by Diana Duncan
Zane winced. So, maybe less Grace Kelly and more Kelly Osbourne.
He stayed hidden, watching her. Over the past five weeks, she’d left dozens of messages demanding he get in touch ASAP. He’d been planted deep undercover in a desert hellhole half a world away and hadn’t received them until last night. He’d phoned her from D.C., but she’d insisted he fly to Oregon to speak to her in person. Immediately.
The lady was very persuasive.
“How about a little cooperation, here, Aragorn? I have your favorite treat.” She fished in her pocket and pulled out a package of salted peanuts. Waving it, she crouched beside a Pepto pink older model Mini Cooper convertible. The wrapper crackled enticingly in the mellow warmth of the late August afternoon. “Look, baby, peanuts.”
A huge, hairy white paw crept out and stealthily patted the asphalt.
The blonde’s husky chuckle did funky things to Zane’s blood pressure. “Oh no, you don’t. You know you have to go in the house first.”
The biggest cat Zane had ever seen slinked out from under the car. A cat that eats peanuts? Man, now I’ve seen everything.
“There’s my good boy,” the woman crooned.
The white behemoth stared at his mistress long enough to prove who was really in charge before he stuck his nose in the air and ambled across the lawn. Feathery tail twitching, he slinked inside the open screen door of the yellow two-story Cape Cod.
Heaving a relieved sigh, the woman followed the beast inside. Zane did not look at her luscious ass. Much. She closed the screen, but left the front door ajar.
Ingrained caution held Zane immobile as he scanned the perimeter for signs of an ambush. During the last two hours, skateboarding kids, an elderly man mowing a lawn four houses down, and the blonde were the only people he’d seen.
The new junior D.C. field office assistant had compiled a hasty dossier on the woman and tossed it to Zane on his way out to catch his flight. Jillian Kathleen Ramsey, age twenty-five, had grown up in the medium-sized coastal town of Cape Hope, Oregon. She was the assistant director at Hope Community Center, a facility that offered programs for disadvantaged, high-risk children from preschool through high school. Her mother had been deceased for over a decade, her father Dean, was a contractor. She had three older brothers, Cord, Jonas, and Drew, all Navy SEALS, all shipped out on active duty. The Ramsey family had squeaky clean records.
Zane frowned. What the hell did she want from him?
He doubted her summons was a set-up, but you couldn’t be too careful. Not if you wanted to stay alive. Working for the FBI, he’d met his share of whackos. He hadn’t survived a brutal childhood and a decade with the Bureau by being careless. He wasn’t about to start now.
As throbbing music drifted out the screen door—seriously, disco?—he again cased the grounds. A towering pine tree guarded the grassy expanse. Flowerbeds flanked both sides, and a trellis crowned with crimson roses arched across the front walk. Baskets of cheerful pink geraniums dangled off the front porch, more mammoth geraniums in pots splashed both sides of the doorway with hot orange.
Zane breathed in sweet-scented air and glanced up at the cloudless cerulean sky. The weather was ideal, the small suburban neighborhood peaceful. A bright community of happy families. Something he’d always wanted, but never had.
Could never have.
His chest constricted. He knew better than anyone things weren’t what they seemed. A perfect façade often concealed ugly secrets. He had a couple of nasty skeletons dangling in his own closet.
Everyone had something to hide.
What was Jillian Ramsey hiding?
Time to find out. He broke cover and strode across the lawn. The sun’s heat seeped through his suit jacket, chasing away the shaded grove’s chill. His shoulders tensed. Lurking in the shadows was much more comfortable. Bright sunlight exposed every detail, left a man no privacy.
Above all else, Zane cherished his privacy.
As he approached, the music swelled in volume. By the time he hit the front porch, Donna Summer was yodeling the virtues of “Hot Stuff” so loudly, his eardrums were bleeding. He pounded on the door frame, but Miss Ramsey didn’t appear. No surprise. With that racket, she wouldn’t have heard a backhoe plowing through a minefield.
Zane swung the door wider and hollered, “Hey! Miss Ramsey?”
No answer. Obviously, the music drowned him out. But she had begged him to come. In spite of appearances to the contrary, had something happened in there? Was she in some kind of trouble? “Miss Ramsey, are you okay in there?”
He eased inside and scoped out the first floor. The interior, decorated in restful nature colors of green, blue and tan, was as cheerful and neat as the outside. His left hand on the Beretta tucked into his shoulder holster beneath his jacket, senses on red alert, he followed Donna Summer’s disco din and the sharp smell of paint fumes down the hall. Both grew stronger as he loped to the second floor.
He paused in the hallway outside an open doorway. Jillian had her back to him. Enthusiastically dabbing brown blotches onto the light blue wall, she sang off-key at the top of her lungs in a throaty contralto and wiggled that fabulous ass to the pulsing disco beat.
A bullet of lust streaked down his spine and ricocheted to his dick. Zane dropped his hand from his weapon and sucked in a sharp breath.
Holy shit.
He cleared the sudden thickness from his throat. “Excuse me,” he shouted. “Miss Ramsey?”
Jillian whirled. She jerked back, then overcorrected and stumbled forward.
He lunged, barely caught her. Her brush slapped his cheek, then trailed a wet streak across his nose. Holding her securely against him, he swiped at his face. His fingers came away brown and sticky. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said into her ear. “I knocked, but…”
Smelling enticingly of patchouli, she froze in his arms. Beneath his palm splayed across her ribs, her heartbeat fluttered wildly.
“Miss Ramsey? You all right? You didn’t hurt yourself?”
“No.” A slight shiver wracked her before she twisted out of his hold. She strode to the portable CD player in the corner and hit the button. Blessed silence descended. Her eyes widened as she studied him. Then she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “You can’t be anyone other than Zane Wolfe. What are you doing inside my house?”
How did the woman know who he was? They’d never met before, he wouldn’t have forgotten her. Caught in Jillian’s gaze, he stared into her eyes. Lavender-blue velvet irises conjured a startling memory of fragrant violets hidden in sun-dappled hollows beside the creek where he and his youngest brother had played as boys. A secret retreat where he and Trevor had escaped their father’s merciless campaign to mold them into “men.”
The wooded hideaway discovery had come too late for Zane’s oldest brother Brent. By then, Brent had already caught the fast track to destruction.
Jillian waved the paintbrush at him. “Hello?”
Zane jerked back to the present. He hadn’t revisited that nightmare for years. And Jesus, he’d stood there gawking at her like a geek getting an eyeful of his first triple x website. “Yes, I’m FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe.” On auto-pilot, he slid out his I.D. and flipped open the wallet. “I knocked, but with the concert at ninety decibels, I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Her cheeks flushed as scarlet as the roses outside. “I latched my screen. How did you get in?”
“The door was open.”
“No, I’m positive …” She shook her head. “Aragorn, the escape artist strikes again. Well … you and I have something important to discuss.” She glanced at his face and her flush deepened. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room.
Zane stashed his wallet and perused the mural. Some sort of wildlife scene? Miss Ramsey obviously had more ambition than talent.
His hand itched to pick up the brush and add the strokes that would bring the picture to life. But he hadn’t held a drawing pencil or paintbrush f
or over a decade. Not since Trevor had died. He turned his back to the wall, shutting down his feelings with long-practiced expertise. The past was gone. Dead and buried.
Like his little brother.
Jillian returned and handed him a damp washcloth. “Sorry about your face.” As he scrubbed away the paint, she gestured at the mural. “What do you think?”
“Uh…that’s a tall…groundhog. Very lifelike,” he lied.
Her expressive mouth drooped. “He’s supposed to be a Wookie.”
It looked like a mutant squirrel on steroids. He bit his tongue against the urge to smile. “A Wookie?”
“Chewbacca. From Star Wars.”
“I know what a Wookie is.” His cheeks ached from holding his face straight, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Ah … yeah, I can see it now.”
“Here, you missed a spot.” She took the washcloth from him and gently dabbed his temple. As the warmth of her fingers penetrated the damp terrycloth, another surge of desire rocketed through him, and he flinched.
Accustomed to being in total command of his body and emotions, the loss of control threw him. Zane needed to be in control. Couldn’t function any other way. “You a Jedi groupie?”
She wrinkled her nose and mischief danced across her face. “If this were my room, Ace, I’d be painting up a life-sized yummy blond elf with a great big … bow and arrow. Planet Endor wasn’t my idea.” Humor fled and her irises clouded with pain, and something that looked a lot like fear. “Let’s go downstairs.”
Uh oh. His pulse kicked. Show time.
The subtle sway of her hips as she led him downstairs revved his pulse up another hundred BPMs, and he inhaled sharply. He’d just wrapped up a tense, bloody, eight-month overseas op. Since he never allowed any distractions—including women—on the job, he was suffering from self-imposed drought. His dick obviously thought he was way overdue for R&R. “You should keep your front door shut and locked. A latched screen won’t keep anybody out.”
“I usually do, but the paint fumes were making me dizzy.” Gesturing at the sofa in the living room, she gave him a nervous smile. “Sit, please.”
Instead, he chose an overstuffed chair opposite the couch, where he had his back to the wall and a clear view of the staircase and front door. “So what’s with the emergency summons?”
“Um … just give me a minute.” Jillian retreated into the kitchen.
For a woman who’d relentlessly harassed the D.C. field office to contact him, Jillian suddenly didn’t seem in a big hurry to chat. He examined the bookcases flanking the fireplace. Fairytales, legends, and fantasy romance novels lined the shelves, some collectors’ editions. Added to the Star Wars tribute upstairs and the Legolas worship, the evidence was clear. The lady lived in la-la land.
He groaned. What wild fantasy had she cooked up? In his years with the Bureau, he’d heard them all, from insane conspiracy theories to lurid “the aliens probed me” abductions.
Yup, Jillian Ramsey was looking like one beautiful, sexy package of crazy.
Muscles taut, every sense humming, Zane catalogued the comfortable, welcoming room. The warm sunny atmosphere was so different from his somber black and chrome condo, it might ordinarily have appealed to him. But his instincts were screaming with tension.
Zane never ignored his instincts.
The big white cat strutted into the room, tail twitching. He stopped in front of Zane’s chair, slanted green eyes narrowed.
“Hey, Aragorn. How’re the nuts?”
The beast swelled to twice his normal size. His fur spiked, and a rumbling growl erupted from his throat. Hissing, he swiped at Zane’s calf.
“Whoa!” Zane jerked his leg back, only his lightning reflexes thwarting a trip to the ER. “Sorry I asked.”
Jillian reentered, carrying a tray that held two mugs brimming with steaming coffee and a matching plate piled with cookies. She handed Zane a warm cup. “I see you two are getting acquainted. Isn’t Aragorn a darling?”
“Oh yeah.” The feline from hell blinked at him with exaggerated innocence and bared his fangs. Zane moved his leg farther out of reach. “A real prince.”
She set the tray on the coffee table and fidgeted with the cookie platter. “I named him after King Aragorn, because he’s so noble and regal.”
She should have named the psycho Jack, as in, The Ripper. “Look, lady, I didn’t fly three thousand miles for a tea party. Whatever you have to say, just spit it out.”
“You must be tired and hungry after your long trip. At least have a cookie to fortify you before we talk.”
He stared at the offering. Cookies, just like mom never made. Freshly baked chunky oatmeal raisin, dusted with sparkling sugar. Not dainty morsels that teased a guy’s taste buds and left him wanting more, these were fist sized, to satisfy a man’s appetite. His mouth watered. But he wasn’t here for refreshments. He strictly separated his work and his private life, rejecting anything that blurred the boundaries.
“Whatever you have to say isn’t going to be shoved down my throat any sweeter with a cookie. Cut to the chase, Miss Ramsey. What do you want from me?”
“Call me Jillian.” She perched on the edge of the sofa opposite him, clutching her coffee cup. Her hands were trembling. “All right. First, I need to make absolutely certain I have the correct man. You are FBI Special Agent Zane Kintan Wolfe? You grew up in a suburb of Wichita, Kansas, and attended the University of Texas at Arlington where you played both football and baseball, and pitched the Mavericks to four straight championships?”
He scowled. How the fuck did she know all that? “Yes.”
“Your middle name means ‘royal’ in Cherokee, I looked it up. Your mom was half Native American and you go by her last name, right?”
He went rigid. For a woman he’d never met before, she was way too interested in his personal life. What game was she running? “What does my heritage have to do with this?”
Her cup wobbled in her grasp, and her fingers whitened. “I— Agent Wolfe, do you remember a woman named Deb Stuart?”
Deb Stuart. He and Deb had met in college, where she’d dogged him all over campus. Deb had been a preppy, fresh-faced innocent back then, and he’d stayed far out of her grasp. They didn’t make flak gear strong enough to protect him from collateral damage caused by starry-eyed dreamers.
Those kind of women wanted promises and commitment. He didn’t do commitment.
Then about five years ago, a chance meeting with the older, experienced Deb on vacation in D.C. had resulted in a brief weekend fling. Deb had never mentioned Jillian. But then they hadn’t done much talking. He took a swallow of coffee to moisten his dry mouth. “I remember her. Why?”
Jillian’s face softened. “When Deb moved here six years ago, she took a job at the Hope Center and we instantly meshed. She was my closest friend, my sister of the heart.” Tears welled in her eyes, threatened to spill over, and Zane’s gut tightened. “Three months ago, she … died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with genuine regret. “Deb was a great gal.”
Jillian straightened and blinked back her tears. The quietly courageous gesture grabbed Zane by the throat. “I miss her every minute of every day.”
He clenched his fingers around his cup, fighting a crazy urge to wrap his arms around Jillian and hold her close. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Jillian. But I’m not sure why you called me.”
Her hands trembling harder, she carefully put down her cup. “There are some questionable circumstances about her death. And Deb left behind a little boy.”
“Is he in some kind of danger?”
“I don’t— First, you need to—” Jillian leaned forward and grasped his hand in both of her warm, soft ones, making every muscle in his body tighten. “Zane …” The grave concern on her face overrode his impulse to tug away. “Five years ago, you and Deb— You spent a weekend together in Washington D.C.”
“Yeah.” He pursed his lips. “Listen, I appreciate yo
u personally breaking the news about her death, but we weren’t in a relationship.”
“Casey is four years old.” She sucked in a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “Zane, he’s your son.”
Blood rushed from his head, roared in his ears. The walls zoomed out, then closed in, smothering him. He was dimly aware he’d dropped his cup and hot coffee scalded his thigh.
“Zane!” Jillian dabbed at his pants leg with a napkin. “Are you burned?”
He couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t speak.
“Zane?” She tossed aside the napkin and rubbed his arms. “You went bone white. Are you all right?”
“Impossible,” he whispered.
But it wasn’t. Vivid images flashed through his mind like a horror movie on fast forward. A broken condom. Deb’s shrug of acceptance. His own ice-cold, rioting fear. Deb had assured him later there’d been no consequences.
Had Deb lied to him?
Or had she lied to Jillian?
“I know it’s a shock.” Jillian’s gentle voice quivered with compassion. “It’s the truth, Zane. Deb left a letter for me in the event anything happened to her, naming you Casey’s father.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” he forced through stiff, numb lips.
“Casey looks just like you.”
Reeling, he pushed her hands away. But he couldn’t so easily shove aside her words. “There are millions of dark-haired, dark-eyed kids.”
“The instant I saw you, I knew Casey was yours. He has the same lean athlete’s build, same thick, straight black hair, same dark melted-chocolate eyes. He even wears your intensely focused expression on his face a lot of the time.”
