A flood of adrenaline surged through her.

Claire shoved through the glass doors and took off down the sidewalk toward the car. Mike must’ve seen her in the rearview mirror because the engine growled to life at her approach.

The man yelled after her, but she had no intention of stopping.

Despite her high-heeled boots, she took off in a run, someone sprinting behind her.

She tugged open the door and scrambled inside the car. The man had caught up with her and made a grab for her coat as it flew out behind her.

“Claire?” Mike’s voice gave her strength and purpose.

“Go, Mike! Just go!”

That was all he needed from her. No questions, no answers.

He floored the gas pedal and the car lurched away from the curb, flinging the door open and shedding the government man hanging on to it.

Secret Agent Santa
Carol Ericson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL ERICSON lives with her husband and two sons in Southern California, home of state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery, wild freeway chases and a million amazing stories. These stories, along with hordes of virile men and feisty women, clamor for release from Carol’s head. It makes for some interesting headaches until she sets them free to fulfill their destinies and her readers’ fantasies. To learn more about Carol, please visit her website, www.carolericson.com, “Where romance flirts with danger.”

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To Margery, hope this Christmas brings you fond memories

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Password Failed.

The message mocked her, and Claire almost punched the computer monitor. She didn’t think it would be easy figuring out her stepfather’s password, but she didn’t think it would take her almost fifty tries over the course of three weeks, either. How did those hackers do it?

Placing her fingers on the keyboard, she closed her eyes, racking her brain for the next possible password. The voices in the hallway stopped her cold, sending a ripple of fear across her flesh.

She had no reason to be in this office, especially with a lavish party going on downstairs—her lavish party. She whipped her head around, the action loosening her carefully coiffed chignon, and lunged for the French doors. She parted the drapes, grabbed one handle and slipped through the opening onto the balcony.

She clicked the glass door shut just as she saw the door to the office crack open. Placing her palms against the rough brick, she sidled along the wall until she reached the edge of the balcony farthest from the doors.

Feathers of snow drifted from the night sky, leaving a dusting of white on the Georgetown streets. DC rarely saw snow in December. Just her luck.

She crossed her arms, digging her fingers into the cold skin exposed by her sleeveless gown. She couldn’t stay here long or her stepfather’s security detail would find her and would have to chip her stiff body from the brick facade of the town house.

The French doors next to her swung open and Claire flattened herself against the wall. Her stepfather, Senator Spencer Correll, must’ve noticed the parted drapes or the chill in the room and had decided to investigate. What possible excuse could she offer for being out on the balcony in the snow in an evening gown in the middle of a party?

“I love it when it snows in DC.” Her stepfather’s hearty tone reassured her that he had no idea anyone was lurking out here—it also sounded forced. He must be putting on an act for someone—but then, when didn’t he put on an act?

“We’re not going to have a white Christmas in South Carolina, so maybe I’ll stay here for a week or two and soak up the atmosphere.”

The other man’s Southern drawl marked him as a constituent from her stepfather’s home state. She just hoped the snow didn’t enthrall him enough to step onto the balcony.

“I suggest you do. Nothing like Christmas in DC.”

Spencer’s voice sounded so close, she was surprised he couldn’t see her breath in the cold air. She held it.

“It’ll be an especially merry Christmas for you, Senator Correll, if you vote for that...uh...subsidy.”

“It’s a done deal. I’ll introduce you to my assistant tonight. Trey will take care of all the details. After tonight, your boss should be reassured.”

“Looking forward to it.” The toe of a polished dress shoe tapped the pavers on the balcony, and Claire clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

“There’s quite a crowd here tonight, Senator. I understand your stepdaughter, Claire, is an amazing fund-raiser.”

“If by fund-raiser you mean relentless harridan, that’s Claire.” Spencer chuckled. “Just like her mother.”

Claire’s blood ran like ice through her veins, and it had nothing to do with her rapidly dropping body temperature. The chill in Spencer’s voice when he mentioned her mother buoyed her suspicions that he’d had something to do with Mom’s death. Maybe by discovering what he was up to with his vast amount of fund-raising and secretive meetings with suspected terrorists she would finally uncover evidence tying him to Mom’s so-called accident.

She still had the video—the video that had sent her reeling and tumbling down a rabbit hole.

“A great lady, your wife.” The shoe retreated, and Claire never heard Spencer’s response to the compliment to his dead wife as the doors closed on the two men.

She let out a long breath and a new round of chills claimed her body. Even though they’d closed the door, her stepfather and his crony were still in the office.

She turned toward the low wall around the balcony and peered over the edge. She could hike up her dress and climb over and then try to reach the trellis that was positioned on the side of the building. She was just one story up.

“Are you going to jump?”

She gasped and jerked her head toward the sound of the voice from below. A man stood just outside the circle of light emanating from the side of the house. What was he doing out here? More important, why was he yelling? She put her finger to her lips and shook her head.

He caught on quickly. He shrugged a pair of broad shoulders draped in a black overcoat and turned the corner back to the front of the house, his red scarf billowing behind him.

Could this night get any worse? She rubbed her freezing hands together, and couldn’t feel her fingertips.

Then the shadows from the office stopped their dance across the balcony and she knew the two men had left the room. Biting her lip, she tried the door and heaved a sigh of relief. At least Spencer hadn’t locked it. He didn’t need to with the sensors, cameras and security guards monitoring this place—her place.

She tripped back into the room, her feet blocks of ice in her strappy silver sandals. She made a beeline for the door, throwing a backward glance at the computer. She’d finish checking passwords another time.

She crept down the hallway toward the stairs, but instead of heading down to her party, she climbed the steps to the third level of the expansive townhome her mother used to share with Spencer Correll, Mom’s third husband.

She needed to warm up before mingling with her guests, anyway, and a visit to her son was a surefire way to warm both her heart and body.

Pushing open the door next to her bedroom, she tiptoed into the darkened room, the night-light shaped like a train her beacon. She knelt beside Ethan’s bed and burrowed her hands beneath the covers, resting her head next to his on the pillow.

His warm mint-scented breath bathed her cheek, and she traced the curve of his earlobe with her lips.

She whispered, “Love you, beautiful boy.”

His long lashes fluttered and he mumbled in his sleep. She had to get him out of here, out of this viper’s nest. His grandparents had been clamoring to take him snowboarding in Colorado over the holidays, and even though this would be her first Christmas without him, she was making the sacrifice to protect him. He’d be leaving her in two days.

“Claire?” The shaft of light from the hallway widened across the floor.

Her stepfather’s voice always made her skin crawl.

“I’m in here, Spencer.”

“You have a surprise guest downstairs.”

“I hope this guest came with his or her checkbook.”

“Oh, I think he came with a lot more than that.” Spencer stepped into the room. “Where have you been all night? I haven’t seen you since the festivities kicked off with the tree lighting.”

“I had a headache, and then I stopped in to see Ethan. I’m getting in some extra time with him before sending him off to his grandparents.”

“I still can’t believe you’re parting with your son over Christmas.”

“The Chadwicks haven’t had him for the holidays—ever. They deserve that.”

“They should’ve told that son of theirs to stay home once he had a baby on the way. If he couldn’t keep out of harm’s way for you, he owed that to his child.”

“That’s enough.” She straightened up and pulled back her shoulders. “Shane was doing what he loved. His work was important to him. I don’t want you ever to say anything like that in front of Ethan.”

Spencer held up his hands. “I wouldn’t do that. Now, come downstairs. They’re getting ready to serve dinner, and you’ll want to see this guest. Trust me.”

She wouldn’t trust her stepfather if he told her it was snowing outside after she’d just been standing in the stuff. She smoothed her hands across the skirt of her dress, flicking a tiny crystal of ice onto the floor, and joined him at the entrance to Ethan’s room.

He closed the door and placed a hand on her bare back. “You’re cold.”

“I feel like I’m coming down with something.” She shrugged off his clammy hand and headed for the curving staircase with Spencer close on her heels.

Did he suspect something?

With her fingertips trailing along the carved bannister, she descended into the warmth and chatter below. She scanned the room, her gaze skimming over glittering jewels and black bow ties. She didn’t see any special guest—just a bunch of strangers with checkbooks.

Looking back at Spencer, she asked, “Where’s this special guest?”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Claire.” He drummed his fingers along her shoulder. “He told us everything.”

A knot twisted in her stomach. What kind of game was her stepfather playing this time?

From the step above her, Spencer leveled a finger toward the foyer. “There he is.”

Claire’s eyes darted among the faces of the strange men gathered in the foyer shedding coats, and then her breath hitched in her throat when she caught sight of a tall, dark-haired man unwinding a red scarf from his neck.

Had he seen enough of her on the balcony to identify her?

He must’ve felt her stare burning into him because at that moment, he glanced up, his eyes meeting hers and his mouth twisting into a half smile.

Spencer nudged her from behind. “Don’t be shy now that the cat’s out of the bag. Go greet your fiancé.”

* * *

CLAIRE CHADWICK LOOKED like a ghost at the bottom of the staircase, her pale skin, blond hair and long, sparkling silver dress blending together to form a glittering cloud. Only her eyes, big, round and dark, stood out in relief.

Lola hadn’t exaggerated her friend’s beauty, but Claire didn’t have the look of a woman greeting her fiancé for the holidays. Of course, what did he expect of a novice? He’d have to take the reins here.

He dropped his scarf on top of his overcoat, resting in a maid’s arms, and took the ticket from her fingers. Nudging his bag on the floor with the toe of his dress shoe, he asked, “Could you please check this, too?”

Straightening his cuffs, he descended the two steps from the foyer into the great room, decorated with twinkling lights and crystal stars hanging from the ceiling. An enormous Christmas tree dominated one corner of the room, coated with silver flocking and sporting gold ornaments amid its colored lights.

He made a beeline for Claire, taking tentative steps in his direction, her stepfather, Senator Spencer Correll, almost prodding her forward.

This scenario wasn’t going as planned.

As the distance between them shortened to two feet, he held out one hand. “Sweetheart, I hope you don’t mind that I surprised you like this. My conference ended early.” He took her cold, stiff fingers in his hand and squeezed. “Lola sends her love.”

He pulled Claire toward him and kissed her smooth cheek. At the mention of Lola’s name, her hand relaxed in his. He didn’t know where the communication had failed, but at least Claire had some expectation of his presence here.

Her arms twined around his neck and she pressed her soft lips against his. “Babe, I’m thrilled to see you here, even though you spoiled my surprise.”

His arm curled around her slender waist, and they turned to face Spencer Correll together. Correll’s assistant had joined them.

Mike stuck out his hand to introduce himself to the assistant, just to make sure Claire knew his name...or at least the name and identity he’d devised for this assignment. “Mitchell Brown, nice to meet you.”

Correll clapped his hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “Trey Jensen, this is Claire’s fiancé, Mitchell Brown. Mitchell, my assistant, Trey Jensen.”

He shook the other man’s hand, already knowing his name, bank account balance and sexual predilections. “Good to meet you, Trey. Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I’m going to steal my fiancée away from her own party for a few minutes.”

Claire pinched his side. “I thought you’d never ask, babe.”

Spencer chuckled. “You two go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort for you, Claire. It’s not like you’ve spent much time with your guests anyway.”

Claire responded to this zinger by pulling Mike toward the staircase with a firm grip. “We won’t be too long.”

They held hands up the stairs and across the landing until she dragged him into a library, its shelves lined with books and the floor covered by a thick carpet that muted their steps.

She shut and locked the door and then turned toward him, her unusual violet eyes alight with fire. “Fiancé? You’re my fiancé?”

“I thought it was the best cover to keep me close to your side and privy to Correll’s comings and goings. That way I can stay in this house. I even brought a bag. This is still your house, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She narrowed her extraordinary eyes. “Did Lola send me someone I can actually work with, or a bodyguard?”

“Can’t I be a little of both?” He spread out his hands. He liked it better when she had her arms curled around his neck, kissing him, instead of skewering him with a frosty gaze. He needed to get on her good side if he wanted her to give Lola a good report—not that it mattered at this point.

“Just so you know, Mitchell Brown is not my real name. It’s Mike. Mike Becker.”

“Suits you better.” Crossing her arms, she tapped the toe of her glittering sandal. “When did this fiancé stuff all go down, Mike Becker?”

He put a hand in the pocket of his dress slacks and toyed with his coat-check ticket. “From the look on your face when I walked in, I figured you hadn’t received Lola’s final text.”

“She told me she was sending someone from her husband’s agency, but I didn’t know the details. I certainly didn’t know I was acquiring a fiancé.”

“I didn’t even give Lola all the details.”

“I have a five-year-old son. To him, you’ll be nothing but a friend, got it?”

The mama-bear attitude surprised him coming from this glittering goddess, but it figured she’d be protective of her son. He knew all about the boy and the tragic demise of her husband, Shane Chadwick.

“I know about...your son, and I have no intention of playing the doting fiancé or future stepdad in front of him.”

She blinked and brushed a wisp of blond hair from her eyes. “Ethan’s going out to his grandparents’ place in a few days, anyway. I’m glad Lola gave you some background, although I’m sure you did some checking on your own.”

“Of course.” Didn’t she realize that every covert-ops agent at home and abroad knew the story about her husband? Hell, didn’t the entire world know? Mike cleared his throat. “Jack Coburn isn’t too pleased you contacted his wife directly, but when you mentioned a connection between Correll and a terrorist group, we thought it best to investigate. You have some video proof?”

“I do. I’m sure it proves...something. You’ll see.” She’d hooked her finger around a diamond necklace encircling her neck, and the large pendant glinted in the low light of the library.

“When can I see it?” Jack wasn’t all that convinced Claire had any proof of anything, but he didn’t want to leave any stone unturned—especially when that stone involved his wife’s friend.

“I have it in a secure location. I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

“Your stepfather would be playing with fire if it’s true. He has access to the highest levels of government.”

“That’s the scary part. My stepfather is a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee and was on the short list for director a few years ago. He still may be on that list.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of your suspicions one way or another.”

Claire tapped her chin with two fingers, and a diamond bracelet matching the necklace slipped to her elbow. “I have more than suspicions. I’m almost positive Spencer is involved in terrorist activity.”

“You’ll have to give me more of the details, including that video, and I’ll start digging around, but let’s play the loving couple to establish my cover first—just not in front of your son.” He straightened his bow tie as she wandered toward the window to gaze at the winter wonderland. “You weren’t going to jump from that balcony, were you?”

“So you did know that was me.” She met his eyes in the glass of the window.

“Not when I first saw you outside, but I figured it out when I saw your dress. It’s rather—” his gaze meandered from the hem of her full skirt to the top of the dress that had a deep V slashed almost to her waist “—distinctive.”

“Well, I would hope so. I paid enough money for it.” She tapped a manicured fingernail on the windowpane. “I was hiding from Spencer. I had been in his office trying out passwords to unlock his computer when he and some smarmy donor decided to have a meeting.”

Whistling through his teeth, Mike joined her at the window. “Claire, why are you really after your stepfather? Most people don’t see a few odd signs, a meeting on video with someone suspicious and immediately think ‘terrorist plot.’”

“Just wait until you hear the whole story and see the videos before jumping to conclusions about me and my motives.”

“Deal.” He held out his hand and they shook on it. Still keeping her hand in his, he said, “Now, let’s go downstairs and pretend to be a newly engaged couple.”

Pointing out the window, she pressed her forehead against the glass. “Speaking of terrorism, there’s the director down there. Isn’t he technically your boss?”

“Technically, although I’ve never met him and most of what we do at Prospero is under the CIA radar.” He glanced into the street, where a balding man was exiting a town car as a valet held open his door. “I’m surprised to see him at your party. Didn’t you have some beef with him a few years ago?”

Another valet hurried to the front of the vehicle, stooped over and then continued up the street at a jog.

The hair on the back of Mike’s neck quivered at about the same time one of the director’s security detail lunged across the car toward his charge.

Mike instinctively grabbed Claire around the waist and yanked her away from the window just as the explosion shattered the glass and rocked the town house.

Chapter Two

Claire landed on the floor with Mike’s body on top of hers. Acrid smoke billowed into the room from the shattered window and her nostrils twitched.

Mike’s face loomed above hers, his mouth forming words she couldn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. Sprinkles of glass quivered in his salt-and-pepper hair like ice crystals, and she reached out to catch them on the tips of her fingers.

The crystals bit into her flesh and she frowned at the spot of blood beading on her fingertip.

Mike rose to his knees over her and dragged her across the carpet, away from the jagged window. She couldn’t breathe. Cold fear began to seep into her blood.

Rolling to her stomach, she began to crawl toward the door.

Mike’s voice pierced her panic. “Claire. Are you all right?”

Cranking her head over her shoulder, she had enough breath left in her lungs to squeeze out one word. “Ethan.”

Mike jumped to his feet and hooked her beneath her arms, pulling her up next to him. “Where is he?”

She pointed to the ceiling with a trembling finger, and then launched herself at the door of the library, her knees wobbling like pudding.

Mike followed her upstairs, keeping a steadying hand on the small of her back. Through her fog, Claire heard shrieks and commotion from downstairs. The noise shot adrenaline through her system, and she ran up the rest of the stairs to Ethan’s room.

She shoved open the door and rushed to her son’s bed, where he sat up rubbing tears from his eyes.

“Mommy?”

She dived onto the bed and enveloped him in a hug, blocking the cold air breezing through one shattered window. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking his head, he wiped his nose across her bare arm. “That was loud.”

“That was loud.” She kissed the top of his head, her gaze taking in Mike hovering at the door of the bedroom. “Don’t worry. It was just an accident outside. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ethan disentangled himself from her arms and fell back against his pillow. “Uh-huh. Can I look out the window to see the accident?”

“Absolutely not. There’s glass all over the floor. I’m going to move you to another bedroom across the hall, as long as there are no broken windows on that side.”

Ethan squinted and pointed at Mike. “Who are you?”

“Pointing is rude.” She grabbed his finger and kissed it. “That’s my friend Mr. Brown.”

Ethan waved. “Hi, Mr. Brown. Did you see the accident?”

Mike took two steps into the room accompanied by the sound of sirens wailing outside. “No, but I heard it. You’re right. It was loud.”

Ethan’s nanny stumbled into the room, her hands covering her mouth. “Ethan? Oh, Claire, you’re here. What was that?”

Claire held a finger to her lips. “Just an accident outside, Lori. Did the windows shatter in your room on the other side?”

“No. Do you want me to take Ethan to the room next to mine?”

“I’ll come with you, and then I’d better see what’s going on downstairs.” Claire pulled Ethan from his bed and stood up with his legs wrapped around her waist. “Lori, this is Mitchell Brown, a friend of mine.”

Lori’s eyes widened. “Oh, I heard...”

Claire gave a jerk of her head, sending her chignon tumbling from its pins, and Lori sealed her lips.

“Yes, I heard you were here, Mr. Brown.” Lori spun around and led them down the hall and around the corner to the other side of the town house.

She opened the door to the room next to her own.

Mike stayed outside in the hallway while Claire tucked Ethan into the queen-size bed and patted the covers. “Don’t go back to sleep, Lori. I have no idea how extensive the damage is. The fire department may not even let us stay here tonight.”

Lori gripped her arms and shivered. “As if I could go to sleep.” She glanced at Ethan snuggling against the pillows and whispered, “Was that a bomb?”

Claire nodded.

Lori slumped in a chair across from the bed. “I’ll stay here until you get back.”

“I appreciate it, Lori.” Claire closed the door with a snap and leaned against it, closing her eyes.

A rough fingertip touched her cheek, and her eyes flew open.

Mike raised his dark eyebrows over a pair of chocolate-brown eyes. “Are you ready?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” She grabbed the lapel of his dinner jacket. “The director is dead, along with his security detail and probably that valet.”

“Most likely.” He took her hand. “Let’s go see if anyone else is.”

He kept hold of her hand down the two flights of stairs and into the chaos that reigned in the great room. Even though she’d just met him, the pressure of his fingers kept her panic in check.

They reached the great room, and the glass that littered the floor crunched beneath their shoes. All the windows had been blown out, and snow swirled into the room.

Claire staggered, but Mike caught her and tucked her against his side. She cranked her head back and forth, but she could barely make sense of the scene before her.

Mike grabbed the arm of a passing fireman. “Are there any serious injuries?”

“Nothing too bad, no fatalities.” He grimaced. “At least not on the inside.”

She didn’t even have to ask him if the director of the CIA had survived the blast—nobody in his position could have survived.

“Claire!” Spencer, his shirtfront bloodied, shouldered his way through the crowd. “Claire, are you and Ethan okay?”

All she could think about when she looked into his cold, blue eyes was that he was at the top of the list to replace the director. “We’re fine. How about you?”

“Me? I’m indestructible.”

“What happened?”

Mike squeezed her waist. They hadn’t even discussed whether or not they’d reveal what they’d seen out the window, but instinct screamed no and Mike seemed to approve of her discretion. She didn’t want to be questioned as a potential witness, and Mike’s real identity would have to be revealed if he stepped forward.

Dipping his head, Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, my God, Claire. It was a car bomb. Jerry...”

“Jerry Haywood? It was his car? Is he all right?” She dug her fingers into her stepfather’s arm—as hard as she could.

He laid his hand on hers. “I’m afraid not, Claire. Jerry’s dead, one of his security guys is dead and a valet.”

“One of his security guys? Doesn’t he usually travel with two? And is the other one okay?”

“He’d already stepped away from the car. He’s injured but hanging on.” He patted her hand again and then pulled away from her death grip.

“What about the other valet?” Mike stepped aside to let an EMT get by. “I noticed two tonight when I arrived.”

“You know, I’m not sure about him. I’m going to make some inquiries. And stay tuned. The fire marshal may kick us all out of here tonight even though it’s just broken windows.” Spencer chucked Claire beneath the chin and made a half turn. His gaze lit on Mike’s hair, still sprinkled with glass. “Where were you two?”

“In the library.” Claire kicked a shard of glass to the edge of the floor.

“That’s at the front of the town house. Were you standing at the window by any chance? Did you see the explosion?”

Mike slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed the side of her head. “We were too wrapped up in each to see anything.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed briefly before he launched back into the crowd of people, shouting orders.

Claire blew out a breath. “There goes the new director of the CIA.”

* * *

MIKE CUPPED THE cell phone against his ear. “If Senator Spencer Correll becomes the next director and he is involved somehow with a terrorist organization, we’re going to have a major problem on our hands.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jack Coburn’s voice growled over the line. “How valid are Claire’s concerns? Has she shown you her so-called evidence yet? I sent you out there to appease my wife and calm the fears of one of her best friends. I didn’t believe she had anything—until this car bombing tonight.”

Mike winced. Why would Jack send him on one last important mission after how badly he’d flubbed his previous assignment? Looking after Jack’s wife’s friend was just about his speed now.

He coughed. “I agree. After tonight’s bombing, I’d say Claire might be onto something.”

“Unless...” Jack sucked in a breath.

Mike’s grip tightened on the phone. “Are you implying Claire set something up to bolster her story? That’s crazy.”

“After the murder of Claire’s husband, she had it in for Jerry Haywood when he was deputy director.”

“I know that, but it’s a huge leap to think she’d plan his assassination.”

Jack grunted. “Why would Correll be involved in an assassination at his own party?”

“Technically, it was Claire’s party, and that’s what I’m here to figure out, right? That’s why you sent me.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed in the room next to the one where Claire and her son were sleeping.

Since the bomb hadn’t done any outward damage to the town house except for the broken windows, the fire department had allowed the family to stay the night. Workers had been busy boarding up the windows, and the DC Metro Police, the FBI, the CIA and a swarm of reporters were still milling around at the site of the car bomb.

Jack cleared his throat. “Just a warning about Claire Chadwick. She’s had it pretty rough the past five years with the gruesome death of her husband and then her mother’s accident. She blames her stepfather for her mother’s death. You know that, right?”

“Lola mentioned something about it. Do you think that makes Claire’s suspicions about Correll’s current activity invalid?”

“Not invalid, but she does have another agenda, a definite ax to grind. Her troubles have led to some...instability. Just be careful, and don’t get sucked in by her beauty. From what I remember, Claire Chadwick’s a real looker.”

He’d remembered right. “Duly noted, boss.”

“You sure you still want to retire, old-timer?”

A soft knock at Mike’s door saved him from reciting all his reasons for retirement again to Jack. “Someone’s here. Gotta go.”

He pushed off the bed and padded on bare feet to the door. He cracked it open.

Claire, her disheveled hair tumbling over one shoulder, crossed her arms over her animal-print pajamas and hunched her shoulders. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He swung the door open and stepped to the side.

“You weren’t sleeping.” Her gaze swept over his slacks and unbuttoned white shirt.

“I was on the phone.” He closed the door behind her. “How’s your son?”

“He’s fine—sleeping. All he knows is that there was an accident that broke a bunch of windows in the house.” She sat on the foot of the bed and then fell back, staring at the ceiling, her blond hair fanning out around her head. “Spencer did it. He’s responsible.”

As much as he wanted to join her on the bed, he parked himself on the arm of a chair across from her, resting his ankle on one knee. “You have one video of him meeting with a suspicious person and all of a sudden he’s guilty of killing the CIA director?”

“It’s more. It’s a feeling.” She hoisted herself up on her elbows.

“Whether Correll is responsible or not, this attack is bold, hits right at the heart of our security. If they can kill the director of the CIA in the middle of Georgetown, what else do they have planned?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Something more? Do you think other attacks are planned?”

“There has to be some endgame here, and if your stepfather is involved somehow and can lead us to—”

“Shh.” She put a finger to her puckered lips.

He cocked his head, holding his breath, and heard the wood creak on the other side of the door.

Claire bolted from the bed, launching herself at the door, but Mike caught her around the waist before she reached it. He swung her into his arms and sealed his lips over hers.

He groaned, a low guttural sound that was only half pretense as he felt her soft breasts beneath her silk pajama top press against the thin cotton of the T-shirt covering his chest.

He moaned her name against her luscious lips. “Claire. Claire.”

She sighed and answered him in a breathy tone. “Mmm. Mitchell.”

The board outside the room squeaked again, but he tightened his hold on Claire as she made a move toward the door.

Would he have to kiss her again to keep her from bursting into that hallway? It was better to err on the side of caution, so he backed her up against the door and took possession of her lips once more.

She placed her hands against his chest as if to push him away, but her fingers curled against the material of his T-shirt instead.

He kissed her long enough for whoever was outside that door to walk away—and then some. He raised his head, and she blinked her violet eyes.

Reaching around her, he opened the door. In a loud voice, he said, “Go back to Ethan. I’ll be right next door all night.”

“I’m so glad you’re here, Mitchell.” She peered down the hallway and shook her head. “I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been a happier reunion.”

He clicked the door behind her and fell across the bed, inhaling the sweet musky scent she’d left behind.

His first meeting with Claire Chadwick couldn’t have been any happier.

Chapter Three

Claire fluffed Ethan’s hair as she sat on the edge of the bed where she’d spent a sleepless night next to her squirmy son. If Mike had let her fling open the door, she might’ve caught Spencer in the act of eavesdropping.

And then what? He’d be alerted to her suspicions. Right now he suspected her only of nosing around his finances, and she wanted to keep it that way. Mike had been right to stop her.

But did he have to stop her by kissing her silly? She traced her mouth with her fingertips. Not that she’d minded.

Her son fluttered his long lashes and yawned.

Typically, Ethan woke up with the early birds, but last night’s commotion had him sleeping late. Commotion? Was that what you called the murder of a CIA director by the man who would replace him? She had no doubt that was what had gone down. Now she just had to convince Mike Becker.

She hadn’t trusted Spencer Correll since the fourth or fifth year of his marriage to her mother. She’d been in college at Stanford when her mother married Spencer. Claire hadn’t given him much thought. He was the type of man her mother had dated since Dad’s death—charming, a few years younger, in need of some financing.

Despite her wariness, nothing set off any alarm bells until that phone call and then her mother’s accident.

“Mommy?”

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” She skimmed her fingers through Ethan’s curly brown hair. “It’s late.”

His eyes grew round. “Can I look at the accident now?”

“I think that’s been all cleaned up.” At least she hoped to God it had been. “Let’s have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.” He smacked his lips. “Is Mr. Brown eating breakfast, too?”

“You remember Mr. Brown from last night?” She tilted her head, wrinkling her nose. Mike must’ve made quite an impression on Ethan, which meant she couldn’t get her son out of here and with his grandparents fast enough. She didn’t want to confuse him or get his hopes up.

“Mr. Brown was giant, like Hercules.” Ethan raised his hand over his head as far as he could.

“Yeah, he’s tall.” She grabbed him under the arms and tickled. “Now let’s go eat.”

The smells of bacon and coffee coming from the kitchen lent an air of normalcy to the house after Claire had made her way through the cleaning crews in the great room. The giant Christmas tree she’d lit up with a thousand bulbs last night had shed its gold ornaments in the blast and now stood in the corner, a forlorn reminder of the Christmas spirit.

Ethan had shoved through the dining room doors first and came to a halt in front of Mike, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and Jerome’s flaky biscuits.

Mike eyed Ethan over the rim of his coffee cup. “Who are you, the cook?”

Crossing his arms, Ethan stamped his foot. “I’m Ethan. I saw you last night.”

“Oh.” Mike snapped his fingers. “You looked a lot smaller in bed. I thought you were a little boy, but you’re not. You’re a big boy.”

Claire pulled out a chair with a smile on her face. Mike must have kids of his own, and if he wasn’t divorced, he should be after the way he’d kissed her last night. No happily married man would be kissing a woman he’d just met like that—assignment or no assignment.

Ethan climbed into the chair next to Mike’s, studied his plate and proceeded to ask Liz, the maid, for the same food Mike had.

Claire tilted her head at her son. “Are you sure you can eat that much?”

“I’m hungry.” Ethan patted his tummy.

“How’s your nose? Any sniffles or coughing?”

“Nope.”

She turned to Mike. “Ethan’s been having some problems with allergies, and the doctor is thinking it might be asthma.”

“He looks good to me.” Mike winked at Ethan.

“Ms. Chadwick, do you want anything besides coffee this morning?” Liz poured a stream of brown liquid into her cup.

“Just some orange juice.” When Liz finished pouring the coffee, Claire tipped some cream into her cup and dipped a spoon into the white swirl.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep despite everything?” Mike broke open a biscuit, and steam rose from the center.

Did he mean despite the murder of the director, or the kiss? She watched his strong hands as he buttered one half of the biscuit, then tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “I didn’t get much sleep at all. You?”

“Slept like a baby.” He winked at Ethan again, who giggled.

“You’re not a baby.” Her son jabbed a fork in Mike’s direction.

Claire drew her brows together as she glanced at Ethan’s eyes, shining with clear hero worship. Since he’d started kindergarten a few months ago, Ethan had been asking more questions about his father and had become more aware of the absence of a father in his own life. She didn’t want him getting too attached to Mike, especially since he’d seemed to form an immediate liking for him.

Like mother, like son.

“I don’t even know why anyone would say they slept like a baby when they slept well.” She pinched Ethan’s nose. “Because you certainly didn’t sleep all through the night when you were a baby.”

Ethan giggled again and Mike added his loud guffaw just as Spencer walked into the dining room.

He raised his brows. “What a nice family scene, especially on a morning like this.”

Claire jerked her head around, her finger to her lips. “Shh. Not now.”

Spencer shrugged and refilled the coffee cup in his hand. He took a seat across from her. “When do you plan on telling him?”

“In our own time, Spencer.” She sent Mike a look from beneath her lashes. “Did you learn anything more about what happened last night?”

“The Security Council had an emergency meeting this morning, and the FBI gave us an initial report.”

She folded her hands around her cup, trying hard not to break it. “Anything you can pass along? Has anyone claimed credit?”

“Not yet.” Spencer slurped at his coffee. “Too bad this had to spoil your visit, Mitch.”

Mike reached across the table and curled his fingers around Claire’s. “I don’t plan on letting it ruin my visit. Of course, it’s a tragedy, and I’m sorry it happened in front of your house, at Claire’s event, but nothing can get in the way of our happiness.”

She sent Mike a weak smile. He was really laying it on thick.

“My house?” Spencer folded his arms on the table. “Is Claire hiding assets from you already?”

“Sir?” Mike’s fingers dug into her hand.

“This house belongs to Claire.” Spencer spread his arms. “This house and everything in it.”

“Mitchell and I haven’t gotten around to detailing our assets yet.” Heat crept up her chest and she took a gulp of chilled orange juice to keep it in check. She and Mike should’ve been covering this ground last night. Nothing much got past Spencer.

“Our—” Mike slid a glance at Ethan, busy marching his dinosaurs over a mound of scrambled eggs on his plate “—courtship was fast.”

“I have to admit, when you showed up last night, it was the first I’d heard of you, but then, Claire plays it close to the vest. So your announcement didn’t surprise me in the least, and it was quite welcome.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Mike gave her fingers one last squeeze before releasing her hand. “Are we still on for sightseeing today, or did the...accident change our plans?”

“I don’t see any reason why your plans should change.” Spencer pushed back from the table. “You might find a few monuments closed for security reasons, and you might have to drive through a few security checkpoints.”

“Maybe we’ll take a drive down to Virginia, Mount Vernon.” She tugged on Ethan’s ear. “You’re going to Mallory’s birthday party today.”

Ethan dropped his dinosaurs. “She’s gonna have cupcakes. She told me at school.”

“And pony rides.” She handed Ethan a napkin. “Wipe your face and I’ll help you get ready to go.”

Mike placed his own napkin by the side of his plate and smiled at Ethan. “Will you bring me a cupcake?”

“Yes. What color?”

“Surprise me.”

Spencer hunched forward and whispered, “I think we should send some security with Ethan and Lori to that party. Just to be on the safe side.”

She nodded. One more reason to get Ethan out of this town—and away from Spencer; not that her stepfather would ever hurt her son, but his connections might not be so sensitive.

* * *

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Claire was staring out the car window at a gray sky threatening another dusting of snow. She shivered and wound her blue scarf around her neck.

“Are you cold?” Mike’s fingers hovered at the dial of the car heater. “I can turn it up.”

“I’m fine.” She crossed her arms. “I’m just thinking about my stepfather sitting at that security meeting this morning, blood on his hands.”

“How can you be so sure he’s responsible, Claire? A few overheard conversations and a few suspicious emails don’t prove anything concrete, and we need concrete.”

“Be patient. You’re here, aren’t you? What I told Lola must’ve been convincing enough for her husband to send you out here to investigate.”

His gaze narrowed. “Do you want the truth?”

“Considering you’re my fiancé, that would be nice.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Funny.” He turned down the heat. “The truth is, you’re Lola’s friend. She’s worried about you.”

She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping. After a few deep breaths, she smoothed her hands over the pressed denim covering her thighs and then clasped her knees. “Are you telling me that none of you believe my stepfather is up to his neck in something nefarious? The CIA director was just murdered—in front of my house on his way to our party.”

“Which may or may not have anything to do with Spencer Correll.”

A sharp pain stabbed her between the eyes, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you here to help find evidence against my stepfather, or to play fiancé and protector to the poor, addled widow?”

“A little of both.” He held up his hand when she took a breath, clenching her fists in front of her. “Nobody thinks you’re poor and addled—especially not poor.”

“You’re insulting.” She blew out a breath and flicked her fingers in the air. “Turn around. The engagement is over, and you can leave.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That was insulting? I admit I’m brusque, comes from living in a world of subterfuge and secrets. When I have the opportunity to tell the truth, I take it. You want the truth, don’t you?”

“Lola doesn’t believe me?” Her nose stung. Lola Coburn was one of her oldest and best friends. She knew Lola had been concerned about her after Shane’s...death, but Lola had sounded so sincere on the phone.

“Lola believes you have every right to suspect Spencer of complicity in your mother’s death.”

“But not that he’s involved with a bunch of terrorists?”

“Nobody is dismissing that out of hand, Claire, and yes, the director’s murder is convenient for Senator Correll.”

“But...”

“No buts. I’m here to look into everything.”

“Including my mental health.” She scooted forward in her seat and tilted her head at him. “Why did Jack Coburn send one of his agents on what could very well be a wild-goose chase?”

“The truth again?”

“Why not? We seem to be on a roll.”

“I’m retiring. I’ve been in this business too long, and I’m on my way out.”

She scanned the touch of gray in the black hair at his temples and the lines in his rugged face. “So Jack asked if you’d mind checking in on the poor, addled widow on your way out?”

He reached out as quickly as a cat and chucked her beneath the chin. “Would you stop calling yourself that? You’re not poor or addled.”

“I know, I know, especially poor.”

Tapping the car’s GPS, he said, “Are we still going to Mount Vernon?”

“Why not? I just want to get out of DC, and Mount Vernon’s as good as anyplace. Besides, I’m supposed to be showing you the sights.”

“It’s going to be a madhouse in DC for the next several weeks. Director Haywood’s death is going to affect us, too.”

“I think his assassination serves many purposes. I have no doubt that it was to put Spencer in position, but there must’ve been another reason. Maybe the director knew something.” She squeezed her eyes closed trying to remember the last time her stepfather and Haywood had met.

“This is a lot bigger than you now, Claire. You’re not going to discover anything the CIA or FBI isn’t going to discover.”

“Is that your way of telling me to back off?” She gripped her knees, her fingers curling into the denim of her jeans. “If the CIA and the FBI had anything on Spencer, they would’ve made a move by now. I know things those agencies don’t know.”

He glanced at her as he veered off the highway, following the sign pointing toward Mount Vernon. “That’s why I’m here.”

They rode in silence as he maneuvered the car to the parking area. He swung into a slot, leaving a few spaces between her car and the next one over. “Not very crowded today.”

“Too cold, and maybe people don’t want to be hanging around tourist areas after last night.”

“Do you want to head inside the mansion or get a cup of coffee at the Mount Vernon Inn so we can talk?”

“Since I dragged you out here so we could talk away from prying eyes and pricked ears, let’s get some coffee.”

Claire opened her door and stepped onto the parking lot, the heels of her knee-high boots clicking dully against the asphalt. The bare trees bordering the lot gave them a clear view of the mansion and the shops and restaurant next to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so empty here.”

“That’s a good thing. The last time I visited, I couldn’t get a table at the restaurant.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have that problem now.” She shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders. “Shall we?”

Mike locked the car and joined her, his own hands concealed in his pockets. They passed just two other parties making their way to the mansion.

Mike opened the door of the restaurant and ushered her into the half-empty room with its Colonial decor. A hostess in Colonial dress, a little white mob cap perched on her curls, smiled. “Do you have reservations?”

Raising his brows, Mike’s gaze scanned the room. “No. Do we need one? We just want some coffee.”

“Just checking. You don’t need a reservation today.” She swept her arm across the room. “We’ve had several cancellations. I think it’s because of that awful business last night.”

“You might be right.” Mike nodded. “Can we grab that table by the window?”

“Of course.”

They sat down and ordered their coffees, which their waitress delivered in record time.

Mike dumped a packet of sugar into the steaming liquid and stirred. Then he braced his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning.” Claire swirled a ribbon of cream in her coffee and placed the spoon on the saucer with a click. “It all started when Spencer Correll came out of nowhere, married my mother and then killed her.”

“Your mother fell down the stairs.”

She took a sip of her coffee and stared at Mike over the rim of her cup. “He murdered her.”

“You think he pushed her down the stairs? That’s hardly a surefire method for murder. People can and do survive falls like that.”

“He pushed her and then finished the job by smothering her with a pillow.” Her eyes watered, and she dabbed the corners with her napkin.

“And you know this how?”

“I saw the pillow.” She dashed a tear from her cheek.

“Lying next to your mother’s body? What did the police think about it?”

“No, no.” She took a deep breath. “That’s just it. There was no pillow there. I noticed my mother’s pillow on her bed later—with her lipstick on it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mike cocked his head, his nostrils flaring.

“My mother was meticulous about her beauty regimen.” As Mike shifted in his seat, she held up her index finger. “Just wait. She never, and I mean never, went to bed with makeup on. She’d remove it, cleanse, moisturize. I mean, this routine took her about thirty minutes every night. There is no way there would be lipstick on her pillow, no reason for it.”

“Let me get this straight.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother loses her life falling down some stairs, you see lipstick on her pillow and immediately believe your stepfather murdered her?”

“It wasn’t just the pillow.” She glanced both ways and the cupped her mouth with her hand. “It was the phone call.”

“You just lost me.” He drew his brows over his nose. “What phone call?”

“A few years before Mom’s so-called accident, a woman called me with a warning about Spencer Correll. She said he was dangerous and that he’d killed before and would do so again to get what he wanted.”

“Who was the woman?”

“She wouldn’t give me her name.”

“Did you inform the police?”

“At the time of the call?” She widened her eyes. “I thought it was a prank, but I told them about it when Mom died.”

“They dismissed it.”

“Yes, even after I showed them the pillow.”

He rubbed his knuckles across the black stubble on his chin. “Did the cops tell Correll about your suspicions?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear from this woman again? After your mother’s death?”

“No.”

He dropped his spikey, dark lashes over his eyes, but not before she saw a glimpse of pity gleaming from their depths.

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t expect him to believe her, but she didn’t want to be pitied. People generally reserved their pity for the crazy or delusional. Neither applied to her—anymore.

He huffed out a breath and took a sip of coffee. “So, you believe your stepfather killed your mother, but how in the world does that link him to terrorists?”

Pursing her lips, she studied his lean face, his dark eyes bright with interest. At least he hadn’t called for the little men in the white coats yet. “I didn’t say the murder had anything to do with terrorism, but it prompted me to start nosing around his personal effects.”

“What did you discover?” He gripped the edge of the table as if bracing for the next onslaught of crazy.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope containing the picture, the picture she’d taken from the video she rescued from the trash can on Spencer’s computer. She pinched it between two fingers and removed it from the envelope. Then she dropped it on the table and positioned it toward Mike with her fingertip.

Picking it up, he squinted at the photo. “It’s your stepfather talking to another man. Who is he?”

“He’s the terrorist who killed my husband.”

Chapter Four

Mike’s gaze jumped to Claire’s flushed face, her violet eyes glittering with a challenge, her lips parted.

She’d really gone off the deep end. Nothing she had to say about Correll could be of any importance now. A hollowness formed in the pit of his stomach, threatening to engulf him.

How could he possibly save this bright, beautiful, damaged woman?

He toyed with the corner of the picture, a piece of paper really, with the image printed on it. “How do you know this man is the one who killed your husband? On the video, your husband’s executioner was masked.”

“Do you know how many times I watched that video? It’s seared into my brain.”

Swallowing, he grabbed her hand. “Why? Why torture yourself?”

“My torture paled in comparison to the torture Shane endured.” She blinked her eyes, but no tears formed or spilled onto her flawless skin. “I watched that video frame by frame. I memorized every detail about that man, mask or no mask.”

“You really believe this man—” he flicked the edge of the paper “—is the same man in the video with your husband.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Her voice never wavered, her eyes never lost their clarity.

“Why?” He loosened his grip on her hand and smoothed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. “Explain it to me.”

“This—” she tapped her finger on the picture “—is a still from a video I found on Spencer’s laptop. It’s the video I was telling you about before. I have the entire thing. I can see the way the man moves, the tilt of his head...his eye.”

“His eye, singular?”

She drew a circle in the air over her own eye. “He has a misshapen iris. I researched it, and the defect is called a coloboma. I had blowups made of my husband’s execution video and I had this picture blown up. The man’s eye is the same in both. This is the guy.”

Mike buried his fingers into his hair, digging them into his scalp. What had this woman put herself through for the past five years? What was she willing to put herself through now?

“I can prove it to you. Let me prove it to you. I have the videos and the stills in a safe deposit box.”

He owed her that much, didn’t he? He owed Lola Coburn’s friend an audience for her manic obsession.

“What is the video you retrieved from Correll’s laptop? Who took it? Where was he meeting this man?”

Claire’s shoulders dropped as she licked her lips. “It’s not DC. Florida, maybe—warm weather, palm trees. I don’t know who took the video or why. I don’t know why Spencer had it, but I can guess why he trashed it.”

“Because it’s evidence tying him to this man, whoever he is.”

“Exactly.”

She wiggled forward in her seat, and a shaft of guilt lanced his chest. He didn’t want to give her false hope that he was going along with this insanity, but he had to investigate. He had one last job to do for Prospero, for Jack, and he’d go out doing the best damned job he could, considering his previous assignment was such an abject failure.

“Why would Correll be so careless about the video? Why would he leave it in his trash can?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe he doesn’t realize you have to empty your trash can on the computer.”

He snorted.

“Don’t laugh. Like my mom, Spencer didn’t grow up using computers. I’m sure his assistants do a lot of his work on the computer for him. You don’t think he actually posts those messages to reach the youth vote on social media platforms himself, do you?”

“How’d you get into his laptop? You told me earlier that you were trying to access his computer last night before the bomb blast.”

“That was his desktop at the house. He has a laptop that he keeps with him. I know the password to the laptop and I was able to get to it one night when he was...otherwise engaged.”

“Does he keep confidential information on this laptop?” He waved off Betsy Ross as she hovered with the coffeepot.

“No. Personal emails and games mostly, nothing work-related. I don’t know how that video got on there, but the minute I saw it, I knew Spencer was up to his eyeballs in something.”

He swirled the coffee in his cup, eyeing the mini whirlpool that mimicked his thoughts.

“You don’t believe me.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “It’s a fantastic set of circumstances.”

“I know that.”

“Does anyone else know about your...suspicions?”

“No.” She twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger. “You don’t think I realize how crazy this all sounds? That’s why I called Lola.”

“Lola’s an old friend of yours from when you and your mother lived in Florida, right?”

“Yes. We lived there after my father died, with Mom’s second husband.”

“Correll sits on the Security Council. He must at least know about Jack Coburn even if he’s never met him. Does he realize that you’re friends with Coburn’s wife?” He steepled his fingers and peered at her over the tips.

“No. Like I mentioned before, he and my mother married when I was in my late teens. Lola and I didn’t see each other for a while. She was busy with medical school on the East Coast, and I had gone to college at Stanford on the West Coast.”

“How do you know he hasn’t done some kind of background on you?”

She spread her hands on the table, the three rings on her fingers sparkling in the light from the window. “I don’t know, but he has no clue I suspect him of being in bed with terrorists. He realized I was suspicious about Mom’s death—that’s it, and he thinks I’ve dropped that train of thought.”

Her jaw hardened, and he almost felt a twinge of pity for Senator Spencer Correll. Claire Chadwick would never relinquish her vendetta against her stepfather.

Clasping the back of his neck, he massaged the tight muscles on either side. “Can you show me the videos today?”

“They’re at a bank in Maryland.”

“Why didn’t you take me there right away?”

“I wanted to feel you out first. I wanted to see if I could trust you.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to trust me? Lola’s husband sent me out here.”

She lodged the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth and studied his face, her violet gaze meandering from the top of his head to his chin. “I was waiting for you to jump up and down and call me crazy, or worse, talk to me like a child and humor me.”

“And?” Her inventory of his face had kindled a slow-burning heat in his belly. If she brought this same level of intensity to bed, she might be the best lay he ever had.

Lola had teased him that her friend’s attractiveness would make it difficult for him to concentrate on the job, but he’d shrugged off the warning since a pretty face had never posed a threat to his professionalism before.

Until now. The combined effect of Claire’s beauty, sympathetic story, passion and those eyes created a combustible mix that had hit him like a thunderbolt.

He cleared his throat and repeated his question. “And?”

“And you didn’t do either one of those things. You don’t believe me and you do feel pity for me, but you’re a man of honor and you’re here to do a job.” She leveled a finger at him. “I respect that.”

He ran a hand across his stubble, wishing he’d shaved this morning and wondering where he’d misplaced his poker face. Did she just nail that, or what?

“I want to see those videos.” He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, dropping it on the table. “How long is the drive?”

“Less than forty-five minutes.”

“Do we have a way to watch the videos?” He stood up and flicked two more dollars on the table.

“I have a laptop in the back of the car.”

He ushered her outside and flipped up the collar of his jacket against the cold air. He welcomed its bite, which seemed to wake him up from a dream state. He threw a sideways glance at Claire in the hopes that the chilly slap had made her come to her senses.

She charged across the parking lot with more purpose to her gait than when they’d arrived.

He opened the passenger door of the car. “Unless you want to get your laptop out of the trunk.”

“I’ll wait.” She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it in the back before sliding onto the seat.

He settled behind the wheel. “Can you enter the bank’s address in the GPS?”

“I’ll give you directions verbally. I’m very careful about what I enter into my GPS.”

He raised his eyebrows before starting the car. “You said you weren’t on Correll’s radar.”

“For his terrorist ties, but he knows I’ve been snooping around his finances.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “There are so many threads here, I can’t keep track.”

She laughed and then snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Stay with me here, Mike.”

“You can laugh?” He pulled away from the parking lot.

“If you can’t laugh, you don’t stand a chance in life. I still have a son to raise who doesn’t have a father.”

“You’re definitely putting him on a plane to Colorado tomorrow?”

“He needs to see his grandparents. Shane had brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, so Ethan will have a big family around him. Besides, I need to get him away from you.”

“Ouch.” He flexed his fingers. “I don’t have kids myself, but I always thought I was pretty good with them. I even coach some youth basketball.”

She touched his arm. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. It’s because you’re so good with Ethan that I want to get him away. Does that make sense?”

“You don’t want him getting attached or overhearing the gossip about us.” He rolled his shoulders.

“Exactly. I could tell he thought you were something special.” She turned her head to look out the window. “You don’t have kids?”

“No.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

She jerked her head toward him. “How did that happen?”

He shrugged, all the old familiar excuses curled on his tongue.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she said, “I suppose your job makes it hard to have a relationship, but even Jack Coburn is happily married with three children.”

“Jack has a desk job now, and that desk is at his home.”

“You’ll be retiring soon. Are you thinking of settling down?”

“With a dog.”

“A dog?”

“That’s all I can handle.”

Her warm laugh had a smile tugging at his lips. Let her think he was joking.

“What kind of dog? Not a little froofy one?”

“Probably a Lab—basic, uncomplicated.”

“I didn’t know dogs could be complicated.” She tapped on the windshield. “You’re going to want to take the next exit.”

Glancing in his mirror and over his shoulder, he moved to the right. As he took the exit, Claire folded her hands in her lap, revealing two sets of white knuckles.

Her mission always lurked beneath the surface, despite her chatter, smiles and laughter.

Her husband, a journalist kidnapped in Somalia, had died five years ago and her mother had taken a tumble down the stairs a year later. Maybe Claire needed this fiction about her stepfather to keep her from focusing on the primary tragedies. Correll gave her a target for her grief and anger.

He could understand that. He’d had a lot of different targets over the years for his.

They rode in silence for several more miles until they entered the city of Brooktown.

“Are we getting close to the bank?”

“Turn left at the next signal in under a half a mile. It’s the Central City Bank. You’ll see it on the left after you make the turn.”

He turned at the signal and pulled along the curb just past the bank. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“I don’t want anything to seem unusual. I’ll just go to my safe deposit box and take the thumb drives.”

“You got it.” He turned off the ignition and Claire slipped out of the car before the engine stopped.

He’d nabbed a space not too far from the entrance to the bank, and she didn’t bother to put on her coat. He watched her tall frame disappear through the glass door, a striking figure in her skin-tight jeans and high boots that came up over the top of her knees.

If he called Jack now, his boss would probably tell him to start his retirement early. Claire’s story was too fantastic. It had to be just a coincidence that the CIA director was hit last night—didn’t it?

He fiddled with the radio and turned up the classic rock song while drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He was about ready to break out his air guitar on the third song in a row when the tap at his window made him grab the steering wheel with both hands.

He glanced out at Claire jerking her thumb toward the rear of the car. He popped the trunk and unlocked the doors.

The car shook as she slammed the trunk of her Lexus. Then she dropped onto the passenger seat, clutching a laptop under one arm. “Got ’em.”

“Where are we going to watch? You can’t bring them back to the house even if Correll is still in meetings on The Hill.”

“Of course not. Hang on a minute.” She dipped into her giant bag and pulled out her phone. She tapped the display and started speaking. “How’s the party? Is Ethan having fun?”

She cocked her head as she listened, a soft smile playing about her lips. “Don’t let him eat too much junk. I’m still packing both of you on a plane tomorrow, stomachache or not.”

Mike jabbed her in the ribs. “Tell him not to forget my cupcake.”

“Yeah, and Mitchell wants his cupcake.” She nodded at him. “Thanks, Lori. See you later.”

“Is Ethan bringing me a cupcake?”

“He is.” She patted the computer on her lap. “Drive up two blocks to the public library.”

Claire had an amazing ability to compartmentalize. It was either a sign of insanity or supreme mental health. “We’re going to watch the videos in a public library?”

“The library has small meeting rooms. The schoolkids use them for tutoring but school’s out for winter break, so I think they’ll be free.”

“You seem to know this area well.”

“I’ve used that library for research.”

He didn’t bother asking her what kind. The woman had tons of money at her disposal and could spend her days playing tennis, going to the spa and lunching with other pampered ladies. Instead she wiled away the hours studying gruesome videos and stalking her stepfather, a US senator.

“Here, here, here.”

He slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the side to pull up at the curb. “Check that sign. Is it okay to park here?”

“I don’t even have to look. Street cleaning tomorrow. We’re good.”

She hadn’t been kidding that she knew the area. He followed her into the library, the large bag hitched over her shoulder with the laptop stashed inside. The musty smell of library books insinuated itself into his consciousness and infused him with a sense of calm. The public library had been one of his refuges, the library and the basketball court.

Claire tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. “This way.”

They walked through the stacks, and he trailed his fingers along the spines of the books as if reconnecting with old friends. He read all his books on an electronic device these days, but he missed the feel of a book in his hand.

They passed one glassed-in room where two teenagers hunched over a laptop, giggling.

“Not much work getting done there.”

Claire skipped over the next room and then yanked open the door of the following one. “There’s free Wi-Fi, too.”

“Not that we need it. We’re going to be watching the videos from the thumb drives, not posting them on the internet.”

“Shane’s execution was posted on the internet.”

“Still?” Sympathy washed over him as he pulled out a chair for her.

She sank into it with a sigh. “I’m not sure. I haven’t searched for it lately.”

“Lately?”

Leaning forward, she plugged the laptop into the socket. “I wanted to know where it was so I could keep Ethan away from those websites, block them from our computers.”

“Makes sense, but he’s a little young.”

“I know. That was years ago—when I was obsessed.”

He searched her face for any sign of irony, but he saw only concentration as she shoved the first thumb drive into the USB port on the side of the laptop.

She double-clicked on the device and then dragged the lone file to the desktop. “I can bring up the videos side by side. The similarities are more apparent that way.”

She pulled out the drive and inserted the second one. She repeated the drag-and-drop action.

As she opened the first video, he held his breath. Before she clicked Play, she double-clicked on the other video.

“Are you ready?”

His heart pounded in his chest and he didn’t know why. He’d seen the Shane Chadwick video before, and he’d seen a lot worse. But if he saw nothing in the videos, no likeness between the terrorist who murdered Shane and the man meeting with Correll, he’d have to leave. He’d have to leave Claire Chadwick to her delusions and fantasies.

He didn’t want to leave her.

“Mike? Are you ready?”

He scooted his chair closer to the table. “I’m ready. Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

She played the first video for a few minutes, stopped it and then played the second. Back and forth she went, freezing the action, pointing out the tilt of the man’s head, a hand gesture, the slope of his shoulders, the shape of his face.

She brought up several frames where she’d zoomed in on his eyes, where it looked like the pupil was bleeding into the iris.

It was as if she’d prepared and delivered this presentation many times before. She probably had—in her head.

At the end of the show, she placed her hands on either side of the laptop and drew back her shoulders. “What do you think?”

Had she cast a spell on him with her violet eyes? Had his desire to stay with her, to protect her, colored his perception?

He drew in a deep breath. “I think you’re onto something.”

She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. “Thank God. You do see it, don’t you?”

“I do. Both men definitely have the same condition with their right eye.”

She grabbed his arm. “I’m not crazy, am I? I’m not imagining this?”

He took her slender hand between both of his. “You’re not crazy, Claire. He may not be the same man. I mean, it would be quite a coincidence, but there’s enough of a similarity between them, especially that coloboma in his eye, to warrant further investigation.”

She disentangled her hand from his and, leaning forward, threw her arms around his neck. “You don’t know how much that means to me to hear you say that.”

Her soft hair brushed the side of his face, a few strands clinging to his lips, and the smell of her musky perfume engulfed him. He dropped one hand to her waist to steady her so she wouldn’t topple out of her chair.

A tremble rolled through her body and she pulled away, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffled. “I usually don’t get emotional like this, but it’s been a long time since I could confide in someone.”

“I understand, but—” he clicked the mouse twice and closed both videos “—I’m just looking into it at this point. It may lead to nothing.”

She dabbed her nose with a tissue and squared her shoulders. “Of course. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood for his punishment. He should’ve comforted her, held her, wiped her tears instead of bringing her back to cold, hard reality.

“What’s the first step?” She snapped the laptop closed and swept it from the desk.

“I’m going to send those stills and close-ups I copied to your thumb drive to our team at Prospero. I need to get to my secure computer, which I left in the hotel safe.”

“We should go back to your hotel anyway, so you can bring the rest of your stuff over to the house.” She stuffed the laptop back into her bag.

“Exactly, but I’m keeping the hotel room and I’m leaving a few of my things there.”

“Like your secure laptop?”

“Yeah. Speaking of security, I think you should put both thumb drives back in the bank once I complete my transmission.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been guarding those little storage devices with my life.” She waved the other thumb drive and zipped it into an inner pocket of the coat she’d flung across the table.

“So,” he said as he held up one hand and ticked off his index finger, “we head to my hotel back in DC, I send the images and then we return here to stash everything back in your safe deposit box.”

She glanced at her expensive-looking watch. “If we can get back here in time. It’s already late.”

“Then we’ll put both thumb drives in my hotel safe this afternoon, and come back here tomorrow after you drop off Ethan and Lori at the airport.” He stood up and stretched, glancing out the window at the rows of stacks. They’d had the laptop with its gruesome images facing away from the window—just another couple of coworkers poring over a project together.

“Sounds like a plan.” She shoved out her hand and then laughed when he took it lightly in his own. “Don’t worry, Mike. I’m not going to fall apart again.”

He squeezed her hand and pulled her in until they were almost nose to nose. He was close enough to see the flecks in her deep blue eyes that gave them their purple hue. “You have every right and reason to fall apart.”

She lifted her shoulders. “Doesn’t mean I should.”

She broke away from his grasp and spun around to sweep her coat from the table and sling her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get down to business.”

He stuffed his arms into his jacket and opened the door for her. The giggling teens had finished whatever it was they were doing, a homeless guy slouched in a chair in the corner and the stacks were empty.

Mike stepped outside behind Claire, and an insistent car alarm assaulted his ears, an unwelcome jolt after the peace and quiet of the library. He stuck his fingers in his ears. “That’s so annoying.”

“Mike.” Claire quickened her pace down the library steps, clamping her bag against her side.

“What? Is that your car?”

“I think it is.” She plunged her hand into her coat pocket and aimed the key fob in front of her, pointing it at her car at the curb.

The alarm went silent, but the alarm bells in his head replaced it. “That was your car.”

“I hope nobody bumped it. I haven’t even had it a year.”

While Claire inspected her front bumper, Mike trailed around the perimeter of the car. He ran his hand along the driver’s side door, skimming his fingers along the windows. “Claire?”

“Yeah?” Her boots clicked as she walked toward him. “Everything looks okay in the front.”

“Did you have these scratches on your window like this before?”

She bent forward rubbing her fingers over the grooves in the glass. “No.”

“Feel the edge of the door here. Rough, isn’t it?”

Her eyebrows collided over her nose as she bent forward and traced a finger along the seam where the window met the door. “It does feel rough. How would that happen?”

His eyes met hers, wide in her pale face. “Someone was trying to use a slim jim to break into your car.”

She gasped and shot up to her full height. “Do you think the alarm scared them off? Who would do that in broad daylight on the street?”

“Someone who thought he could make it look like he was just opening the door with a key.” His lips formed a thin line and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

“You don’t think...?” She flung out one arm. “How would anyone even know we were here? I don’t have any business in Brooktown.”

He headed toward the trunk, crouched down and poked his head beneath the chassis of her car.

“Mike, what are you doing?”

A few minutes later, his fingers greasy from his exploration, he straightened up and stalked to the front of the car. He dropped to his knees and trailed his fingers along the inside of the wheel well. They tripped over a hard, square object.

“Bingo.”

“Bingo? Bingo what?” The slightly hysterical edge to Claire’s voice told him she knew what was coming.

He yanked the tracking device from her car and held it up. “Someone’s been following you.”

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