Page 12

CAROLINE

Shadows blur the details of the roofline.

I enlarge the image with my fingers, mentally noting the blind spots in the security coverage—two in particular, where the roof meets the facade.

Our imagery enhancement software could clean up these shots, but the resolution might not be sufficient for full structural analysis.

I take three more rapid shots at different exposures, a technique I learned during technical surveillance training.

The modern farmhouse aesthetic, expansive windows, and black-stained wood are reminiscent of homes I captured on Pinterest boards years ago.

Dorian’s design aesthetic has always matched mine.

He likely hired a sought-after, talented designer with a Scandinavian sensibility, hence the reason the interior is breathtaking, with a balanced mix of simplicity and scaled grandeur.

Halston’s massive mountain home is plenty big enough for the two men. Perhaps his father has a new woman in his life, and Dorian desired his own space.

There was a time when it would have been impossible to be unaware of Halston Moore’s relationship status.

Any marriage received a press blitz. But like his son, he’s drifted from the limelight.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a photograph of him in a newspaper or magazine.

At ninety-two, I imagine he’s ripe for the dead or alive celebrity game.

If Halston had remarried, we’d have a file on his wife with a detailed background and connections. Come to think of it, I’m sure Project Unity has a file on me as Dorian’s legal wife.

The crinkling of leaves steals my attention from the eaves of the home.

My hand instinctively moves to check my transmitter, disguised as a Cartier bracelet.

I scan the woods in a grid pattern, the way we were trained—quadrant by quadrant, identifying and cataloging movement patterns.

The sound’s distinct rhythm and weight suggest bipedal, human, rather than animal origin, approximately 100 feet out.

While the compound encompasses over one thousand acres, I’ve stayed within the perimeters of the homes, and the Moores have a full staff. Where is the staff located?

I slip my phone into my jeans’s back pocket and push up my sleeves, prepared to greet the approaching person. Security, perhaps?

It’s definitely a human. Deer and other animals evoke a lighter sound with a more spontaneous pace.

The crinkling grows louder.

“Hello?”

A deer’s head emerges.

We both still. Watching each other.

The female deer with big black orbs munches on her leaf. She decides I’m not a predator and lowers her head and continues foraging. A younger deer with a smaller frame presses further into the woods, giving me little attention.

Deer. I don’t see many of those in Santa Barbara, not where I’ve chosen to live.

I inhale deeply, breathing in the clean air, loaded with hints of earth and cedar.

But that sound? The crinkling of leaves. The snapping stick. It wasn’t the deer. Someone else is in these woods.

Light reflects on the windows of the section of the house Dorian entered, yielding a black, impermeable screen.

Is he watching me from his office?

When I see Dorian, I’ll tell him I love the house. He’ll believe me. When I quit work, studying architecture became a passive hobby.

Of course, he’s probably not watching me.

He’s lost in video conference calls and juggling a day packed with meetings of thirty-minute increments.

A full hour wastes his time. He can cover more by entering meetings in the last half-hour, a trick he learned long ago from a time management consultant.

Tonight, I’ll explore the extension of the home that holds his office.

I’ve already planted three NightHawk minis—the latest gen surveillance tech with adaptive frequency to avoid detection.

Kitchen, great room, entryway. But those locations are too public for real intel.

Anyone trained in countersurveillance would avoid sensitive conversations there.

The office is the target—assuming he hasn’t upgraded to the latest Israeli white noise systems the agency uses.

Perhaps I should place a device in his bedroom. Although the bedroom crosses a line I don’t believe is necessary. When we were together, he kept work out of the bedroom, choosing instead to split his eighteen-hour workdays between his offices.

The memory dredges up loneliness and abandonment, feelings long since smothered with an active life.

I close my eyes and face the sun, partially hidden by the trees.

When I leave this time, I won’t return. A chapter of my life will close, never to be reread.

An unwieldy wound, the source of which healed long ago, resurfaces like an unsightly varicose vein that only surfaces with movement.

“You must have had a busy day.”

“Back-to-back meetings.”

“I figured. You didn’t respond to any of my texts.”

“Hmm. I’m tanked. Going to bed.”

“The texts showed as read. Did you read my texts?”

“Lorelei probably did.”

“Your assistant?”

“One of them.” He loosened his tie and slowed his steps. “Did you need something?”

I’d spent the day holed up in our apartment, avoiding the paparazzi.

When photographed, journalists analyzed my outfit for confirmation of the quiet elegance New York magazine declared I possessed.

Maybe I could’ve survived if he hadn’t reduced us to an agenda item on his calendar.

If I’m honest, I didn’t get a thirty-minute slot.

No, I received resentment for asking for his time, for not playing my supportive role and appreciating the coveted lifestyle.

My throat tightens with emotion. I’ve hours to kill before he emerges from his office, longer before I can complete my mission and escape in the morning.

He’s once again set me aside, and his action stirs up memories.

At least this time around, I have a purpose.

And there are no intrusive, blinding, camera flashes.

I turn the corner of the house and smash into a hard body. Thrown, my focus falls on a navy sweater and the strong hand gripping my forearm for support.

“Dorian?”

His arms fall to his side. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Just indoors.” He gestures behind him.

“What’re you doing?—”

“I got a call that a guest was roaming the grounds. Wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“You wanted to be certain an overzealous security team member didn’t have me locked in a cell back at the guardhouse?” I give free rein to the sarcasm, not to spark an argument, but because it’s ludicrous he forced me to wait at the guardhouse.

“That wasn’t a cell.” He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, defensive yet slightly remorseful. “What have you been doing?”

“Checking things out.” I release a sigh, and along with it, the temptation to argue. “I love the house. It’s beautiful. Impressive."

He’s thoughtful. His gaze briefly falls on me, then out into the woods. “Want to go on a hike?”

He’s in trousers and dress boots.

“Already went. Walked up to your father’s house. It hasn’t changed.”

“No, it hasn’t.” His gaze remains on the woods. He’s circumspect.

“Someone’s out there. I’m guessing it’s your security.”

“As usual, you are correct.” The hint of a smile softens what might have been reproach years ago. “Can I interest you in a drink? Coffee? Tea? What is it you drink these days?”

“Do you have mint tea?”

“We can check.”

He has no idea what’s stocked in the house; that’s what he’s saying.

“That sounds nice.”

I follow him inside and can’t stop myself from asking, “You aren’t needed at the office?”

He exhales.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything, given that work was a sore point between us. A therapist helped me see it was symptomatic of larger issues, namely an inability to communicate.

“Spoke to Nick.”

I pause, one hand on the stairwell as my mind runs through my mental Rolodex.

“Ivanov?”

“The one and only.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s not my biggest fan these days.”

“He’s never been a fan.”

That earns a chuckle.

“Always been one of yours.”

Realization dawns. “Nick told you to get out of the office and spend time with me.”

He’s at the top of the stairs, whereas I’m still on the first step. He doesn’t confirm or deny.

“You want honey with your tea?”

“Sure,” I call.

“How is Nick these days?” I ask.

“Same Nick.”

“How so?”

“Making enemies with the wrong people.”

I stand in the kitchen, watching as Dorian opens the kitchen cabinet doors with a methodical, one-at-a-time approach.

“Funny, I don’t recall that about him.”

“No?”

“If my memory serves, everyone loved Nick.”

“Women.”

“Well, that too.” He opens a drawer.

“Why don’t you just ask your chef to make you tea?” It’s a bit of a dig, but it’s also the truth. He doesn’t know where anything is, which means he’s never in the kitchen.

I step past him into the butler’s pantry.

There’s a coffee machine on the counter, and I open one cabinet to reveal coffee mugs.

When I open the adjacent door, I discover a tightly sealed glass jar full of wrapped tea bags.

I lift a panel beside the coffee machine, find a teapot on a warmer, and lift it to fill it with water.

“Do you want any?” I ask.

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Who makes your coffee in the morning?”

“I make my own.”

I slow and tilt my head, remembering the pods from earlier.

“Someone comes along and cleans after me. But yes, I make my coffee, just like before.”

“I made the coffee.”

“I meant before you.”

I slide the teapot onto the burner and lift the glass jar off the shelf so I can better rummage through the tea selection.

Dorian’s gaze locks on me, wrapping around me as if he’s searching for a fissure to infiltrate. The warm tendrils unnerve me.

Knock. Knock.

“Sounds like someone’s at the door. Will the butler get it?”

He narrows his eyes, but his lips curve into an amused smirk. It’s one of my favorite looks of his, and given he’s gone to answer the door, I don’t bite back my smile.

“Geoffrey.” Dorian’s tone is one he uses when he’s greeting someone he doesn’t like.

I snag a green packet of mint tea while trying to recall a Geoffrey. When we were married, I met dozens of colleagues. Most of whom, if I’m honest, Dorian didn’t like.

Nick Ivanov had been one of the few he genuinely held as a friend, and I always presumed that was because they met during college. When we were together, his only close friends were those who knew him as a child or those who met him abroad and saw him as a regular guy.

“Here’s an NDA for your guest to sign.”

“She won’t need that.”

“Don’t be dimwitted?—”

“She’s already signed one.”

Dorian’s right, of course. I signed a lengthy NDA on the day he brought me home to meet his father. An all-encompassing, lengthy agreement that I’m ashamed to admit I never read.

“Very well, then. There’s a pilot on standby, if you need him.”

I cock my head, listening. Geoffrey. The name is familiar. Head of security? Is he here because they watched me taking photographs?

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Dorian—” Not Mr. Moore.

“I’ll fly her back.”

“As you wish.”

The door closes, and Dorian’s footsteps grow louder until he appears in the doorway.

“Who was that?” I ask, maintaining a casual posture, though my pulse quickens as I catalog his microexpressions. The slight tension in his jaw. The weight shift to his back foot. Classic indicators of suspicion I clocked countless times in surveillance footage when working for the CIA.

“Who are you working for these days?” he counters.

My mind races through my cover story’s contingencies, the nested layers of truth and fiction we constructed. At the agency, I built profiles of people like Dorian—brilliant, paranoid, three steps ahead. Now the stakes feel exponentially higher.

I drop the tea packets into the top of the teapot, close the lid, and press the boil button. If I tell him, he’ll search the house for listening devices after I’m gone.

“You’re not with the CIA anymore.”

I twist the lid, avoiding his gaze in an attempt to conceal my surprise that he has that information.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t keep track of you?”