by Renee Rose
“Yes?” came the careful question, revealing nothing to a wayward caller.
“I need cleanup at 1112 Stonebridge Row, Apartment 1104. A professional was detected on premises and eliminated, civilians have been extracted. I will also need the location of a safe house.”
A pause, and the sound of keys on a computer. “2205 North Angel Blvd. Your fob will open the lock.”
“Roger that.” He hit the power button on his phone to turn it off.
Becca reached for her purse. Guessing her intent, he put his hand over it, holding it closed. “No phone calls. It’s not safe.”
* * *
“Why isn’t it safe? What the hell is going on?” Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.
“I’ll explain when we’re in a safe location.”
The possibility her son’s father was a psycho killer or kidnapper or stalker seemed very real. But there was a professionalism to his actions that spoke of more than just military, more like CIA…
My dad is a spy guy.
But could that all be for show? Was he really some nut playing a trick to win her trust?
“What was that song you were singing while you were fighting? About the grapes of wrath?” Parker asked inanely from the back seat.
Becca had heard no singing during the struggle; in fact, it had been eerily silent, but Zac asked, “You heard that?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s called ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ It has a good, steady pace for fighting. Keeps me from getting ahead of myself.”
“So you sing a song?”
“Uh huh.” The car rolled to a stop. “Let’s go,” he said, climbing out and opening the door for Parker. She sat up and reached in her purse, digging for her phone. Who should she call? 911?
Her door opened and Zac snatched the phone from her hand. He slid the back cover off, removed the battery and sim card and tossed it back to her, pocketing the crucial parts. “I said no calls,” he bit out, taking her arm and hauling her out of the car. “If I’m going to protect you, I need you to follow orders.”
She stopped, wrenching her arm free. She had the impression it was only because he allowed it. “What if I don’t want your protection?”
“Not negotiable.”
“So I’m really your prisoner?”
He shrugged, “If you like.”
“And if I don’t?” she demanded.
He lifted his shoulders again, then looked over at Parker, who had stooped to pick at some grass, knowing with his childlike intuition they needed privacy. “Look,” he said in a low voice. “I know that’s my kid. And I can’t—” He stopped and blinked. “I won’t let anything bad happen to either one of you. Can you believe that?”
He seemed so different now from the man she’d met seven years before—his face was still young, but the pale blue eyes were ancient. Looking into them, she saw a hardness and behind them, a haunted pain.
Against all reason, she did believe him. She gave a single nod.
“Then I need you to follow orders when I give them.”
She frowned. “And if I don’t?”
He leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye, speaking in a voice too quiet for Parker to hear. “Then I’ll spank you till you can’t sit down.”
The instantaneous flip the word “spank” produced in her belly was followed closely by shame, then hot indignation. She gave his chest a hard shove. “How dare you?”
He smirked, but held his hands up in surrender, “I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. Look,” he sighed. “I was just trying to point out you trusted me once, remember? I didn’t hurt you then,” he paused and added with an ironic tone, “—at least not more than you wanted me to—and I’m not going to hurt you now.”
His mention of their “once” opened a fissure in her chest, releasing a flood of confused emotions that literally rocked her on her heels. Her nose burned with the threat of tears. She stared at his chest, the muscles standing out under his t-shirt. She remembered the way he’d looked without a shirt—the lean definition of his pecs covered by a smattering of golden fuzz, the washboard lines of his abs. He’d been like an Adonis. The first lines of Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis popped into her mind:
EVEN as the sun with purple-colour’d face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn;
And clearly he had scorned love, because here he was, alive and well while she’d spent the last six years single parenting, believing him dead.
She lifted her eyes to his face, a jolt of electricity hitting her when their eyes met. Despite her best efforts, he had a powerful effect on her. His eyes held compassion for her, as if he knew all the thoughts she hadn’t even begun to sort through.
“I just don’t understand what’s going on here,” she croaked.
“I know.” His voice was warm, enveloping her in its embrace.
She drew in a breath.
“The less you know, the safer you are, though. I’ll tell what I can when we’re inside—come on.” He placed his hand on her upper back and the contact made her shiver. This time, she let him lead her into the house where he swept through the place, drawing curtains.
“Stay away from the windows,” he warned sharply when she wandered near one. The reminder of his threat outside made her butt flinch and her face burn. She didn’t think he’d meant it, but it was hard to be sure.
“I’m hungry,” Parker whined and she realized, with a pang, he hadn’t eaten dinner.
Zac stopped his security check as well, as if he, too, had forgotten about feeding Parker. “Okay, I’ll get some food brought in.”
“Can we have ice cream?” Parker asked hopefully.
A smile twitched at the corners of Zac’s mouth. “Sure, bud. What kind do you like?”
“Cookies and cream.”
“You got it.” Zac pulled out his phone and placed a call, walking into the master bedroom to call in private.
Becca searched through the cupboards in the kitchen, finding no fresh food, but plenty of dry and canned goods. She opened a box of cheese crackers and put them in a small bowl for Parker. “Here you go, kiddo.” Picking up the remote control for the television, she turned it on and searched for a kids’ channel. She didn’t allow Parker to watch much TV, but if ever there was a time to bend the rules, this was it. Finding Nickelodeon, she handed him the remote and followed Zac into the bedroom.
He glanced up at her and ended his call. “Hi.”
She leaned against the door frame. “So what’s going on?”
He took a breath and exhaled. “Okay. I work undercover for an organization we call Black Ops, which falls somewhere between the NSA and the CIA. There is a member of your family who used to work for us and has since disappeared.”
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“You won’t tell me?”
“Can’t tell you,” he corrected.
“Is he dead?” She asked, thinking of her father, who had died when she was fifteen.
Zac shook his head. “We don’t think so. Seven years ago, I was sent to your sister’s wedding in case this person turned up. They never did, and I guess you know how I spent my time there.”
She stared at him, trying to digest it all. He had known who she was when he picked her up out of that hotel bar. And she’d thought she’d been the one doing the picking up.
“Afterward, I put you on surveillance.”
“Why?” she demanded, the violation making her chest tighten. She pulled her inhaler out of her pocket and took another puff.
He looked at her for a long moment, giving the impression he was deciding what to tell her.
“It would be a lie to say I thought you knew something. The fact is, I knew you and your family were clean. But I could justify surveillance because of your connection to our target—you know, tha
t they might show up to visit you.”
A cold prickle ran over her skin. “Did they?”
He shook his head.
“Is my sister on surveillance? My mother?”
He looked uncomfortable. “No.”
“So, when you said you could justify surveillance—does that mean…” The sensation of violation swept over her again. “Are you like a fucking peeping Tom?”
He winced and she glimpsed the world-weariness in his eyes again. He shrugged. “I was into you.”
A wave of nausea hit her full force. How she’d fantasized of what it might have been like if Zac hadn’t died—if he’d returned from his deployment and somehow became a part of their lives. But he’d been alive all along. He’d known she’d had his baby and he’d never even tried to make contact. He’d put her on surveillance like a creepy stalker.
She ran for the toilet, her stomach heaving. She stood over it for a moment, but nothing came up. She coughed instead, tears burning her eyes. When she felt a hand on her back, she whirled around and went for him. Attacking with years of pent-up regrets and deferred desires, she slapped at him, punched his face and chest. When she raked her fingernails down his cheek, he caught her wrists and pinned them behind her back in a loose, but inescapable grasp.
He gazed down at her, the light blue of his eyes full of regret, the scratches on his weathered face turning red. “You are the only woman I was sorry to leave,” he said softly. “Hell—you’re the only woman I even stayed long enough to share breakfast with. And you permanently ruined one-night stands for me.”
She blinked back the tears that made her vision swim. “Great, so I doubled your usual quotient?” Her bitter words trailed off when he bent his head to kiss her. He moved slowly, as if giving her a chance to refuse his invasion. She stilled, the urge to reject him overruled by a dark flame of desire. His lips slanted over hers in an undemanding kiss, tongue gently probing, lips caressing her mouth. She answered it, wanting to remember the taste of him, to recapture the essence of the mysterious man who had become so enormous in her memory. Releasing her wrists, he drew her closer and she slid her hands up the taut muscles of his arms, gripping them for stability.
He drew away too soon and she wobbled on her feet, panting, staring up in a confused swirl of emotion. “I haven’t forgiven you.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” she said hoarsely.
“That’s because I don’t exist.”
* * *
Ankles and wrists bound together, lying naked on her side, Rebecca Cavanah was the hottest thing he’d seen in a long time. She was his mark, which meant mixing business with pleasure was a no-brainer. As far as he was concerned, he was going above and beyond the call of duty, watching the leggy bombshell 24/7 for the wedding weekend.
She was perfect—long legs, firm tits, a dimpled smile. She had the girl-next-door sweet beauty, which made her interest in whips and chains all the more intriguing. “I should tell you I have extensive training in torture techniques,” he told her, watching her wriggle. “Oh yeah, aren’t I supposed to give you a safe word or something?”
“French fry!” she blurted, as if she’d been waiting for him to ask.
He hid a smile. “French fry it is,” he said, picking up her flip-flop and smacking it against his palm as she squirmed in anticipation.
Two hours later, her bottom was a deep purplish red and he’d brought her to orgasm four times. She lay limp, her eyes closed, making a soft humming sound in her throat. He untied the rope around her wrists and kissed the red marks it had left. “So, what’s your fantasy—master and slave? Sir and slut?”
She rolled on her back, her breasts spilling apart. “Not exactly.”
He straddled her and took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched, causing the relaxed tissue to instantly harden again. She rolled her head back and forth. “No more…I can’t come again, Zac.”
He pinched harder. “I decide whether you can come or not.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Ah, so it’s a ‘sir’ you want?”
She bit her lip and blushed. “Actually, I’m more into bad girl spanked by big daddy or naughty young wife taken over her husband’s knee.”
It was only his months of government training to extinguish all physiological signs of reaction that kept him from gaping at that news. “So you do, actually, want a husband?” he teased.
She giggled. “Only if he spanks.”
He slid off her and nestled down next to her, pulling her into the curve of his shoulder.
“—for real. I would want a husband who spanks for real. Like if I was bitchy or didn’t clean the bathroom. Or to end a stupid argument.”
This time he chuckled.
She slapped his arm. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…that’s adorable! What man wouldn’t want a wife he could spank to end an argument?”
She made a raspberry sound with her lips. “Twenty-five years and you’re the first one to ever lay a hand on my ass.”
He grinned at her. “Well, we’ll have to make up for lost time, then won’t we?”
* * *
Zac’s phone buzzed, an unfortunate interruption. “That’s our food,” he said, reluctantly releasing Becca from his embrace to answer the call.
“Yeah,” he spoke into the mouthpiece.
“I’m outside.”
He took the fake nanny’s laptop and cell phone and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t want Becca and Parker to see Marcus, the San Diego desk agent who had shown up with a pizza and groceries and stayed for a brief exchange of intel.
“Here’s your laptop, and your travel bag.”
“Thanks. What do you know?”
He shook his head. “Probably the same thing you do—she was the professional known as Angel. No info on who might have hired her or why. If the target was El Demo, it seems strange she’d be watching his daughter—you’ve been watching her for seven years without a lead.”
“Let me know what you get from the laptop or phone.”
“I will. Beatty wants you to report. He’s sending over some agents to watch the civilians.”
“Negative. I’m not leaving them until I know who ordered the hit and why.”
Marcus shrugged. “How are you going to explain that to Beatty? If he finds out you’ve got something personal here, you’ll be out of the country on the next plane.”
He stared over Marcus’s shoulder at the trees, silhouetted in the darkening sky. He had earned his reputation as “the ghost” by being fluid—following his gut, moving with the current to avoid capture, survive torture, or disappear like the wind. But where Becca and Parker were concerned, a mulish resistance clouded his judgment. He’d rushed in too quickly that evening, killing the one person with the answers. Now he was going to sabotage himself again by showing his hand to Beatty. But he just couldn’t trust them with anyone else. And now that he’d made contact with them, now that they knew he existed…walking away from them was going to kill him.
He refocused on Marcus, who knew his secret because he’d pulled the favor from him of faking his death and setting them up on a pension. Marcus had access to most government databases, and could create identities for people or make them disappear at the drop of a hat.
“I don’t know,” he said, exhaling. “Let me know as soon as you have anything.”
Inside, Becca had turned skittish again. “So you still haven’t told me what’s going on,” she said as he unpacked the food.
He glanced pointedly at Parker and quirked an eyebrow. Parker caught the look. “She wasn’t really a nanny, was she?” he asked.
The hairs on Zac’s arms stood up. “No, buddy, she wasn’t.”
The boy gazed up at him with his mother’s eyes—round and green, with a smattering of freckles across his nose. The rest of his face looked like his own—the same the bone structure and shape
of the mouth. His heart tightened. There was an undeniable biological response to looking at the face of your own child. The urge to protect him was equal or even stronger than the need he had to keep Becca safe. It was that urge that had sent him flying into their apartment the moment he’d reviewed the security videos and identified the nanny as a hit woman.
“Who was she?”
“Bad guy.”
Parker nodded wisely, stuffing pizza in his mouth. “Thought so,” he said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Becca said automatically. She turned a narrowed eye on him. “But why would I have a bad guy for a nanny?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
Becca sank into a chair, looking like she wanted to puke. She rested her head in her hands. After a long silence, she lifted her head and asked, “When can we go back to our apartment?”
“Not for a few days, and only if we know it’s safe.”
“May I go to work?”
“No.”
Becca’s face flushed and she stood up. “Look, do you have some kind of credentials I could see?”
He considered her. He had a whole stack of ID tags with credentials—FBI, CIA, local police badges, Navy, Marine, and Coast Guard IDs. He had an ID for any situation in which he might find himself. He didn’t want to show her a lie, though. She and Parker were the only people in his life who were real. And he wasn’t in their lives—he couldn’t be in their lives, but for this tiny sliver of time he was with them, he wanted to be real. He shook his head. “No, because I don’t exist.”
“Right, and the organization you’re with probably doesn’t exist either?”
He grinned. “You catch on fast.”
She blew her breath out with exasperation, sending the wispy hairs around her face flying. “We’re not staying,” she said.
Oddly, he was turned on by her defiance, the plucky lift of her chin, a slight pouting of the already full lips. Was it because he imagined disciplining her for it? The memory of their play as dominant and submissive rose afresh. He chose to ignore her defiance, though, rather than trigger the “we’re prisoners” discussion again. Redirecting the conversation, he asked, “Do you have any homework, Parker?”
