Charade

“Check out his background. He was a star quarterback until he got a really bad concussion and the doctors warned him not to play anymore. Then the FBI recruited him and he’s been a star there, too. Completely obsessed with honor and justice—” She stopped herself, noting the flicker of concern in Allison’s brown eyes. “I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal about this. I guess because I’m used to having Jeff plan strategy with me. But you’re right—this has nothing to do with him. I’ll handle it the way you suggested.”

Allison eyed her for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m glad that’s settled. Luckily, I’ve planned an op or two myself along the way, so maybe I can be of assistance.”

“That sounds great.”

“Excellent.” Her new mentor’s tone turned brisk. “Let’s get down to details, shall we?”

It was almost 3:00 a.m. before Sasha returned home and crawled into bed for a few hours’ rest. She was sure that despite her exhaustion, she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Not after the multiple stimuli that had assaulted her body and her brain that evening. The wedding and all the memories it had elicited; the encounter with Vincent the Butcher Martino; the kiss; the upcoming reunion with her father, to be followed by a daring rescue of a genetically enhanced child…

But to her surprise, she drifted into a deep sleep almost right away. As a result, when her alarm rang promptly at eight o’clock, she was more than ready to jump out of bed and take on the world.

Starting with Jeff Crossman.

She liked the idea of talking to her handler early in the morning. The air was crisp, almost biting, but clear of snow or rain. People were heading to church. There was a pure, homespun feel to the day. Nothing romantic about it, and definitely nothing sexy or obscene.

Still, it bothered her that he had sounded so good—downright rumbly, in fact—when she’d called him. And there was the complication that he had asked her to come to his private apartment, rather than the office he shared with his team members. Both locations were downtown, but Jeff had reminded her that the office building was closed, and any meeting there would seem suspicious. She had agreed, only questioning the arrangement after he had already broken off the connection.

Now she stood outside the door to his apartment and reviewed the cold hard facts, beginning with their first meeting.

She remembered that encounter vividly. She had been nervous, but also excited to embark on her lofty new project. It had meant so much to her that the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit might be able to make use of her, so that no one else had to suffer the fate of her mother and be killed by “the mob.” It was time for that brand of violence to end, once and for all.

Then she had braced herself and stepped into the office of SpecialAgent Jeff Crossman—the man who would be “handling” her. One look at him, and she had had only one thought: she had died and gone to informant heaven.

That’s how amazing he had looked to her that autumn afternoon. Like a god. Not one of the Roman deities, of course, but maybe one of the Celtic ones? She had no idea about them—her whole universe, until now, had revolved around Roman mythology, thanks to her father—but one look at Jeff Crossman’s broad shoulders, emerald eyes and lean muscles had made a Celt out of Sasha, at least for the moment.

A very short moment, as it turned out. Because once he opened his mouth, he had proven himself to be a first-class jerk.

Give the guy a break, she chided herself now. He apologized, didn’t he?

She gave a nervous laugh, remembering how hot that apology had been, and imagining what might have happened next had Allison’s roses not intervened.

Focus, Sasha! Don’t think about the kiss. Or those shoulders. Or his Summit voice. This meeting is just a formality. Your mission is to save Teal Arnett, not to get laid. Puh-leeze try to remember that. I’m begging you!

Laughing at herself again—who knew she was so weak for football players?—she raised her fist and rapped sharply on his door with her knuckles.

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