Broken With You

by J. Kenner

  Fucking hell…

  “Were Denise and I—”

  From over the pass-through bar, Liam looked at him, his expression bland. “Say again?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering if we worked well together.”

  “I never worked with the two of you, but from what she says, you guys made a great team.”

  He nodded, pleased that he’d managed to divert his own misstep before Liam noticed. And irritated that his thoughts had zeroed in on Denise Marshall with such laser-like intensity. Not because she was his partner, but, damn him, because he craved her.

  There. He said it. Maybe not out loud, but he’d voiced the words in his head. Words he’d been dancing around since the first moment she’d walked into his little cell of a room at the SOC. And now here he was, about to start working in close proximity to her.

  All of which made him a fucking idiot, because the part of his body that he needed to kick-start was the memory centers of his brain. Not his damn cock. And the last thing he wanted to do was insult her or the memory of her husband.

  If he was a better man, he would have stayed away. Not approached Seagrave with his plan to spur his memory at all. But he couldn’t deny that spending time with her had been at least as appealing as the possibility of sparking his memory. And definitely more certain.

  He sighed, looking out over the Pacific. “Sometimes I wonder if I forgot myself because I’m just that much of an asshole.”

  Liam frowned. “Come again?”

  He waved the words away. “Sorry. Pity party. Ignore me.”

  “Yeah, well, if anyone deserves one, it’s you.” He stepped out from behind the counter with two mugs and handed one to Jack.

  “Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay here. You sure I’m not putting you out? Wife? Girlfriend?”

  “Just me.” There was a hard edge to Liam’s voice. The kind of edge that hinted at secrets. And had Jack shifting the conversation. He might be curious, but he wasn’t about to piss off his host. Especially not since he hoped that host would grow into a friend.

  Liam cleared his throat. “Let’s get you settled, then I need to head back for my team meeting. Denise is picking you up this evening right?”

  Jack nodded, then held up the duffel that contained all his belongings in the world. “I’d like to own more than one pair of jeans and an extra pair of skivvies. Thought I’d grab an Uber and pull out the shiny new ID and credit card Seagrave arranged for me. That is, if you don’t mind giving me a spare key.”

  “It’s a keypad lock,” Liam said, telling him the code. “And no need for a ride share. You can handle a bike?”

  “Let me guess. A Harley?”

  “If that’s your poison. There’s one in the garage. A Ducati, too, along with a few other beauties. Keys are on the hook by the fridge. But don’t touch the Bonneville. I just finished restoring her, and I always take the inaugural ride.”

  Jack’s grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. “Liam, my man, I think I’m going to like crashing here.”

  He didn’t need much. Considering he had no closet of his own, Jack only intended to buy the bare minimum. A clean pair of jeans without rips in the knees. A couple of decent T-shirts so he didn’t look like he’d raided his grandfather’s closet. Figure of speech, that. He didn’t even know if he had a grandfather.

  Shoes. A razor. A toothbrush.

  Nothing but the essentials. Get in, get out, get back to Liam’s and do a little prep work on Cerise Sinclair, thanks to Ryan agreeing to shoot the encrypted files to the spare laptop Liam had left for him. Not strictly necessary—Ryan had assured him the matter was simple enough that Denise could brief him on the way—but Jack didn’t intend to slack. If he was on the team, he was doing the job.

  Besides, Denise had already seen him at his worst. He wanted her to know that he was also sharp, efficient, and always prepared.

  He remembered that there was a mall in Century City, an unremarkable memory for most people, but one that had him fighting the urge to do a victory dance. It turned out to be of the Pyrrhic variety, however, because he quickly learned how much he hated shopping. The only point was to acquire clothes and other necessities, and yet as far as he could tell, the stores wanted to make the process a multimedia experience.

  And if one more rail thin woman asked to spray him with some new cologne that she assured him was manly, he feared he’d have to break something.

  He ended up escaping with a single pair of jeans, a gray Henley, a sport coat, shoes, and a package of underwear. After that, he hit a drugstore for bathroom essentials. As he was heading toward the checkout, he passed a display of condoms—and immediately his mind filled with images of Denise Marshall. Not X-rated. Not even NC-17. But definitely a strong R-rating.

  He was in so goddamn much trouble.

  He drew a deep breath, told himself that he had bigger things to worry about than getting laid, lectured himself on the importance of being a professional, and then got the hell away from the display as fast as he possibly could.

  By the time the doorbell rang at six that evening, he’d cleaned up, changed, reviewed the Sinclair file, and resisted the urge to plug Denise and Mason’s names into Google.

  For a while, anyway.

  He’d originally justified the urge by telling himself that she knew a hell of a lot more about him than he knew about her. But that was bullshit, of course. What he really wanted was to see what made her tick. Who made her tick.

  He wanted to find out about Mason—and he wanted to find out almost as much as he didn’t want to be the kind of asshole who’d do that.

  So he’d backed away from the computer.

  And then, dammit, he’d come to terms with the thought of being a prick. He’d run five searches and he didn’t find a thing. Not one single thing. Not a name. Not a picture. Not a half-assed remark in someone else’s Twitter stream.

  Nothing.

  So he ran more. Looked deeper. Harder.

  Crickets. Not even a hint.

  Which mean that Mason had been a ghost. A high-level operative who was placed in key, long-term, undercover missions. The kind of guy who, for every one of him, there were at least fifty other agents parked at computers across the world whose job entailed nothing more than making sure he was completely erased from the web, the deep web, the dark web, and all the layers in-between.

  More than that, it meant that Mason could still be alive.

  He frowned, trying to remember his earlier conversation with Denise. She still wore his ring, and she’d told him—what?

  Not that her husband was dead. All Denise had said was that he’d been gone for a very long time. Jack had assumed the rest.

  With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, and once again condemned himself as a prick. He’d just learned that his partner’s husband—a man who by all accounts had been his friend—might well be alive. He should be happy. He should be scheming ways to learn the truth, even if it pissed off Seagrave and the rest of them. Because God knew Jack didn’t have anything to lose at this point.

  He should be doing anything other sitting there numb and feeling like a little boy who just learned that Christmas was canceled.

  Asshole.

  Yeah, that’s right. He needed to just own it. He was a fucked-up, horny, prick who hadn’t been laid in God knew how long. He met a woman he was attracted to—a woman who turned out to be off-limits—and that fact offended his apparently Neanderthal sensibilities.

  Well, too bad for him.

  Because in the grand scheme of things, he had a lot more important things to worry about. Like, oh, who he was and what he’d been working on. Everything else could wait, and if that meant he took two cold showers a day, then so be it.

  For that matter, he should probably take one right now…

  Ding!

  He frowned, the sharp chime of the doorbell reminding him that he was all out of time. “Coming!” he called before stopping by the bathroom to splash some cold water on hi
s face.

  Then he hurried down the stairs, only to stop short when he saw her standing in the entrance hall.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was already inside by the time I realized you’d probably said coming, not come in.”

  “It’s all good,” he said. “I’d offer you something to eat or drink, but it’s not my kitchen, not my food.”

  “No worries.” Her grin lit up her eyes making them spark like green flame. Christ, but she was lovely. “But if you need a tour of Liam’s kitchen, I’m happy to walk you through.”

  A nip of jealousy grabbed hold of him, like some irritating little mongrel he couldn’t shake loose. “You hang out here a lot?”

  “I’m the plant and fish girl.” She laughed, obviously in response to his expression. “I stay here when Liam’s out of town. I like walking on the beach. And I’m not all that crazy about my house anymore.” She met his eyes, then looked away quickly, as if she didn’t want him to see her secrets.

  “The house you shared with Mason.”

  “We never got around to fixing it up. And it’s lonely without—him.”

  He had the impression she’d been about to say something else, though he couldn’t imagine what. “And that ties in to plants and fish how?”

  “You obviously haven’t seen Liam’s room. Come on.”

  She took the stairs two at a time, passing the open door to his bedroom, and continuing up to the master bedroom that took up the entire third floor. The minute he stepped through the door, he understood what she meant. Small potted plants dotted the room, but it was the outdoors that truly drew his attention. The balcony was covered with greenery. Not in an overbearing way, but in a way that made the outdoor space welcoming and pleasant for anyone who wanted to sit out there and watch the surf.

  He thought of Liam—big, muscular Liam—sitting at the small metal table sipping coffee, and had to grin.

  “Bet if you had to guess what was on his balcony you would have gone with a weight bench and a punching bag.”

  “Pretty much,” he agreed. “And the fish?”

  “Oh, the fish are especially cool.” She cocked her head, and then led him into the huge master bath, where one entire wall was a giant seawater fish tank filled with stunning, colorful sea life.

  “That’s incredible.”

  “I know, right? When I stay here to plant and fish-sit, I sleep in the guest room. But I told Liam that he had to let me use the master bath. It’s just too fun.”

  “Jackson Steele did this?”

  “Liam told you about the remodel? Yeah. I keep thinking I’ll ask Jackson to come up with something equally awesome for my house. But then…” She didn’t shrug, but her overly casual smile worked equally as well as a dismissal.

  He didn’t take the bait. “You didn’t want to work on the house alone.”

  She turned back toward the fish, and for a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. He was about to apologize for pushing too hard, when she said very softly. “No. No, I was wa—”

  “Waiting for Mason to come home? He’s alive, isn’t he?”

  She’d shifted, returning her attention to him. “I never said he was dead.”

  “But you knew I’d think it. And for awhile, I think you believed it.”

  Her brow furrowed as she studied him. “What makes you say that?”

  “You looked so haunted when you’d said he’d been gone a long time. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is that he’s not dead, is he?”

  “No.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “He’s not.”

  “I’m glad for you.” He meant the words. He had no desire to hurt her. But they still left him hollow. “He was on an undercover assignment, right? Deep cover?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A guess, but clearly a good one. If he was in deep cover, how can you be sure he’s alive? Has he made contact?”

  She drew in a breath, then looked him straight in the eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Twice. And you know enough about that world to know I shouldn’t be talking about it. Which means this conversation is done.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She glanced at her phone, then frowned. “We need to hurry if we’re going to meet Cerise on time.”

  “Want me to drive?” He still had the Ducati’s key in his pocket, and now he dangled it. He was teasing, of course. He knew damn well they’d take her car.

  Which was why her delighted laugh and eager nod threw him completely off guard. So off that he couldn’t prevent the words that burst into his head, terrifying in their truth—Damn, but he could fall hard for this woman.

  9

  “I forgot about the hills and curves,” I shout as I cling to Mason—Jack!—while he expertly navigates the Hollywood Hills. “Take your next left, then an immediate right.”

  He may have lost his memory, but he hasn’t lost his skill on a bike, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this chance to hold onto my husband. His well-muscled body fits perfectly against mine, and I keep my arms tight around him, my chin resting on his shoulder as we sail over streets carved from these tree-covered hills.

  Cerise’s house sits at the rise of one of the steepest hills, and I press my thighs more firmly against Jack’s hips, holding on as we creep up the hill at an obscene angle. Her place is lovely—three levels of stucco and wood with an incredible view of Universal Studios and the valley beyond—but access is a challenge, and this isn’t a route I’d want to navigate daily.

  Nor is it a home I’d want if I was worrying about stalkers. It may be hard to get to, but it’s also hard to leave. Her road is a dead end, and her only neighbor is an elderly man who spent his youth working on television sitcoms.

  The three lots that surround her property are for sale, but so far no buyer has been interested in tackling the engineering nightmare that comes with building on such steep lots, particularly with the hassle of getting equipment up these narrow streets.

  “Still,” Jack says when I run all of that by him, “that’s one hell of a view.”

  He’s right. And for a moment we stand at the side of the road in front of the bike, looking past the house to the view beyond. “Some consolation for living up here,” I say. “All the same, I think I’d choose the beach.”

  “Or your place?”

  I frown. I love my house—I do. But I love a vision of it that may never come to fruition. And that’s not something I want to talk about with Jack. Especially not with Jack.

  Instead, I divert the conversation, lifting a shoulder and saying simply, “Neither hills nor beach. I’m a sad example of a real estate maven.”

  “I don’t think you’re a sad example of anything.” There’s something soft and familiar in his voice, and I turn without thinking to face him, then draw in a tight breath at the look in his eye. A familiar glint of humor and passion. The kind of look that was usually followed by a swift tug on my arm to pull me close, a firm grip on my ass, and the kind of hot kiss that would melt me right into bed.

  I swallow a strangled gasp and yank my gaze away, suddenly fascinated with the cuff of my jeans.

  “Denise, I—”

  The rumble and squeak of the rising garage door cuts off his words, and I silently thank Cerise for her ill-timed appearance. She’s standing inside the garage, and she bends down to slip under the door, then waves at us.

  The wind has caught her silky, black hair, and she pushes a wild curl out of her eyes. “What on earth are you doing out here? I saw you pull up and got tired of waiting. Your bike?” she asks, eyeing Mason in a way that makes my girl parts sit up and start growling.

  “Cerise,” I say, forcing myself to be polite, “this is Jack Sawyer, my new partner. I wanted to introduce you and let him take a peek at the equipment. And we both want to hear whatever it is you wanted to talk about. Ryan was rather vague.”

  “Oh, sure.” She hugs herself and flashes an extremely photogenic smile at Jack. I tense, forcing myself not to sidle nex
t to him and hook my arm possessively through his.

  “Are you having trouble with the system?” I ask as she leads us inside through the garage.

  “Not really,” she says with a small frown. “I don’t think to check the video that often, but since the feed goes direct to your monitoring station, I feel pretty confident.” She looks over her shoulder as we move down the back hall toward the main living area. “I know setting me up was small potatoes for Stark Security, but it’s made me feel a lot safer knowing your staff monitors the feed.”

  “That’s the point,” I say. She’s right, of course. For the most part, the SSA takes on high-end assignments. But Damien’s always been adamant about the SSA being service-oriented. Which is why we also provide basic security service for celebrities at events and home security for anyone who walks through the door and can afford the equipment and monthly fee. And a few people who can’t, if Damien or Ryan approve the cost, as I’ve seen them do for a number of near-destitute women who were being harassed by their ex-husbands or boyfriends.

  “No one’s been too obnoxious in person,” Cerise continues, “but some of the online comments…” She trails off, her nose wrinkling.

  “I get it,” I assure her. I’m not online much, but I have a very good imagination. “So, all in all you feel safe up here? You’re pretty isolated.”

  “That’s part of what I like,” she says. “I really do love this place. That’s why—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “I’m probably just being paranoid.”

  “It’s usually someone who thinks they’re paranoid who gets kicked in the nuts,” Jack says.

  “Well, then I’m safe,” Cerise quips, making me laugh.

  “What do you think you’re being paranoid about?” Jack asks.

  She drags her finger through her hair. “I saw someone last night, way down the hill. But he was just out of camera range. I checked the feed, and it cut off before the dip. Right there,” she adds, pointing down. “It’s not even my property, which is why I figure I shouldn’t worry about it. Probably a homeless person. Or maybe the owner was walking the property. Thinking about clearing brush or something. The sun was behind the hills, but it wasn’t pitch black yet.”