whisper of, “James.”
We tumble back together, half-mad with emotion.
The heat of the fire becomes the heat of the moment.
Pure sugary combustion between us in a wildfire kiss.
There’s no hesitation as our lips lock together and James
Nobel storms over me.
All the heat and passion I’ve missed. The man I’d remembered
rising from the ashes of the icy rock he’d become to wrap me
up in his arms and hold me tight. So tight.
I’m only on top of him for a couple seconds before he’s
tumbling me back, pinning me beneath his heat, his weight, his
muscle and his smile.
Yes, he’s smiling.
He’s finally flipping smiling.
Then the smile fades, replaced by something feral, the same
bright spark in his silver-blue eyes.
He pushes himself up with one last scorching kiss, one bite to
my lower lip that’s like a trigger, turning my whole body
electric. My nipples press against his chest, pulsing.
Racing the hot, wet throb between my legs for attention.
Holy, holy hell.
Before I can even blink, he’s not touching me anymore.
Now he’s looking down at me with that keen, searching stare I
know too well, making the trembling start in the pit of my
stomach.
When I know he’s looking at me the way a hunter looks at his
prey, searching for the most vulnerable places to make me
scream.
I’m already keyed up so tight just from missing him, wanting
him, aching for him for so long…but as those razor-sharp eyes
slide over my body, touching me like a raw, cold edge tracing
over my skin and leaving goosebumps, I press my thighs
together. I beg for sweet mercy with my eyes.
I bite my lip on a sound when I can feel my heart pounding,
sense how bad I want it in the fireball building in my belly. It’s
already rising hot inside me, tickling my pussy like no
tomorrow.
“Fuck, Tink. You need this bad, don’t you?”
Haven’t I always?
He hasn’t even touched me save for one kiss, and I’m already
ready to explode, my breaths coming shallower and shallower.
My heart beats louder and louder the longer he just looks at me
in the building silence.
I don’t need the fire to keep me warm.
One look, heavy with almost sinister intent, has me so hot I
could set the walls on fire.
And when he pushes my jacket open and grazes his fingertips
along the hem of my shirt, just barely touching naked skin
underneath, I suck my stomach in with a gasp as the touch of
rough fingers sends shivers throughout my entire body.
He makes me feel so vulnerable.
So helpless, with the way he can take control of the sizzling air
between us with a single look. Any other time, being helpless
would piss me off. I don’t like being at anyone else’s mercy.
But there’s something about James.
Something that makes me want to arch my neck and bare my
throat to this beast-man’s teeth.
And as he slips his hand under my shirt, pressing his broad,
weathered palm to my skin, I feel so completely captured. So
in thrall.
With just one hand he holds me motionless, and I watch him
with my lips parted and my eyes wide as he slowly strokes his
way up over my stomach, my ribs.
I feel like he’s shaping me with his touch. Burning, branding
me, the skin where his heated palm passes forever changed,
every nerve fine-tuned to his frequency.
God. I’m as responsive to his touch as his piano keys and their
quivering strings.
I suck my lip harder as his fingertips skim beneath my breasts,
just barely hooking on the thin strap of lace joining the cups of
my bra. My tongue catches between my teeth, silencing a soft
whimper.
James stops, watching me with an arched brow, cocking his
head. “Something you want to say, Faye? Something you want
to tell me before we go hard?” he asks softly, his rough voice
stroking over me with seductive menace.
I shake my head quickly. Oh, no. Not today.
I know him too well.
I know if I plead, if I beg, if I snap, if I demand, he’ll just
make me suffer more. But he only smiles slowly, shifting his
body to nudge his knee between my legs, settling to kneel
between them and keeping me spread open by his sheer bulk
alone. My thighs already ache, and the tension in the muscles
pulls deep between my legs, making my breaths shallower.
The stretch and pull on my jeans rubs my panties up against
my clit, making me feel like he’s touching me when he’s
barely done a thing.
And his smile turns downright wicked as he tugs the strap of
my bra just enough to make my breasts bounce, before
hooking his finger underneath one cup of the bra and
delicately tracing the edge of his nail along the sensitive
underside of my breast.
“Are you sure about this silent treatment, Tink?” he nearly
purrs. “Normally you’d be cursing me raw right now.”
I shouldn’t say anything.
The words on the tip of my tongue might scare him away, just
after I’ve gotten him back, even if it might be only for tonight.
But I can’t lie, either.
Can’t deny the trembling ache in my chest, the longing, the
need, or the sweet insanity.
“Normally, I haven’t been missing you for five years,” I
whisper.
He stops cold, just looking down at me.
Crap.
I brace for him to pull away, shut down, put that distance back
between us. Shatter my heart all over again.
But there’s something strange in his eyes as they dilate to near-
black.
Something not cold, but burning-hot. He slips his hand from
inside my shirt.
Then he leans down to kiss me.
So very deep.
So very wild.
So very claiming.
Sweet, sharp agony comes in the perfect crush of his lips on
mine and the weight of his body pressing down. And I realize
it might just be heaven in the chase of his tongue, the heat of
his teeth on my lips, the fury in those quicksilver eyes.
I swear we’re going to burst into flames as I wrap my arms
around his neck and twine my fingers in his hair.
I rip at him, dragging my fingers tighter through his thick,
blond hair, down the back of his neck and into his clothing,
tearing at it as fiercely as he tears at mine.
As fiercely as he devours my mouth, kissing me so hard my
lips ache, throb, pulsing and sensitized to every touch as we
collide. We’re dueling bites and lashing tongues, punishment
in the form of pleasure, trading sting after sting of hungry,
consuming, claiming kisses, dragging at each other’s clothing
wildly until bits fling everywhere, kicked off to the floor in
our haste to tangle flesh on naked flesh.
Okay. So I’m dying.
Dying of hope, of love, of longing, when he’s not pulling away
from me.
He’s not going anywhere. He’s as desperate as me, his voice
rising in low growling groans between us as he bites at my
jaw, my throat, my shoulders, the upper curves of my breasts.
Each bite blooms pure heat on my skin, marking patterns,
making me feel like a human garden of little rosettes.
Just pain and pleasure and gently reddened flowers painted on
my skin with teeth and tongue and soft, soothing kisses.
James strips me naked, but worse is that he leaves me bare.
My heart, my soul, every part of me exposed to him, when all
he has to do is graze his lips over the contour of my body to
make me need him more than I need breath.
I’d never be this reactive, this responsive, for anyone else.
And when his mouth dips over the curve of my belly, licking
along my inner thighs before it skirts around my aching, needy
pussy…I tangle my fingers in his hair, press gently, lift myself
up to him shamelessly, and beg, “James. James, please!”
His answer comes in a raw, bestial growl, closing his eyes as
he leans up into my touch like a wild animal being stroked.
“Careful. Don’t say my name that way,” he grinds out through
his teeth.
I don’t understand, but something about the feral edge of
hunger in his tone makes me shiver. “Wh-why?”
“Because.” Glowing silver-blue eyes lock on me, hot with
frantic need. “Because when you fucking do….I can’t control
myself, Tink. And I think you know it.”
One more moment to tremble, pinned under his gaze.
Before he dips his head and shows me what it means to be
utterly consumed.
His tongue is more than clever, more than fire.
It’s devious, wicked, devilish, pure torture, and he finds every
sensitive fold.
Every little aching bit of flesh, every secret crevice and he
licks in long, dragging strokes with the roughly textured flat of
his tongue. Only to counter with teasing flicks from the very
tip, driving me insane with friction and denial and those sharp
little shocks that make me see fireworks.
I buck my hips, twisting, but he catches my thighs, hooks them
over his shoulders, and holds me trapped as he teases me open
one long, probing caress at a time.
His tongue works in and out of me in a shock rhythm. I never
know if he’s going to slide deep with a slow, lingering taste, or
dart in quickly, stinging me with a scorpion’s barb of pleasure.
Or if he’s about to push up, take my tongue between his teeth,
and bring me off so hard I scream.
I’m undone.
Fighting his grip, thrashing, dragging a handful of his hair,
tossing my head back against the mat.
My blood roars so loud in my ears I can hardly hear my own
breathy cries, but I can’t hold them back either when he’s
ripping me apart, making me feel like I’m going to come out
of my skin if he doesn’t either let me come or let me come
down.
I’m shaking. Clutching my thighs against his shoulders.
Convulsing inside. The pleasure is so good it hurts, and as I
feel it building up inside, I gasp, “James!”
And he stops.
The bastard stops.
But before I can curse him, call him every name in the book,
he’s surging up to meet me once more.
He’s capturing my lips, and this time I taste myself on his kiss
and it’s heady, intoxicating.
Oh, hell. I’m so close to the edge, but I need more, need him,
and I clutch at his hips, digging my fingers in, pulling him into
me.
There’s just a moment of skin sliding to skin, slick and wet
and so very hot, deliciously intimate, as our bodies lock
together and find all the perfect places where softness meets
hardness and we’re poised, trembling, his breaths heaving, the
tension waiting to snap like a falling blade.
Then just the slightest arch of his hips, tightly controlled,
shuddering, his head falling to rest against my breasts.
And he slips inside me like coming home, filling an emptiness
that’s been hounding him for five long years.
“Fuck!” he snarls, his voice raw. At last, the beast overwhelms
the civilized man.
It’s better than I remember.
So much more real, so much more passionate, when I can feel
how much he missed me in every tremor rippling over his
body, every moment when he starts to lose his prized control
because I’m driving him as crazy as he’s driving me.
Start and stop. Slow, deep strokes and then sharp, furious
shudders of uncontrolled lust working hard and rough inside
me, stirring me into a frenzy. I’m only soothed in every gliding
movement of his body over mine. There’s no rhythm, only a
raging storm, crashing in cataclysm, and yet somehow, we find
each other.
Somehow, we meet just right each time, as my flesh parts
around him, grips him, molds against him like I can keep him
deep inside me, always holding fast to that feeling when his
cock licks at my insides with deep, relentless thrusts.
His mouth is everywhere, too.
Pulling at my breasts, sucking at my nipples, kissing over my
throat, searching past my lips, taking my tongue places I can’t
even describe.
I can’t stop touching him, tracing every scar, every ripple of
hardened muscle, memorizing him with my fingertips. He
moves faster, arching over me, and every time he pierces into
me, it’s this perfect fire, making me toss my head and strain
and dig my nails against his back.
Oh, shit! I can feel it coming, feel it like an inferno moving in
a quickening wave with every thrust.
Just a little more.
Just a little more of that sweet, sweet pressure to make me lose
it, but I fight it.
I fight it so hard when I want to hold and keep this moment
forever.
But I can’t.
I’m breaking.
I’m shattering.
I’m wrapped up in James, completely consumed, destroyed by
the pleasure only he can give. My soul a storm of flame.
One only he can kindle, until I burn hotter and hotter for him,
and him alone.
His breath hitches and his thrusts go manic. “Now, Tink. Now,
fuck. Come for me. Come with me.”
Oh.
His cock swells inside me and his head snaps back half a
second before I’m in ecstasy. He’s snarling and grunting and
spilling himself in me, and yes, he’s still fucking. Going so
hard and deep it makes my eyes roll.
And when I come, locked around him, drawing him deep until
he touches that perfect quivering place inside me that makes
everything see stars…
I know there’ll never be another man’s name on my lips, ever
again.
I need James Nobel like I need air.
And this time, I won’t ever let him run away.

O H , God, I needed that.

I feel like I’ve been pent up for years, only for someone to
finally burst my bubble.
And that bubble became an explosion.
I’m still feeling it the morning after, when I’m waking up in
James’ arms with my body warm and my toes frozen and the
tip of my nose buried against his chest, the bits of notepaper
scattered around us like rose petals on a honeymoon bed.
I’ve managed to kick one foot outside the blankets, and the
fire has died down to just embers, and if not for the lingering
heat trapped inside the nylon tarps and insulated in our little
space, I’d be saying goodbye to the toes on that foot.
With a drowsy mumble, I pull my foot back underneath the
covers, snuggling deeper into James for warmth. He lets out a
sleepy grunt – and I smile.
Damn. I’m so awkwardly head over heels all over again, but I
can’t help it when I’ve never seen him like this.
He’s not doing the android thing now.
The on switch-off switch thing, where he’s either fully charged
or totally dead. He’s sleepy, grumbling, mussed, adorable.
And he’s embracing me, dragging me in closer like he’s trying
to get me to hold still with the world’s biggest bear hug.
I insinuate my frozen foot between his calves and burrow
closer. We should probably get up, especially when this isn’t
exactly the best place for a love nest. Even with the blankets
over them, the lumpy mattresses are weirdly noticeable.
But I don’t want him to let me go.
I never want this to end.
I don’t want reality to come rushing between us again, pushing
us apart.
James twitches, though, opening one eye. The silver-blue hue
is hazed to a soft, misty gray as he peers at me grouchily.
“Your toes are freezing, Tink,” he mutters sleepily.
“Well, we’re kind of buried in a snowstorm,” I tease, peeking
up at him with a shy smile. “But you did a pretty good job of
keeping every other part of me warm last night.”
He comes more alert, looking down at me intently – and I hold
my breath.
But not coldly. Thank God not coldly.
Just a sort of quiet regard, thoughtful and deep, before he
brushes his lips to my brow in a touch of warming sweetness. I
close my eyes and snuggle against him, while he tangles his
legs with mine.
“It sounds like the storm blew out,” he says. “I don’t hear
anything. No wind.”
I lift my head enough to peer over his shoulder toward the
window. “I see light. A bit of sky. And snow piled up almost
to the top of the window. Jeez.”
“So we’ll have to dig our way out.”
“Great. Morning exercise.” I can’t stop rolling my eyes.
He chuckles. “Why don’t you check the forecast and see how
much time we have?”
“But…that requires moving.”
“The sooner you do, the easier it’ll be.” He leans in again, this
time to kiss my lips. It’s quick, ferocious, deep, just rough
enough to make my toes curl and get them warmed right up,
and I moan in disappointment when he pulls back.
“Motivation, beautiful. The sooner you get up, the sooner we
can put this mess behind us and find a proper bed.”
Whoa.
Mama.
My heart stumbles in the best giddy way. I can only stare at
him for another maddening second before looking away
quickly.
I don’t want to ask if there’s hope for us now. If there could
ever be an us again. Not because I’m afraid of the response,
but because now just isn’t the time.
Once we’re out of this, though, things might be different.
We’re going to talk.
Really talk.
No deflections, no avoidance, no bolting away in fear.
Because he’s making it sound like we could be us again, and I
want to hear it straight from his lips with none of that
trademark James Nobel diversion and caution and excuses.
For now, I reluctantly snake an arm out into the cold to feel for
my coat and the phone in my pocket.
Only, I squeal as he dares to get up, letting a rush of freezing
air in under the blankets.
He moves around stark naked like he doesn’t even feel it, this
glorious bastard Adonis made for thumbing his nose at Mother
Nature.
With his body so hard-cut and tapered, he bends to put fresh
wood chips in the little fire dish we made and light them up
with a little camping torch from the supplies. While I tap at my
phone, fighting to get at least a 3G signal while it’s stuttering
in and out, he kindles the fire again and puts water and soup
on to boil.
I drag myself from watching the narrow, tight curves of his ass
and instead focus on my screen as the weather app finally
opens.
That’s the moment our little piece of heaven crashes to hell.
What I see makes dread glaze the pit of my stomach. Not even
the blankets draped over me can chase it away.
“We’ve got an hour, maybe,” I say. “And then the storm’s
coming back. Even worse than before. They’re anticipating
another six feet, easily.”
“Fuck. That’ll be enough to bury us with no hope of being dug
out until spring,” he says dryly, and settles down next to me,
his hip resting against my thigh. He casts me a warm look,
raking over my shape under the blankets. “As much as I regret
saying so, you should get dressed, and we should get moving.”
I nod, shaking off the fear.
It’s more than a little scary, thinking we have such a narrow
window of time.
I’m quick to wriggle into my clothes, dressing under the
blankets. Not because I’m modest but because I’m so blazing
cold.
But by the time I come squirming out, fully clad, the fire has
warmed our little space up again.
We’re quick to eat breakfast, then carefully retrieve and store
every little note in the box, and set to work dismantling the
space, gathering our supplies and hauling them back out into
the SUV.
Of course we have to dig the SUV out first. That takes more
time.
It’s just a white lump under the snow dune, almost
indistinguishable from the other hills of piled white fluff. We
sweep snow away underneath a clear, bright blue sky.
It looks like a strange hole opened in the blackness of the
clouds, just a single tear of azure and then pillowy, brooding,
angrily threatening darkness on all sides.
It’s enough to make us move faster. But we can’t help stopping
to steal little kisses, too, as we move in and out, tamping down
the snow into an easy path.
It’s so strange. It’s like those five years have never passed, yet
we can’t ignore them, either.
We’re not the same people we were then. Not by a long shot.
But there’s still something there between us. I can feel it like
an electric tether, stretching from James to me.
And it shocks me in the most delicious ways, every time our
hands brush.
I try my phone one more time before we leave. It still won’t
make a call, can barely get enough data to slowly update the
weather app.
James’ phone is no better. No signal and no 3G or 4G or any-
G. We’re still on our own.
But we’ve got a clear path, open sky, and hope.
It’s hope that keeps me warm as we bundle up in the SUV and
make our way along the feeder road, but something isn’t right.
The road’s clear.
Well, not quite clear, but it looks like someone’s driven
through the snow ahead, making an easier path for us.
Maybe it was just someone else on the mountain – a camper or
a homesteader – making their great escape while they could.
But James and I glance at each other, a sense of unease
brewing between us.
Without a word, he slows the SUV, both of us on high alert.
We’re not quite ready to round the bend of the mountain path
when we see a car blocking our way.
A big, black truck, one that was in the convoy, fitted with a
snowplow. Except now it’s firmly stuck in a snowbank,
skewed so it’s blocking the road.
And I recognize the man exiting the driver’s seat, even if he
won’t be as familiar to me as he is to James. My stomach leaps
and my flesh chills just as James goes stock-still in his seat.
Waiting for us, his expression set in a black scowl, his arms
folded over his chest, is none other than Landon Strauss.
 18

RED-HANDED (JAMES)

F uck.
Talk about an unexpected turn of events.
I suppose this is the part where I pull over, get out of the SUV,
and approach my boss with my hands up.
I should be more freaked out, but last night with Faye calmed
and centered me in a way nothing else could. Gave me a new
outlook on life, hope for the future, possibly a chance at
something more.
Maybe that’s why I’m not scared, and I’m damn sure not ready
to surrender.
If Landon wants to be upset for chasing what’s right against
these odds, in the face of the danger we’ve been in from his
very own hero, Captain goddamned Hook, then screw it.
He’s not the man I think he is.
Still, I want to believe my smart, courageous boss wouldn’t
throw away years of work we’ve done together without
hearing me out. I tell myself he won’t toss the trust we’ve
built, all over a past that even I didn’t understand until Faye
peeled the blinders from my eyes and showed me the stark
raving truth.
I ease the SUV to a halt a few feet away from his parked truck.
He watches me flatly through the windshield, then his mouth
moves in an annoyed, gruff snarl I can’t hear but can easily
imagine as he trudges through the snow between his truck and
our SUV.
Now I know why the road was already cleared by someone
else’s passage. He must’ve driven past the ranger station
looking for us and missed the SUV when it was just another
snow hill among many.
It catches me off guard when Faye reaches over and squeezes
my hand reassuringly. After a startled hesitation, I squeeze
back, before rolling the window down to face the music.
Landon leans in, resting his arms on the window frame and
eyeing me with blue eyes as chill as the sky overhead. “There
something you want to talk to me about, James?” he rumbles.
“Like maybe, why you’re playing fugitive with the Senator’s
daughter? The same Senator you’ve been investigating? Since
you worked for the FB-fucking-I?”
I arch a brow. “It does seem as if you’re already quite well
informed, sir. So what would I need to tell you?”
“Don’t.” He thumps a fist against the window’s edge. “Don’t
you pull that slick dick smartass thing with me. You worried
the fuck out of me, James. Why the hell didn’t you tell me
about all this?”
I blink.
Of all the questions I expected, this isn’t one. “Pardon? I…I
suppose I didn’t think it was relevant. Not while Pershing was
safely on the other side of the country, away from Enguard.”
“You didn’t think it was relevant that you used to be FBI? That
Hook Hamlin is dirty? That he tried to kill you years ago, tried
to kill the Senator, and basically the only reason we’re up here
is so those two can figure out who’s going to murder who
first.” He glares at me, and I blink again.
“When you put it like that…no.”
Tink breaks the tension with a loud laugh next to me, burying
it in her hands.
Landon groans, dragging a gloved hand over his snow-dotted
face. “You’re impossible, man. We could’ve been helping you
all this time, but you had to go and –”
“Be James?” Faye cuts in ever so helpfully through her
laughter.
I shoot her a flat look.
“Exactly!” Landon growls.
I sigh. I seem to be caught in the peanut gallery, but I ask,
“And just who informed you of all these particularly pertinent
details?”
“Senator Harris himself.” Landon’s brows knit. “Things went
to hell last night, James. Hamlin had a long-winded story
about you going rogue and being a threat, but he wouldn’t give
details. He thought I actually believed it. Idiot.” He snorts. “I
know you better than that. You’ve been on my payroll for
years. But I didn’t get clear intel until this morning when
Hook and his men took off on the snowmobiles while Harris
took me aside and told me everything.”
“So much for that man understanding confidentiality.”
“He was worried about you. And about his daughter.” He
glances past me at Faye. “The two of you could’ve died out
here. What were you thinking?”
“The police would be a start,” Faye says. “And the FBI. We
were trying to get help. Hell, get military helicopters, get
everyone airlifted out of here, get Hook arrested.”
“With what evidence?” Landon asks. “Right now, it’s all
hearsay.”
“Not necessarily,” I point out. “I bugged Harris’ laptop. I
didn’t get a chance to see much before I lost connectivity, but I
did get a mirror image of his hard drive uploaded to a cloud
server. I just can’t access it out here with no internet.”
“Fat lot of good that does us,” Landon says.
He’s right in his always blunt, typical Landon style.
“Wait. There’s another way,” Faye whispers, and we both look
at her.
“What’s that?” Landon asks.
Faye shrugs, her smile bright. “Just ask my Dad to tell us what
he knows.”
She’s right. It’s the simplest solution.
If Harris is willing to come clean to Landon, on record, then
maybe he’ll step out from the shadows and bring the evidence
he’s collected into the light.
I don’t know. The man I once knew, Congressman Harris,
might.
The man he’s become now, Senator Harris, that’s another
story. One I don’t know how to read.
He might be too obsessed with his endgame, with revenge.
“We can only ask,” I say. “Which means we have to go back.”
“Not much choice,” Landon says. “We managed to pull up the
National Weather Service, and we’ve got maybe under an hour
to turn this thing back around before it hits again. I want to get
back in before Hamlin does, too, so I can pull together our
staff and have a strike team ready. I want them briefed without
him breathing down the back of our necks. Plus…” He
gestures sheepishly toward the truck. “I don’t think that’s
going anywhere, and you’re not getting around it.”
“You’re just a terrible driver,” I say dryly. “Get your things
and get in.”
Landon just snorts, then rolls his eyes and pulls away, trudging
back to the truck to begin unloading what few supplies he
packed, mostly emergency road gear. While we watch him,
Faye leans over and rests her head on my shoulder.
“No leaving me out this time, okay?” she asks softly. “He’s my
father. And I’m invested in this. I’m part of it. Let me help.”
“You might be the only one he’ll listen to.” I squeeze her hand.
“We’ll do this together.”
It’s quiet in the SUV on the way back to the resort. Landon sits
in the back seat, fiddling with his phone, trying again and
again to raise a signal. No luck even with a few amplifiers and
other devices.
He’s growling under his breath, muttering about setting up an
emergency military satphone, which may indeed be an option
if we can get it to connect, when we pull back into the resort.
Instantly, I stiffen.
People are outside, moving around, going back to the cabins to
retrieve the belongings they left behind during the rush to
migrate to the main lodge.
Something feels wrong.
Something that makes all of us quiet as we park and step out.
None of Hamlin’s men are in sight, or no doubt they’d be
rushing to take me into custody immediately. A few people
give us odd looks, likely after picking up on last night’s chatter
with the search for me, but no one interrupts us as we go
inside and upstairs to the suites in search of Harris.
His door is open, something that already makes my hackles
stand on end and my body go chill and sharp and quiet.
Landon, Faye, and I exchange glances before I hold a finger to
my lips, edge to one side of the door, and carefully nudge it
open.
“Really, James,” Harris says, “there’s no need for such pomp
and ceremony. You could’ve just knocked.”
The pleasant tone of his voice is almost menacing. It’s
certainly damn bizarre.
It makes me uncomfortable, keyed up on high alert, and both
Landon and Faye are stiff as stones, looking at the door warily
as it swings open on the Senator. He’s standing in the middle
of the room with his professional politician’s smile on his face,
but it’s his body language that tunes me in to something very
wrong.
His body language, and the fact that he’s carrying his laptop
under his arm, drumming the nails of his other hand against it
slowly, rhythmically, almost ominously.
What the hell is going on here?
While we eye him silently, his gaze flicks between us before
he makes an amused sound. “I knew you’d come crawling
back. There’s no getting out of here right now. Smart. All of
you. Especially you, dearest.” His gaze locks on Faye for a
moment, before shifting to me, drilling into me. “You,
though…”
We lock eyes.
Then he cocks his head, letting his fingers fall to rest
possessively on the laptop. “You’re not as smart as I’d hoped,
James. Or maybe you’d have noticed that my computer is set
to turn the webcam on whenever it’s activated, until I shut it
off. Funny, it captured you fiddling around. Did you find what
you wanted? Is this what you came back for? You should run
away again like the craven coward you are, before I have you
brought up on charges.”
What. The. Fuck?
Something isn’t right here.
The Senator isn’t the type to gloat like a mustache twirling
villain.
These grandstanding speeches, taunting, toying with us – with
me. Something is off in his tone, in his stance, and in the fact
that suddenly he’s turned on us, when he’s the whole reason
Landon came out to bring us back.
He wanted us to help with the strike against Hamlin before the
storm traps us once again. My sense of unease only grows as
the Senator holds my eyes firmly.
Then I hear it.
A slow, rhythmic clap coming from the suite’s sitting room.
I stiffen, whirling around, just as the door in the hall opens at
my back.
I hear the stomp of boots emerging from Hamlin’s suite, the
click of safeties sliding off.
Shit. I don’t even have to turn around to know Hamlin’s men
are in the hall, boxing us in. I can’t take my eyes off the man
emerging from the sitting room, anyway.
Hook Hamlin, larger than life. Standing with a knowing smirk
on his lips and an AK-47 in his hands, trained right at Senator
Harris.
Now, I understand.
Harris’ only job in this was diversion. To keep us occupied
until Hamlin could flank us – unless he wanted to get shot.
Yet, still, he tried to warn us.
Run away.
It’s too late now.
I swear softly under my breath – but don’t resist as we’re
herded inside the room, the Pershing men shoving us roughly,
barking at us to get our hands up.
Fuck, I can’t fight just yet. We can’t have a shootout here. It’ll
endanger Faye and her father. Plus, I need a plan. One that
prevents Hamlin from doing his worst.
He’s still got collateral.
One wrong move, and he’ll be using all those defenseless
people downstairs as hostages to get what he wants.
And what he wants is deadly clear as he flicks us over with a
look before gesturing to his men to tie us up.
“Now, now,” he says with a grin. “Now, boys and girls, we’re
gonna have a little fun.”
The door bangs open again. In comes a tied, cuffed Riker, then
Gabe and Skylar are pushed into the room, along with a few of
the new hires we’d brought on.
My friends are snarling, stumbling, cursing, but just as
helpless as we are. I’ve never seen anything so fucking
terrifying in my life.
Hook’s eyes are burning black caverns as he looks me dead in
the eye. “First, you’re going to sit tight while I figure out
exactly what I’m going to do with you. What you say next –
especially you, James Nobel – will be a very, very important
factor in how this turns out.”
 19

INCENDIARY (FAYE)

I t’s almost an insult that they didn’t bother tying me up.

They searched, disarmed, and bound everyone else. Even
Sky’s been tied, and what’s she going to do? Beat them with
her pregnant belly?
But not me.
Not the helpless little Senator’s daughter.
Not the fragile thing expected to collapse in shock and useless
whimpers, trembling with fear before the big, strong, armed
men ringing the room, keeping us all hemmed in the center,
clustered on the floor and crammed together.
Just because I’m pissed doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.
This is seriously chilling. We’ve walked into an ambush, and
right now, there’s no clear way out.
Even Dad’s been bound, shoved in with the rest of us, sitting
shoulder to shoulder with me. His head is bowed. He’s glaring
at his thighs with an odd mix of resignation and fury on his
face, defeat and determination. I don’t want to think about
what stupid, heroic thing he’s going to try to do.
This is on me.
I’m the only one with the slightest advantage here, having my
hands free.
And I’m going to have to use it soon, I realize, as one of the
men grabs Riker by the arm and hustles him to his feet. He
moves slow, flashing them a defiant look.
“Move, asshole!” one of the Pershing goons snaps.
Then Riker resists, snarling, and he gets an AK-47 butt
slammed in his face with an audible crunch. He reels back,
staggering, blood spraying from his nose.
Several members of the Enguard crew swear in horror,
struggling, before freezing over as the mouths of guns swing
toward them. I don’t move. I don’t dare.
But I can’t help wincing. Or worrying as I watch Riker being
led from the main room of my father’s suite into the sitting
room.
I have all the reason in the world to worry.
Especially when one of the men follows the others into the
room with a camera, and I hear the vicious, terrible sound of
fists, rifle butts, and God only knows what else striking flesh.
The sound of Riker’s knees hitting the floor.
And his restrained snarls, rising with each blow only to trail
off. I can picture him gritting his teeth.
A proud man, a husband and a father from everything James
has told me. Too proud to cry out or beg them to stop, while
they film him.
It’s fucking horrific.
My heart feels sick with it. My stomach, completely hollowed
out.
And I don’t know who I’m more disgusted with.
Hamlin for playing these games? Or Dad for playing right into
them?
No one says anything. The Enguard crew are so tense, it’s
likely they don’t trust themselves not to snap and endanger
Riker even more.
Meanwhile, Dad is withdrawn, off in his strange, quiet place.
Fine then.
Fine.
If no one will say anything, I guess it’s on me.
I lift my chin, looking at Hook Hamlin dead-on, who’s
preoccupied watching something on his phone with an
eyebrow quirked like it’s nothing more than a baseball game.
From the low sounds, I know it’s the live video feed from the
other room.
What kind of fucking coward orders a man tortured in the next
room but can’t stand to see it up close?
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, quiet but steady. I’m trained
in negotiations.
Maybe I can talk him through this. Maybe, even though I
know there’s no FBI team at our back, ready to bust in and
save the day.
“What’s the purpose of hurting Riker? Just because he’s my
father’s friend?”
The look Hamlin gives me is patronizing, almost pitying. “Oh,
my dear, do you really think I care about your father’s
friendships? No wonder you weren’t fit for the FBI.”
There. He’s doing exactly what I want him to, gloating.
He’s rubbing my nose in his plan because I’ve just proven that
to him, I’m some stupid witless little girl begging him, don’t
hurt my daddy’s friends.
He turns the phone toward me, letting me see as a knee crashes
into Riker’s jaw, sending his head snapping to the side.
I flinch, lowering my eyes, while at my back James swears
softly under his breath.
It’s killing him one piece at a time to see his friend destroyed
like this.
I can’t let it.
“Once I send this to the family of your father’s friend,” Hook
scoffs, “no one will question why we came back to the lodge
to find all of you slaughtered with none the wiser. Your friend
has made quite an enemy out of the last of that drug cartel, and
they do enjoy going for the soft underbelly, destroying
families. There’s a lot of grief ahead for a happy wife and a
little girl watching daddy dearest get torn apart. The rest of
you were just collateral, we’ll tell the Feds. A little neat
revenge tale based on that operation you pulled off against the
Pilgrims.”
I don’t know these people he’s talking about – the Pilgrims,
even if I vaguely remember old records on local drug
operations, the name possibly among rising street gangs.
It doesn’t matter. I grasp what he’s getting at.
He’ll kill us all. Then stage his men as if they’re responding to
the sound of gunfire and come rushing in.
They’ll “discover” our bodies. There’ll be a manhunt for
criminals who’ll never show up, before the storm conveniently
cuts off all efforts at searching and leaves the last of the
civilians here forced to accept it, or face off against Hamlin
with nowhere to run.
Then by the time the storm clears the optimal window for
investigation will have passed, bodies cooling for days –
probably tossed out into the snow and frozen, the fictional
perpetrators long gone.
God, it’s devious.
He’ll trot out that line about a revenge killing, the video will
back him up, and so will the family’s testimony. And Hook’s
hideous reputation means people will believe him.
Son of a bitch.
I don’t say anything. He wants to see me afraid, or wants me
to ask more insipid questions so he can gloat in his brilliance.
He’s not getting it.
At least, not out loud.
I feel James’ hands against my back, tied behind him.
Mine may be free, but I let them slip around behind me as if
assuming the position to be cuffed, under the guise of getting
more comfortable in the close-packed bodies.
Instead, I slip my fingers into James’ and nudge his palm into
uncurling.
Okay. Now for the moment of truth.
Very, very slowly, I begin tracing letters on his palm. Slow,
delicate, as neat as I can make them. Writing him notes just
like we used to. Only this time it’s skin, instead of ink and
paper.
You read me? Tap.
It’s so incredibly slow, it has to be slow not to risk being
noticed and to make sure James understands what I’m doing,
and I hold my breath, hoping, waiting.
Then it comes. Just one gentle tap, right with his middle finger
against the edge of my thumb.
Thank God.
Will untie you, I spell. Keep secret. Okay?
Another tap, quick, sharp, almost eager.
Then I run. You make noise. Distract.
Have plan. Will return. Wait for me.
One more tap, so firm it’s almost like he’s shaken my hand in
agreement. Then I can feel his resolution, his determination.
James has my back right now.
Just like he used to. Just like I had his.
We’ll figure this out, Lord willing.
Together.
And we’re going to get everyone out of here alive.
I push my hand into his and spell one more thing. Love you.
The last tap I get back is so fierce it’s like lightning.
Then I settle, leaning my back against James’ shoulders as if
I’m tired, so tired, and just need to rest against the big strong
man while I await my inevitable doom.
Actually, I really am dog tired, and leaning against James is a
comfort…but what I’m really doing is masking my
movements as I slowly work at the ropes around his wrists.
They’re nylon safety cords, small and slick, but that’s good
because I have small fingers. It makes me quick and efficient,
working at the knots one at a time.
The entire time I’m scanning the room from under my lashes,
the mess of my tangled hair.
One man is stationed in each corner, armed and ready. At least
three others are in the other room, still working over Riker in
horrible, slow rhythm.
Hamlin with another armed man at the desk, Dad’s laptop
open and logged in while they’re poring through data,
occasionally glancing at us, muttering demon whispers.
I hear something about starting on the pregnant one first.
They don’t even try to hide it, which has Gabe straining like a
rabid bull on a tether, only to be shoved back by the barrel of
an AK-47 pushed between his eyes, while Skylar hisses, spits,
dares anyone to touch her.
“Try it! I’ll snap your dicks off,” she snarls.
I halfway think that fierce Mama bear would take someone out
with her teeth, if they threatened her baby.
But I don’t want to give them the chance.
There’s a casement window over the desk. The very same desk
Hamlin stands by now.
If I bolt for it, he won’t be expecting me to run straight at him
and won’t be able to react quickly enough. Especially if James
can give me a good diversion.
I’m fast. I’m small. I’m slippery as a damned eel.
If I’m smart and quick, I can get past Hamlin and out the
window before he has a chance to grab at me. He won’t be
able to risk chasing me with his entire crew, not when he’ll
have a ton of panicked civilians to deal with if his men go
charging out after me with live guns.
And he definitely won’t have a convenient alibi for why so
many innocents were found riddled with bullet holes, but
somehow, he and all his men miraculously escaped.
He’ll have to let me go and only hope I’ll have the decency to
die in the snow.
I won’t go down easy.
Soon? I trace against James’ palm. Just one more note; one he
won’t be able to put in his keepsake box, but that I hope we’ll
have forever to remember. He taps again.
My turn. I write out, Distract them. Now!
He’s silent a moment.
Then he sticks one leg out, shoving his foot against the calf of
the man menacing Gabe and Sky.
“Hey, fuckface,” James says, and I almost want to laugh
because it sounds so bizarre in that cultured, yet growling
accent. I don’t think James Nobel has ever said fuckface in his
life. “Are you so pathetic you can only get off by threatening a
bound pregnant woman?”
“Save it! I’ll kick his ass even tied up,” Sky spits back, her
shoulders twitching, but James has the man’s attention now.
He pulls away from Sky, stalking toward James, sneering
down at him. “You rather I get off on you?”
James curls his upper lip. “So crass.”
“Fuck your crass,” the man snaps, flipping the rifle over his
head to invert it and drive it down toward James’ skull.
Three things happen at once.
James rocks forward, still keeping his hands behind his back,
and slams his head into the man’s gut.
The man doubles over, gasping, grunting, the butt of the rifle
coming down in a glancing blow on James’ back instead of his
head.
But that pulls the trigger. Everyone ducks, shouting and
swearing as the bullet zings toward the ceiling. Screams rise
from below.
And I launch myself right out, surging to my feet, making a
running dive for the window.
While everyone else is dropping to the floor at the gunshot,
I’m rising up, racing past the bound Enguard crew and my
father’s startled look, surging past Hamlin.
I hit the desk.
Grab my father’s laptop – leverage, all the data and all the
proof – and clutch it against my chest as I bound up the desk,
sending papers scattering everywhere.
I kick the casement window open, sending the pane slamming
outward like a loose door. Holding my breath, I leap up to the
windowsill, bracing my free hand against the frame as the cold
wind scours in, stealing my panting breath.
It’s a long drop down.
Two stories, but the snow dunes are thick.
There’s no James to catch me this time.
And there’s no time to wait.
I start tilting forward – only to yelp as pain slices through me.
There’s something in my hair. Ripping at my scalp as a cruel
hand tangles, dragging me back.
Hook Hamlin snarls, yanking me so hard I drop down on my
ass on the desk.
“You sly little bitch!” he hisses, shaking me by my hair like a
scruffed cat, nearly ripping it out at the roots. “What are you
trying to pull?”
“This,” I bite off.
Then I bite him.
Right on the sliver of bare wrist exposed between his glove
and the sleeve of his jacket, the only place I can reach. Sink
my teeth in hard.
It’s honestly jarring when I slam against the stark wrist bones
under his skin, getting a mouthful of muscle and brittle hair for
half a second.
He’s yelping, cursing, and calling me a few more things I
never need to hear again, before he jerks backward.
Several men around the Enguard crew go running, trying to
protect their boss. Hook holds his good hand up with a snarl,
waving them on. “Get her, assholes! Go, go, go!”
There’s my window of opportunity.
My last chance.
I clutch my father’s laptop to my chest and scramble into a
crouch, not even stopping to look down again.
And jump.

I’ M PRETTY sure I blacked out halfway down as a preemptive

measure.
Just in case hitting hurts more than I expect it to.
It’s a jarring thud and a whoosh of snow all around me, almost
like doing a cannonball in water. I rocket into a snow dune,
sinking so deep the snow collapses on top of me, burying me
completely.
Holy crap.
Sputtering, my entire body jarred like a slammed door, I flail
my way out. My head comes up first, thankfully, spitting snow
out of my mouth and swiping it out of my face.
I can barely stand for a moment, wobbling on aching legs, but
adrenaline surges through me with the strength I need. I’m
standing out here, still in the pajamas I was wearing when I
ran away from Dad, covered over in clumsy layers of clothing
and outerwear instead of the tactical gear I’d have on a
mission.
Too bad. There’s no time for it to matter.
I’m going to save my Dad. I’m going to save Enguard.
And I’m going to save James.
I tilt my head back to look up at the window and catch the
only glimpse I need.
Hamlin, looking down at me, wide-eyed and teeth clenched.
Jesus.
Not all of the chill is from the cold and the snow seeping down
the back of my neck. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t bluster.
Doesn’t command anyone to chase me.
He only looks at me with dire, grim certainty that promises
I’ve earned nothing but pain for everyone I love.
And if I know what’s good for me, I’ll come back this instant
so he won’t have to hurt them.
Like hell I will.
I just hope James and Dad will forgive me for leaving them to
a few minutes of pain so I can spare them a quick, untimely
death.
In something close to a dark salute, an answering promise, I
lift the laptop to Hamlin. A reminder that I have leverage of
my own.
When it rips out of me, it’s so unexpected, the full force of the
words scare me.
“Harm one hair on their heads, you freak! I’ll find a way to
get this out there, internet or no internet, phone or no phone.
Even if I have to shout it from the goddamned mountains!”
I’m roaring into the night, lungs totally spent and exhausted
when I finally open my eyes.
We hold eye contact for a blistering moment, dark challenge
sizzling between us.
Death wishes. Agonies. Souls.
One light. One dark. And only one can win.
Finally, I turn my back on him and walk away.
I have work to do.

I WAS RIGHT about Hamlin not sending anyone after me, but
I’m quick and elusive anyway as I scout the grounds. I’m not
quite sure what I’m looking for just yet, something that will let
me single-handedly rescue everyone, I guess. I’ll know it
when I see it.
It’s too bad I can’t rely on the small army of people at the
lodge, but they’re innocent bystanders. Civilians. Nervous,
twitchy congressional aides and resort staff who probably
don’t have a mean bone in their bodies.
Even if I’m no longer a registered agent, I’m still sworn to
protect.
I can’t get them involved.
What I find as I snoop around, though, is disturbing. Sections
where the packed snow is disturbed, and at the lowest layers
toward the ground, it’s mixed with freshly dug up earth.
The holes are easy to miss in the driving snow. Easy to hope
the snowfall will cover the tracks until it’s too late.
The buried power and internet lines have been dug up. The
phone line, too.
Predictably cut, severing all electricity and communications to
the resort.
James was right. Those outages were no coincidence at all.
Hamlin planned ahead.
In more ways than one, I realize, as further sniffing around
reveals the gas lines to the main generators have been cut, the
fuel leaking all over the ground as the generators try to pump
it and fail, wasting precious fuel as it soaks into the earth.
Creating one hell of a fire hazard.
It takes temperatures minus forty or fifty for gasoline to freeze,
and we’re not quite there yet.
But those people in the lodge must be freezing.
I check the cabins. The generators there are just fine, hooked
up and waiting to be started. I need to get everyone out of the
lodge and into separate cabins again before the snow starts
coming down again, trapping them with no heat but their own
and one paltry fireplace.
But as I step in through the front door, raising my hands,
following in my father’s footsteps to use that calm,
authoritative voice to calm everyone, to reassure them it will
be all right, to explain the gunshot as an accident, to get them
moving, to tell them why…
I realize something else.
I need them out of the lodge.
Because my eyes keep drifting to the dwindling stack of gas
canisters against the wall.
It hits me in a rush that’s almost blinding.
I actually manage a smile.
This is either sweet perfection, or the worst idea in the world.
While everyone else is busy packing and preparing to move
the wounded, I steal several of the canisters and squirrel them
away behind the reception desk. Near-empty ones.
I don’t want to take fuel away from people who might
desperately need it if we can’t get out before the storm breaks
its lull. Plus it’s the near-empty canisters that interest me most.
That’s where the boom-boom is.
Thanks to air pressure and the nature of gasoline, the last of
the fuel in the sealed containers will begin to evaporate,
creating a highly flammable explosive gas.
Ever wonder why they tell you to be careful of an empty gas
tank? That’s why.
The last trace bits of gasoline in the tank can, in a sealed
vacuum, release a vapor that’ll explode at the slightest spark.
People have blown up their cars this way, completely by
accident.
But I’m not trying to wreck some junker at a demolition derby
for the applause.
I’m going to blow up a freaking building.
Entirely on purpose.
I don’t have much time. Not even with the laptop stuffed down
inside my parka buying maybe a little immunity for Dad and
James. But I should be able to rig something up, especially
when there should also be propane tanks in the kitchen for the
grills.
I’m going to get these people out of here first, hunkered down
safe, away from not just the powerless lodge, but the danger
that a desperate, cornered Hamlin and his men represent.
And then…
Oh, then I’m going to have a little fun like I haven’t for years.
I’m going to make Captain Hook Hamlin sorry he ever fucked
with my family. With James. With Tink.
They don’t call redheads fiery for nothing.
Welcome to Faye Harris’ patented hell.
 20

LIKE VELVETEEN (JAMES)

I f I didn’t love Faye already, I most certainly do now.

Not just for her daring escapades, or for her foresight to steal
her father’s laptop on the way out.
Not even for the fact that my hands are free thanks to her, and
I’m slowly working at Gabe’s bonds. He’s the closest person
to me, though the ropes around his huge wrists are particularly
thick and tight, and I’m having little luck making headway.
My love for Faye isn’t even due to her bravery in the face of
danger.
My love is in the look of sheer panicked confusion slowly
turning into simmering rage as Hook Hamlin cocks his head,
listening to the commotion below, and realizes Faye’s
shepherding his potential hostages to safety.
And he can’t do a bloody damn thing about it.
Not without creating even more witnesses to dispose of so
they can’t testify against him in court.
Hamlin listens for a few moments longer – then moves like a
tornado.
He whips around abruptly for a man his size, and backhands
poor Skylar across the face with one massive paw.
Flesh meets flesh with a mighty crack that sends her sprawling
over on her side.
Fuck.
The room stills like a heart in cardiac arrest, all tension and
pain and shock, my own breath catching in my lungs because I
know what’s coming next.
There’s barely a half-second of frozen, stunned anger before
he fucking snaps.
And suddenly, giant Gabe is out of my reach as he charges like
a raging bull – and Hamlin just waved a red flag in front of his
face with the backhanded attack on his pregnant wife.
Gabe surges at Hamlin like an unstoppable force of nature,
hands still tied behind his back, this massive goliath of a man
enraged over his wife and unborn child, and even as I’m
silently praying no, Gabe, don’t do it, this isn’t the time!, he
lowers his head and slams himself at Hamlin.
But he’s too emotional, too blind with fury, not thinking
straight, not reacting quickly.
Hamlin has just a split second to sidestep him, sending Gabe
blundering past.
Then Hamlin brings the butt of his AK-47 down on Gabe’s
skull, right at the nape, with enough force to send him
spinning down across the floor in an unconscious heap.
Hamlin looks up slowly and sniffs. “Pathetic.”
With a disgusted gesture, he signals for two of his goons to
catch Gabe by the arms, dragging his bulk back to the cluster
we’ve formed in the center of the room. They drop him down
in a heap at my back.
A place where I can’t reach his wrists anymore. Fuck.
And I can’t maneuver to get closer to anyone else, either,
without being obvious that I’m untied and working to get the
others free.
It can’t get worse than this.
Until, predictably, it does.
The door to the sitting room flies open and two more men
enter, carrying a limp, battered, but still conscious Riker
between them. My heartbeat becomes a dull, angry roar in my
ears when I see my friend.
He’s silent, deathly so, but the look on his face, in his bruised
and swollen emerald eyes, speaks the promise of murder. Of
revenge. Of savagery.
He’s bleeding all over, covered in bruises and scrapes.
Just like Tanner, fuck. He looks just like Tanner before he died.
Only, Riker doesn’t look as weak. There’s a fiery resolve in his
gaze that says he’s not down yet, he’s not dying, but a human
body has its limits and he’s so close to his.
I have to look down. I can’t fucking meet his eyes, or I’ll wind
up just like Gabe.
Instead, I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood.
Captain Hook Hamlin will pay.
My eyes flit around the room, and everyone is thinking the
same thing. No doubt. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Good. We’ll need that resolve.
All of us, if we’re going to work together to get out of this.
For some unholy reason, I can’t help thinking of my mother’s
book right now.
Of the happy ending I keep failing to write.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never believed in happy endings.
Never believed that much joy could just be spontaneously
generated and given to people for no good reason other than
that it can happen, so it does. Happy endings never just
happen.
You have to work yourself to the bone for them.
I’m no stranger to hard work.
And maybe this isn’t a romance, this moment with our lives
hanging on the whims of a madman, the woman I love
frantically trying to help with so much stacked against her.
Against all of us.
Still, I’m going to make sure this story has a happy ending,
nonetheless.
For everyone. For my team. My friends.
And for Faye.
The Pershing animals drop Riker in a pile with the rest of us,
his wrists and ankles bound.
Now I’ve got something to do. Now I’ve got something to
keep me busy, when his feet are close to my back and I need
him to be able to run when Faye gives the signal for whatever
she’s planning so we can react and do our part.
I shift a little like I’m trying to get comfortable, making sure
my body hides my fingers as I start working on the ropes
around Riker’s ankles.
Only to freeze as Hamlin paces slowly toward me, watching
me with a sort of cold avarice.
“I’m disappointed in you, James,” he says in a mockery of
grandfatherly concern.
Asshole. I know what real grandfatherly concern is, and it’s
waiting for me back in San Francisco, with a man who
understands what love and family truly are.
“I thought we understood each other,” Hook whispers. “You’re
nothing like them, and yet here you are. Pissing your last
moments on earth away for a band of children.”
“Don’t.” I’m not giving him any part of me, let alone any
reaction, and I meet his eyes stonily. “I’m nothing like you.”
“I can see that now. You aren’t smart enough to recognize an
opportunity when you see one, and you’re most certainly not
smart enough to pick a winning side. Shame, shame, terrible
shame.” He paces past me toward Landon, looking down at
him with something almost like fondness. “You, though. I’ve
really enjoyed our talks, Landon. I’ve almost felt like you’re a
son to me.”
“Sorry,” Landon bites off. “I’ve already worked through my
daddy issues. That angle won’t work with me.”
Hamlin lets out an irritated sigh. “Ah, yes. Your little issue
with Crown Security, protecting that pop star whore, Milah
Holly. That was almost as ridiculous as everything else you
people have been involved with – like bringing the Bay Area
Kidnapper to justice.” Hook’s eyes go to Gabe, then Skylar,
who sits in a heap, quietly seething. “I honestly expected more
from a crew who’s been in the national spotlight as heroes.
Several times. But perhaps you’re ready for big league press
and none of the consequences.”
I’m almost foaming at the mouth.
This fuck is like Lucifer, waltzing around the room, taunting
us. Crown, Milah Holly, the kidnapper who took Skylar’s baby
niece for months, taking down the Pilgrims…it’s all streaming
back like some sick slideshow of Enguard’s life flashing
before its eyes.
Worse, he’s not done. My teeth grind together like sandpaper
when I hear Hook’s voice again.
“Tell me one thing…why is it you people have no common
sense?” He sinks down into a crouch in front of Landon, AK-
47 across his thighs, and looks at my boss eye to eye, still
exuding that grandfatherly air paired with pure menace.
“Nothing, huh?”
Landon’s gaze is icy silence. A death wish in scalding deep
blue eyes.
Hamlin just smiles.
“Fine then. I’m going to spell this out for you. With or without
you, Landon, I’m going to stage the death of a U.S. Senator
and his daughter. It’s almost too easy. We’ll blame it on rival
competitors who managed to sneak up here under the cover of
the storm, of course. But your next answer, and you are going
to give me one, tells me whether or not you’ll walk away from
here whole with your crew intact…” He gestures at us – Gabe
unconscious, Riker broken and bleeding, Skylar’s jaw an
angry, swollen purple. “…or if your merry little group of
miscreants heroically died trying to protect Harris. Answer
carefully.”
“Don’t,” Harris bites off. “You want to kill me, then kill me,
Hamlin! But leave Faye alone and don’t make these people
collateral damage. They had no idea what they were getting
into.”
Hook smirks. “If they die then that’s your fault, isn’t it,
Senator? Because you knew. And you dragged them in
anyway without telling them.”
“I would’ve come even if I’d known,” Landon says, low and
deathly serious, that quiet seething that says when he gets out
of those ropes, Hook is dead. “Because I’d have chosen to
protect the Senator. Just like I’m choosing now. And I’m
choosing to protect my people.” He stares Hamlin down
fearlessly. “Take me. Let them go. I’ll be your sacrifice.
They’ll keep quiet on my order. No police, no testimony, no
sign they were ever here.”
Fuck.
It takes everything in me to remember I’m supposed to pretend
to still be bound. That’s not easy when every part of me that’s
loyal to Landon wants to thrust myself between him, Hook,
and the rifle that’s suddenly pressed right between his
unblinking, challenging eyes. I take a deep breath, restraining
myself, and continue to work at the ropes around Riker’s
ankles.
Hook’s bluffing. He has to be, testing our reaction.
I don’t believe for a second there’s any scenario where he lets
any of us go alive.
And I’m the first to speak as I bite off, “That’s not happening.”
Even as I lock eyes with Hamlin, I’m slipping one of the coils
of rope free from Riker’s ankles, working busily behind my
back. “You kill Landon, you’ll have to kill us all. Because we
won’t stop coming for you. We live together, we die together.
Enguard, to the bitter end.”
Snarls of assent rise all around, furious and quietly seething
but resolute. We’re of one mind.
If this is meant to be our last stand, then so fucking be it.
We won’t let Landon sacrifice himself for us alone.
And we won’t live dirty at the cost of his life.
Hamlin sweeps us all with a patient, tired look, patronizing as
ever. “You’re all agreed, then?”
No one speaks.
We don’t have to.
Our resolution speaks for us, every last dagger’s edge in our
eyes. We aren’t playing his game.
Hamlin stands with an annoyed click in the back of his throat.
“How touching. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to stoop to these
levels, but since you’re refusing to be at all reasonable and
cooperate…” He slips his phone from his pocket.
Of course his phone is working.
Of fucking course.
It’s more proof he’s behind the dead signals here, but I can’t
think about that right now when he’s pulling up what looks
like a live video feed.
And I recognize the woman in the video.
Kenna. McKenna Strauss.
Landon’s wife.
She’s sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island in their airy
beachfront home, the French doors and broad windows giving
a clear vantage point as she jots in a notebook while one of
their blue cats naps in her lap, and the other suns himself in a
cat bed under the window. She’s humming to herself.
Innocent. Oblivious. Endangered.
I swear softly under my breath. It’s nothing compared to the
litany of curses Landon spits, his face going red, muscles in
his neck straining as he starts to shove himself up, fighting
against his bonds.
Only to go completely still as Hook shakes his head in
warning, holding up a hand.
“I wouldn’t test your luck with heroics,” he says, then pitches
his voice a little louder. “Carlo, can you hear me?”
A few moments later, another man’s voice pipes through the
phone’s speaker. “Aye-aye, Chief. Waiting for you to call the
shot. I’ve got a clear line on her pretty little head.”
Hook’s smirk deepens, ugly. “That, my friends, is Carlo. And
the view you’re enjoying right now is down the barrel of his
sniper rifle. One shot, and pretty Kenna is dead. Someone will
have to write an obituary for a bestselling author. Don’t worry,
it’ll be painless. She’ll never know what hit her. No fear. No
reason to make her suffer. Of course…she’ll be gone from
your life forever, Landon. Just ask Harris how that feels –
nothing you do, no petty little act of vengeance, will ever bring
her back.”
Harris snarls, low and deep and threatening. “You goddamned
coward.”
But Landon goes pale. Bone-white.
It’s no secret how deeply he loves Kenna. Reuniting, falling in
love, marrying her changed him in ways so true we all saw it,
saw how he grew and matured until we only respected him
even more than we already did.
It’s part of why we’d follow him anywhere. Even into death.
And I realize now that if Hook goes through with this…
We might have to follow Landon to even darker places.
Landon stares at the video numbly, his jaw tight, his voice
strained. “What the fuck do you want from me? Why are you
doing this?”
“Because I really don’t want to have to kill you, Landon,”
Hook answers in mock conciliation. “You’re more useful to
me alive than dead – all of you. Your little crew just needs the
proper motivation.”
Skylar loses it then. “Go shove your motivation up your –”
“Now, now. Quiet, girl. The boys are talking,” Hook snarls.
“Landon, Enguard could be a very useful asset to me in
extending my operations to achieve complete dominance,
coast to coast. It could be very lucrative for you, too, but
you’re continuing to be stubborn. So. Either you – and your
entire team – cooperate, or you find out just how long my
reach is. And how deadly. I know what’s valuable to each and
every one of you. I know your families and your dreams.” His
gaze flicks to us, one by one, even to Gabe, who’s slowly
starting to stir to consciousness. “Cross me, continue playing
rebel, and I’ll take it all without the slightest hesitation. Or you
could finally open your eyes. Think this through and realize
we could all make each other very rich men.” His smile for
Skylar is oily. “And women, I suppose.”
“I don’t want your money,” she bites off. “A fucking creep like
you can only buy loyalty with threats for so long. Force us into
this, and we’ll come for you. We’ll find a way to destroy you,
even if we have to get dirty to do it.”
“Ah, yes. Dirty. Ask the good Senator how well that worked
for him,” Hamlin replies, and that flat shark’s smile is back,
those dead, killing eyes. “All the evidence he’s gathered?
Everything his pretty little runaway daughter took that she
thinks will give her a bargaining chip? It’s just as damning for
him. He can’t torpedo me without sinking himself. You’ll end
up just the same way.”
Unbe-fucking-lievable.
He has us backed into a corner like a bottomless abyss.
“I’ll give you boys and girls a minute or two to think. Let’s
have some music.” Hamlin snaps his fingers and paces the
room.
A song comes on over the room’s speakers that’s far too
upbeat and too ironic for this mess.
It’s Milah Holly’s new hit single, Mew for Me Like Velveteen!
The music video has only played in our office about a
thousand times since it came out. Gabe and Sky thought it’d
be funny to torment Landon regularly with a song inspired by
his cats, Velvet and Mews, courtesy of the most outrageous
and (in)famous client Enguard has ever dealt with.
It’s just as ridiculous as it sounds. The lyrics wash over us like
some gut-wrenching anthem, and I can’t stop picturing Ms.
Holly herself jumping around the stage, whiskers drawn on her
face, blowing kisses to the camera as a stampede of blue cats
of every kind come galloping around her feet at the end.
Won’t you mew, mew, mew for love?
Won’t you mew, mew, mew for me real sweet?
Won’t you mew for me like Velveteen – tonight!
Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor. I always liked to
think the last song I’d ever hear would be something by
Handel or Brahms – not this outrageous pop song that’s
become a background track for the end of our lives.
Think, damn it.
I don’t see any good options.
With Kenna at the other end of that sniper rifle, I’m just as
helpless to do anything as I was to save my mother, or Tanner.
If I take advantage of my untied hands to jump Hamlin, the
man on the other end of that video will shoot her the second
Hamlin gives the order.
I have to think of something else. Some alternative. I have to –
Wait. There’s something in the air. A strange, stark odor that
wasn’t there a minute ago.
Do I smell…gasoline?
I only have half a second to think about it.
Milah Holly sings one more line – mew for me like velveteen,
you precious thing! – before everything goes white.
Then a violent explosion rips up from below, this concussive
blast of force and heat that punches up so hard it’s like the
floor lifts underneath us, rattling like a game board to send
chess pieces flying everywhere.
And we do go flying, as flame and smoke billow out of
nowhere, as the back wall of the room blows out in a jagged-
edged, smoking hole and the shock wave flings us around like
ping pong balls.
The whole world tumbles end over end.
It’s like the plane crash all over again, falling out of the sky,
into a hellish chasm.
Only this time, I’m plummeting toward the snow in a tangle of
both Enguard and Pershing Shield men, weapons fire going
wild, and there’s only a half-second of gut-dropping freefall
before I hit hard amid tumbling bodies and plumes of flaming
wreckage that come sailing down from the sky only to
extinguish themselves in the snow.
My head is ringing.
I hurt all over, dizzy and aching with the raw impact both from
the explosion and from the subsequent fall, but I can’t miss
this opportunity.
Because if anything is Faye’s signal?
It’s the giant damned fireball that took out the entire back wall
of the lodge.
Everything’s quiet for a moment.
A stunned quiet, full of blinding white, everyone reeling and
dizzy and trying to collect themselves, assessing the situation.
Then a slim, triumphant figure steps forward, standing in the
massive hole exploded out of the wall and looking at us with a
smirk.
“Hello, boys,” Faye says. “Miss me?”
Hook comes charging out of the snow like a bull, flinging
himself at her. “You psycho bi—”
He doesn’t get to finish the word.
Not when I’m up a second later, leaping after him, locking my
arms around his neck from behind.
Hamlin’s huge, but I’m stronger, and I’ve got the advantage.
I keep both arms tight around his thick neck, squeezing with
all my might, while he roars and thrashes, snapping his fists
back, and beating at me with frantic blows.
I still won’t let go, even as he spins us around and around. I
barely have a second to yell out to her.
“Faye!” I call, hoping she understands.
She does. I see her from the corner of my eye, going for the
other fallen Enguard crew, a knife coming from her boot that
she uses to saw through their ropes. They’re up in an instant
and tackling the other Pershing Shield men, wresting their
guns away, knocking them out cold.
Hook staggers, an angry behemoth. My arms are aching, going
numb, but I’m going to choke this bastard out if it’s the last
thing I do.
Gasping, wheezing, he raises his voice.
“Carlo!” he shouts. “Carlo, take the –”
No. Fuck your shot.
I stiffen, whipping my head around, looking for his phone.
And that’s when he turns the tables.
His elbow crashes into my gut. Pain explodes. I’m winded.
My arms loosen, and he throws me off, flinging me back into a
snowbank. In a single breath, he’s on me, pinning me down,
one hand choking down on my throat, the other fist smashing
into my face in an explosion of blackout pain.
My vision goes dark, but I can still hear him – still feel him as
the impact of his knuckles strikes my face again and again,
pushing me closer and closer to the edge of gone.
I have to stay conscious. I have to keep fighting, keep him
distracted, keep the only opportunity we’re going to get open.
Surging up with the last of my strength, I slam my forehead
into his chin. There’s a sickening crack, a dizzying blur, his
hateful, gnashing teeth caught in pain.
For a second, he’s stunned and I’m ready to hurl myself at him
again.
Until there’s a click. The familiar sound of a safety lever.
The frenzy stops, leaving me groaning, struggling to open my
eyes as the darkness tries to resolve into shapes, color, light.
And I see Faye standing over us both, an AK-47 in her hands,
the muzzle pressed against Hamlin’s temple while he’s frozen,
a monstrous snarl on his face as he looks at her sidelong with
murder and violence in his gaze.
“I’d stop, if I were you,” she says almost too mildly. “I’ll put a
bullet in your skull and not think twice.”
“Shoot me then,” Hamlin snarls, “and Carlo kills your friend’s
wife.”
“N-no.”
Another voice. It’s the Senator who interrupts this time. He’s
wheezing, gasping, struggling to push himself up out of a
snow pile that’s stained red with blood. His blood, pouring
from what looks like a bullet hole in his shoulder, dangerously
close to his heart. He’s pale, shaking.
And holding Hamlin’s phone.
“Dad?” Faye whispers, going white. “Dad!”
Harris manages to hold up a hand. “Stay back, Faye,” he
chokes out, his voice gurgling. He needs medical attention, but
we’re caught in a stalemate, everyone frozen, lives in the
balance.
Somehow, we’re the ones armed, and Hamlin still has the
ultimate weapon if he’s able to give an order to that fucking
sniper.
Until Harris begins to speak.
Not to us.
Into the phone.
“Can you hear me, C-Carlo?” he forces out.
Carlo lets out an awkward snarl through the phone. “Who’s
this? Listen, I don’t know who the hell you are, but if you’ve
hurt the boss, I’m going to put a hole in this woman’s skull.”
“Think twice.” Even weak, bleeding out, the Senator’s voice is
one of command. But more than that, too.
It’s resolve. And he’s looking at Faye the entire time,
something almost desperate in his eyes.
Something I recognize as love, a father’s. Because it’s almost
the same kind of love I feel that would make me do anything
to save her.
And Harris continues, “This is Senator Paul Harris. I don’t
doubt you know who I am and what I know about your
operation, Carlo. I’m willing to fully testify even if it means
jail time for me. One of two things will happen here today.
We’ll kill Hook. You might kill that woman, but it won’t
change a thing. Your entire organization will fall apart and
you’ll end up on the FBI’s most wanted list. You’ll be dragged
in sooner or later for murder. The other option is, we’ll
apprehend Hook, and he’ll go on trial…and every last name of
every last person who’s ever worked for him will come out.
Including yours. But you have a third choice, Carlo.”
Hamlin interrupts with a snarl, his face a mask of bitter hate.
“Don’t fucking listen to him!”
Faye prods the tip of the AK-47 against his temple. “Shut up,
you creep.”
There’s a long silence before Carlo asks warily through the
phone, “Yeah? What’s that?”
Somehow, even though his face is turning white, Harris keeps
going. “You can run. Walk away right now and disappear.
Take whatever Hamlin paid you for this job, and start over
somewhere you’ll never be found.”
Carlo scoffs. “Bullshit. Hook’ll find me.”
“The hell he will,” Harris answers with a grim smile, his hard,
flinty gaze boring right into Hamlin. “He won’t be finding
anyone from a maximum security cell. I’ll make sure he serves
life in the strictest federal prison outside Guantanamo, Carlo.
You have my word on that, as long as you leave that woman
alone and walk away.”
There’s a long pause. A soft click from the other side of the
phone.
Everyone sucks in a breath, including me.
Then the camera view swings around on a masked man’s face.
He pulls apart his sniper rifle, watching through the screen
distrustfully. “Anybody finds me,” he says, “I’ll make you
pay.”
“Go,” Harris orders.
The screen goes dark.
Landon collapses to his knees, burying his face in his hands
with hoarse, relieved breaths. The Senator slumps into the
snow, his eyes closing.
And I shove myself up again, plowing my fist as hard as I can
into Hamlin’s big face. It feels like the sheer force shatters my
fingers, but I don’t even feel it.
He reels backward, his nose bloody and twisted, and crashes to
the ground, out cold.
Knockout.
I linger over him, triumphant, wondering when I’ll ever have a
moment as satisfying.
Riker and Landon aren’t through. I wonder how my friend is
even standing when he has so many bruises and he’s limping
on one leg, but nothing will keep him from this.
They practically tackle Hamlin, shoving him down, grabbing
for the ropes used to bind them to start tying him up. Gabe
dives for Skylar, helping his pregnant wife out of the snow,
stroking her belly, nearly sobbing as he presses his face to her
stomach as if listening for a heartbeat. She needs medical
attention, immediately.
But so does Riker.
And the Senator, more than anyone.
With a soft, hurting cry, Faye drops the rifle and dives for her
father. “Dad!”
He’s face-down in the snow, not moving. She rolls him over,
and he comes alert with a cry of pain.
She echoes that cry as he slumps once more, tears springing
from her eyes as she grasps at him helplessly, the bravery
she’d held onto to fight for everyone dropping away to leave a
young woman so very afraid of losing her father just when
he’d stepped up to be her father again.
I can’t let that happen.
Even if I hurt everywhere, even if I think my nose may be
nearly as broken as Hook’s, I shove myself up to my feet and
stumble over to the Senator’s side.
Dropping down on my knees, I gently push her hands away
and apply pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding. I
couldn’t save Tanner half a decade ago. The Senator, maybe.
“Hamlin’s phone,” I tell her quickly. “It works. Call 911, tell
them we need a medevac, and damn the storm – a Senator’s
about to die. Get them to dispatch a heavy lift from the nearest
military base if they have to.” I’m ripping out of my coat,
tearing it up, creating a bandage to at least keep as much of the
Senator’s blood inside his body as possible.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I came here with an urge to kill this
man for what I thought he’d done. Now, I’m working like the
devil to save his life.
Because he may have helped save us all.
And one way or another, for Faye’s sake above all, I know I
won’t let that good deed go unpaid.
I will not let this man die.
 21

MOVE THE EARTH (FAYE)

T his must be the living definition of what it means to be in

shock.
It’s been three days.
Three days in San Francisco, and I still feel like everything
that happened wasn’t real.
Maybe because I’ve barely had a second to regroup. If I
haven’t been collapsed in an exhausted heap recovering from
minor injuries and fatigue, I’ve either been in the hospital with
Dad or else in the San Francisco FBI field office, making yet
another statement. Or going through yet another debriefing.
I know it’s proper procedure. I know it like the back of my
hand.
But I’m tired.
So damn tired.
And I’ve hardly seen James since I started my stay.
Sure, I could just pick up the phone and call him, but I can’t
help being afraid.
Considering past history, he might not answer, or he won’t
want to hear what I have to say.
These are words better said in person, anyway…but nailing
him down in the flesh hasn’t been easy.
I don’t think he’s been avoiding me. Not intentionally.
He has a home here in San Francisco, while I’ve been staying
in a hotel under FBI protection.
We’re still not quite out of the woods yet. Some of Hook
Hamlin’s higher-level friends may decide to take me out
before I say anything that could lead to massive government
takedowns and loss of a significant amount of power.
It’s possible. Hamlin had his claws in deep everywhere, and
my father’s been tracking him for a long time.
I handed his laptop over to the Feds with all of the evidence
he’s been gathering.
The digital forensics analyst I gave it to nearly squealed, her
eyes lighting up with fiendish delight.
Yeah. It’s like that when you really love the job.
And all of this is making me realize how much I miss it.
I have a lot to get in order with my life, though, before I can
even think about what’s next with my career.
Dad will make a full recovery thanks to James’ swift response
time. His medical attention saved his life while we waited for
the airlift, no question. The Enguard crew is mostly okay, too,
except for poor Riker who suffered several broken bones and
bleeding. He’ll be here for at least another week, with his
family by his side, his sweet wife Liv and that adorable, whip-
sharp little girl, Em, his daughter.
Still, I want to keep a close eye on my father – well, as close
as I can through the cordon of Secret Service agents
surrounding his hospital room at all times. I want to sit down
and take a long, hard look at myself. Maybe think about what I
really want for once without other people pushing and
prodding and pulling.
And right now, I want to talk to James.
I want to sit down and have a real, human conversation. Not
one overseen by government specialists and Federal agents
and grim faced attorneys dedicated to making sure Hook
Hamlin and his entire crew rot behind bars.
I have little doubt about that. It’s not even clear if Hamlin will
make it to trial. He’s already been attacked once while he was
being transported. Apparently, Dad and Enguard were hardly
his only enemies. Every rival cartel and motorcycle gang he
ever pissed off stealing their black market gunrunning
business wants a piece of him. Or to silence him before he can
squeal.
Thankfully, Dad and his evidence can help fill in the gaps.
There’s no doubt whatsoever something will make Hamlin
sing sooner or later. And if he doesn’t, we’ve got plenty to
make sure Pershing and friends, and all the king’s horses and
all the king’s men, never ever put this lethal bad egg back
together again.
I only wish our lives didn’t revolve around the Hamlin case.
James is what I need, just a moment alone, more than
anything. I want more than legalese and horror stories.
I want to be with him for more than a few fleeting seconds.
Mostly, we’ve been ships in the night, just passing by each
other at the FBI office, giving our depositions, and now and
then stopping to look at each other across the room.
A brush of hands in the hallway.
A murmured are you all right? and a soft I’m managing
passed between us.
A lingering look at his healing bruises and the cast over the
bridge of his nose. But this last time, this morning, as I was on
my way in and he was on his way out, he pressed something
into my hand without even looking at me.
A note.
Just a crumpled little bit of notepaper with an address.
And I don’t need to be told that if I want to see him again…
that’s where I’ll find him.
It still takes all of my nerve to work myself up to go there. Not
to mention all of my best negotiation skills to talk my FBI
guards into letting me out of their sight.
Going to visit a friend doesn’t really fly well with the people
trying to protect you from a long-range headshot, but I
promise them I’ll be all right and then slip into my rental car
and escape before their skeptical looks can turn into outright
refusal.
Even when I’m supposed to be recovering, I can’t resist the
urge to make a grand getaway.
It’s not far to the address James gave me.
Whatever I’m expecting, it’s not anything like what I find.
I can’t believe this small, charming, light-filled house at the
end of a wooded lane, tucked away in a little forested
waterfront suburb of San Francisco with its many windows
shining.
Private, cozy, the cottage sits in a sunlit glade like something
out of a fairy tale, surrounded by an overflowing garden of
fresh-bursting daffodils. They give off a healthy glow even in
the chilly San Francisco winter, their yellow beaming like
they’ve absorbed too much of the sun’s own radiance and want
to give some back.
The cottage even has its own freaking mini clock tower, and I
don’t understand why until I see the attached workshop with
the store front window. Then the Victorian hand-lettering
proclaiming Nobel’s Noble Antiques, the inside a riot of
strange and gorgeous things that make it look like some kind
of steampunk dream.
No way. This can’t be James’ shop. His home. Can it?
Can the cold, icy man I’ve always known really live
somewhere this warm, this magical, that he’s been keeping
locked away like a secret in his heart?
All of a sudden, I know it.
Because every bit of light I’ve ever loved in James came from
this place.
I can see it was born here. I can see it still lives here, and it
feels like it’s been waiting for him to be ready to reclaim it
again.
I have to be brave. I have to tell him I love him.
And that I want him to run away with me, to live a life less
ordinary, but just as sweet and magical and happy as this
place.
When I park the car in the front lane and step out, I can hear it
– piano music.
The music James has always loved. Part of that secret heart
that made me love him in the first place.
My own heart trills in pattering rhythm with the keys as I step
up the walk and follow the sound not to the front door of the
house, but to the door of the shop. Tentatively, I push the door
open.
Although a little bell overhead jingles, the man seated at the
piano doesn’t stop playing. Icy blond hair. Firm shoulders.
My entire body comes alive with breathless anticipation at the
sight of James.
Until I step closer, reaching for him…
And realize it’s not him at all.
It’s an older man. One who tells me who James will be in
many years, from the sharply similar features to the kindness
around his eyes, the smile lines around his mouth.
God, I want to be there for that.
I want to be there to see James grow into this kind, weathered
man with a hundred thousand memories engraved into his
flesh.
I want to grow old with him. Together.
But I also feel immensely awkward standing here with my
hand outstretched while the older man doesn’t even seem to
realize I’m here. So I start to turn away.
Only to squeak, yelping, heart stuttering, as I realize James is
right behind me.
That sneaky, stealthy freaking snake-man.
He looks down at me mildly, his lips quirked subtly. “Were
you looking for someone, Tink?”
“Oh, you ass!” Laughing, I shove at his chest.
He rocks back lightly, steadying the two wine glasses in his
hand without spilling so much as a single drop.
“Easy now,” he teases softly. “A good red does stain.”
Then that quirk of his lips softens. So do his eyes. They both
become a real honest-to-God smile as he looks down at me,
and everything I’ve been scared of, telling him how I feel,
evaporates.
“Hello, Faye,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I answer quietly, while the old man keeps playing at my
back – and also snorts in amusement. I chuckle. “Your place?”
“His.” He lifts his chin toward the old man. “My Grandpa’s.
But I grew up here. Just me, Mom, and my grandfather. I visit
often so he can yell at me about the book –”
“He still hasn’t finished it,” the old man rumbles mid-song.
James takes the interruption in stride, clearing his throat. “And
so I can tune the pianos he repairs.”
As he speaks, he tosses his head toward the front window of
the shop and offers me one of the wine glasses. “Come with
me.”
I take it, follow him to stand there, looking out over the golden
daffodils. Just a little more privacy away from his grandfather
until he melts into soft, soothing background noise, delicate
piano notes plinking away.
It feels good like this.
Standing at James’ side, shoulder to shoulder, his warmth so
close to mine. I smile, watching the wind make the daffodil
heads bow in waves. “I can see it. Feel it.”
“Feel it?”
I turn to face him, looking up into those stern features that
don’t seem so stern anymore.
Not when I know every little thing that gives him away.
He’s just elegant. Handsome. Strong.
Perfect.
Even if there still are two little strips of white tape over his
fractured nose, that once razor-sharp straightness now forever
just a tiny bit crooked. Charmingly askew.
“Faye? Care to fill me in on this ‘it’ you’re talking about?” he
asks, taking a pull off his wine.
“Sure. First, tell me one thing – do you think I love you
because you’re cold and ruthless and sadistic?” I ask softly,
then grin. “I want to fuck you because of those things, maybe.
Ah, don’t. I’m not finished.” Before he can open his mouth, I
press a finger to it.
He’s grinning. James freaking Nobel is grinning, and even if I
made sure to drop my voice enough to keep his grandfather
from overhearing, it’s just adorable to see him like this in front
of his family.
“Faye.”
“Don’t. Not yet. I know I’m being crude, but…” I turn that
silencing finger into a caress, tracing the line of his lips. “I
love you because there’s this secret heart of brightness in you.
And it feels like this place. This place is like the living source
of all you are, and I was so scared you’d lost it forever.”
He stares at me with something like wonder, uncertainty.
And I realize then, with every unfolding moment showing me
a deeper understanding of who James is, that it’s not that he
doesn’t want to be loved.
It’s that he believes he’s not worthy. He walls himself off
behind his icy mask of smooth confidence so it won’t hurt
when people he trusts to care for him end up proving him
right, rejecting him for the smallest failure.
That’s why he tries so hard to be there for the people he loves,
to do everything just perfect.
And why he torments himself over the slightest perceived
inadequacy.
I love him for it. I do. And it almost breaks my heart when he
asks quietly, “You truly love me?”
“Does it sound less believable if I’m not punching you and
shouting it at you? Or writing it on your palm?” I ask, tilting
my head with a wistful smile. “It’s okay if you don’t trust it.
It’s okay if you don’t love me back. But if you’d like to try,
maybe we could get away somewhere, take a vacation, see the
world, be a little irresponsible for a while and –”
I don’t get the chance to finish. Not when James – somehow
without spilling a drop of our wine – hooks an arm around my
waist, drags me in close, and seizes my mouth in a deep,
breathless kiss.
Oh, God. It’s a kiss so different from any way he’s ever kissed
me before.
No dominance games, no control, no taunting and tormenting
and teasing this time.
Just pure, raw passion. More overwhelming than any
command, a firestorm so potent it seems impossible from such
an icy man.
He’s melting me, melting for me, and oh, I’m dying to finally
be able to touch the raw, sweet warmth at the heart of James
Nobel.
I’m dying and coming alive again to have it bared for me in
every lingering, deep stroke of his lips. They warm me from
head to toe, leaving my knees weak and trembling.
And I can barely breathe by the time he parts our lips and
leans into me, brow to brow, those intense silver-blue eyes
consuming me.
“Drink your wine, Tink,” he whispers.
I’m left blinking, confused, my head spinning. “Huh?”
His lips quirk, reddened and damp from our kiss. “Just trust
me. Drink.”
“Okay.” I swallow thickly, my heart going a mile a minute,
and he watches me closely as I take a tentative sip, only to
make a surprised sound. It’s sweet. I recognize this flavor. “Il
Duca Cardinal,” I murmur.
“Your favorite.”
“Yeah.” I love that he remembers things like this.
Smiling, I take another, deeper sip – only to pause as
something in the glass clinks against my teeth.
Something hard but not heavy.
Something that shouldn’t be there unless…
Holy hell.
I freeze, straightening, pulling free from his arms so I can look
down into the glass, frowning.
“Something’s in there.”
James lifts both brows in mock surprise. “Is there now?”
I give him an odd look. I don’t dare think what it might be.
What’s this about, really? Surely James wouldn’t do
something insane and impulsive and totally this sweet.
But my curiosity can’t be ignored.
Slipping a finger into the long-stemmed glass, I swirl it around
until I come up against something cool and metallic.
Something…round. Something my fingertip slips neatly into,
letting me hook its loop and draw it out, dripping wine from
smooth gold curves and sharp diamond edges, into the light.
A ring.
A fricking engagement ring.
My stomach drops out to my knees. My heart rises up in my
throat. I just stare at it, then at him, then at it again, my lips
numb. “J-James?”
He only smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a warmth in
those silvery depths like nothing I’ve ever seen. “I suppose it’s
a good thing you came here to tell me you love me,” he says.
“Since I asked you here to tell you I love you too. I love you,
Faye, and I never should’ve turned my back on you. I made
that mistake once. Never, ever again.”
Then he’s coaxing the ring out of my trembling fingers.
Sinking down to one knee, and I…I can’t breathe.
My head is a whirlwind and it’s got nothing to do with the
wine. I’m completely lost and yet at the same time completely
anchored in place by the certainty in his eyes, in his touch, as
he clasps one of my hands in both of his, looking up at me
with that quiet earnestness that’s so James.
He’s so serious about everything. But that’s how I know he
means it.
How I know he means it when he says he loves me as calmly
as this. Like those words aren’t the needles stitching my
heartstrings together to make it whole.
How I know he means it when he stands there on one knee
before me, smiling, reaching up for my hands.
And how I know he means it when he finally says, “Faye
Harris, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The world’s loudest yes! is out of my mouth almost before I
realize I’m speaking.
Speaking, laughing, crying, clapping my hands over my
mouth, only to realize he still needs them.
There’s so much love in the warm, genuine smile this once-
frozen man gives me, as he gently wipes the ring clean and
reclaims my hand to slip it on my finger.
And when that ring slides home, I know what it means.
It’s a promise.
A promise between us.
One that we’ll always have each other’s backs.
In every firefight, in every moment, in every day of our lives.
Now I belong to James Nobel.
And he sweeps me up, pulling me into an incandescent kiss
while his grandfather laughs fondly and welcomes me to the
family.
With every touch of our lips, with every kiss, I’m also
reminded that James Nobel belongs to me.
We’ve almost died together too many times.
But now…
Now, we get to start a new life.
 22

WITH THIS RING (JAMES)

“F or the last time,” I tell Riker icily, “‘Groomzilla’ is

not a word, and I’m not being one.”
Riker gives me a skeptical look as he straightens my collar and
boutonniere. We’re standing in my old childhood bedroom in
our tuxedos.
It’s right across the hall from what was once my mother’s
workroom. Fitting, in a way.
Kenna and Olivia and Skylar are presumably busy tormenting
my bride-to-be into her dress – apparently with much pricking
and sticking of needles and pins involved, assuming the
squeals and yelps of pain drifting through the doors are any
indication.
Perhaps planning a wedding at my childhood home, in such
close quarters, wasn’t such a good idea.
But I wanted it to be here, in the garden of daffodils that my
mother loved so much.
And Faye gave her input, too.
Faye said it should be here, in this place where she can easily
see the heart I hide so much.
I’d like to think, over the last few months, that I’ve learned not
to hide so much.
That I’ve shown her, every day, how much I love her.
How much her happiness matters to me.
How much I want to be with her, even if we’ve had a few
minor hair-pulling fights over picking out a house that turned
into wild hair-pulling sex as we snarled it out.
We ended up buying the beachside cottage where we defiled
the kitchen counter while the realtor was out in her car looking
for papers.
The sale was the proper thing to do, after all, after we’d
marked the place.
I’m honestly amazed we haven’t grown tired of each other yet,
considering we’re together every hour of every day – even at
work.
And even though she’s now my direct equal in company rank,
it amuses me greatly to see the glitter in her eyes when I call
her “Ma’am.”
Because she knows, once we’re alone at home, tumbled into
bed, she won’t be the one giving any orders.
Not when she begs for me so sweetly, while I take pleasure in
denying her until she’s ready to snap and fall apart.
Still. She’s settled in well at Enguard.
After that display of explosives expertise at the resort and a
little briefing with Landon about her work history, the boss
abruptly decided that with the scale of increasingly complex,
high-security jobs we’ve been taking on, we needed someone
to coordinate bomb sweeps, detection, and disarmament for
public security gigs.
And my fiancée just happened to be perfect for the job.
Riker, Landon, and Gabe give me a little good-natured ribbing
over it, about being henpecked in the office and at home –
though Gabe goes suspiciously quiet at even a glance from
Skylar, leaving me smirking.
Damn if I mind.
I’m proud to see Faye so happy, blooming now that she’s back
to doing something that values her expertise rather than
shoving her into a corner. Even though she’s done being a
librarian, she still sorts books some weekends, too, becoming a
well known face in every charity reading program around the
Bay. She doesn’t need a watchful eye on her at all times to be
protected.
My girl is perfectly capable of protecting herself. Of
protecting me, even.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want to do whatever I can to keep her
safe – and to make everything perfect.
Including our wedding.
I eyeball Riker, then bat his hands away and lean forward to
adjust the boutonniere myself. He’d been doing it wrong,
disarraying the spray of baby’s breath cradling the crisp golden
daffodil. “I told the florist I wanted yellow jonquils for Faye’s
bouquet,” I say firmly. “Just like the ones in the garden. He
shouldn’t have waited until the day before the wedding to tell
me he could only get petticoat daffodils.”
“Uh-huh.” Riker folds his arms over his chest, eyeing me with
his lips twitching. “And the cake?”
“Buttercream is cloying and foul.”
“…and the music.”
“Anything more than a string quartet would run the risk of
trampling the entire grounds and leaving a mountain of
cleaning, so –” I stop, scowling at his reflection in the mirror,
and straighten, smoothing the coat of my tux. “The point is,
wanting things to be done to my specifications is not being a
‘groomzilla.’”
“God, I don’t know how Faye lives with you, man.” Riker
takes my shoulders and draws me around to face him. “Now
listen to me very closely, Nobel.”
“Obviously. I can’t listen to you any other way. You’re
standing right in front of me.”
“First, stop that pedantic shit, or I’m going to drop you off a
cliff.” But then he laughs, clapping my shoulder firmly. “Look.
I know you’re only being this much of an anal-retentive
asshole because you care. It’s a big day. You’re trying to hide
how nervous you are because you’re about to walk out there
and marry the most amazing woman you’ve ever met, and
deep down you don’t quite understand what she sees in you.”
Everything inside me goes still.
Still and aching and quiet because he’s too damn right.
Riker knows. He’s done this before.
And it scares me a little that he’s right. Not because there’s
anything wrong with being nervous on your wedding day, but
because, fuck.
Riker sees me.
The way a true friend sees someone, and it makes me realize
that all the years that I’ve thought I concealed myself so
cleverly behind my walls, these people at Enguard have been
learning me, knowing me, loving me as part of their family.
I’d thought I was just a ghost, a shadow.
It’s unnerving to know they could see me all this time, yet the
feeling is also wonderful.
Covering his hand on my shoulder with a firm clasp, I lower
my eyes. “I know. And I know in the end she’ll be happy even
if the flowers are the wrong type.”
“She’ll be happy because she’s marrying you. Just like you’ll
be happy because you’re marrying her.” He squeezes my
shoulder. “You won’t even notice the details, once you set eyes
on each other. Everything else is incidental.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
For now, Faye is all that matters. I want to see her so badly,
but I can’t.
Not yet. No seeing the bride before she walks down the aisle.
She’d threatened to put my eyes out if I saw her in her
wedding gown before the perfect moment. I don’t even know
what she’ll be wearing. Hell, it doesn’t matter.
She’ll be beautiful to me. She’ll be gorgeous. She’ll be
perfection, no matter what.
Gabe knocks on the door, then pushes it open enough to peek
in. “Everybody’s ready and waiting on you,” he says. “If you
wanna get in position, we can start this rodeo.”
“Of course. Thanks, Gabe.” I straighten my collar one more
time, glance at Riker, and step outside into the hall.
The wedding is staged out back in the most lush, overgrown
part of the daffodil garden, with Faye’s father, a few cousins,
and Senator Harris’ security entourage in the folding chairs to
one side.
Grandpa and my extended family are on the other, alongside
the whole senior Enguard team.
Kenna, Skylar, Olivia, and Riker’s daughter Em are
bridesmaids. Landon, Gabe, and Riker are my groomsmen.
The bridesmaids’ dresses are pale yellow, pretty A-line things
with their hems flared and fluttered just like a daffodil’s bell.
Every groomsman wears a boutonniere with a daffodil in the
center. Maybe I’m overdoing the motif a little.
But I’d like to think it would’ve made my mother happy.
And I think I finally know how I want her novel to end.
There’s going to be a swirl of love notes coming full circle
again, back where they began. I’ll have the hero hunt them
down, bring them together, and present them to the love of his
life one more time. All simultaneously. A dramatic, fictional
swan song to love and its ability to move mountains, hearts,
and time.
Because for once, I’m living a life worthy of inspiring art.
I’m standing here, focused on taking my place at the altar,
where the priest waits under an arch of interwoven flowers. As
I move up the aisle, Senator Harris catches my eye and nods in
approval.
I return the gesture and even manage to smile faintly. We
haven’t quite warmed up to each other yet, but give it time.
He’s my father-in-law now, and he seems to be trying.
Trying to treat Faye like family again, instead of like an
object.
Then everyone’s at attention as the music starts.
An adorable little girl named Jessie – Landon and Kenna’s
niece – comes traipsing up the silk-carpeted aisle, scattering
flower petals everywhere. Followed by an even smaller toddler
girl, Joannie, Skylar and Gabe’s niece. She’s so small she can
barely focus enough to hold the ring box in her hand, let alone
stumble up the aisle with her eyes wide, darting everywhere
before landing on her mother, Sky’s sister Monika, as she
coaxes her on with little whispers of come on, baby, come to
Mama while the small crowd aahs with delight.
I see Gabe and Skylar lock eyes. They know it won’t be long
before their own baby daughter catches right up to her older
niece. That’s the way it always is with children – something I
know little about – but hope to one day with Faye.
And she’s the very reason why every eye darts to the back as
the door there opens, and Faye steps out.
I inhale a shaky breath. Just like a boy on his first prom date.
Goddamn, she’s glorious. Beautiful in white and deep red hair
like embers.
Every last bit of perfection I could imagine in a woman is
here. From her simple white silk sheath dress with its pearl
bodice to the short, yet elegant train.
Her shoulders are bare above the embroidery, pale and subtly
dusted in shimmering gold. Her hair, bound up into a coil of
ringlets woven through with gold daffodils and white baby’s
breath against the fiery strands.
She’s moving like time itself turns to mud, and it’s still going
far too fast.
This holy moment when I know I’m about to claim my wife is
over too fast.
Soon, she stops just at the foot of the aisle, clutching her
bouquet in nervous hands, frozen.
Until our eyes meet and she blooms into the most radiant smile
I’ve ever seen.
Now, I understand what Riker meant.
Because suddenly the entire world falls away, and it’s only me,
Faye, and the space between us as she walks slowly up the
aisle in time with the processional music.
She’d refused to allow her father or anyone else to give her
away, wanting to walk the aisle alone after Harris
overshadowed so much of her life already. But even if she
were surrounded by a dozen people, I wouldn’t be able to see
anyone but her.
My heart is on fire. My world is ablaze.
And I hope my love will always burn this bright, this mad,
every day this wonderful woman graces me with the beauty of
her presence.
Time stops as she steps up the aisle toward me – and then
she’s there.
Standing in front of me, looking up at me with that smile that’s
at once shy and wicked, her heart-shaped face alight and
glowing from within.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hello, beautiful,” I answer, before the priest raises his voice
to get our attention.
The words he says don’t matter.
This is just a formality. I don’t need a ceremony to tell me I’ll
be with Faye for the rest of my life.
We’re putting on pageantry for the sake of our loved ones and
tradition, letting them join in this joyous feeling we share, but
this? This crazy silver cord between us?
This has been real, solid, from the moment she said yes and I
put that ring on her finger.
We’ve fought through hell together. Escaped the unthinkable.
Not even the threat of death could keep us apart.
And time?
Time will only bring us closer.
I draw myself away from gazing into her brilliant green eyes,
though, as the priest asks us to exchange our custom vows.
Her smile grows merrier, almost impish, as I reach into my
breast coat pocket for a folded slip of notepaper, and pass it to
her.
She laughs. So does the entire crowd.
They know our story, how we began.
How she brought us closer and closer together with every little
note that worked its way under my skin and inked its letters on
my heart. And she has her own note, too, pulled from inside
her bouquet, and she’s even gone through the trouble of
crumpling it up just like she used to, making the laughter start
again.
Including my own.
And my chest is warm, tight with emotion, as I uncrumple it,
smoothing the paper, reading it out loud for the benefit of our
gathered friends.
“‘My dearest James,’” I read. “‘You drive me crazy. You make
me see red.’” I stop, arching a brow. “This is hardly
flattering,” I whisper over to her.
The assembly laughs again. Faye’s own giggle is the brightest,
warm and sweet. Even the priest is chuckling. “Keep reading,”
she says.
Amused, I cock my head and continue, following the bold,
handwritten strokes in blue ink. “‘But every time I want to
strangle you –” more laughter, “‘I remember the most
important thing. Red is the color of my heart. Red is the color
of love, and I love you more than anything. There’s not
enough ink in this pen to tell you how much I love you…or
how happy I am to be starting our life together. I’m proud to
call you my husband. I’m proud to become your wife.’” On
the last word, everyone sighs blissfully, while I can only smile.
Smile in ways that I never let anyone see, and yet she brings it
out in me, all of this emotion. Lifting my head from the note, I
meet her eyes, feeling my heart turn hot as flame. “A bit more
verbose than a wink and a ‘made you look.’”
I wink at her then, remembering our days at Quantico, where
this strange, beautiful thing began.
While another smattering of laughter erupts from the crowd,
Faye sticks her tongue out, eyes scrunching up. “It did make
you look.”
“And I’ve never been able to look away since.”
Her breath catches, and she makes a soft, embarrassed sound,
her cheeks flushing. She lowers her eyes, unfolding my note.
There are significantly fewer lines than hers, but as her eyes
scan back and forth, she sucks in a sharp breath, her blush
deepening, her smile fading as she reads out loud softly.
“‘You are everything to me, Faye,’” she reads. “‘You’re my
sun, and my world rises and sets with you. Where my life was
cold, you brought warmth. Where my heart was dark, you
brought light. I’m who I am thanks to you. And I’ll cherish
you always, my love.’” Her lips tremble as the crowd descends
into sighs again. Her eyes swell. “James.”
I can’t help but smile, to see her so overcome with emotion as
she reaches for my hand, squeezing tight. I squeeze back,
drawing her a step closer. “Does that mean I don’t need to
guess the answer to the most important question of all?”
“You never had to,” she whispers, then laughs, fully
overwhelmed. “But we should probably let the priest do his
job.”
“That would be appreciated,” the priest says, dryly but
warmly, before laughing. “If we can continue?”
All that’s left is a simple question.
Do you, Faye? and Do you, James?
And then she’s saying “I do” and I’m saying “I do” and just
like that, two simple words and Riker stealing the ring box
from baby Joannie so we can slip them on each other’s fingers
– it’s done.
We’re suddenly husband and wife.
Then there’s flowers in my hair from her bouquet as she
throws her arms around my neck and kisses me before the
priest can even say kiss the bride.
My throat goes tight and my fucking heart might pound out of
my chest
I can’t remember the last time I was this alive, this animated,
this real.
Not even for my mother, when the pain of her death wrung
everything out of me, left me broken and hollow. It’s like
Faye’s kiss fills me up again forever.
I can’t contain these feelings, so they must come out somehow.
I’m hardly the only one going to pieces when Faye’s clinging
to me and crying and laughing at the same time…and fuck, so
am I.
But I thank Faye every day for bringing back the light.
Breathlessly, we break apart. That’s when I remember there
are other people here, clapping, laughing, cheering us on, and
there are a few more damp eyes in the crowd.
With everybody here, celebrating us becoming one, it just hits
me. I feel something massive.
I feel like I’m part of something for the first time in so long.
That I belong among these people, instead of invisible,
haunting the edges.
And they envelop me, envelop us, as the wedding turns into a
flash reception.
Drinks materialize on the back patio in massive tubs of ice,
everyone milling around, wanting to congratulate us, hug us,
take pictures together that I’ll never live down.
Not when I can’t seem to stop smiling. Oh, everyone at
Enguard will remember this the next time they catch me
brooding over something.
Not that I think I’ll be brooding much anymore, considering
I’ll get to spend every day at the office with my lovely new
wife.
Still. A man has to have some dignity.
But for now, I throw dignity aside to enjoy the warm summer
day, the sun shining down like its banishing the last memories
of those frozen days of us in hell.
Those days at the lodge tested the strength of our relationship.
Tested how bad we wanted forever. Saw us through to the
other side only because we could trust each other.
The bond between us, and the silent language of warmth and
love that seems to say so many things without words every
time we look at each other.
And another of those looks tells us when it’s time to leave,
though Grandpa will likely be hosting festivities late into the
night.
This is our day, though, and it’s time for us to celebrate it our
way.
Alone. Just the two of us, riding high on this euphoria between
us like electricity.
It’s the same energy moving us forward as we steal away
while everyone’s distracted, clasp hands, and run.
By the time anyone spots us, we’re almost to the car, Faye
clutching her skirts and laughing, and everyone calling out
well-wishes after us, teasing, friendly, egging us on.
Even I’m laughing by the time we dive into the open-top
convertible, nearly slamming the door on Faye’s skirt, and take
off.
As we sail down the road, some of the flowers in Faye’s hair
fly away, bright petals lifting up into the sky, rising toward the
heavens.
Maybe they’re taking a few little love notes up to my mother,
just to let her know.
Just to let her know I’m going to be okay.
And that I’ll do a proper tribute to her dream.
I’ll write every bit of love I feel right now into her book.
That love carries me forward during a long drive down the
coast, the sunset to our right, Faye a vision in white in the
passenger seat.
We never even decided what we’d do for our honeymoon. I’m
such a planner that it’s liberating to just have our bags packed
and go with no destination in sight.
We’ll stop when something catches our eye and come back
when we’re ready.
For now, we’re runaways.
Castaways in love, driving down the California coastline like
we’re flying.
We finally stop in Morro Bay. It’s a place where the water
glows so blue that the night turns it luminescent.
A huge stone cliff presides over the picturesque little town like
some ancient watcher.
The tiny bed and breakfast we find hangs over the water, with
private cottages whose floor-to-ceiling glass windows open
wide. Then they become open-air spaces, letting in the salty
night air, gauzy curtains fluttering beneath the stars, cool wood
beneath our feet.
In the little blue pond behind our cottage, candles float against
the water, glimmering like fireflies in the night. This quiet, this
moment where we clasp hands and step inside what’ll be our
wedding boudoir? It’s damn beautiful.
It’s everything to me, and I look down at Faye with a wonder
reflected in her eyes, shining like twin stars in the dark.
I’m not sure who reaches for who first.
Only that our bags hit the floor and we’re in each other’s arms.
This kiss tastes like forever as we tangle, tumbling together on
the bed, her dress a flow of white all around us. Like it’s
dragging me down into the undertow of a love so deep, I’ll
gladly let it drown me.
Faye’s lips are ripe, perfect, plush.
She’s so delicate right now, so perfect, the fire in her
simmering down to a steady flickering glow like hearth-fire
blended into every sweetness in the world.
I know this sex will be otherworldly. What else?
As many times as we’ve come together, as many times as I’ve
teased and taunted her, ruled her body, made her weep and beg
for me, this time is different.
Tonight, I kiss her like she’s made of smoke, and if I breathe
too hard, she’ll blow away.
Each time I brush my lips across hers, she lets out a sighing
whisper of my name, her body molding to mine, the heat
between us a slow and quiet thing.
It’s timeless here. There’s no urgency, nothing demanding, no
countdown as we trade kiss after kiss for what feels like
forever, each one slowly stoking me higher and higher until I
burn with the need for her.
The satin of her dress is cool under my palms. I stroke the
shape of her body again and again, taking my time to savor
her, know her, relearn her again and again.
I know Faye’s body, her lips, as well as I know my own.
But this is the first time she’s been mine as my wife, and that
means something incredible.
That means some delectable, insane fuckery I can’t even put
into words.
She tastes even sweeter than ever.
I delve into her mouth to trace, caress, explore, worship.
Her voice is a trembling thing as I slowly draw her dress up
higher, skimming my fingers over the sleek, tempting
stockings underneath, the lacy garter straps, the naked flesh of
her quivering, plush thighs.
Shifting onto my back, I draw her on top of me until she’s this
glorious creature spread over me, her hair a wind-tumbled
mess still half-tangled with wilted flowers. Until I see Tink,
this fairy thing I want to keep for all my days.
Her eyes go dilated and dark and needy as she looks down at
me through the thick fan of her lashes.
“You ready for your husband, Faye?” I whisper, running tense
fingers through her hair. “You ready for me all damn night?”
“Mm. Not long enough. We’d better get a head start.”
Smiling, we do.
Darting her tongue over her lips, she shifts to straddle me, and
I hiss through my teeth.
I lift myself up as the soft slip of fabric guarding every sweet
slick space inside her drags over my slacks, my cock.
Fuck!
I want her just like this. Still in her dress, but disarrayed.
Let the fabric be a perfect mark of this day, but the mussed
hair, the faded lipstick, the skirt lifted up over delicate white
lace panties and stockings just one more reminder I’ve made
her mine.
And when I slip my hands down the back of her panties,
kneading my fingers over the lush curve of her ass before
sliding my fingertips over her steaming cunt, I’m gone.
She steals my breath away, arching her back, bracing her
hands against my stomach.
Her lips fall slack with pleasure as I stroke deeper and deeper
inside her.
Just to feel her wetness around my fingers, her tight, mad heat
that just makes her want it more.
Just to see how she closes her eyes so tight and makes those
soft, gasping sounds.
Just to sense how she digs her nails into my shirt, her
shoulders thrust up to either side of her throat, pure bliss
written on her face as she rocks back into my thrusting fingers.
I need her. I crave her.
And this time I’m the one who can’t wait, the one driven to the
edge, as her soft flesh tightens around my fingers and I’m
driven half insane, imagining that tightness around my cock.
I need to be with her, damn it.
One with her, and she lets out a pleading mewl as I withdraw
my fingers, unzip my slacks, and shove her panties to one side.
Her pussy waits like something from a dream. Hot and slick
and ready. It’s as lush as her moans, eager as the steady current
running through my dick.
“Knees, Faye,” I whisper.
She lifts herself up at my command, bracing herself with those
luscious tempting thighs spread wide, just a glimpse past her
skirt of that sweet pink I ache for.
Then she sinks down as I grip her hips, pull her into me,
closing my eyes with a shuddering groan as her perfection
draws me in.
God, she’s too perfect. Created just for me.
From the tight clench of her body around my cock as she takes
me so full, to the way she arches and shudders with such
wanton abandon. Just moving over me until I don’t know if
I’m thrusting into her or she’s thrusting down on me.
Not when we’re just meeting in this perfect rhythm between
us, this wordless understanding that guides us as if we’re one
being.
Her fingers lace with mine, our hands clasped. We move
together in a steady push and pull of deep, aching pleasure.
That bliss rips at my heart and pulls at my body.
Even as my flesh demands I close my eyes and give in, I can’t
stop myself from watching her.
From devouring her. My pleasure comes as much in seeing
hers as it does in the friction and fire gliding over my cock,
making it throb like mad.
It’s too overwhelming in all the best ways, taking my wife like
this.
I fuck her over the edge once, fist in her hair, snarling as she
comes real sweet for me.
“That’s it, Tink. Let it go. Give it up for me if you want mine,”
I whisper through her first O.
Always loving the screaming, gorgeous mess she becomes.
Always loving how she goes off like a rocket, louder with
every jab of my hips.
Always loving every bit of her as she falls apart naked just for
me.
Soon, I’ll be doing the same. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long
at this pace, this rhythm, this siren temptation.
Faye’s hair is a halo of fire, shining with starlight.
Her lips are ruby plushness, gleaming and parted and so erotic
it hurts.
Her tits swell, nearly spilling over her loosened bodice,
swaying and moving each time she rolls her hips gracefully to
bring herself back down and take me into her fully.
Her breaths come hotter, faster, and on each exhale, she cries
out.
“James, James, James!”
I smile.
I need no other words to know she’s mine. That she’ll always
be mine, and I draw her down to me, kiss my name from her
lips and tumble her back to pin her against the bed, hold her,
keep her, bury so deep that we’ll feel each other always,
imprinted on each other’s flesh like a tattoo.
This, here, is my love note.
Written in passion, inked in flesh, forged in pleasure.
No words, but just the sounds our bodies make as they meet,
again and again.
I show her I love her with each slow, drawing stroke, with
each touch of our lips, each meeting of our bodies.
And her love crashes down around me as we find the stars
together.
Hell, as we find each other. Again. Just like we always do.
Then we find forever.
It comes in the explosion that strikes between us with
lightning force.
She’s coming. I’m coming. We’re coming together so hard and
so deep I just know one thing.
I could never feel this with anyone besides Faye Harris – now
Faye Nobel.
She’s what makes my pulse move and my body burn.
And tonight as we fall, as we tangle, as we collapse in a
breathless rush of manic pleasure and aching flesh and slicked
sweat, it’s ours.
This night is our promise.
Our oath that I’ll never, ever betray, for as long as we both
shall live.
“I love you, Tink. I love every wicked thing you do to me, and
every little wonder,” I whisper, pushing my forehead against
hers.
“You’re lucky I love you, too, Peter Pan. We’d never find
home without each other or take down Hook, as silly as that
sounds.”
Her eyes are bright and wide and she’s smiling so peacefully.
I’m smiling, too.
Because maybe it does sound ridiculous in that way that’s all
Faye.
Maybe it’s silly that we’re stuck on these fairy tale names, and
she’s finally given me an obvious one in turn.
Maybe it’s so insufferably playful because it’s real. And we’re
in love. And it’s the only thing that matters tonight between a
thousand soft words and laughs and fiery kisses with the
woman I’ve pledged my life to.

T HANKS FOR READING S TILL N OT Love!

Need to find out what happens to James and Faye after the
honeymoon? And what about the rest of the Enguard crew?
Check out their future family life in this special flash forward
story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/z7l8hflgly
Then read on for a preview of another great Enguard novel,
Riker and Liv’s story, Still Not Yours.
 STILL NOT YOURS PREVIEW

Little White Lines (Olivia)

You never know which day will be the last day of your life.
I’m pretty sure this is the last day of mine, right now, as the
sound of gunshots whites out the world around me into
nothing but reverberating echoes, then splashes that emptiness
with blood.
My ears are ringing.
My heart hits my ribs, racing so fast, running on pure
adrenaline and moving at Mach speeds.
Jesus, there’s a dead man at my feet.
I don’t know him, never met him. But I know if I live past this
frozen, pulse-stopping moment, I’ll never forget his face.
I’ll never forget his strange look of shock, eyes wide, like he’s
not really dead. Just frozen in time. Caught in the moment he
realizes the two men leaning out of a nondescript, matte grey
van outside my sister’s palatial mansion are pointing their
guns right at him.
Only, that was fifteen seconds ago. Now, he’s crumpled on the
sidewalk, and those guns are pointing at me.
I can feel the sights of the weapons like they’re touching me,
reaching across the motionless space between us to caress the
vulnerable places of my body and make them quiver, tremble,
tighten up with frightened chills.
Everything goes loud. It’s not just the surrealness either.
The men are shouting something, but I can’t make out the
words.
I can’t make out anything but the rattle of my own breathing.
Then one word repeating over and over in my panicked brain.
Run.
Ask me later, and maybe I’ll tell you I made a calm, calculated
decision, took a risk, and did something badass to save my
life.
Ask me now, though, and the only thing I can say is my mind
isn’t moving but my legs are, my lizard brain taking over and
deciding the best option out of fight or flight is flight. No
contest.
I don’t look where I’m going. I’m just airborne, so fast and
frantic I can’t feel my feet touch the ground.
The only direction that matters is away – away from the dead
man, away from the danger, away from the van full of men
with guns. I don’t realize I’m fleeing right out into the busy
street.
Until I almost die for the second time in less than a minute.
I’m lucky the cab driver saw me coming and slowed down.
His front bumper only jolts against me, just hard enough for
the pain to slap me out of my daze of animal panic. I tumble
against the taxi’s hood, clutching the metal to keep from
falling, my feet wobbling under me.
For half a frozen second the taxi driver and I stare at each
other through the windshield, his eyes wide and ringed in
white, my face feeling like a frozen mask caught mid-scream.
Then a gunshot rings out behind me, loud as an explosion, and
I fly into motion.
I scramble around the side of the cab, grabbing at anything I
can reach until I feel a handle. It’s not even the right door, but
I don’t care. I yank the front passenger side door open, throw
myself inside, slam the door shut behind me, and immediately
duck down below the dash.
“Drive!”
“But –”
“Listen, I’ll double your fare, I don’t care, but if you want to
get us out of here alive – just drive!”
The driver stares at me for a second too long, an eternity
where I feel my heart stopping and restarting all over again.
Then he slams down on the gas so hard, he nearly throws me
against the dash.
I barely catch myself, flinging my arms out and smacking
them against the glove compartment hard enough to form
bruises.
I can feel everything, honestly, my senses ramped so high by
adrenaline that just the tickle of my own hair on the back of
my neck is like claws and feelers raking over me, making me
want to scream.
Shaking, I push myself up and grab the seatbelt strap, though I
can’t bring myself to move enough to actually put it on.
Staring in the rear-view mirror, I see traffic scatter around us
as the driver rockets down the street. I don’t see the van
anymore.
I don’t see anything but annoyed people honking at us,
flipping us off, and my sister’s front gate receding rapidly in
the distance.
Not rapidly enough.
I don’t think anything is fast enough to put real distance
between me, them, and what just happened.
“Miss?” the driver ventures tentatively. The violent vibrations
of the car around me ease a little as he lays off the gas as we
get deeper into traffic. “Miss…I think you should call the
police.”
“Yeah,” I manage shakily. “Yeah, probably. I don’t…I don’t
know what that was. Why they…”
Words die when my stomach suddenly revolts. I clutch harder
at the seatbelt strap until it’s just a scrunched up ribbon in my
hands. Everything turns sideways, wrong-ways, and my gut
roils and my head is swimming and my mouth floods with a
terrible salty taste.
“Pull over,” I gasp.
“But Miss –”
“Pull over, I said. I’m going to be sick!”
The driver goes pale. The tires screech as he wrenches toward
the curb, rocking me wildly enough that I almost lose it then
and there. I can feel sweat against my spine, and everything
smells too sharp.
He barely bumps up against the sidewalk before I’m bolting
out the door, my world on fire.
What happens next isn’t dignified. It isn’t graceful. It’s not
anything I ever pictured happening to me, bent over crying and
expelling my fear until my throat aches and my chest hurts,
and I still don’t know what’s going on.
I only know I feel awful.
This…this whatever it is, it’s all wrong wrong.
This isn’t what happens to Olivia Holly.
Not to a girl who’s always had servants and a father who’s in
the one-percent’s one-percent. Not to a girl with a world
famous sister who has fifty million Instagram followers, and
who’s been around more celebrities and billionaires than most
freaking private jets.
Oh, but ready or not, here I am.
Sicking it up in a gutter on the side of a busy Seattle street,
with a dead man’s blood on my four-hundred-dollar shoes.
Life can’t possibly get any worse.
Then, naturally, it does.

I don’t have to wait long to find out how wrong I am.

My life definitely gets much worse.
Okay. So, maybe my decision-making processes aren’t the best
right now.
So, maybe I should’ve had that cabbie drop me off at a police
station so I could immediately go into protective custody.
Instead, I had him take me to the Seattle Edgewater, because I
felt safer surrounded by a lot of people in a very secure hotel
where Daddy’s credit card buys me, at the very least, the
illusion of being protected in a top-floor locked room while I
wait for someone in my family to come get me.
But that illusion is shattered now as I answer the door for a
very timid-looking bellhop with my room service order. If I’m
being honest, it’s mostly an attempt at normalcy when I can’t
stand the idea of food right now.
Especially because he’s shown up with more than the cart.
He’s got a crumpled piece of paper in his hands, cut down the
middle with a slash, and all I can see is black and red ink. But
from the way his shoulders are hunched, I know what it
means.
More bad news.
He fidgets then offers me the page. “I think this was intended
for you, Miss Holly…”
I don’t want to take it.
I hold back, hovering, my fingers curled against my chest, my
heart doing that scary jitter that makes me feel like it’s going
to stop mid-beat. “Oh. Thanks. Did you see who left it?”
“N-no.” There’s no mistaking his fear – his eyes too wide,
beads of sweat on his forehead, and he keeps sucking in his
upper lip.
He’s holding the page like it just might burn him, and his voice
drops to a strained whisper as he says, “It was stuck to the
service door in the alley.” Lower still, eyes widening further.
“With a knife.”
There it is.
That moment when my heart truly stops and my chest feels too
tight.
We stare at each other. It’s like a standoff, him holding the
letter, me not taking it, both of us so scared it’s like a silent
scream between us.
I knew it. I should’ve called the cops. I should’ve…
Honestly, I don’t know what I should’ve done.
This isn’t my world, or my life. My life is living in my sister
Milah Holly’s pop starlet shadow, following Daddy around to
all his rich functions to make him look good with his meek,
pretty daughter on his arm, and not doing much of anything
with my day that involves making a single decision for myself.
I’m not equipped to know what to do when a man gets shot to
death in front of me.
And I’m not equipped to know what to do when someone
leaves me what’s clearly an ink-scrawled threat, either.
But this won’t end, this standoff, until I really look at it. Take
it in, figure out what’s going on, and make a choice about what
to do. I need to do this.
I need to be an adult and figure out how to handle it, instead of
staying paralyzed in the doorway with this poor boy who
shouldn’t even be involved with whatever misfortune has
landed at my feet.
The paper crinkles far too loudly in my hand as I pry the page
from his clenched fingers and smooth it out. My name jumps
out at me in black ink: Olivia Holly.
I’m at the bottom of a list that makes everything inside me
twist up in pain and fear.
Alec Holly.
Milah Holly.
Olivia Holly.
My father, my sister, and me. All three names written in black
ink and slashed through with red Xs crossing us out.
It doesn’t need to say another word to be a proclamation of
doom, loud and clear, screaming almost as shrilly as my pulse.
The man who died on the sidewalk wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t
a simple, nasty case of wrong place, wrong time.
Someone wants to kill my family, and they’re still after us. I
don’t understand why. I don’t know what’s going on.
God, why would anyone want us dead?
I lift my head. “You’re sure you didn’t see –”
Too late. The bellhop is gone.
It’s just me in the hallway with the room service cart, feeling
far too exposed and alone when even this high security luxury
hotel isn’t safe.
I’m not sure the kind of safety I need is anything money can
buy.
Crap. All I wanted was a day away from Daddy hovering all
the time.
Spending the weekend at Milah’s Seattle place seemed like a
good idea. My party girl older sister at least knows how to
relax, even if she’s not good at much else but singing.
I should’ve known I was biting off more than I could chew.
Most of my weekend was spent keeping Milah from tripping
into the pool and drowning herself while drunk, and then
searching her a little too extensively for my liking for any little
white baggies.
I know she’s trying to kick her habit. She’s in a twelve-step
program for cocaine addicts especially, but I wish she’d told
me she was in need before I was flushing a dime baggie of
cocaine down the toilet and rocking her in the shower through
withdrawals.
Another relapse, a little less ugly than the last. I thought I’d
gotten her settled, finally, and was fully prepared to go home
and just resign myself to another week of being the perfect
shadow daughter.
Only to walk outside, into a nightmare straight out of a mafia
movie.
I need to get inside. I’m suddenly convinced no one’s coming,
my father and sister are dead even though I just heard their
voices on the phone twenty minutes ago, and then the panic
hits.
“Liv!”
I hear my own name. Just once. Loudly.
Let a girl scream, okay?
Look, I’m not Lara Croft or Bayonetta or even Princess Peach.
When I was little, I used to daydream about being the first
female Starfleet captain in those kicky little boots and cute A-
line uniform dresses, but that all boiled down to wanting to
look pretty while shooting lasers at bad guys.
As most little girls do.
I didn’t grow up a fierce, unstoppable warrior heroine.
I grew up into a spoiled, bratty, rich girl’s younger sister, and
spoiled, bratty, rich girls’ younger sisters scream like hell
when you scare the crap out of them.
I’m one second from bolting back in the room when I get a
glimpse of hot pink and my anxiety ramps down in a
heartbeat.
No assassin ever would show up in a pink mohair tube top
that’s at least a decade out of style, even if it’s so Milah, it’ll
probably bring the fashion back.
Sis comes tearing around the corner of the hallway, her eyes
too wide, her hair in a wild disarray of highlighted gold, her
mile-long legs tottering on platform boots. She looks as scared
as I feel, and all the worried frustration I’d felt over her
weekend backslide melts away when I realize she’s honestly
afraid for me.
Milah and I are as different as night and day, but we’re still
sisters.
She loves me. I love her.
I’m just not a fan of her life choices.
She slams into me so hard she nearly cuts the breath out of me.
I can tell from the strength of her grip that she’s sober. But
while her hands are steadier than normal, it’s her voice that’s
wavery when she demands, “Oh my God, Liv. Oh my God.
Are you all right?”
“No,” I whisper, then burst into tears.
Let a girl scream. And let her cry, too.
I’m not used to being the little sister, not feeling like one, even
if I’m two years younger than Milah – but for once instead of
me taking care of her, she’s taking care of me.
She holds me in her spindly arms while I cry, then ushers me
inside and sits me down on the edge of the bed to carefully
peel me out of my bloodied clothes. She’s brought me a
change of clothing, and with a little too much practice, she
carefully lays out the dirty things on a chair.
“Don’t touch them again. For the police,” she says gently, then
settles down next to me and plucks the crumpled note from my
trembling hands.
“Holy fuck-a-roo.” Her brows knit as she scans over our
names. Then she shakes her head, looking at me with her wide
blue eyes pale, worried. “How’d this happen?”
I sniffle, rubbing at my eyes.
Maybe I feel a tad better now that I’m not wearing that outfit. I
hope the police burn it when they’re done with it, but I’m
better able to speak, to pull myself together, and I tell Milah
everything.
“This black car pulled up to the curb right when I was leaving
your place,” I say. “This guy got out and started asking me
about you. I thought he was paparazzi and was just going to
blow past him, but then he said something about how you owe
him for a ‘special delivery’ and that you’d remember
Vancouver. I…I didn’t even know what he was talking about.
But then this van comes roaring down the street and these
other men lean out and next thing I know there’re gunshots
and a dead body.”
“Two,” Milah corrects, her voice ragged at the edges, almost a
croak. “There were two dead bodies.”
“What?!” I feel the blood drain from my face. “Two? No…no,
I only saw them kill one…”
“The driver,” she whispers. “We found them both out front.
They shot the driver while you ran.”
“The second gunshot.” I swallow back the thick, awful feeling
in my throat. “I was running and heard a second gunshot. I
thought they were firing at me, but…”
“They would’ve.” Milah lets out a worried, fretful sound,
pressing her fingers to her mouth, then just buries her face in
her hands, her shoulders shaking. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Liv, this is
all my fault…there was a show in Vancouver. Several tours
ago. I don’t remember much of it, I wasn’t really myself –”
Wasn’t really myself. That’s Milah code for on another coke
bender.
“But listen, hon, I know I fucked up. I wanted to impress a lot
of people up there and I blew a lot of money on some really
good stuff. Like, really pure, best I’ve ever had.” She breaks
off and gives me a guilty look. “I don’t mean it like that, I
guess. Just that it was expensive, and I guess I must’ve
borrowed from the wrong people. I’m sorry, Liv. I’m so, so
sorry, I can’t believe what a fuckup I am. I’m trying to do
better, but this stuff just comes back to –”
“Milah.” I try to keep my voice gentle. Here we are, back to
being the older younger sister. “You owe people drug money?”
“Maybe.” She gets off one word and then she hangs her head.
Mutely, she nods, her little-girl pout drawn and trembling. I
sigh, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose.
“Paying them off isn’t going to work. People are dead now.
We’re calling the cops. Maybe even the FBI.”
“No!” She goes pale, shaking her head frantically, her ponytail
bobbing. “The freaking Feds? We can’t!”
“Hey, you were the one preserving evidence over there like it’s
an episode of CSI: Miami.”
“That was before I knew what this was about.” She bites her
lip, turning the full force of those pleading baby blues on me.
“Going to the police will just make it worse. Trust me, Liv…
they may even arrest me for possession.”
I tense. “What? Are you carrying right now?”
“No!” She knots her hands together. “Just, you know, past
stuff. What if they take these guys down and I go with them?”
I roll my eyes. “Then I’m sure Daddy will be standing by with
a legion of lawyers to bail you out.”
Groaning, I flop back against the Egyptian cotton sheets.
Suddenly I’m less afraid of these men with guns and more
resigned to whatever mess Milah has gotten herself into now.
“Can’t we just get this over with? Tell Daddy to fix everything
like we always do?”
“Daddy won’t need to,” Milah says almost triumphantly.
“Because I know just the thing. And the man.”
Want to read more? Get Still Not Yours HERE.
 ABOUT NICOLE SNOW

Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found
her love of writing by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her
great escape from boardrooms. Her work roared onto the indie romance scene in
2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.
Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes,
unbelievable suspense, and swoon storms aplenty.
Already hooked on her stuff? Sign up for her newsletter here for exclusive offers
and more from your favorite characters!
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Her website is nicolesnowbooks.com
Got a question or comment on her work? Reach her anytime at
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MORE BOOKS BY NICOLE
Enguard Protectors Books
Still Not Over You
Still Not Into You
Still Not Yours
Still Not Love
Stand Alone Novels
Accidental Hero
Accidental Romeo
Accidental Protector
Cinderella Undone
Man Enough
Surprise Daddy
Prince With Benefits
Marry Me Again
Love Scars
Recklessly His
Stepbrother UnSEALed
Stepbrother Charming
Baby Fever Books
Baby Fever Bride
Baby Fever Promise
Baby Fever Secrets
Only Pretend Books
Fiance on Paper
One Night Bride
Grizzlies MC Books
Outlaw’s Kiss
Outlaw’s Obsession
Outlaw’s Bride
Outlaw’s Vow
Deadly Pistols MC Books
Never Love an Outlaw
Never Kiss an Outlaw
Never Have an Outlaw’s Baby
Never Wed an Outlaw
Prairie Devils MC Books
Outlaw Kind of Love
Nomad Kind of Love
Savage Kind of Love
Wicked Kind of Love
Bitter Kind of Love