by Tawny Weber
“Ms. Maclean’s name is on the account the payments are made to, but Lansky hasn’t tracked any actual activity on her part.”
“Any actual communication between Ramsey and Harper?”
“Nothing we’ve found.”
“He’s been stalking her.”
Since that was his take on it, Savino inclined his head.
“You might want to hit the grocery store, stock up on pancake mix. I’m sending you right back to suburbia.”
Torres wanted to argue. Savino didn’t need to be a cryptologist to crack the code written on his lieutenant’s face. Fury, frustration and reluctance were easy to read.
“I need you there, watching Ms. Maclean. Stay alert. Get into her house, set up interior surveillance,” he ordered quietly. “Obsessive stalking over an eight-year period doesn’t go away just because a man’s blown himself up.”
“She’s bait,” Torres realized, his frown deepening into a formidable scowl. “You don’t think she’s dirty. You think Ramsey wants her enough to come and get her.”
“What I think doesn’t matter.” Savino got to his feet as if Torres hadn’t just hit the bull’s-eye. “What you think doesn’t matter, either. All that matters is the mission. In this case, to pinpoint, flush out and apprehend the hostile.”
He could see the arguments on Torres’s face and shared the fury.
“Orders are orders, Diego,” he said quietly. They both knew that with one word, he’d just made it personal. “I need to know if you can handle them.”
Someone back in the kitchen broke a dish. Neither man blinked at the crash or the cussing that followed.
Even as he nodded, Diego looked as if he wanted to argue. Savino didn’t blame him. This wasn’t a simple mission. It wasn’t anything they’d trained for. And it wasn’t easy.
But they hadn’t signed up for easy.
* * *
“MRS. WALCOTT, WELCOME HOME,” Harper said, holding open the heavy oak door and waving the woman into her house. She hoped like crazy that they could get this walk-through done as quickly as possible. Once, she’d been happy to devote any time not earmarked for her son on work. But this week all she wanted was to be home in bed doing all sorts of naked things to Diego. With Diego.
“Is it done? Did you finish? I meant to be here an hour ago, but there was a sale. Shoes. Oh, my God, the shoes.” The buxom redhead fanned her face as if just thinking about footwear got her hot. Which, Harper supposed, it probably did. “But you finished, right? You’re done?”
“As scheduled,” Harper said, gesturing toward the archway that led down the hall to, among other things, the basement door. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
Mrs. Walcott teetered down to the basement on her new five-inch stilettos, stopping at the foot of the stairs to clap her hands over her mouth. Harper was pretty sure that was a good thing.
She sure hoped so. This was her first clandestine design job. Mrs. Walcott had been so excited about making it a huge birthday surprise for her husband, she’d come up with code words in case he overheard them speaking and had even bought a prepaid cell phone to hide the calls.
Even though they’d settled on the design a month ago, the woman had called from her secret number at least a dozen times with ideas and changes. Harper still wasn’t sure if she was more proud of her skills at diplomacy, her juggling or her actual design.
As the redhead bounced and squealed her delight, Harper settled on pride in her design.
The basement was refurbished and decorated in a 1950s drive-in theme with its red-and-white leather couch that looked like the bench seat of a ’57 Chevy, enough chrome to bumper a fleet and a wall of black-lacquer-framed prints of classic cars.
There was an ornate jukebox in one corner of the room, and a sleek bar fitted into the other complete with a milkshake machine.
Not bad, Harper decided with a pleased look. But it wasn’t her satisfaction that mattered she reminded herself.
“I hope you like it,” she started to say as the other woman stepped farther into the room.
Apparently she did. At least, that’s what Harper was taking the happy squeal for. Mrs. Walcott slapped perfectly manicured hands over her mouth to muffle the next squeal, and did a happy, hoppy sort of dance, jumping in place with enough verve to put her bra to the test.
Harper managed not to laugh out loud.
“Oh, my sweetie is going to love this. Just love it. It’s perfect, Harper. Now that I see it all finished like this, I can see how right you were to put the pool table down here. I thought it’d be too crowded. But it’s perfect. You have such a wonderful eye. Oh, he’s going to love it.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
Before Harper could say more, Mr. Walcott’s voice rang out from upstairs.
“Tiffany?”
“Oh, no,” the redhead gasped. She took a deep breath. “I’m down here, sweetie. In the basement. Come on down.”
“I’ll slip out the side,” Harper suggested, snagging her portfolio bag and inching her way toward the door.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. He’ll want to thank you.” Chewing on her bottom lip, Mrs. Walcott looked around and flapped her hands. “You can explain what everything is. The concept and how it all ties together and stuff.”
“You created his dream room,” Harper reminded her. “The perfect man cave. He’s going to love it. Give it a few days. Then if you or he decide on any changes, just call me.”
Harper had her hand on the door when “sweetie,” who was built like a bull gone soft in the middle, clopped down the stairs. She took a moment to enjoy Mr. Walcott’s delighted surprise at his gift, watching as he lumbered from couch to bar to pool table, exclaiming the perfection of each while his wife bounced and clapped behind him.
They really loved each other, Harper realized. They were, for all intents and purposes, a complete mismatch. The gruff, overweight, thrice-married banker and the sleek, bubbly trophy wife were completely gone on each other.
With one last look at the cooing couple sighing over the room, while curled into each other’s arms, Harper slipped out the ornate side door. Standing on the flagstone side yard of the large house with the sun warm overhead and the ocean a gentle roar in the distance, Harper sighed. The Walcotts were on year ten, and everything she’d heard about them said they were devoted. What was it like to have someone like that? Someone you knew well enough to surprise with the perfect gift, someone who made your happiness paramount?
That was love, wasn’t it?
Harper gripped her bag, fingers clenched tight around the leather handle as she tried to catch her breath. She wanted that. She wanted love, the kind that lasted.
She wanted heat and great sex. The soul-baring talks by the fire and easy chats over dinner. Sharing the responsibilities and the dreams, and building them together.
She didn’t just want it; she wanted it with Diego.
A chance. A hope. A future.
She puffed out a heavy breath and headed through the lush garden toward her car. She’d clearly overdosed on awesome sex if Sweetie Walcott was inspiring her to think she had a chance at true love.
Time to take it to a cynic and get these crazy thoughts out of her head.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Harper slid into a padded seat at the posh Beach Inn restaurant. The table overlooked the ocean and was backed by a bank of greenery, giving the illusion of privacy. Crystal and silver gleamed spears of light off the red lily arranged just so in the center of the white linen tablecloth.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, reaching over to give Andi’s hand a squeeze. “Especially your first day home.”
“My pleasure,” Andi assured her, tossing her dark hair behind her back as she leaned forward with a wicked smile. She’d dressed the part of the society
princess today in a silk suit the color of raspberries and heavy gold jewelry. “And since this was your idea, you can pay me back by filling me in on all the naughty details of your sexy affair with the man next door.”
“My idea was Maria’s,” Harper corrected with a laugh, naming the small family restaurant in her price range. “You’re the one who insisted on fancy.”
“My treat,” Andi said, waving that all aside. “The juicy details about your sexy neighbor will be payment enough.”
Before Harper could protest, or even decide how much she wanted to share, the waiter was there pouring lemon water and offering seasoned crackers and cheese. By the time he had their order, Andi looked as if she were going to explode with impatience.
“Well?” she prodded as soon as they were alone. “Details, darling. I want to hear everything.”
Everything? Harper blew out a breath, trying to separate her jumbled thoughts from the tangle of emotions.
“He’s wonderful,” she said softly. Seeing the worry flash in Andi’s eyes, she added quickly, “The perfect distraction. He’s mind-blowing in bed, but more important, he’s fun to talk with out of it. He’s passionate about fitness, dedicated to his career and seems to care—to really care—about Nathan.”
“And Nathan’s mom?” Andi asked quietly, her fingers tapping silently on the linen. “It sounds like she’s falling hard.”
“I’m not falling,” Harper said dismissively, hoping her laugh didn’t sound as fake to Andi as it did to her. “I’m just enjoying. Wasn’t that the point?”
“As long as you enjoy the moment and don’t fall into the forever trap.”
Harper waited while the waiter served their drinks, an iced tea for her and a champagne cocktail for Andi.
“Which is?” she asked as soon as he’d left.
“Forever is a myth,” Andi said, her expression twisting into a sneer. “It’s a fairy tale kept alive by romantics and capitalists who make a fortune off selling the impossible.”
Once Harper would have agreed. But now she wasn’t so sure. Or maybe she just didn’t want to think that way anymore.
“Then what’s the point of being involved with someone?” Suddenly wishing she’d ordered alcohol, Harper wondered why she hadn’t asked these questions before she seduced Diego. “What about love?”
“Between a man and a woman? There’s lust and compatibility. Friendship and comfort and passion and affection,” Andi listed, gesturing with her drink. “I suppose any one or combination of those elements could be mistakenly called love. But they’re not.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there’s no such thing as love.”
Harper blinked. Well, she’d come looking for a cynic. She’d definitely found one.
“But you believed in love once, didn’t you?”
“I believed in Santa Claus, too. But he hasn’t left anything under my tree in years, Harper. Myths and fairy tales are pretty things. But they aren’t real.”
The words were harsh, and the pain in her friend’s eyes was real. Her face creased with worry, Andi wrapped her hand around Harper’s.
“Is that what you’re thinking? That there’s more to this guy than a hot, fast ride? Harper, don’t be crazy. This is just sex. I’m glad you’re having it. You needed to have it. But don’t start thinking crazy,” Andi chided. “Don’t start thinking forever.”
“I’m not thinking forever,” Harper denied, suddenly terrified to realize she might actually be. “I’m simply out of practice. I’ve only had one relationship, and we both know how that ended. Maybe I’m just trying to figure out the ground rules. How to go along, how to know when it’s right.”
“And how to recognize when it’s going wrong so you can get out first?” Andi guessed.
Harper considered that while the waiter made a production out of serving their salads. The idea of forever scared her almost as much as it tempted. The only other forever she’d ever believed in was Nathan.
“First off, forget about forever,” Andi advised, digging into her steak salad. “Relationships aren’t meant to last that long. That’s why you need to wring every drop of pleasure out of the time you have. Enjoy the sex. Have a great time. Just don’t fall into the trap of believing in love. That sort of thinking will get you in trouble, Harper.”
Andi tossed back the last of her champagne cocktail and shook her head. “Trouble,” she repeated. “And heartbreak.”
Andi’s words were still ringing in her head when Harper got home later that afternoon. That was what she’d wanted, Harper told herself as she rubbed her hands over her chilled arms. That was why she’d come to Andi. Not to validate her feelings, but to have her friend talk her out of them.
She tucked her portfolio into her office and set her shoes on the bottom stair. But as she stepped barefoot into the kitchen, she stopped short.
What was Diego doing in her backyard? Frowning, she crossed the room. Before she reached the door, though, she knew. And almost cried.
He was building Nathan a pitching cage.
Harper let her forehead rest on the cool glass as she watched Diego put it together. Her eyes traveled over the delicious way his dark blue tee stretched tight over broad shoulders before touring on down to appreciate his butt. It was a good one.
Those long, talented fingers handled the wrench with ease, his moves quick and economical as he fastened and tightened and did whatever it was to make the net stretch tautly between the white metal frame. She remembered how those fingers felt traveling over her body, teasing, tempting, driving her crazy.
If he turned his head, she knew her heart would stutter for just a second and her breath would catch in her chest at the sight of his gorgeous face. It had every time he’d looked at her so far, and she didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.
But while his body, his sexual prowess and his gorgeous looks were all perfect reasons to revel in their fling, they weren’t the reason her heart was stuttering.
No, she realized with a deep sigh. It was because Diego had listened to Nathan, had heard a need her little boy had that she hadn’t even realized. And he was out there answering that need. Not to get her into bed—he already had her there.
Diego was doing it just for Nathan.
Harper pressed a hand against the butterflies swarming through her stomach and tried to remember Andi’s warning. There was no such thing as love.
That should be a comfort, shouldn’t it? After all, she couldn’t fall into something that didn’t exist.
* * *
DIEGO REVELED IN the sweat pouring off his body, focusing his attention on pushing his muscles to their limits. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, they all kept him focused and helped keep him from going crazy. His thoughts shifted to the sexy woman next door, seeing clients in the safety of her home office.
She was incredible. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, over the last three days she’d entertained him with her clever repartee, her adorable sense of humor and her inescapably delicious body. He couldn’t remember ever being so comfortable, or so turned on.
Mostly turned on, he had to admit as he automatically counted rope jumps, even as he thought back to their little pre-lunch entertainment as he’d watched her dress for her client meeting. The woman wore stockings. Real ones, with lacy straps at the top of her thighs.
Diego stopped midjump so the rope slapped on the pavement with a sad whoosh, damn near tripping off balance thanks to the erection sucking up half of his blood supply.
He’d never been so grateful to hear his phone buzz.
“Savino,” he said in lieu of a greeting.
“Torres,” his commander returned. “Find cover.”
Diego cast a quick look toward the house next door, then stepped inside his own. He engaged the scrambler, ensuring he wouldn’t b
e overhead by anyone, in person or electronically.
“Covered, sir.”
“Report.”
Diego wanted to ask why it’d taken three days for Savino to get ahold of him. What the hell had they found out? He’d watched that video a few more times, but so far he hadn’t cracked the code. Prescott was the best cryptologist on the team—had Savino brought him in? Could he, given that the man was still lying, burned, in a hospital bed?
Diego wanted to know all of that. He wanted to know the status of the investigation, to know whether the rest of the team had been deployed or if they were sitting around, waiting for him to clear their name. To clear his own.
But he asked nothing.
Instead, he followed orders.
Standing at ease, one hand cupped in the small of his back, chin high, he issued his report. Which was to report that, basically, not a damned thing was going on.
When he finished, he simply waited.
“Continue as you are,” the orders finally came.
“As I am? Sitting on my ass, pretending?” he couldn’t stop himself from snapping.
“You want to act. To fight. You’re an expert at covert ops, you have strong counterintelligence qualifications. But sitting, watching, waiting, it’s outside your expertise.”
He had that right.
“So you’re sending in someone else?”
Even as something ached in his chest, something too close to his heart, relief came, too.
“I can’t. Not at this juncture. Everything I’m seeing, everything I’ve been able to discern, everything I’ve been able to dig out of NI, points to Ramsey being our guy.”
“Ms. Maclean?”
“Financial discrepancies are accounted for. The house is rented from an Andrianna Stamos, who according to what we’ve dug up, keeps the rent low in response to her divorce settlement. Similar findings on the boy’s tuition and a scholarship program the school runs.”
“Ramsey’s bank account with her name on it?” The account that’d pointed the finger at her in the first place. The whole damned reason Diego was there, watching while a woman he was coming to realize he cared way too much about was used as bait.
