In USA TODAY bestselling author Debra Webb’s thrilling new Colby Agency miniseries spin-off, The Specialists, a special agent finds out the honeymoon isn’t what it seems…

He awoke with a ring on his finger. Only problem was Specialist Jason Grant couldn’t remember a wedding. But he did recognize the beautiful woman in his Vegas hotel suite as CIA operative Ginger Olin.

Being newlyweds was the perfect cover to expose whoever was targeting Jason. Then Gin laid down ground rules. Passion and affection were for the public only. In private, it was hands off. But as Jason’s hunger for his make-believe wife battled with his professional dedication, their “just for show” behavior had him yearning to make Gin his wife for real.

“That’s becoming a habit.”

Confusion showed on Jason’s face.

“You insisted on doing the same thing last night after the wedding,” Gin explained. “You carried me over the threshold.”

“I don’t remember that.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You should rest.”

“That’s why you brought me up here. To rest.”

He nodded, but he refused to look at her.

“I told you I’m not tired.”

“No. It’s obvious you’re wired. You should sleep it off.”

“We both know that’s unlikely.”

She tugged his shirt from his jeans and ran her fingertips along his warm skin. “We both could use a shower.”

She shrugged out of her jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Come on, Jason.” Why wouldn’t he make a move? “Come have some fun with your wife.”

DEBRA WEBB wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain and within the confining political walls of Berlin, Germany, that she realized her true calling. A fiveyear stint with NASA on the space-shuttle program reinforced her love of the endless possibilities within her grasp as a storyteller. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Debra has been writing romance, suspense and action-packed romance thrillers since. Visit her at www.debrawebb.com or write to her at PO Box 4889, Huntsville, AL 35815, USA.

Ready, Aim…I Do!

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Debra

Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jason Grant—A Specialist and former military sniper. Holt has sent Grant out to assist an agent who has been compromised, but he finds himself the primary suspect when a sniper starts attacking civilians in the area.

Ginger Olin—A spy on the trail of a deadly new virus, she needs to identify the buyer, but she picks up an added assignment as authorities try to determine Grant’s guilt or innocence.

Emmett Holt—Deputy Director of Mission Recovery. Holt took Lucas Camp’s place when he retired. Some believe he will do anything to move to the top.

Thomas Casey—Director of Mission Recovery. Thomas is the consummate Specialist. He handpicks his people and is determined to protect his team.

Lucas Camp—Thomas’s closest friend. He will do whatever is necessary to protect his friend and the interests of Mission Recovery.

Victoria Colby-Camp—The semiretired head of the Colby Agency. She and Lucas can’t seem to stay out of the business of investigations.

Contents

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Caesar’s Palace,

Thursday, November 20th, 9:48 p.m.

You’re next.

Jason Grant couldn’t stop thinking about the note he’d received last month. So far he’d come up empty trying to determine the source. He wanted to write it off as a prank, but it wasn’t the kind of humor any of his friends or associates indulged in. Although he knew he was considered the next in line for the deputy director post at Mission Recovery, it wasn’t how his bosses would announce a promotion.

If this current assignment was any indication, the reality appeared to be that he was next up to either get fired or die of boredom. The sport coat he wore suddenly felt too warm; the tie he’d already loosened still felt too confining.

He looked around the hotel bar. Too early for a big crowd, but there were plenty of people coming and going and gambling. His deep well of training-induced patience was running dry. Not a smart thing in his line of work as a Specialist, but true all the same. Although impatience wasn’t the ideal, he knew the value of being aware of his strengths and weaknesses throughout a fluctuating operation.

He signaled the bartender for another beer and thought about what he might have done to deserve such a low-level assignment.

Specialists were sent in to recover the impossible situations—not to sit back and watch for potential signs of trouble. Last month he’d been told to observe, and he had done so. Right up until the point when Director Casey needed hands-on assistance. This time it felt much the same, except he had no idea who might be in trouble. In fact, he had no idea what the hell was going on here.

All he’d been told was that the operative in place might need backup. He was supposed to hang out in and around Caesar’s Palace, observe and make himself available to get her out if necessary. They didn’t even tell him which her he was looking for.

It didn’t feel right. A lot of things in Mission Recovery weren’t feeling right these days.

Still, gut feelings aside, this was the job and here he was in Sin City. He’d found a cover story with a nearby convention on security systems and emerging technologies and booked an upgraded room in the Caesar tower, though he didn’t expect to see it much.

He tipped back the dark bottle of beer but didn’t risk drinking any more than the half bottle he’d already sipped away. Instead, his eyes scanned the constantly shifting crowd for any female who looked like a covert operative. Evening hours—really any hour in Vegas from what he’d seen so far—meant women were decked out like there was a Bond girl audition nearby. It made for colorful and entertaining scenery, but Jason was ready for action.

This gig of sitting around watching was getting staler than the beer he pretended to drink.

He pulled out his phone and, per his habit, checked the police scanner app for any crime news. For the past two days, aside from a seven-car pileup on Interstate 15 the state troopers suspected had been started by a blown-out front tire of a limousine, it had been mostly routine stuff. Muggings, prostitution, disputes over money or lovers. Nothing that pointed to a spy in trouble. Certainly no high-speed shoot-outs involving high-end automobiles.

He turned his attention to the hockey game televised on the set above the bar. The odds were running like a stock exchange ticker across the bottom of the picture. If something didn’t break soon, he might have to resort to the preferred entertainment and place a bet on something.

“Pardon me,” the bartender said. “Is your name Grant?”

He nodded. The bartender slid him a shot of tequila with a salt shaker and lime. “Courtesy of the blonde across the way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the other end of the bar.

Grant took a long look and smiled when the woman raised her own shot in salute. The hair was different, probably a wig, and from this distance in the subdued light he couldn’t be sure about the eyes. But the dress. He recognized the vibrant emerald dress that skimmed her sensual curves. A certain bold redhead had worn it when she’d crashed a wedding reception in Colorado last month.

At the time he’d considered her the prime suspect behind the cryptic You’re next note he’d received. But the brief investigation and limited evidence disproved that theory. No one remembered a redhead or even a woman anywhere near the note. In the weeks since, he’d been looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows, though he’d never admit any such thing. As much as he hated the wide-open, let-it-ride atmosphere in the gambling capital, the constant motion of Vegas was at least curing him of the jumpiness.

What the hell, he thought, and tossed back the shot. If Olin was the agent in need, the alcohol might dull the edginess he felt whenever he thought about the stunning redhead. Of course, tequila was better known for boosting the potential for trouble than preventing it.

Either way, this being Vegas, he might as well enjoy the ride.

* * *

GINGER OLIN SLID a fifty-dollar chip onto number twenty-five and considered herself lucky even before the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning.

Why couldn’t all her targets have the good taste to conduct business in Las Vegas? The themes were over the top, but that was the beauty of it. Vegas catered to the bold and overwhelmed the inhibitions of the shy. It made for a delightfully level playing field.

As she strolled through the gaming rooms of Caesar’s Palace amid the glamorous theme and thorough details, she noticed the atmosphere exuded luxury with an undercurrent of excited energy. One couldn’t help joining in the fun. That energy drew like a magnet, made her feel alive in a way that only this kind of decadence could.

The ball dropped in, and she listened to it zip around the wheel as she scanned the nearby tables for any sign of the man carrying the deadly virus she’d been tracking all over the globe. Hearing the bounce and clatter as the ball landed, she timed her squeal of glee perfectly as the dealer called out the winning number.

“Twenty-five!”

Smiling, she accepted the congratulations and admiring glances along with the slightly taller stack of chips and stepped back from the table. Her target, a slick crime boss out of Europe, was on the move, but who was he here to meet? That was the million-dollar question, and she sought the answer.

She strolled along, just one woman among thousands dressed to the nines and looking for the next place to burn through her money. Waitresses cruised through knots of gamblers and hangers-on in an intricate ballet, trays held high, smiles wide and full of temptation. She supposed some people might find the glitter and glam overdone, but Gin enjoyed it. Here a spy could find the right background to blend with, no matter the circumstances. The perfect playing board for dangerous games.

She spotted her target, an older man with thick gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, moving toward the craps tables and Gin shadowed him, wondering if he was enjoying the setting as much as she was. The virus wasn’t with him, though. Her tracking tag showed it was stationary, probably in his room. Joining the growing crowd cheering on a lucky run at a craps table, she used the raucous, shifting party as cover while she tried to spot the buyer.

Her pulse stuttered when she met the hard, icy gaze of Bernard Isely. He was looking too closely, and not at her well-displayed cleavage. He preferred his women cheap, his vodka expensive, and those who betrayed him dead. He didn’t know it yet, but she would soon fall squarely into the last category.

She felt an unprecedented surge of insecurity. Would her wig and contacts be enough to protect her? Her intent was not to dress the same way twice during her stay here. Her well-calculated costuming would, she hoped, be enough to keep her alive throughout and after this assignment.

She dragged her thoughts away from the edge of panic and focused instead on her extensive training and reliable intel. A few weeks ago while she was following a different lead, she’d been told this low life had entered the States, but he should never have been here. Not in person. He usually sent someone else to do the face-to-face work.

But there was nothing usual about this particular business. His appearance shouldn’t have been a shock. She told herself it wasn’t a shock. Everyone who should know believed his father had commissioned the deadly virus up for sale this weekend. It might not fit his profile, but then this particular exchange wasn’t standard fare for the Isely crime family. The son might want to watch his father’s greatest coup go out into the criminal world at last. Maybe that was reason enough to take such a high risk.

Regardless, she understood it was his abrupt appearance right across from her that could rattle her. Rattled spies didn’t last long. Experience kept her reactions in tune with the excited crowd and her gaze averted from her enemy. Her heart might be in her throat, but there wouldn’t be any outward sign of her distress. She had too much practice to give him that advantage.

Immediately she considered her options. This was one of the most wanted and most evasive men of the criminal underworld. They’d almost caught him last month by accident, but somehow he’d slithered out of custody before the right authorities arrived.

The player rolled again and won again, and in the subsequent roar of celebration, Gin slipped back and away, putting the other revelers between her and Isely.

She tagged along on the fringe of a group of women cruising out toward the slot machines. If he was on to her, it would be obvious right away. Unfortunately, her worst-case scenario was confirmed when she spared a glance over her shoulder. It was too late to make a preemptive bold move, but it was still too soon to panic.

There was always a way out.

Well, almost always.

She needed the right crowd or the right loner, she thought, turning toward the low lights of the nearest bar. And she needed one or the other right now.

The crowd was light and most of the patrons were paired up or in small groups. Gin sought the solo acts. There was another blonde woman in a deep emerald dress, only a shade or so darker than Gin’s, who might do in a pinch. Gin had the long-lost school chum routine down to a science.

But her first choice would be a man. Men were typically less suspicious and far less likely to admit they couldn’t remember a hot chick from a prior rendezvous. She spotted a man in the corner sipping a cup of coffee and squinting into a book that was most likely a tutorial on blackjack. Too serious and sporting a wedding ring, she crossed him off her mental list.

Then she noticed the ideal candidate at the other end of the bar. She strolled right up to the only familiar face she could potentially define as a friend in this town and pressed a light kiss to Specialist Grant’s cheek. “Oh, the whims of fate,” she said in a flat Midwestern accent.

“More like the whims of my boss,” he replied, signaling the bartender.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“A couple of days. What’ll you have?”

“White wine,” she told the bartender. Taking the barstool next to Jason, she swiveled so her knees brushed against his thigh.

He glanced down and then gave her an interested half-grin. “You don’t have to bait me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He leaned closer. “I’m a sure thing, remember?”

She tipped her head back and laughed, playing along. “That’s good to know.” Studying him, she wondered how much he’d had to drink. Any alcohol beyond a few sips to set his profile meant he was here for pleasure rather than business. Grant, she suspected, wasn’t the sort to bend the rules on a mission. His brown eyes were a little unfocused, his pupils dilated. So maybe he wasn’t here on business. Still, even in the midst of tying one on, he was her best bet to get out of here.

Using the mirror behind the bar, she checked for Isely. He’d stepped just inside the doorway and was checking out the milling crowd. He didn’t come closer, but she could feel his gaze land on her back. If he didn’t know for sure, he’d suspected she was trouble. Well, Jason Grant could help her prove otherwise.

The bartender delivered her wine and she sipped, rubbing her palm across Jason’s knee. Isely had to believe she was involved with him, that they were simply a couple here to enjoy a long weekend.

“Need a hand?”

“Why, Mr. Grant, that sounds like a wonderful start. I think you’re just the lucky charm that would be helpful to me at the craps tables.”

He shook his head. “I—ah, don’t gamble,” he mumbled with a laugh that sounded almost drunken.

Alarms sounded in her head. A man who didn’t gamble didn’t do Vegas for pleasure. Something was wrong here. “Sweetheart, are you feeling well?”

“Fine.” He picked up her hand and stroked her palm with his thumb. “Your hand is...is so soft.”

And his was quite strong, but something was clearly wrong. Careful not to break cover, she scanned the room for whoever had drugged him. She needed to get him out of here before he was too loopy to walk.

He started to slump to the side, and she signaled for the bartender to settle the tab. Jason managed a signature and she caught the room number he’d listed along with the drink tally. Two beers wouldn’t have put him in this state.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” She looped his arm over her shoulder and with hers at his waist she steadied him as they maneuvered through the bar.

The gun she felt in the waistband at the small of his back implied he was on the clock and only solidified her theory that someone had decided he was a target for something. As they exited no one seemed to care, not even Isely, but she couldn’t be sure because it took all her concentration to keep Jason upright. His height of just over six feet and lean but muscular build were far more appealing when he was supporting both on his own power.

His hand slid down to cup her bottom and she jumped a little, surprised by his touch. She covered her reaction with a laugh. Maybe he was faking the drunk part. Was he taking advantage and hamming it up, or was there a real problem? It helped the cover, so she wouldn’t complain. She guided him toward the main entrance, hoping the fresh air and surroundings would help revive him if this wasn’t for show.

“What did you have to drink, sweetheart?” she asked. The crowded streets and traffic noise meant no one could eavesdrop and she wanted as much information as she could get.

“A beer. Not even. Oh!” He jerked a bit. “And you sent me a shot of tequila.”

“Ah.” As they walked, she checked his pockets. He had his wallet and his room key. She must have interrupted before whoever started this had finished the job. Well, luck was certainly a lady for Jason tonight. She would ask him later why he thought the person who sent him a shot was her.

“You aren’t really blonde.” He reached over and brushed at the blonde bangs of her wig.

“That’s just for fun tonight, remember?”

“Mmm-hmm. Where’re we going?”

Back to his room if she could manage it. She risked another glance over her shoulder. Damned if Isely wasn’t still on her. What would it take to get rid of him?

She’d worn a disguise, stopped shadowing his seller and left the casino where the transaction was slated to occur. “Give a girl a break,” she muttered, pausing to catch her breath. Her chosen method of distraction was turning into a serious problem.

Next time, she was going with the old school chum routine. No hormonal interference with that diversion. Running into Jason had looked like a fun, sexy ticket out of trouble, but now he felt like a block of cement dragging her down. She leaned him against a palm tree and kept him there with a hand on his hard chest.

She could leave him and call a cop to help him back to his room. Practical, but wrong. “Kiss me,” she said.

“What?” His eyelids were droopy and his grin was that of a sweet drunk, and still it made butterflies circle in her belly.

“Kiss me,” she ordered.

“In a minute.” His hands were warm on her waist. “You hafta say ‘I do’ first.”

She followed his gaze. They were standing under the bright neon lights of an Elvis-themed wedding chapel. To her left, Isely was only a few yards away. To her right, one of the brutal men she recognized from his personal security team was even closer and reaching into his jacket.

Damn.

Why couldn’t these guys just believe the only thing she was into was her man?

Catching a glimpse of the shoulder holster, she made up her mind. Isely and his crew were known to act first and rationalize later. Drugged, Jason wasn’t in any shape to help her. Maybe it was time to play the game their way.

“Well,” she said to Jason, marching the fingers of one hand up his shirt while she reached for his gun with the other. She wasn’t a great shot left-handed, but she only had to create a diversion if they tried to take her. Flipping off the safety, she kept Jason distracted with her body pressed against his.

Isely’s thug had his weapon out now and his attention was locked on her. She didn’t know who or what had tipped off Isely, but his intended method of problem solving was clear. As the thug raised his weapon, she fired through Jason’s sport coat, aiming for the thug’s knee and praying she wouldn’t hit anyone else.

People on the street reacted predictably—a sudden flurry of motion set to the soundtrack of panicked screaming. Isely’s thug was hopping around in pain—she must have clipped his foot—and people caught sight of his gun. He was swarmed by determined citizens yelling for police assistance.

Jason jumped, a delayed reaction to the sound of the shot. He almost fell, dragging her with him. “Steady, sweetheart. That’s just a car back firing,” she lied smoothly.

“It’s loud out here.” He traced the shell of her ear with his fingertip. “Let’s get married so I can kiss you,” he said.

She tucked the gun back into the holster at his back. “If you insist, honey.”

“I do.” He sputtered with laughter when he realized what he said. “C’mon.” He pushed away from the tree and wobbled toward the chapel entrance with the careful determination of a drunk.

She wasn’t sure he’d appreciate her current opinion of Specialist Jason Grant as sweet edging toward adorable, but there wasn’t a better way to define him in his diminished state.

Less than an hour later, to the tune of Viva Las Vegas, they were newlyweds with the gold bands, a champagne toast and a “Just Married” limo ride up and down the Strip to prove it.

She wondered how happy her groom would be when he woke up tomorrow morning?

Chapter Two

Mission Recovery headquarters,

11:45 p.m.

Emmett Holt steepled his fingers as he reviewed the detailed reports his assistant had sent to his computer. Apparently a sniper was on a killing spree in Las Vegas. Times, targets—hell, even the type of bullets—pointed to Jason Grant, the Specialist who would one day take over this very office. Director Casey had handpicked Grant for the deputy director’s chair when Holt eventually moved up to Casey’s post, but this development could change everything.

There was never a good time for an agent to go off the deep end, but in light of the recent scandal of false allegations and rumors against the director himself, this was the last thing Mission Recovery needed.

Specialists recruited to their covert agency were above reproach, but it looked for all the world like Grant was about to become the exception. That possibility didn’t sit well with Holt. There was only one conclusion in light of this damning data: Grant, or someone who wanted them to believe it was Grant, was waging some sort of vendetta in Las Vegas.

If it was Grant, Holt wondered how he had secured the rifle. To date, their normal contacts in the area denied seeing Grant. Holt knew someone was lying, but that in and of itself didn’t put Grant in the clear. All Specialists were well-trained in where and how to connect with a helpful associate when they were in the field. He may have purposely gone outside their usual suppliers.

But why? Had he lost it? Or had someone on the other side made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?

In the past forty-eight hours the sniper—whoever the hell he was—had picked off a couple of irrelevant targets, caused one serious traffic accident and winged a major player in the drug trade. All of which had been kept out of the media. Considering the damper that kind of publicity could put on tourism, the local authorities had been only too happy to cooperate. The shootings looked perfectly random, but anyone with access to his personnel jacket would put Grant at the top of the suspect list.

The grim accomplishment was more impressive considering the Specialist hadn’t missed a single status check-in call since his arrival. Holt suppressed his instincts on the matter. What he believed on a personal level was irrelevant. He had a job to do and no one could ever accuse him of failing to get the job done. He liked Grant as well as he did any of the others but that, too, was irrelevant at the moment.

“Shall I add this to the agenda for the next briefing, sir?” His assistant, Nadine, sat on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the conservative suit she wore, her posture was particularly rigid as she asked the question. No one wanted to believe the worst. Not even the young assistant he had hired who willingly worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days in an attempt to keep him happy. He vaguely wondered if that was why she kept her hair in a sleek ponytail all the time. He didn’t give her time to patronize salons.

He also wondered if she hated him as much as most who had the displeasure of working for him did.

He blinked away the concept. “No. I’ll handle it privately.” The less anyone knew about this situation the better. If he put it on the agenda for team discussion, Grant might hear about it. And if he knew they were on to him, he’d bolt before they could get a net around him. And if this was Grant, Holt needed to get a net around him as soon as possible.

“Any word from the agent Grant was sent to Las Vegas to support?”

“No, sir.”

No surprise there. Everyone knew Vegas remained one of the easiest cities to disappear in. “Maybe the agent managed to get out without Grant’s help.” Holt said what his assistant expected to hear while his mind worked through the latest developments and numerous other scenarios.

“I’ll keep monitoring the news out there,” Nadine suggested.

Holt nodded. They both understood the harsh reality and the constricting time frame. He wasn’t going to be able to keep the sniper issue quiet much longer. If and when the local police force connected the incidents to a single shooter, they would be obligated to call in federal assistance and warn the public about the threat.

Which meant Holt would be obligated to tell someone in another government agency there was an operative in the area with sharp-shooter expertise, and that would break Grant’s cover.

If Jason Grant remained in Las Vegas, with his stellar career as a sniper, he would become a person of interest within the next twenty-four hours. By hour forty-eight, if he couldn’t offer a valid alibi for the shootings, he’d be in custody or a wanted suspect. A pawn effectively removed from the dangerous game Holt was playing. No one, particularly his superiors, would be happy with his methods. But that had never stopped him before. It wouldn’t now. And that was precisely why they had hired him. He would get the job done, one way or another.

The stakes were high and the risk-to-reward ratio bordered on irrational. But it had to be done, and he was the only one in Mission Recovery who could manage it. On days like this, the baggage of responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.

His assistant stood. “Shall I attempt to contact Grant?”

Holt leaned back from his desk and turned a pencil end over end on the arm of his chair. “No need. Until we know more, Specialist Grant’s orders don’t change. Get me the director as soon as it’s morning wherever he is.”

“But, sir, he’s on his honeymoon.”

That was right. The director of Mission Recovery had gotten married last month, but work had prevented an immediate honeymoon. “The world doesn’t stop spinning because he fell in love, Nadine,” he grumbled. “As much as Thomas Casey would like to think so.”

“Of course, sir.”

His assistant left the office to carry his reports and orders to the Specialists currently on assignment and those preparing for assignments. Alone, he stared at the pencil in his hand.

He silently assured himself things were going according to the plan and it would all be over soon. Eager as he was to be done with it, he knew rushing the process now would bring the whole damn mess crashing down. On him.

He was the only one who could do this. Likewise, he was the one who would pay in spades if anything went wrong.

“Won’t let that happen,” he muttered. He’d come too far to bail out now.

Setting the pencil aside, he turned toward his computer and drafted the email his counterpart was expecting. He read it through twice more and then, taking a deep breath, he finally hit Send.

Chapter Three

Caesar’s Palace,

Friday, November 21, 8:17 a.m.

Jason rolled to his back and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding into the room. His head felt stuffed with cotton, which, in any logical universe, should have dulled the incessant ringing in his ears.

“That’s your phone, sweetheart. You should answer.”

He knew that voice. What the hell was Ginger Olin doing in his hotel room? And why would she be aiming any endearments his way? He flung a hand out in the general direction of the ringing only to have the move stopped short by a warm, soft touch. He dared to open his eyes a crack.

“Careful. I’ve left you a glass of water.” Ginger smiled down at him with a bit too much sympathy as he curled his fingers around the cell phone. “Take the call. I’ll be in the shower.”

Through slitted eyelids, he watched her saunter away, her body swathed in a hotel robe. He propped himself up on an elbow, struggling to clear the fog from his brain. What was going on here? What the hell was wrong with him?

The phone started ringing again, and he saw the number and stern face of Deputy Director Holt on his screen. Damn. This was one call he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah.” He cleared the rough edge from his throat, wondering how Ginger had managed to get him so drunk he couldn’t remember squat. He never drank on duty. “Grant here.”

“Where were you last night? You missed the scheduled check-in.”

He opened his mouth to answer and snapped it closed again. He didn’t know. Based on his nudity, the state of the bed and the woman in the shower, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out what had happened. That still didn’t explain this nasty hangover.

“I tried to contact you all night, but your phone was off. I learned this morning that you missed the recovery. If you have any sense of self-preservation, get your ass on the next available flight out of there or consider yourself relieved of duty.”

“Sir?” How could he have missed the recovery? Agent Olin was safe, right here in the room with him. She’d been in trouble and he’d gotten her out of it. At least he thought that’s how it had gone down. “Sir, I made the recovery,” he insisted.

“You’ve dropped the ball somewhere, Grant, because the package is missing and Agent Conklin never encountered you or your support.”

“Give me a second chance. I can meet with security and—”

“I can’t. It’s too late. Be on the next flight. We will debrief when you arrive.”

The line went dead and for a long moment, Jason stared at the screen, utterly dumbfounded. If Olin wasn’t the recovery, how had she known the code phrase?

She had given him the code phrase, hadn’t she? She must have. He wouldn’t have taken action unless he’d been sure. Although right now, he couldn’t recall exactly what they’d done before coming to the room. It was pretty damn clear what they’d done after they got here.

He rolled to his feet, lost his balance when his vision wavered and landed back on the edge of the bed. He clutched at the mattress until the room stopped spinning. He’d been hung over a few times. Enough to know this wasn’t the same thing at all. He’d been drugged. But why? And who would do that?

Carefully he looked around, taking in the view of his hotel room. Or at least a room that was identical. He spotted his luggage and wished like hell they hadn’t upgraded him to a suite. The suitcase across the room might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Desperate, he entertained the idea of crawling over for fresh clothes when he heard the water stop running. He would not let her find him weak as a kitten on his hands and knees in addition to the troubling disorientation plaguing him.

Slowly he turned his head from side to side, then up and down until his dizziness eased off.

The shirt and slacks he’d worn last night were scattered across the floor along with a lace-topped stocking and garter. He half expected to see a bra draped over a lampshade. A memory teased him and he twisted toward the door. Yup. There was the blond wig he’d tugged from her head, eager to get his hands in her glossy red mane.

Something had gone down in this room, or at least she’d made it look that way. He wasn’t sure which explanation he wanted to hear most: that it happened, or that he only thought it happened.

He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and stopped dead. The wide gold band on the ring finger of his left hand glinted in the sunlight. He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t go away. He was married?

His head and stomach protested as he took in the strewn clothing along with this new information. It certainly looked as if they’d started married life with a bang.

No. Impossible. No way in hell he’d forget his own wedding or the inevitable events leading up to it. No way in hell he’d marry a stranger—and Ginger Olin, CIA operative, fit that description. This had to be some ruse she invented to preserve her cover. Except Holt just said he should have rescued an agent named Conklin.

“Damn it all.” He couldn’t make sense of the vague scenes flitting through his mind. She owed him some answers. This time when he pushed to his feet, he kept moving forward despite the sudden tilt of the room. He was grateful when the wall kept him from hitting the floor. He pounded a fist on the bathroom door. “Get out here.”

She opened the door and a steamy cloud of spicy vanilla scent washed over him. It was so her: lush and tempting. He fought the urge to lean in and inhale deeply.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a sly smile as her gaze slid over his body like a touch. He reacted as any man might when faced with the beauty of a gorgeous woman fresh from a shower. Whether his memory ever correctly filled in the details of last night, his body seemed convinced about what they’d done and there was no hiding the part of him demanding an encore performance.

Damn. In his determination to stay on his feet he’d forgotten to cover himself.

One long fingertip trailed across his jaw. “You’re looking rough.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in. A shower will fix you right up.”

Was that a bit of Irish in her voice this morning? If so, was it real? He’d done a little investigating after their last meeting and knew she had a talent for accents. “What did you give me?” He looked past her, ashamed that he wanted to ask for her support to get him across the expanse of the luxurious bathroom.

“The time of your life. Or so you said.”

Looking at the woman who’d starred in his fantasies since their one brief conversation last month, it probably had been the time of his life. How unfair that he didn’t have full recall. “Not what I meant.”

She tucked herself under his arm, keeping him steady as she walked him past the long vanity. “This way, big guy.”

Something about the gesture felt familiar. “Did you do this last night?”

“We can talk about last night when your head’s clear.” She eased back but didn’t quite let go. “Steady?”

Barely. “Yes.”

“Cold or hot?”

“Pardon?”

“The shower,” she clarified, her eyes quickly darting down to his groin and back up again.

“Cold.”

“All righty.” She reached past him and he saw the glint of gold on her left hand. What did it mean that she apparently had all her faculties and still wore a wedding band as new and shiny as his? Nothing good, he decided when she gave him a little encouraging nudge into the shower.

The cold spray against his scalp and rushing down and over his skin was a brutal shock, but it cleared his head faster than a pot of coffee and restored some measure of control over his lusty hormones.

When he decided he’d tortured himself long enough, he climbed out and reached for a towel on the warmer. The bathroom was empty. Her courtesy and thoughtfulness surprised him—and actually had him a little worried. What the hell was going on? For now he was grateful to find his shaving kit still near the sink closest to the shower. The other sink, which had gone unused since he’d checked in, was surrounded by feminine details, including a flowered bag, a pink toothbrush and a contact lens case pushed to the back of the counter.

Huh? When had that stuff gotten there? Was it his imagination, or was she planning to stay awhile?

Knowing it was risky, he decided to live dangerously and shave anyway. Surviving the experience with only a couple of small nicks, he evaluated his reflection and thought he looked almost normal.

He opened the door to go find some clothes and nearly got rapped on the nose as her hand was raised to knock.

“Whoops,” she said, her vivid green gaze direct and clear. “Looks like I’m late.” She held out a stack of clothing from his suitcase.

“That was fast.”

A small frown drew her brows together. “What do you mean?”

“Married less than twenty-four hours and my wife’s already picking out my clothing.”

She gave a little huff and shoved the clothing at him, but he saw the blush turning her cheeks a rosy pink. A small victory, but he liked knowing he had some effect on her. Being the one doing all the reacting was no fun.

“Get dressed. Room service should be here soon. Then we can discuss last night in a civilized manner.”

“Yes, dear,” he said irreverently, closing the door on her frown.

* * *

GIN PACED THE room while he dressed. Damn the man for being too handsome for his own good. Or hers. They were in the middle of a serious crisis. Attraction would have to wait. It had proved a serious challenge to ignore his impressive body and the instinctive way he responded to her, both last night and again this morning.

For a hefty tip, the limousine driver had extended the tour when Jason dozed off, then he’d been kind enough to find a drive-through for coffee. The caffeine perked up Jason enough that she could get him into his room. She hadn’t counted on it being enough of a stimulant to have him put the moves on her.

The poor man had been so abused by the drug, and still he’d kissed her like it had mattered at the altar, but more specifically when they’d arrived right here. She brought her hands to her lips, remembering. She’d never expected his response to wedded bliss to be so enthusiastic, even if it had been his idea—albeit while under the influence of whatever drug someone had obviously slipped him. He was a test to her self-control, but she’d gotten him safely to the bed before he passed out again.

Once she was sure he would stay unconscious she’d dashed back to her own room and gathered what she needed to set the stage here in his suite. Then she’d returned to his room and searched it, looking for any clue as to why he’d been in Vegas, particularly in the same hotel where a deadly virus was about to change hands. She’d found nothing to point to his purpose or even a possible cover story. The easy explanation was this was just a quick getaway for him, but she didn’t believe in coincidence.

Now, while he showered off the last effects of the drug, she cleaned up the mess she’d deliberately made and indulged in what was surely the most girlish moment of her life. She buried her nose in his shirt, remembering his hands in her hair and cruising over her body. The woman who married him for real would be one lucky, well-loved woman.

She shivered, squashing the reaction when the door opened and Jason joined her. His step was steady now, his gaze clear despite the dark circles under his eyes. His thick, sable hair glistened, and even from across the room, she caught the fresh scent of him under the zippy mint of the hotel-brand body wash.

After sleeping next to him all night, making sure he didn’t suffer nightmares or worse from the drug, she’d probably be able to pick him out of a lineup with only her nose. Good grief, what was wrong with her?

She twisted the gold band on her finger and searched for the right place to begin. “Could we, umm, talk out there?” Away from the tangled sheets of the bed. “I’ve brewed a pot of coffee, and breakfast will be here any minute.”

He agreed with a subtle dip of his chin, and she knew he was evaluating her every move for a motive or a clue.

“Where’s my gun?”

“In the closet safe. The code is your birthday.”

His eyebrows lifted at that revelation. “Did we, ahh—” He finished with a tilt of his head toward the bed.

“You really don’t remember?”

He looked away. “Just bits and pieces.”

“Hmm. I should probably be offended,” she teased. In reality, she was relieved. His lack of knowledge could work to her advantage. “It was a night I’ll never forget.”

When they were out of the danger zone most people called a bedroom, she poured him a cup of coffee, then slid onto the counter stool. She didn’t want to do anything as intimate as sit across from him at the table as if they really were newlyweds. The thought made her chuckle. It didn’t get much more intimate than tucking a naked, amorous husband into bed.

When he’d tossed her wig to the floor and pulled the pins from her hair so he could run his hands through it, it had been all she could do not to cave to the temptation he presented. He was handsome and quite striking when dressed. Nude? Well, artists would kill to paint him if they knew what treasures his clothing hid. His body, strong and sculpted, showed the results of his dedication to fitness and preparation. She had relished taking in every single detail.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She sat up straighter. “Thank you. Maybe this would go faster if you just ask whatever is on your mind.”

“Are we married?”

“Yes.” She handed him the documentation from the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel. The paperwork was real and almost complete. The marriage license wasn’t official, but he didn’t seem to notice that. There was the added complication that the marriage wouldn’t be considered valid if Jason Grant wasn’t his real name. Her sources said it was, but mistakes happened. She still wasn’t sure why she’d used her real name rather than the alias she’d prepared for this mission.

He tossed the certificate and marriage license to the table and the scowl on his face was enough to have her second-guessing going along with his convenient, drug-induced idea.

He crossed his arms and stared at her. “Why?”

The flippant remark on the tip of her tongue just wouldn’t fall. Neither would the truth. Fortunately, she got a momentary reprieve with the arrival of breakfast.

He stalked over to the door, gave a belated glance through the security peephole and yanked the door open. The waiter was all smiles, going on about the pitcher of mimosas and sharing the congratulations for the “happy couple” from the staff. To her shock Jason took it all with a smile worthy of any happy groom, even tipping the man on his way out, but as soon as they were alone, the scowl returned.

“It won’t be that bad,” she said as he lifted the cover from each plate. She’d placed the order last night when they’d returned to the hotel, but she hadn’t expected the elaborate presentation or the mouth-watering aromas. Las Vegas might just become her favorite city, and she’d been all over the world—a few times.

A massive omelet, a plate of bacon and sausage, a stack of pancakes, two flavors of syrup, fresh berries and cream, along with all the other condiments and accompaniments, made for a remarkable display.

“Wow. This smells divine.”

He replaced the cover over the omelet she was staring at. “Tell me why you did it and I’ll let you eat.”

“You don’t want to go that route with me,” she warned. “I’m hungry.” Violence wasn’t the way she preferred to have her hands on him, but she’d put up a fight if it was the only way to earn his respect. “You have reach and strength on me, but I have guile, training and a clear head.”

“Fair point.” He held out a plate. “Start there.”

“Where?” She sliced off a portion of the omelet, added a strip of crisp bacon to her plate and returned to the counter and her coffee. As much as she wanted a mimosa, she knew the clear head was a necessity.

“Start with your ‘clear head’ advantage. Why did you drug me?”

“I didn’t.” She’d merely stepped in and likely saved his life and possibly her own by capitalizing on the moment. “You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth.”

His gaze locked with hers, then with an arch of eyebrows, he turned his focus to drizzling syrup over a pancake.

“Is your stomach bothering you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” And inexplicably she felt obligated to keep him that way.

Although she didn’t believe he was the trouble in question, she didn’t think it was coincidence that her morning email alert included a caution about a sniper in Las Vegas. From the little she’d been able to dig up on him, Jason had the background and qualifications, but even when he’d been drugged, his sense of right and wrong remained intact.

She’d searched his luggage and found nothing that indicated he had a weapon other than his handgun.

She knew he doubted her about the drugs, and she didn’t hold it against him. People didn’t join covert agencies for the transparency factor. They chose it for a myriad of other reasons usually starting with some noble concept of honor and duty. Suddenly she wanted to know his motive for joining, wanted to know how it might have morphed or changed since getting into the field, but this wasn’t the time.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked instead.

“A shot of tequila.” He closed his eyes. “I barely remember biting the lime. If you don’t want to talk about that, tell me why you did this to us,” he said, wiggling his ring finger.

“We’ll get there. I promise.” She swiped her finger in an X over her heart.

“Not funny.”

She laughed. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

He grunted.

“Come on, Jason. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The wig. You were wearing a wig and I made you take it off when we got here.”

She nearly choked on her coffee. “I meant the last thing you remember before we, ah, hooked up.”

“You mean before we got married.”

“I do, yes.” She hadn’t heard the poor choice of words until one of his eyebrows lifted. She stifled a laugh, knowing he wouldn’t remember enough to understand the joke. “You know what I mean.”

“The bar. I was hanging out in the bar waiting for the contact. I didn’t expect you.”

“Same goes,” she muttered from behind her coffee cup. “How long had you been there?”

“A couple of hours. I was nursing a beer, keeping an eye on the odds for the hockey game.”

“Did you win? I’m up about five hundred dollars since I hit town.”

“I don’t gamble.”

“You’re kidding?” Her surprise brought forth another scowl. It amused her. “Well, maybe you don’t gamble with money, but clearly you enjoy some level of risk or you wouldn’t be the golden boy at Mission Recovery.”

“How do you know that?”

“Not because you broke protocol and shared anything. I have my own sources.” She rolled her hand, signaling him to continue. “You’re at the bar, watching the scores and odds and then what?”

She had to wait while he filled his plate with a slice of the omelet and two sausage links. Then he surprised her, bringing over the coffee carafe and refilling her cup.

“The tequila shot, like I said. The bartender brought it over and said it was from you.”

“He used my name?”

“No.” He returned to the table. “He pointed to you at the other end of the bar.”

“Describe the woman you saw. Please,” she added when he shook his head.

“Blonde. Emerald dress that matches a certain eye color.”

“You said she was at the other end of the bar. When did she get close enough that you could see her eyes?”

He frowned at his plate. “Your eyes are green. The dress matched your eyes.”

She shouldn’t be flattered that he knew that, but she was. “I was wearing contacts last night.”

“I noticed. And a blond wig.”

“Yes.” She was starting to really worry they’d both been set up by someone with too much information.

“The dress was just like the one you wore in Colorado last month.”

“You’re sure?” First of all, she would never wear the same outfit in an op she’d worn at a previous engagement. Men could get away with that kind of thing, but not a woman.

He looked up at her, his expression troubled. “That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I was wondering what you were doing here and wearing that dress. After that the images are like snippets from a dream. I can’t quite hang on to enough to put the pieces together. You walked up and gave me the code phrase for extraction and—”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

“What?”

“We’ve been compromised.” Alone but for her reluctant almost-husband, she gave in to the fidgets and started pacing the length of the room. “Something is dreadfully wrong. Yes, I joined you at the bar, but I didn’t send you the shot. Drugs and sedatives aren’t my style.”

“Then whose style is it?”

“I don’t know. No one I’ve been watching would have a reason to drug you.” She pushed her hands through her hair, tugged just a little. “I saw lots of people, including a blonde wearing an emerald dress, who I followed to the bar. But once I got there I was focused on you.” Because that’s all she’d needed to see. She’d let Isely’s unexpected appearance rattle her more than she’d thought. A rattled agent fails and she sure had done so here. She swore, turned on her heel and came up hard against Jason’s chest. He’d walked up right behind her.

He caught her elbows and held her in place when she might have bounced off of him. “You’ll wear a rut in the carpet.”

“I don’t care. And, for the record, that green dress wasn’t the one I was wearing the last time you saw me.” There were similarities she had to admit now that she really considered it. It was comparable enough to have a guy thinking it was the same.

“Who’s your contact? What’s the signal if you need to be pulled out of your mission?” he demanded, dragging her attention back to him.

“I don’t have a code phrase or a contact.” She pulled herself free of his touch. It was too distracting. “I’ve never needed help.”

“And yet they sent me to backup and offer an exit strategy for an agent in trouble.”

“Then they sent you for someone else.”

Jason frowned. “That’s what my boss said.” This he murmured more to himself than to her. “They sure didn’t send me to get married. Of all the options to get us out of trouble, why did you do this?” He pointed to the ring on his finger.

“What’s the big deal? Got a girl back home?” She wanted him to take the bait and bypass the bigger problem while she figured out a way to salvage her potentially compromised operation. Instead, she watched the storm brewing in his deep brown eyes.

“It doesn’t matter.” He turned away. “I wouldn’t believe you anyway. But don’t count on wearing the pants in this happy union, Mrs. Grant.”

“Call me Gin.”

He sank back into the chair where she’d draped his sport coat last night. “Now that you have a husband, Mrs. Grant, and I’m him, care to share your next move?”

Now he was just being stubborn. It seemed a shame to have so much handsome man at her fingertips and not be able to do anything fun with him.

“I’m here tracking a product and hopefully I’ll get to oversee the sale,” she admitted. “Sexy blondes in Las Vegas are everywhere. I thought it would be a foolproof disguise.”

“The red is memorable,” he agreed, eyeing her hair. “Too bad I forgot everything after that.”

His eyes raked her from head to toe and she felt as if he saw right through her pale blue cashmere sweater.

If he ignored her barbs, she could ignore his. “It would be nice to get a look at the security footage from the bar. Maybe we can identify the woman who drugged you.” Whether that would help with her mission or not was yet to be seen, but perhaps it would convince him that it hadn’t been her who’d drugged him.

“Why? You just said sexy blondes are everywhere.” He sipped his coffee and took another look at the marriage certificate. “Married by an Elvis impersonator. That is just not me.” He shook his head.

“It was your idea last night.”

“My brain on drugs.” He shrugged, sipped more coffee. “Great. When you’re finished with your mission are we going to do a drive-through divorce? I always thought those were an efficient concept.”

“Give divorce a lot of thought, do you?”

“Enough.”

She recognized a personal trigger point. She wanted to push for the real answers but, married or not, they weren’t actually on personal terms yet. “Does the drive-through thing even exist anymore?”

He glared at her. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“We should be done here in plenty of time to qualify for an annulment.

“Same result.”

“Does that mean you’ll cooperate?”

“Sure. Marriage is all about compromise. Or so I’ve heard.”

She didn’t like the way he said that, and for the first time since bolting into the wedding chapel with an oblivious fiancé on her arm she questioned the wisdom of her rash decision. Well, the second time. Sharing a room with him had pushed her resolve to the brink.

“Getting married was your idea.” Had she really needed a kiss from him that badly? She touched her lips again. If she were completely honest with herself she would admit that the kiss had been worth it. “I swear it was your idea.”

“You knew I was compromised.”

“True, and leaving you in a public place seemed like a really bad idea.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Let me get this straight. You didn’t drug me, didn’t see who did, but you thought it was okay to haul me into an Elvis-themed chapel and marry me?”

“Not exactly. My first suggestion involved you giving me some cover at the craps tables.”

“I don’t gamble.”

“So you said.”

“What else?”

“We went for a walk and I asked you to kiss me.” She hurried on when he raised an eyebrow. “But you said we had to be married first. It was all rather gallant.” If she didn’t think about Isely and his thug flanking them. That was one part she could not afford to mention. Her mission was far too important to compromise for anyone, even the man she’d pretended to marry.

“Gallant?”

“I assumed it was a personality quirk. It fits your whole ex-military persona.” She went to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting on her hands so she wouldn’t fidget with the breakfast dishes. “But now that we’re stuck together it could be an advantage. Just give me forty-eight hours to track this product and sale and then I’ll pay the fees to grant you a speedy divorce.”

It wouldn’t be necessary because the receptionist knew he was intoxicated at the time of the marriage and because they hadn’t filed the marriage license, but Gin could tell him the whole story later. No sense burning bridges and tossing away an ally right now. This might be her only chance to experience a marriage. Not to mention she’d been having fantasies about this guy for weeks now.

As a CIA agent, she wasn’t the sort of woman a man brought home to his family. She didn’t even resemble the sort of woman a man wanted to build a family with. No, she’d learned that hard lesson early in her life.

She was the sort of woman men fantasized about, the woman men liked to show off, but never the woman they kept around. They gave different reasons and it took her longer than she cared to admit to learn those reasons were a reflection of the men who gave them, not the reality of who she was as a person.

When he still hadn’t given her an answer, she went for broke. “Please. I really need your help.” There, she’d said it. Gin Olin rarely asked for help, but she was no fool and it was clear she couldn’t finish this alone.

“Fine. I’ll help. Holt gave me an ultimatum. Either I fly back to the office or consider myself fired. The suite is booked through the weekend. If I’m fired I may as well have a little fun with the last perk my job bought me.”

“You’re willing to risk your job to help me?” Was he serious? Would Mission Recovery really fire him? Emotions she didn’t want to try and untangle were suddenly twisting inside her.

He startled her, tugging one of her hands free to hold it. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Do we need ground rules?” He raised her hand to his lips and feathered small kisses over her fingers. “Or do you trust me to be the best doting husband ever?”

She yanked her hand away. “Doting?”

“We might even enjoy ourselves.”

That was her second biggest fear. Her first was losing the trail of that bio-weapon. “We need ground rules.” That was a given. There was just something about this guy that got to her. As badly as she needed him, she also needed to keep her head on straight.

He sat back. “I’m listening.”

“Whatever happens outside of this room stays outside of this room.”

“Isn’t that just the opposite of how it should be for wedded bliss?”

She ignored him. “I mean it. The ‘doting’ is for public consumption. Up here, we’re just you and me—two covert agents sacrificing for the mission.”

His brow furrowed. “Ah, sharing a bed, giving completely of ourselves.” He made a tsking sound. “The sacrifices we make.”

She rolled her eyes. Snagging another piece of bacon, she nibbled it while she resumed her pacing. What she was about to do was risky, but having a second set of eyes and a capable agent at her back in the casino was her best chance of spotting the buyer.

“Let me fill you in on why I’m here.”

He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m all ears.” He sniffed. “Wait. What is that smell?”

“Bacon?” She held it up.

“Not unless it’s extra crispy.” He looked at the dishes and then swiveled around in the chair. “Something smells scorched.”

She sighed. “Probably your coat.”

“Huh?” He pulled it off the chair and turned it until he found the hole. “Why is there a bullet hole in my sport coat?” He stuck his finger through it, but his eyes were on her. “An explanation, Mrs. Grant?”

“Technically that happened before we exchanged vows.”

“Were they shooting at you or me?”

“Me. But I fired first.” She paused, thinking it through again. “I was followed into the bar. I thought the disguise and chatting you up would be enough to dissuade him, but you were going loopy on me. So we left, but I was followed again.” As much as she’d reviewed it, she couldn’t come up with any reason Isely would be onto Jason. Isely shouldn’t know her either, but she’d been following the virus for several weeks, and someone might have run a facial recognition that tipped him off. “They were definitely shooting at me,” she said confidently.

“All right. Is there a police report?”

“Not that connects us because we ducked into the wedding chapel when people panicked. I fired the gun through your coat. Sorry, that’s obvious, I guess.” Why did this man make her so nervous? Maybe it was all those waking fantasies about him she’d relished.

He stared at her for a moment. “Did it work? Our marriage ploy?”

“You really don’t remember?”

“Could you please stop saying that?”

“Sure. It worked well enough.” She came closer and took the coat out of his hands, folding it so the bullet hole was hidden, then she draped it across the top of a different chair. “It made a great diversion.”

“Good?”

“Sort of.” She hesitated, balanced on the precipice of evading the truth or spilling it all in a messy rush of too much information. Unfortunately she was running out of time before the virus landed in the wrong hands. “Five years ago a European crime family named Isely acquired a lethal strain of influenza. A major sale was interrupted and the virus was confiscated by none other than Thomas Casey. Or so we thought. Testing proved the vials he brought back were fakes. The general consensus, if you assume Thomas Casey isn’t a traitor—”

“Which he isn’t,” he cut in.

“Agreed and proven. But that means someone in the Isely food chain still has the virus. It’s come back on the market recently and I’ve been following the tracking tags on the vials. One is here. I know the seller, but it would be great bonus points if I can identify the buyer.”

“That was your assignment in Colorado.”

“Among other things. Focus, Grant.”

“Oh, I’m dialed in.”

She met his intense gaze and nearly shivered in response. The man had an effect on her she could not deny. “Good.” She cleared her throat. “I need you to help me identify who’s who in this little drama. Two sets of eyes and gadding about in wedded bliss should be enough to get this done. I can watch the tracker tag and you can keep an eye on Isely.”

“He’s here? Isely?”

She nodded. “He surprised me. I guess he wants to oversee the transaction.”

“Are these people I’m supposed to spot wearing name tags or carrying around steel cases with ‘live virus’ stamped on the side?”

She glared at him. “Lucas Camp gave me the impression you were a competent agent.”

“I am.”

“He also implied there was more to you than the few lines on your public résumé.” She wanted to do a victory dance when she saw how that little barb dug into his ample pride.

“I think we both know résumés are always adjusted to suit the purpose.”

Her confidence almost faltered, but she knew she wasn’t looking at a hack or wannabe. Jason Grant was a Specialist, and how he got there didn’t matter. He was plenty qualified to help her on this. He’d agreed and she should let it go, but she had the sinking feeling there was more to it than a fear of reprimand back at the office.

“Well then.” He rolled to his feet and gathered the breakfast dishes, putting them back on the cart. “Let’s go downstairs, play the happy couple and see what we see.”

“Hang on.”

One dark eyebrow lifted in response.

“You haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“Right.” He dragged out the word while he bobbed his head. “I don’t know. What I gave you is all I have.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true. My orders were vague. I wasn’t told anything other than the code phrase.”

“What good is that?”

“Not much.” He pushed the cart closer to the door then turned to face her again. “I’d think that would make you happy. I don’t have anything to distract me from what you need to accomplish. Now, shall we?”

“Just let me check the status on the package I’m tracking.” She pulled out her phone and entered the information. What should have been a simple, quick process felt like an eternity with Jason staring at her. Finally, the feedback came through, confirming the virus vial hadn’t moved from the hotel room where the seller was keeping it.

She smiled at him as she tucked her phone away. “It’s all good.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.