Page 24

“I can’t believe you still have it.”

“I’ll never get rid of it. Too many memories.” He turns his back to me and places the back of his fingers on the kettle, checking the heat.

Yes, I wore this back when we were at that new stage, where all it took was one look and we’d start taking off our clothes—back when times were good.

“It’s pure luck it’s here at this house and not in New York.”

“Do you still own our brownstone?”

“Sold it about a year after you…”

My throat squeezes.

“I couldn’t stay there anymore.”

“I understand.” I may have been the one to physically leave our marriage, but he emotionally abdicated months earlier, and even with him coming home at night, I found the space unbearable.

“Who were you talking on the phone with?” His question catches me off guard. “I went down the hall to check on you and heard you speaking.”

“My friend. Sophia.” I sit down on a bar stool, facing him.

“The friend you did not move to California for.”

“Right.” I narrow my eyes at him, but really, it’s simply annoying how easily he takes charge of a conversation. “Are you concerned that someone sabotaged your helicopter?”

He turns his back to me, pouring boiling water into a mug. “Not particularly.”

“Why?”

He opens a cabinet and closes it. Then he opens a second cabinet, then a third.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Tea.” He opens a deep drawer and lifts a wooden box with a lid. He slides it to me and then walks across the kitchen to another cabinet, where he retrieves honey.

He leans across the counter from me while I select mint tea.

The screen on his phone lights up with notifications, but it doesn’t vibrate.

“You don’t need to check those?”

“You’re my priority this weekend.”

It would’ve been nice for that to have happened just once when we were married.

“Who do you think did it?” I ask, keeping the conversation on track.

One brow rises, considering. “You mean, the helicopter?”

I nod.

“A competitor is conceivable. The simplest answer is usually correct. Disgruntled employee. Or it’s not sabotage at all and someone erred and didn’t do a thorough inspection.”

“You seem so glib. Like it doesn’t matter.”

“I hire competent people. They’ll figure it out and resolve the issue. Ten years from now, I won’t care about the details of the crash site investigation. But decades from now, I’ll remember this weekend.”

“Why is that?” I stir my tea, cautious…and hopeful.

“I think you know.”

“Hmm.” But I don’t. Not for sure.

I lift the mug, testing the heat as it nears my lips, and set it back down.

“Caroline, I’ve done my best to forget you. But I haven’t, and I’m under no misconception that will change when you return home. I want you back in my life.”

A wave of dizziness surfaces. If I’d sipped the tea, I’d suspect he drugged it. I flatten my palm on the stone counter, absorbing the chill. He’s already told me he wants me back, so why am I having a physical response now?

Am I really considering this? No, we just need closure.

“We should talk.” My tone is firm, but do I mean it?

“Let’s sit on the sofa. Watch the snow fall.”

He heads into the living area, not waiting for my agreement. He opens a cabinet, then another one, rushing around until there’s a pile of throws on the sofa.

“You sit there.” I point at a different sofa than the one I’m sinking into.

He smiles a slow, sexy smile, wide enough that his singular dimple pops. “You love to cuddle.”

I narrow my eyes. “We need to talk.”

“Who have you been cuddling with?”

His words are cold, tone stern, and once again, I’m taken aback at how quickly he transitioned from flirty and fun to icy and serious.

“That’s not what we need to talk about.”

“I disagree,” he says, but sits where I directed.

He connects his fingers and rests his arms over his knees. Sitting forward on a leather sofa, he’s not projecting his executive steel, but there’s purposeful intimidation in those dark eyes and subliminal aggressive stance.

But I’m no longer easily intimidated, and there are more pressing concerns.

“Let’s cover some important matters first. As I told you, I still work as an analyst.” He’s unreadable. “I’m here because you are a person of interest in a terrorist investigation.”

Now I have his attention. The lines around his eyes deepen, and his head cocks to the side. But he’s not as shocked as I would have expected.

“A terrorist cell?”

“Not exactly. We believe there may be a rogue member within the syndicate, or what you like to call an alliance.”

His lips purse, and his gaze drops to a corner. “Nick told you I’m responsible.” He exhales frustration. “I told him I’m innocent. He sent you on a wild goose chase. But I appreciate your vote of confidence.” His tone is terse. Facial features and hands still. There’s no indication he’s lying.

“Nick Ivanov?”

He nods.

“There’s a source. They haven’t shared with me the name of the source, but he’s in your syndicate?”

Again, a singular nod.

“It could be him. He could be the source.” I’ll definitely ask Sophia next time I speak to her.

It makes sense. I should’ve considered Nick as the unnamed source.

He’s the one who was targeted by the syndicate.

I guess I’d assumed, given the attack is well-documented, they wouldn’t have kept his name off of reports as the source.

But, Project Unity is so expansive, keeping his name off the project documentation is likely meant to prevent him from being targeted again.

“There’s evidence,” I say.

“If there’s any evidence, it’s planted.” I agree, and he must recognize this in my reaction, because he visibly relaxes. “What do you have?”

“We’ve traced communications from this compound. I believe you’re innocent, but what about your father? Would he do something like this without your involvement?”

He looks to the ceiling with an expression I haven’t seen before. It’s a mix of suppressed mirth and disgust. Or maybe disappointment. In me?

“Come on.” He hops up.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

“What?” Is he kicking me out?

“There’s something you need to see.” He steps forward and offers me his hand. “And no, I’m not asking you to leave. I’ve no intention of letting you leave until we’ve worked through what matters. Your investigation? I’ll comply. Let’s get this done so we can move on to what really matters.”

I could argue that a multipronged attack aimed at destabilizing the United States and allied countries is a matter of great importance, but I hold that argument back, curious about what he plans on sharing.

We say little as he leads me to a mudroom and offers me one of his winter coats. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a pair of Hunter rain boots. Women’s rain boots. “We won’t be out long, but these will keep your feet dry.”

“Do you entertain often?”

“Perhaps as often as you cuddle.”

Nice .

It’s a quiet trip on the paved path to his father’s house. We’re in a golf cart with closed-in sides and rugged wheels. The vehicle is essentially a battery-operated car, scaled to drive on golf cart paths.

He parks on the side of his father’s mansion and sets the parking brake.

“You can’t share what I’m about to show you.”

“I’m on a team.”

“The NDA you signed is still in effect.”

I’d like to see him hold me to an NDA I signed a decade ago. An NDA that should’ve been your first warning sign. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.

I cross my arms, scowling.

“Fine. You can tell your team back in California. I’ll do what’s needed to remove my father and me from your persons of interest list.” He spits out the phrase as if it’s poison. “But nothing in the media. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” I hate the media as much as he does. Possibly more.

He opens the side door, and the silence in the stately mansion is deafening.

We quietly wander through vaguely familiar halls, our footfalls serving as the only sound.

The massive traditional mountain home was built decades ago, but one of Halston’s wives made this compound her personal project.

From a security standpoint, it’s challenging—multiple access points, too many spaces to monitor effectively.

From a design perspective, it’s a mishmash, but the overarching theme is of a proud hunter.

When Dorian first brought me here, he said the place tucked away, outside of Telluride, can sleep over thirty people. On one of these floors is an unforgettable library, complete with a view of snow-capped mountains and a roaring fireplace.

Dorian stops outside a door and hesitates, almost as if he’s listening.

“If he’s sleeping, we won’t wake him.” He looks to me as if asking for agreement.

I nod, but I don’t recall Dorian ever being concerned in this way for his father.

Is Halston sick? Is that the secret?

The door opens, and the first thing I’m drawn to is the wall of windows and the stunning view.

There’s an executive desk, possibly one of the largest I’ve ever seen, against one wall, positioned to take in the mountain view.

Near a fireplace, there are two plush leather chaise lounges, and Halston Moore is reclining on one, with a luxurious mink blanket thrown over his legs.

A book is in his lap, but his eyes are closed.

He’s aged since I saw him last—deeper wrinkles and a shrunken frame. The black hair dye—a single tone with unprofessional application—suggests either declining attention to detail or reduced access to his usual services.

The suit jacket crinkles around his shoulders, slightly too big for his narrow width, and his shirt collar gaps around his neck.

The knot in the tie is larger, reminiscent of the 1970s style.

The black sheen on his thinned hair seems unnatural, and I’m not sure if it’s the deep black or the singular tone that makes the color appear so unnatural.

His lips are dry and cracked, and his cheeks have hollowed.

Who is dressing him these days?

Almost as if sensing us, his head jerks, and his eyes snap open.

I brace for his greeting, fully aware that I was never his favorite.

His gaze roams the room as if remembering where he is. After taking in the windows, the fireplace, and the fur, he zeroes in on me.

“Judith.” He sounds confused. “What are you doing here? All communications should go through my lawyers.”

“Dad, this is Caroline. You remember Caroline, right?”