The Thing About Love

by Julie James

  She stepped forward to strike his solar plexus, another weak spot, but he deflected the hit and got her in a hold. She tried to escape, so to maintain control he took her down to the mat in a mount, straddling her and pinning her on her back.

  Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment, it occurred to John that he had a very beautiful woman trapped beneath him, between his legs. Granted, one wearing a mouthpiece and headgear.

  He smiled, just slightly—because it was pretty cute how determined she was to try to beat him—and her eyes narrowed. Using the self-defense techniques they’d gone over in class, she bridged her hips, trying to throw him off, and managed to get on her side. She hooked his foot, pulling it over her leg while simultaneously elbowing his knee in an attempt to scoot out from underneath him.

  It was a good move. And indeed, against a lesser man that maneuver very well might have worked.

  But not against this man.

  John grappled with her, getting her onto her stomach and into an arm-bar hold, ending the fight in a way that inflicted no damage. Except, perhaps, to her pride.

  Pinned beneath him, her cheek pressed against the mat, Jessica swore under her breath and tapped out.

  And . . . his work here was done.

  John sprang up and pulled off his gloves. He resisted the urge to strut, but out of his many sparring victories, this particular one—while obviously expected—had a certain sweetness to it. Jessica had given him a run for his money in so many ways these past four months, but the fighting ring was his turf, and Ms. Easy There, Big Guy was—

  —still on the mat.

  He stopped the moment he noticed that, watching as Jessica slowly rose onto one knee. Breathing hard, she slid off her gloves and removed her mouthpiece, as if needing more air. Then she winced and touched the side of her rib cage—right on the spot where he’d pinned her with his knees.

  She was hurt.

  Feeling something soften inside him, he went over to her. He leaned down, reaching out a hand to help. “Jessica, I’m so—”

  He never got a chance to finish that sentence.

  She grabbed his wrist with one hand and ground the blade of her opposite forearm into his triceps, using it as a fulcrum to knock him off balance as she turned her body and pulled him down on a diagonal.

  He hit the mat face-first.

  He blinked, stunned, and then clenched his jaw when Jessica dug one knee into his shoulder blade. She used the other knee as a lock against his outstretched arm, getting him into a straight arm-bar hold.

  “Now, remind me, Shepherd. From this position, would I handcuff the suspect before or after I read him his rights?” she asked, feigning innocence.

  The entire gymnasium had fallen dead silent. Presumably, like John, everyone needed a moment to process what had just happened.

  Then their instructor let out a bark of laughter.

  The entire gym erupted, an enthusiastic mix of clapping and cheers. Wisely not pushing her luck—there was, after all, a lot John could do with one free arm and two legs—Jessica let go of him and stood up. Ignoring all the clapping, John hopped to his feet and spat out his mouth guard. Then he looked around for his gloves, which had gone flying through the air when she’d yanked him to the ground.

  He turned around and saw Jessica holding them.

  Eyes sparkling with amusement, she walked over and handed him the gloves. His hands brushed against hers as their eyes held.

  “I didn’t tap out,” he said.

  Her lips curved in a smile. “It doesn’t matter.” She turned and was greeted by a round of high fives as she joined the rest of their classmates.

  A month later, it undoubtedly came as a surprise to no one when Jessica got the high mark in academics, officially decreeing her Cleverest of Them All. And John, too, became something of a legend at the Academy: the badass Army Ranger who not only got high marks in firearms and PT, and finished second in his class in academics, but also was pinned only once throughout the entire fighting program.

  By a five-foot, three-inch lawyer.

  10

  Jessica glanced over and saw John’s jaw twitching once again. He’d been silent for nearly the last hour of their flight, obviously brooding.

  Fighting back a smile, she had a feeling she knew exactly what had him all worked up. “It was a joke, Shepherd.”

  He acted nonchalant. “What was?”

  Please. “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. I know you’re thinking about our fight.”

  They were interrupted by an announcement from the cockpit, letting them know they were entering their final descent and would be on the ground shortly.

  John moved closer to her, his deep voice lowered in a heated whisper. “Spare me the innocent act—we both know it wasn’t just a ‘joke.’ You wanted to prove a point, and you did. But don’t try to say now that you weren’t every bit as competitive as I was during those twenty-one weeks. Because you never saw me fake an injury and face-plant another trainee in front of the entire class.”

  Of course not. The mighty John Shepherd didn’t have to rely on those kinds of tricks. Still, Jessica shifted in her seat, feeling a little uncomfortable when he put it that way.

  Having made his point, John turned back to his reading. An awkward silence fell between them.

  Don’t engage him, she told herself. There’s no point. But his words continued to nag at her, until she finally gave in and angled her body in his direction.

  “Believe it or not, my objective that day wasn’t to embarrass you.” Like him, she kept her voice down so no one could overhear. “What I wanted was to show the instructors that I could think on my feet, even when incredibly outmatched. That I wouldn’t give up. That despite my size, my future partners and squad mates could count on me to stay levelheaded and strong in a physical confrontation. So yes, I saw an opportunity and I took it. And if you ever find yourself fighting a seven-foot, five-inch giant who’s double your weight, I would expect you to do the same.”

  John said nothing for a long moment, just kept shooting her pissy glares, as if trying to think up some retort and coming up empty-handed.

  When he finally spoke, his tone was begrudging. “Fine. But I still say you didn’t have to be so damn sassy about it.” He imitated her voice. “‘Remind me, Shepherd. From this position, would I handcuff the suspect before or after I read him his rights?’”

  Jessica grinned, not remembering that part. “That’s what I said? Ooh, that was sassy.” When he scowled, she pooh-poohed it with a wave. “Oh, please. You had it coming for telling me I sucked in front of our whole class.”

  His jaw went taut, and just as Jessica braced herself for his retort, the plane suddenly dipped to the right. She grabbed the armrest—which happened to be occupied by John’s forearm—and felt his strong, solid muscles beneath her fingertips.

  She blushed and let go. “Sorry.”

  Oddly flustered by the memory of just how good a body John Shepherd had under those street clothes, she covered by watching out the window as they approached the airport. There was a long silence between them, until he spoke.

  “I wasn’t ‘hounding’ you during the PT,” he said quietly.

  Jessica turned around.

  “I was trying to motivate you,” he continued, speaking intently despite his hushed tone. “And if you hadn’t been so stubborn and defensive and quick to decide that I was the enemy, maybe you would’ve realized that.”

  Gee, thanks. “I’m glad we cleared the air on that,” she said dryly.

  “And as an aside, the whole ‘big guy’ thing? Kind of lame. How about I start calling you ‘little lady’ during this assignment and we see how that goes over?”

  She raised an eyebrow. Not well.

  “Exactly. But regardless . . .” He paused, as if needing a moment. “That day at the sh
ooting range . . . I never should’ve said you sucked. Especially since it was so far from the truth.” He looked her in the eyes. “That was rude and uncalled for, and I apologize.”

  Jessica blinked.

  Oh.

  When she fell quiet with surprise—both from the apology itself and because John Shepherd had given her an actual compliment—he nodded, as if glad that was done, and put away the newspaper articles he’d been reading in his briefcase.

  • • •

  As if by mutual agreement, for the remainder of the flight neither of them brought up the subject of the Academy again. After deboarding the plane, they followed the signs to baggage claim. There, a woman in her midthirties, with long brown hair and dressed in a navy pantsuit, held a sign with the names EVERS/ROSSER written on it.

  She shook both John’s and Jessica’s hands when they approached. “Mr. Rosser, Ms. Evers . . . nice to meet you. I’m Sandra, from Sunshine Limousine. Do either of you need to collect any bags?”

  Jessica gestured to her and John’s carry-on suitcases. “Nope. We’re all set.” In actuality, “Sandra” wasn’t the woman’s name, nor was she a driver for a car service. Rather, she was Special Agent Jasmine Chopra from the Stagehand squad of the Jacksonville FBI office, whose job was to make sure John and Jessica had all props, personal items, and credentials needed for their undercover roles.

  Wheeling their suitcases, they followed Agent Chopra through a door marked Pre-Arranged Ground Transportation. Outside, a black town car waited for them. After packing their suitcases into the trunk, Jessica and John settled into the backseat, where a duffel bag waited for each of them.

  Jessica’s bag contained a burner cell phone as well as several personal items: a wallet—complete with a driver’s license, credit cards, and insurance cards all in the name Ashley Evers—a watch, purse, and sunglasses. As a wealthy private equity investor, Ashley would be expected to sport expensive versions of such items, and, as with all parts of an undercover assignment, the FBI was a stickler for details.

  “Your own purse will work fine, if you prefer to use that,” Agent Chopra said, as she drove. She glanced at Jessica in the rearview mirror and smiled. “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with a Miu Miu bag.”

  John looked at Jessica curiously, and she blushed. Yes, typically, government-salaried special agents didn’t carry eighteen-hundred-dollar purses. But she’d kept the bag as part of her divorce settlement and saw no point in letting it sit on the shelf, collecting dust.

  Especially since it was a really awesome purse.

  “It was a gift,” she said to John, simply. Changing the subject, she gestured to the new “Dave” watch that he was putting on his wrist. Like her, his accessories had been upgraded for the job. “Nice Rolex.” She leaned closer, peeking in his duffel bag. “Any chance there’s a beard trimmer in there?” She feigned innocence when he gave her a dirty look. “No judgment. Just asking.”

  A few minutes later, they turned onto an access road that led to a small, abandoned airfield. Parked next to a nondescript white building was a sleek gray Mercedes roadster.

  After the three of them got out of the town car, Agent Chopra handed Jessica a set of keys to the convertible. “The car is in both Ashley’s and Dave’s names. Everything’s been taken care of—just drop it off in the rental parking lot at the airport when you head back to Chicago.” She spent a few minutes talking with them about the undercover assignment, then shook both their hands in good-bye. “If you think of anything else you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  As she drove off in the town car, Jessica and John walked over to the Mercedes.

  “I’ll say this, Harlow, you white-collar-crime agents do have nice toys,” he said.

  She smiled at that.

  Damn straight, they did.

  • • •

  During the forty-minute drive to their hotel, Jessica and John locked down the remaining details of their cover story.

  According to the profiles put together by the Jacksonville agents, Lakeshore Capital Partners was a complementary relationship, with each of them bringing different strengths to the table. Dave had a background in construction and was the more hands-on guy. Once a project had been green-lit, he handled all the real estate logistics and worked with contractors and subcontractors on any construction or remodeling of the space.

  Ashley, on the other hand, focused on the big picture. With an MBA from Stanford (a detail Jessica appreciated, since she could talk with familiarity about the university) she came up with the concept and vision for a new project, knew the economics of the city and neighborhood in which they were looking to buy, and was in charge of pitching to investors and getting them on board.

  After agreeing on a story explaining how Dave and Ashley had met, and why they’d decided to go into business together, John brought up one last topic they needed to cover.

  “How about Ashley’s personal life?” he asked, as they exited the interstate and turned onto the highway that led to the beach. “Is she single? Married? Any kids?”

  In the driver’s seat, Jessica stepped on the gas, thinking she definitely could get used to having this kind of horsepower at her command. “Single.” Unless otherwise required by the assignment, she always said she was single while working undercover. No sense faking a family and having to worry that someone might ask to see pictures of them on her phone. “You?”

  “The same. It’s easier that way.”

  Apparently, there was at least one thing on which they could agree.

  With the time change, it was nearly noon when they reached the hotel. Chosen by the Jacksonville agents, the Ponte Vedra Inn and Club was an upscale beachfront resort located just outside the city. According to Jessica’s online research, the hotel had a picturesque lagoon, private golf course, and spa—and seemed to be the perfect place for two wealthy investors in town on business.

  Or in this case, two supposed wealthy investors.

  She drove along the lush green grounds to the main building, where several valets waited attentively. Instantly, any lingering tension between her and John was put on the back burner.

  From this point forward, when in public, Jessica Harlow and John Shepherd didn’t exist—nor did their disagreements or problems. Now, they were Ashley Evers and Dave Rosser, two savvy, shrewd businesspeople with one agenda for this trip: to do a little schmoozing with Jacksonville’s mayor.

  “You ready for this?” John asked, with a sudden gleam in his eye.

  It was the same question he’d asked her at the airport, but this time there was no sarcasm in her response. “Absolutely.” Feeling a rush of adrenaline—dozens of undercover assignments, and still, this never got old—she brought the car to a stop and smiled at the valet as she stepped out.

  “Checking in?” he asked, holding the car door open for her.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Side-by-side, she and John walked into the hotel, wheeling their suitcases behind them. The lobby had an old-money feel to it, with marble floors, dark mahogany crown molding, and paintings of beach scenes on the walls. After checking in under her pseudonym, Jessica confirmed the time she and John would meet in the lobby and headed off to her room. Given their time constraints, she grabbed a sandwich and coffee from the hotel’s gourmet shop along the way.

  Not wanting to push it with the Bureau’s bean counters, she’d booked herself the cheapest room available, one with a “mere” partial ocean view. After setting her suitcase on top of the king-sized poster bed, she took a quick moment to step out onto the balcony. To her left stretched a white sand beach interspersed with lounge chairs and umbrellas, and beyond that, the waves of the sparkling blue Atlantic Ocean crashed peacefully against the shore.

  She took in a deep breath of the warm seaside air.

  Now this was her kind of assignment.

  F
eeling a little nostalgic for California, she went back into the room to unpack her suitcase. With fifteen minutes to spare, she then changed into one of Ashley’s outfits: a gray pencil skirt, short-sleeve ruffled white blouse, and gray heels. For a little flair, she added a chunky necklace and put her hair into a loose bun with a few wisps framing her face.

  Satisfied that she looked the part of a sophisticated entrepreneur, she locked her Glock in the room safe, grabbed her purse, and headed out. Being only on the second floor, she took the stairs down and followed a walkway that led to the main building, where she’d arranged to meet John.

  Standing in the lobby next to a table with a sculpture of a sailboat, he had his back to her as she approached. He turned around, presumably at the sound of her heels on the marble floor, and she nearly did a double take at the sight of him.

  Holy smokes.

  Gone was the dirty-hot organized crime agent with his scruffy facial hair and jeans, replaced by a clean-cut—and exceedingly handsome—businessman in a well-tailored suit. He was clean-shaven now, accentuating the angular lines of his strong jaw, and had tamed his thick, deep-gold hair into a brushed-back, groomed style that somehow made his eyes seem even more strikingly blue.

  Recovering quickly, Jessica came to a stop in front of him, determined to act nonchalant.

  “I take it you approve of the new look,” he said.

  So much for nonchalance.

  “All right, so you clean up well. Let’s not make a whole thing of it.” Ignoring his sly expression, she took her sunglasses out of her purse and walked out the door into the bright Florida sunshine.

  Time for Ashley and Dave to get to work.

  11

  Because out-of-town undercover agents generally avoided the local field offices—on the remote chance they might be spotted coming in or out of the building—John and Jessica drove to a generic-looking office in downtown Jacksonville that was covertly owned by the FBI and used for a variety of undercover purposes. After taking the stairs to the second floor, they were greeted by the two agents in charge of the Blair investigation, Special Agents Leavitt and Todd, both of whom were part of the public corruption squad. Todd, in his midforties, gave off a reserved, all-business air, while Leavitt, the younger of the two agents, had an athletic build and easygoing demeanor.