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CHAPTER ONE

A lyssa Wright’s client had insisted they meet here.

She’d never been to this restaurant. White tablecloths, sparkling silverware, fine china. The servers all wore crisp button-downs, black slacks, and black aprons. They displayed overpriced bottles of wine with the pride of new parents showing off a treasured child.

Classical music played over hidden speakers, the hush of private conversations interspersed by the clinking of glasses, the tinging of forks and knives on plates, and the occasional pop of a cork.

Despite the complete background check she’d done on her client, the man the ma?tre d’ sent her way wasn’t what she’d expected. Alyssa had worked for Charles Sanders for months, and she’d formed an opinion of him based on their frequent phone conversations. She knew he’d attended Oxford. His aristocratic British accent confirmed what she’d learned about his wealthy parents. He was the kind of guy who never had to rent a tuxedo because he had one hanging in his closet, Armani labels intact.

She knew the type.

Wearing a perfectly tailored navy sports coat over a pale blue shirt, he was slight and unassuming with swarthy skin, black hair, and thick eyebrows. His cheeks were clean-shaven, though his soft jaw would look manlier with a little scruff. He was no taller than her own five nine.

Her client skirted the nearest table, and she stood to greet him. “Charles?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” His palm was cool, his voice smooth as silk.

She gestured to the chair opposite hers, and he settled and eyed the menus and water glasses between them.

“Help yourself.” She slid her palm around her glass so he’d know which one she’d already sipped from.

A college-aged waitress approached, giving Charles a warm look that had Alyssa studying him more closely.

Though his features were bland and unassuming, there was something attractive about him she couldn’t put her finger on. No, attractive wasn’t the word. Inviting, maybe? Charming?

“May I get you a drink, sir?” the server asked.

Charles nodded to Alyssa, who said, “Water’s fine for me.”

“Surely, you’d like something stronger.” He held her gaze as if he could convince her through telepathy. “Their wine list is quite extensive.”

He hadn’t looked at it, which meant he’d been here before. His earnest look made her consider ordering a glass.

For about one second.

She didn’t drink alcohol often, and certainly not at business meetings with practical strangers. “I’m happy with water. Thank you.”

Charles studied her a moment too long before ordering a glass of Sangiovese.

There was something about the way he watched her, as if he could read her thoughts. Their relationship had always been cordial on the phone, but in person, the man made her skin crawl.

He handed the server their menus. “And an appetizer or two, whatever’s popular, but nothing with salsa.” He gave a false shudder as if the idea of it horrified him.

Was his arrogance supposed to impress somebody?

Alyssa had perused the menu earlier. “I’d like to try the heirloom tomatoes and burrata. And bring something with lobster for our English friend. That’ll be all.” She turned to Charles. “If that’s all right with you?”

His lips quirked at the corners as if he found her amusing. “Whatever you think.”

He seemed accustomed to getting what he wanted, but nobody’d ever accused Alyssa of being accommodating.

However, he was her best-paying client, and she needed the money. Ever since she’d left her government job to start her own cyber-investigation company, she’d struggled to get enough work—and enough income—to justify her decision. One customer had refused to pay a bill, and she’d had a couple of lean months. If not for Charles’s regular assignments, she might as well tear down her metaphorical shingle and get a real job.

And then what?

If the business failed, would she need to vacate the apartment her father paid for? Would she be forced to go home to her parents’ house—and endure her father’s I-told-you-so’s?

Anything but that.

Most of her clients were private detectives who needed information that was available on the internet but who didn’t have the technical expertise to locate it themselves. Alyssa, given enough breadcrumbs, could dig up almost anything or anyone.

Except paying clients. They weren’t so easy to find.

“Tell me about the job,” she said.

Charles pulled a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket. It wasn’t a plastic throwaway but tarnished silver with a vintage patina. He flipped open the top, lit it, then snapped the lid closed, snuffing out the flame, repeating the action a few more times. “I seek a Russian,” he finally said. “I have an IP address and the names of some of his business associates. I’ve heard rumors about his family, though I don’t know how accurate the whispers are. The man lives in St. Petersburg, and I believe he traveled to Munich last fall.”

The server delivered Charles’s wine. He swirled and sniffed it, as only wine connoisseurs do, then took a tiny sip. He nodded to the server. “This will do.”

“Very good, sir.”

Alyssa did her best not to roll her eyes.

She waited for Charles to continue, but he said nothing else, just opened the lighter, lit the flame, and closed it again.

“That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you have?”

“Surely, it is enough for you. You’ve proved yourself quite capable. I hired you because I was led to believe you could find anybody on the Internet.”

“Who told you that?” He’d never shared how he'd gotten her name. She’d assumed he’d found her through her online ads.

Charles closed the lighter in his fist. “A man I had an interaction with in Germany last year. He was very tall with dark brown hair and a short beard. I believe he works for the CIA.”

Michael? The description fit her cousin, and he’d been in Germany in the fall. Who else in the CIA would recommend her?

Nobody knew her skills like Michael did. Nobody asked her to use them more than he did either, usually for free.

Not that she minded, considering her work had helped save lives. And some of those people were now part of the family—Leila, Jasmine, Eliza, and little Levi.

If Michael trusted this guy enough to give him her name, then Charles must be a decent fellow.

“Are you saying you cannot help me?”

“It’s not a lot to go on.” But she’d found people with less. “It’ll take time and, as is always the case, I won’t break any laws.”

“Certainly not. I wouldn’t ask you to.” By the way his lips tugged up on one side, he was saying the words but didn’t mean them.

Whatever he expected, Alyssa wasn’t going to prison for Charles Sanders or anybody else.

The appetizers were delivered, but Alyssa didn’t look away from the man across the table.

Without asking, he served her a bit of the lobster appetizer, then took some for himself. He cut a piece off and swallowed it. “Excellent selection. Please, tell me your objections.”

“I’m not sure I can do it.”

“Of course you can, Alyssa.” He pulled a square of paper from his jacket pocket and held it across the table. “Go ahead.”

She unfolded the note and stared at the number he’d written down. All those zeros. This one job would cover months of expenses. It would justify her existence. Justify her decision to quit her job.

It was more than he’d ever paid her before. Much more than she would have asked.

Which roused her suspicions, but she’d made her boundaries clear.

“I’ll initiate the transfer into your account. You’ll get the same when you deliver the man’s name,” Charles said. “If you get a name to me within two days, I’ll double it.”

“What happens if I can’t do it?” She waved the paper between them. “I assume you’ll want this back?”

“Certainly not.” He flicked his hands toward her, brushing away her question. “That is for your trouble. I know you’ll do your best, and if you can’t find him”—he shrugged—“no harm, no foul, as they say.”

This was her chance to hang onto her dream—and prove to Dad she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life when she’d quit her job.

So what if she didn’t like Charles Sanders? She worked with a lot of arrogant clients. This one was no different. Just better paying.

She held out her hand. “We have a deal.”

He slid his palm against hers, and despite all those zeros, when she caught the brief but unmistakable triumph that crossed his expression, she had to stifle a shudder.

She pulled away. “I look forward to?—”

“Darling!”

The voice twinged her memory, familiar enough that she couldn’t help looking toward the person who’d spoken it, though she was certainly nobody’s darling .

The man headed straight to their table. “Sorry to interrupt. I couldn’t wait to see you and took a chance you’d be finished.” He bent toward Alyssa, his back to Charles, and kissed her cheek.

Callan Templeton?

What was happening?

He whispered, “Trust me. Go with it.” His words were more breathed than spoken, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine, which annoyed her as much as the interruption.

Callan straightened and turned to her client, sticking out his hand. “Caleb Thompson. Sorry to interrupt.”

Wait. Caleb?

“Charles Sanders.” He stood to shake his hand. “Please, join us.”

“If it’s okay.” Callan shot a look toward Alyssa as if asking permission, which he obviously wasn’t, all things considered.

He took an empty chair from an adjacent table and scooted it beside hers, and she didn’t object, not because she wanted him there but because… Well, she knew Callan. She didn’t like him, but she had no reason not to trust him.

Whereas Charles, despite his connection to Michael, gave her the creeps. She had no reason to trust this smooth-talking client of hers.

Callan, a.k.a. Caleb, knew something she didn’t.

Of course he did. Because the CIA gave Callan access, all the access she’d craved.

Old bitterness infected her lungs and made her itch to clear her throat.

“I take it you two are together?” Charles gave Alyssa a pointed look.

“Actually—”

“I’ve been out of town for so long that it doesn’t feel like it.” Callan-slash-Caleb gripped her hand on the table, squeezing a little too hard. “How long has it been?”

“Feels like years.” Was that her voice, all normal and flippant?

His smile was light. “I’ve missed you, too, darling.” He scooted his chair closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “She hates it when I travel, but work beckons. You understand.”

He was talking about her as if she weren’t there. Was this how he treated actual girlfriends? She was scanning the table for a knife. Why hadn’t she ordered a steak? The butter knife would do minor damage, but a well-aimed fork?—

“Too bad.” Charles gave her a dark look that made her almost happy Callan’s arm claimed her. Almost. “Perhaps that explains why she wouldn’t have a drink with me.”

“Loyal to a T. That’s why I’m marrying her.”

Whoa. Marrying?

Charles flicked a glance at the naked ring finger on her left hand.

“You gotta claim the good ones before they get away.” Callan added a wink, like he and Charles were old and dear friends, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “We haven’t told our families yet. We’ve been savoring it, you know?”

“Certainly.” Something about his countenance told her he was unsettled by Callan’s presence.

Join the club, buddy.

“ What takes you away from your lovely fiancée for such long periods?”

“I sell computer hardware to small and midsize municipalities—cities, towns, and counties—all up and down the East Coast.”

The lie slipped off Callan’s tongue as if he spoke it regularly. Maybe he did.

“Sounds fascinating.” By his smirk, Charles thought Callan’s job—fake job—was anything but fascinating.

“Did you two get your business completed?” Callan/Caleb asked.

“We did.” Charles pushed his chair back and stood, focusing on Alyssa. “It was a pleasure.”

She would have stood as well, except Callan and the wall boxed her in. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.” He walked toward the door.

Callan called too loudly to his back, “Nice to meet you!”

* * *

As soon as Charles was out of sight, Alyssa shifted to face the intruder. “What in the actual?—?”

His lips met hers, soft but insistent. It was a shut-up kiss, she knew that.

But.. .oh boy .

She needed to push him away. She should definitely not enjoy the kiss she’d dreamed about for four years, when Callan had been both her biggest rival and her biggest crush. He’d reveled in the first role and remained, thank heavens, ignorant of the second.

Too soon, he ended the kiss and shifted just far enough away to meet her eyes. “Listen to me, Alyssa.” His voice was low but insistent. “Are you listening?”

She managed a nod.

“I guarantee he has people here surveilling you—us, right now. And I know we have people here. Unless you want to land on the terrorist watch list, you’ll play along.”

What was he talking about?

“Don’t look.” His tone implied she was the biggest idiot in the world.

Had she? Well, how did you not look when somebody claimed you were being watched? “What is happening?”

“The man you just shared a meal with…”

Appetizers. Not that she’d eaten any.

“…is a terrorist.” Callan smiled like he was discussing a Red Sox game with his favorite person in the world, though his voice remained low. “He’s wanted for kidnapping and arms smuggling—not to mention murder.”

Callan’s words and facial expression were so incongruous that she almost laughed, which would only add to the story he was trying to sell.

Wait. Murder?

She stifled the urge to look around again, as if an ax-wielding crazy might be sneaking up behind her at that very moment.

It didn’t make sense, though. “He knows my cousin.” She backed up and looked at—really looked at—Callan’s face for the first time since he’d barged in.

His blond hair was as trim as it’d been last time she saw him. He’d grown a matching beard—trimmed very short—that had unexpected hints of red. A few wrinkles fanned out from his pale blue eyes, which surprised her, considering he couldn’t be much older than her thirty years. Those wrinkles didn’t detract from his good looks.

That was the last thing she needed to notice right now. Especially when his eyes narrowed in frustration. “You don’t mean Michael.”

“How do you know my cousin?”

“It’s a small community.” He brushed off her question as if it were irrelevant. “You’re sure that’s what he said? That he knows Michael?”

“Not in so many words, but he described him. He said he got my name from him.”

That had Callan’s lips pressing closed for a second. Then, he seemed to remember they were pretending to be on a date or something, and he grinned. “Ask Michael about Dariush Ghazi. I bet he’s heard of him.”

Dariush Ghazi.

Not Charles Sanders.

She would ask Michael, but he was on his honeymoon, and he and Leila were taking the whole “moon” part of it seriously, planning to be gone for a month.

This was ridiculous. Alyssa needed out of this restaurant. She’d have stood if not for Callan’s too-solid body blocking her exit. There was no room for her to push her chair back or swing her feet to the side. “Would you go away?”

“No.” He laughed, though she wasn’t joking. “Eat your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Humor me.”

The server came by, delivered Callan a fresh glass of water, and asked if he wanted anything, all the while regarding him as if he were on the menu.

“Just the check,” he said.

“The other gentleman paid for it and whatever else you two might need.”

“Perfect!” His false enthusiasm was giving Alyssa a headache. “For now, we’ll finish these.”

The woman cleared Charles’s dishes and left a fresh plate for Callan.

After she walked away, he turned his gaze to Alyssa again, his back to the rest of the room. “Eat. I’m serious. We have to sell it or he’ll know you lied to him.”

Alyssa didn’t like being dictated to, certainly not by this guy.

But a few of the words he’d said resonated still. Terrorist. Murderer.

She forced a bite of tomato salad into her churning stomach. She’d gotten herself into something. Maybe Callan was trying to help her get out.

But he was a CIA agent whose plans were much grander than one cyber-investigator.

So maybe not.