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Copyright © 2017 by Julie Ann Walker
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image © Stefano Oppo
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
A Sneak Peek of Hot Pursuit
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To anyone who has ever been hurt by someone they love.
Remember, there’s no weakness in forgiveness.
Courage is being scared to death…and saddling up anyway.
—John Wayne
Prologue
London, England
“Christ in a cardigan sweater, if Ace ever tries to talk me into binge-watching Ray Donovan until oh-three-hundred in the morning again, remind me to tell him to go take a flying leap, will you?”
As far as Chelsea could figure, Dagan Zoelner—or “Z” as she liked to call him—was talking to no one in particular. This was confirmed when he didn’t wait for an answer, simply stomped across the living room of their rented fourth-floor flat toward the kitchen.
Even barefoot, grumpy, and wearing a rumpled T-shirt, he was still a spectacular superhuman creature. And he had a voice like fine Southern moonshine, all smooth and distilled. Hearing it warmed her insides ten degrees.
So what else is new? she thought sourly, taking a bite of her morning bagel and adjusting her glasses to get a better look at his phenomenal denim-clad ass—oh my!—before he disappeared through the kitchen doorway.
Dagan had been screwing with her internal temperature for… Well, sometimes it felt like forever. Back when they were both working for the CIA, it hadn’t been so bad. She’d been a counterterrorism analyst, which kept her chained to her desk. He’d been a field agent, which meant he had been away in parts unknown far more than he had ever prowled the halls of Langley with that loose, long-legged stride of his. But fast-forward eight years—and throw in an odd twist of fate—and now they were both working for Black Knights Inc., the most clandestine government defense firm in the United States. Which meant that now it was impossible to avoid him.
Just to be clear, as the official “liaison” between the CIA and the Black Knights, Chelsea was still technically employed by the Central Intelligence Agency. But she’d been living and working exclusively with the Black Knights for months in an attempt to uncover the true identity of the head of one of the world’s most nefarious crime syndicates. A man responsible for human trafficking, illegal weapons sales, piracy, and so much more. A man who went by the bone-chilling nickname of Spider.
That meant she’d been on a body-temperature roller coaster for a heck of a long time.
Think that sounds fun? Well, you’d be wrong. And to make matters worse—Yup, it gets worse—Dagan had grown out his beard.
Before the dark, sleek pelt of facial hair had appeared, she’d thought his face was…nice. All-American-male nice. Guy-next-door nice. Nondescript nose, high brow, and solid jaw nice—his heavily lashed, storm-cloud eyes being his best feature. But after the beard? The Beard? Well, it took his nice face and made it hotter than Southern summer nights. That would be hot spelled H-A-W-T. All severe and foreboding and…hubba, hubba.
Combine his new visage with wicked tattoos and a body that was broad of shoulder, lean of hip, and made for sin, and that subtle fsssss anytime he got near was the sound of Chelsea’s panties melting.
That seemed to happen a hundred times a day too.
It was pathetic. She was pathetic. Especially since he had never expressed similar feelings for her.
Although, come to think of it, perhaps it was better he hadn’t expressed any interest. After all, there was the Big Bad Secret she was keeping from him, and—
“You should just invite him to come meet your cat and get it over with.” Emily Scott took a seat on the sofa next to Chelsea. Emily wore silk sleep pants and a ratty sweatshirt that looked like Methuselah might have had it made during his younger years.
“Huh?” Chelsea frowned, slathering a fresh spoonful of cream cheese onto her bagel. She enjoyed her food, and it showed in the extra fifteen pounds she hadn’t been able to shake since she was sixteen. Not that she had tried all that hard. According to the chart in her doctor’s office, her BMI was in the healthy range. So who cared if she jiggled when she wiggled?
Not me. She took another happy bite of bagel and thought, Life’s too short. “What cat? What are you talking about?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “It’s a euphemism, silly.”
“For what?”
“For a little sideways hi-how-are-ya.”
“Oh, you mean…” For s
ome reason, the word stuck in Chelsea’s throat like it came with a set of barbed hooks.
“Sex,” Emily finished for her far too loudly.
“Shh.” Chelsea glanced toward the kitchen where the three BKI men who had crossed the pond to provide support for her and this mission were gathered, talking in low tones as they waited for the second pot of coffee to brew. “What makes you think I want that?”
Emily shot her a look. “Uh, maybe because every time you see him, you aggressively eye fuck the hell out of him?” Emily’s South Side Chicago accent emphasized the a sounds of her words, drawing them out.
“I do not.” Chelsea felt her cheeks burst into flames.
“Oh yes. You do.”
Usually Chelsea enjoyed a no-bullshit, speak-her-mind kind of gal. But right then she’d have sold her left boob if Emily would shut up. Unfortunately, it appeared the market for left boobs was woefully saturated. No one was buying.
“I don’t see what the problem is.” Emily adjusted herself on the sofa, taking a sip of coffee. “You’re not seeing anyone back home, are you?”
“Just Junior Patrick.” Chelsea figured the straight-up, honest-to-God truth was the most expedient way to extricate herself from the conversation.
“Who’s Junior Patrick?”
Chelsea gave Emily’s words back to her. “It’s slang, silly. Don’t you ever watch the BBC? Junior Patrick is another name for a lady’s best friend.”
“Ah. Right. Good to know I’m not the only one in an intimate relationship with that guy.”
Chelsea chuckled and stood to slip out of her favorite Dobby the House Elf slippers—she was an avid reader and collector of all things fantasy-related and nerdy—and into her kitten-heel pumps. Draining the last of her coffee, she set the empty mug on the table and sighed. “I’m off. Another day, another dollar.”
“And hopefully another chance to plant that bug in Morrison’s computer.” Emily grinned up at her, showing a set of crossed fingers and an expression of true sympathy.
Right. Roper Morrison. Otherwise known as…Spider.
The name was enough to make Chelsea’s skin crawl.
Chapter 1
“There must be a better way to get this job done.”
Dagan Zoelner noted his own thunderous expression in the mirror hanging on the wall near the front door before returning his attention to Chelsea, sullenly eyeing her when she leaned close to her reflection to apply lipstick in a shade that could only be described as take-me-big-boy pink.
When she blew a kiss at him in the mirror, a coiling awareness tightened his gut. Then she turned and gifted him with a look that would have made a lesser man instinctively reach to protect his balls.
“Lands sakes alive, Z! You’re going to whip out your misogyny every morning?” That husky voice of hers…it did things to him, and she planted her hands on her fantastically curvy hips. The woman was built like a Kardashian, no doubt about it, but the familiar stance reminded him not of Kim or Khloé, but of a pint-sized Wonder Woman.
All she’s missing are the gold cuff bracelets and the flowing black hair.
Because while Chelsea’s hair was dark and shiny, it was as short as a little boy’s. A pixie cut, he thought it was called. And that word described Chelsea Duvall perfectly.
With her smooth café-au-lait skin, her copper-colored eyes that frequently glinted with mischief, and the sprinkling of freckles like cinnamon across the bridge of her button nose, she was an ethereal creature. One he wanted to put in a gilded cage so he could keep her safe from the cruel world. And, more importantly, from the likes of Roper fuckin’ Morrison.
“It’s not misogyny. It’s a cold, hard fact. You’re not qualified for this kind of work.”
“Oh sweet Jesus!” She tossed her hands in the air. She was unaware that the movement caused her blazer to gape open, revealing a set of spectacular breasts that stretched tight the fabric of her lavender blouse. “It’s déjà poo. As in, I’ve heard this crap too many times before.”
“Frequency doesn’t make it any less true.” He ripped his eyes away from the vast landscape of her chest because…you know…he refused to be that guy.
Even so, it didn’t escape his notice that her amazing rack was partly to blame for the position Chelsea currently found herself in…the position of pretending to be Morrison’s personal assistant when, in truth, she was waiting for an opportunity to plant a virus in one of his computers. Once she did that, the Black Knights back at headquarters in Chicago would hack into Morrison’s systems and get the information they needed to prove, once and for all, that he was the notorious Spider.
For months, they had tried to ferret out Spider’s true identity with no luck. Then, with the release of the Panama Papers, the detailed attorney-client information for more than 200,000 offshore companies and the identities of those companies’ shareholders and financial transactions, they had found the proverbial needle in the haystack. The papers had uncovered a tie between Morrison and a diamond mine in Angola. Which wasn’t all that unseemly on the surface, right? A man of Morrison’s means—estimated net worth fourteen billion dollars—who owned a media empire of a hundred newspapers and dozens of television stations in both the United States and the UK, had investments all over the world, Africa included. But it just so happened that the Black Knights and the CIA had reason to believe that that particular diamond mine was owned by the shadowy Spider.
It had been a clear case of a transitive relationship as far as everyone had been concerned. If A equaled B, and B equaled C, then A equaled C. Morrison was Spider. The trouble came in trying to prove it. They hadn’t been able to hack into Morrison’s systems from the outside because, according to BKI’s hacker extraordinaire, the renowned Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes, “Morrison’s firewalls have firewalls.” So that had left them with only one option: Get someone on the inside.
Enter Chelsea Duvall.
She had volunteered for the job with one unforgettable sentence: I’ll get so close to Morrison, he won’t be able to take a piss without me giving it a shake.
Dagan had exploded. He’d told her and everyone else at the early-morning meeting, “There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell Chelsea will be the one to do this. She’s an analyst, not a fuckin’ field agent!”
But he’d been outvoted.
Apparently Chelsea was the perfect pawn to use in the chess match with Morrison because the man was known to hire and surround himself with women who possessed certain…physical attributes. Read: Ladies built like brick shithouses. And Chelsea’s backstory about wanting to quit her job with the Bureau of Land Management—that was her CIA cover—move to England, and go to work for Morrison was exceptional for two reasons. One, it was believable. And two, it happened to be one hundred percent true.
Less than two weeks after that fateful meeting at BKI headquarters, it became known that Morrison had fired his PA. Twenty-four hours later, Chelsea’s résumé had been in Morrison’s hands. Forty-eight hours after that—time no doubt used by Morrison’s security team to vet Chelsea top to bottom—she had been on a plane to London to sit for an interview.
Just as had been predicted, Morrison had taken one look at Chelsea—and her…uh…myriad delightful features—and hired her on the spot. That was the good news.
The bad news? Well, on top of being an evil and lecherous old fart, Morrison was incredibly paranoid. In the four and a half weeks Chelsea had worked for him, not once had she been allowed to enter either his home office or the office he kept in downtown London to use the thumb drive she meticulously sewed into the lining of her jacket or slacks or whatever other item of clothing she happened to wear to work that day.
Morrison not only locked the doors to his inner sanctums, but gaining access to the rooms required a retinal scan and voice recognition. Getting around the voice recognition part wasn’t too hard. Chelsea had already made a secre
t recording of Morrison saying the pass phrase. But the retinal scan? Short of offing the asshole and plucking out one of his eyeballs, they were at a loss. Something has to give.
Dagan was convinced that something should be Chelsea’s job with the handsy bastard. They could prove that Morrison was Spider some other way. One that didn’t involve her subjecting herself to Morrison’s unsubtle leers, roving hands, and blatant sexual innuendos.
“I’m just saying”—he eyed her mulish expression—“if you were going to get the chance to plant the virus, it would’ve happened by now.”
“Says who?” She thrust out her chin. It was small and pointy, and he had the oddest urge to bend down and kiss it.
“Says me.”
She rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses. “And you’re the ultimate authority…uh…why?”
“Let me see. Maybe it’s the hundreds of successful missions I’ve—”
“Lord have mercy,” she interrupted, slipping into the unhurried drawl that revealed her Southern roots. “You realize if I wanted to commit suicide, all I’d have to do is climb your ego and jump down to that place where you keep your humility.”
Before he could think of a good comeback, she continued. “And, sure, okay, let’s stand here and go through all the reasons I’m not qualified for this kind of work. Again. No, really. I love beating a dead horse. You go first. And when your arm gets tired, I’ll jump in. Ready? Go.”
“Bloody hell!” Christian, a former SAS officer who, for reasons known only to a few, had left Her Majesty’s Army to go to work for Black Knights Inc., called from the kitchen. “Would you two stop trading verbal punches? It’s too early in the morning. I’ve yet to finish my first cup of tea, and all that blathering is giving me a sodding headache!”
“Oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and angered the Brit,” Colby “Ace” Ventura said, sauntering up beside them and planting a kiss on Chelsea’s cheek.
Before coming to work for the Black Knights, Ace had been a crackerjack Navy pilot, hence the nickname “Ace”—although there was some speculation that his last name and the Jim Carrey movies had played a part in his nom de guerre. Dagan respected the shit out of the guy. But right now? Well, he was hard-pressed not to punch the fucker in the mouth. If the guy’s lips were busted, maybe then he’d keep them to himself.
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