 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Welcome Letter

Copyright

Winters Heat- Chapter One

Winters Heat- Chapter Two

Winters Heat- Chapter Three

Garrison's Creed- Chapter One

Garrison's Creed- Chapter Two

Garrison's Creed- Chapter Three

Garrison's Creed- Chapter Four

Westin's Chase- Chapter One

Westin's Chase- Chapter Two

Westin's Chase- Chapter Three

Gambled- Chapter One

Gambled- Chapter Two

Chased- Chapter One

Chased- Chapter Two

Book Blurbs

About the Author

The Titan Series Sampler

Cristin Harber

Copyright 2013 by Cristin Harber

Smashwords Edition
Welcome Letter

Dear Readers,

Welcome! I hope you enjoy this Titan series sampler. If you love military romance or romantic suspense with a tough alphas and strong women who won't pull the damsel-in-distress card, then I think we might be a good match.

I've included the first few chapters of three novels and two novellas for you to get a good feel for my voice and characters.

The Titan men are a wild handful. They're scorchin' hot, and they tell a great story along the way. Prepare to run into a group of sexier-than-possible guys who you want to shake senseless and claim as a book boyfriend. And don't forget their leading ladies. Sassy, strong, and superbly able to put up with their alpha heroes.

I want you to have as much fun with them as I have. Stay in touch also. I'd love to hear from you.

Titan Love and Happy Reading,

Cristin Harber

Romantic Suspense Author: Higher Stakes. Hotter Action.  
Newsletter: http://bit.ly/11aWFzM

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cristinharberauthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CristinHarber

Email: cristin@cristinharber.com

Website: www.CristinHarber.com

Copyright

Copyright 2013 by Cristin Harber

All rights reserved. This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher except for the use of brief quotations used in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally.

WINTERS HEAT

ISBN-10: 098977600X

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897760-0-4

GARRISON'S CREED

ISBN-10: 0989776026

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897760-2-8

WESTIN'S CHASE

ISBN-10: 0989776042

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897760-4-2

GAMBLED

ISBN-10: 0989776077

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897760-7-3

CHASED

ISBN-10: 0989776069

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897760-6-6

Winters Heat- Chapter One

His simple job just became complicated. Colby Winters watched the two men who had tailed him for days. For the first time, they weren't bringing up the rear on their cross-country caravan. Team Tagalong, as he had grown fond of calling them, pushed their way into the crowded airport ahead of him and beelined for the covert pickup location. Winters adrenaline and curiosity spiked.

He powered past a coffee shop, trying to catch Team Tagalong as they neared a jog. Business folks with rolling briefcases blocked his view for a second but cleared. His tails stood still, their faces tight and focused on the row of chairs that only Winters should've known about, where the package was hidden.

There was no doubt they'd learned about the pickup spot, and he needed a swift Plan B. He hated when the spy game changed in the final countdown.

Edging closer, he couldn't see why they stopped after powering past him. He followed their hesitant gaze. A woman, dressed in khaki pants and a cardigan sweater decorated like a pink Easter egg, was on the floor, pawing at the underside of the chairs.

That was their problem. And now, his too.

Plan B now needed to account for Miss Khakis-and-Cardigan. Team Tagalong advanced toward her. The woman remained oblivious to their approach while Winters pulled back.

This can't be happening. She had the small package in hand and was turning it like a Rubik's Cube.

His Plan B formed. Stay to the perimeter. Move in and extract the package at a location with fewer witnesses. Team Tagalong's apparent plan was a hand-to-hand version of engage the enemy. Manhandling the woman wasn't the smartest option, but they'd already proven not to be the smartest team.

Her eyes were as wide open as her mouth. One man had her elbow, and she buckled into his grip. Not the type of complication Winters needed. She couldn't look any more honest if she had a glowing halo.

Her eyes said she knew Team Tagalong would leave her dead in a dumpster. His instinct said the woman had no idea what she held. Then again, neither did he. The contents of the package were on a need-to-know basis only, and he didn't need-to-know squat in order to secure it.

She flinched again. Time for Plan C. Waiting to engage wasn't happening with Miss Khakis-and-Cardigan in the crossfire. His tactical pants and black shirt served as piss-poor camouflage, and their quartet didn't need the attention, but he stalked over and squared off.

The woman wrapped a white-knuckled grip around the package. She was scared, but that didn't seem to matter. Had he read the scene all wrong? She didn't yell or drop the package.

Was the unlucky female really an operative playing the innocent card? He didn't know. He didn't care. This op was a headache and a half. Time for the next plan: secure the package, and everyone could fend for himself.

Winters ignored the men and smiled as polite and professional as a gladiator on a bad day.

"Not sure what this is all about." He gestured to the men at her sides. "But hand it over."

"No, pendejo. She is coming with us." The man answered for her, flexing his sausage fingers around her bicep. Her mouth opened with unvoiced pain.

"Wasn't talking to you, was I?" He couldn't place the Spanish accent, and an international-fucking-incident wasn't his idea of an easy in-and-out. Next time he was offered a cakewalk assignment, Winters would ignore his sweet tooth.

Team Tagalong pivoted away, woman in hand, and merged into the constant flow of mindless travelers.

So, it's going to be like that.

She was dragged more than she walked. The second man hovered close, hiding her reluctance from any interested spectators.

Winters sidestepped in front again. He had orders not to engage. Extract and secure only. Extracting was a pain when he couldn't throw down. Besides, airports weren't conducive to altercations given their national security issues.

"Hold up. We have business to discuss. That package is leaving with me, mi amigo." Dickhead would have worked better, but the Spanish translation for that term of endearment slipped his mind.

The woman. She was an unknown, though she looked like she sat in the front car of the world's scariest rollercoaster. Pale color. Wide eyes. Pinched brow. He gave a once-over of the sugary outfit and superglue-grip on the package. She didn't act like an operative, but chameleons were tricky to spot.

One half of Team Tagalong pressed a blade into her torso.

Come on. You're pulling this stunt here? He rolled his eyes high to the terminal rafters. A legitimate coffee run would be needed after this hassle. Gas station coffee wouldn't cut it.

The operative let the woman's sweater cover his weapon. Maybe he was smart. When the blade pierced the fabric, she let out a quiet whimper. It was the first sound she made in his presence. Her pink glossed lips quivered, and her gaze ricocheted among the three men.

Winters rocked on the heels of his well-worn combat boots and lifted his hands. It took practiced patience to pull up short. But there were better ways to get that package than to engage in the middle of a commuter-swamped airport, where God only knew how many law enforcement agencies and security cameras patrolled.

He fell back and reached an alcove, ducked in, then flipped his cell phone open. Headquarters needed an update, and he needed intelligence. His boss picked up and grunted his usual hello.

"I got problems, man. Team Tagalong blew by my ass, snagged the package and a girl."

"Freakin' fantastic." Jared Westin had one inflection for all occasions, calloused, full of grit and gravel. Every day. Every time. "What do you need?"

Winters scanned the airport corridor. Nothing but business suits and carry-on bags. The trio was nowhere to be seen. "A clue where to find the fuckers."

Jared spoke to someone in the background and returned. "Pulling the parking lot footage, checking into their car rental. When'd they pick up a girl?"

Even his monotone questions had a hard-boiled splash. Jared could order a burger at a drive-thru and scare the employee clean out of her hairnet.

"We arrived at the same time, my tails leading the way. A woman had the package in hand. Shit got complicated. They took her. I backed off, figuring Boy Genius could work his satellite magic."

"Yeah, something like that. Parker's deep in the airport's system, hacking their programs. He'll send you info and screen shots ASAP."

"Hey, Jared."

"What?"

"Did I thank you for this job yet?"

"Nope."

"Good."

"Get to work, dick." Jared coughed his equivalent to a laugh and hung up.

Winters double-timed it back to his truck and jumped in. The tires squealed as he rounded the exit ramp. He tossed a handful of change into the payment kiosk and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the mechanical arm to lift and for HQ to hit pay dirt. His phone buzzed, and he checked the caller ID.

"What you got, boss man?"

"Parker traced their vehicle, a black, four-door Taurus, to a car rental company in Virginia. They used a credit card, which was also used at a nearby motel. Head there first."

"Roger that." As he exited the garage, the sun flooded the cab of the truck, and he pulled on his mirrored aviator sunglasses. "What's up with the credit card?"

He used cash on his jobs, as he assumed all operatives did.

"No idea. Nothing turned up."

"Huh."

"Sending the address to your phone now. And Winters?"

Winters received the address, programmed the GPS, and grunted in response. He picked through empty boxes of Dots, far more interested in crushing his candy craving than hearing a lecture from Jared. "What?"

"I scanned the parking lot footage. They put that girl in the trunk. And none too carefully. I don't think we're looking at two teams. No intel on a friendly or a female op. I'd tread with care."

He found some candy stuck at the bottom of a box and chomped down on it. The trunk, huh? That's overkill. "Got it."

"I'm serious, Winters. If this is a case of wrong place, wrong time, you dust off your kid gloves and use them."

That was more of an order than Winters would admit. He hated working with untrained women. They were always ready to bawl when it was time to tangle. It was better for all involved if he could hand her to a more sympathetic operative. But he was the only one here. Not much of a choice.

"I'll behave. I promise." He sounded like he was trying to get a crazy girlfriend off the phone. "When I have an update, I'll make contact."

Winters shuddered thinking about the red-eyed, tear-brimmed women. Finding the mystery woman dry-eyed was about as likely as him scoring a much-needed cup of joe in the next fifteen minutes.

The GPS showed the motel to be only miles away. Highway signs flew by, and cars shifted lanes to make way for him barreling down the road. He rounded a bend, saw nothing but red brake lights, and cursed. He tried to move to the left lane, but traffic was at a standstill. He slammed his hand on the top of the steering wheel. Maybe he could make a list of everything that could go wrong today and see how close he came by the time it was lights out.

He laid on his horn and crept toward the left lane. No one moved. Not an inch. Not even the moron he threatened to hit with his truck. Winters rolled the window down and motioned to the driver. Motioned may have been too conservative a description. He bore down on the man like a crack-addicted grizzly bear, ready for a fight to the death.

"Get over." He pointed to the shoulder of the highway. "Over. Now."

The man ignored the truck maneuvering its way into the crack of space. Winters blew the horn again and leaned out the window, ready to threaten life, limb, and loved ones.

"Move your car." Honking wasn't getting him anywhere, but he did it again. Then again and again. Still no help.

He dropped the gear into neutral and slammed the gas pedal down. The truck revved like a road warrior. The driver, who was fast becoming a sworn enemy, flinched, then tapped into the survival part of his brain and pulled over. Winters moved to the shoulder, pushed the pedal to the floor, and redlined it.

A half mile later, the source of the traffic problem appeared. Three lanes of a four-lane highway were closed for paving. Bright orange barriers and men with neon yellow reflector vests milled about machinery.

The one open lane had a fender bender. Two men with cell phones glued to their ears pointed at their bumpers. Winters hit the brakes in time to jet through the construction entrance, rumble over an unpaved section, and cross in front of all the stopped traffic. Dear God, let there be an immediate exit.

The GPS interrupted his prayer. "Exit highway in one hundred and fifty feet. Your destination will be on the right."

What do you know? He should pray more often.

He pulled off the highway exit. The motel was ahead, and he bounced over the rough entrance. The vacant lot had faded parking space lines and crater-like potholes. Knee-high weeds ran the length of the curb. A black Taurus was at the end of the lot. Fan-fuckin-tastic.

Winters parked his pickup truck around the side, ran through a quick ammunition and supply check, and closed in on the pay-by-the-hour room. He jogged by several silent rooms, then heard muffled words and a feminine yell. Son of a bitch. As much as he didn't like to work with weepy women, he would rain hell on anyone hurting them. Weeping or not.

One heel kick and the cheap door splintered off of broken hinges. Surprise was on his side. Winters held the Glock in his right hand and used his teeth to pull the pin from a tear gas charge the size of a cherry bomb. Nothing too serious, but enough for a distraction. Perfect for overwhelming a small room with a little smoke and burn.

He tossed it in with a shouldn't-have-fucked-with-me grin. The sparse room filled with the hissing smoke. The three other occupants clawed at their faces and covered their tearing eyes. In the smoky haze, their gagging noises, harsh sputters, and coughs littered the room like three teenagers wheezing on their first cigarettes.

Winters was trained for the gas. Prepared for it. Hell, the bitter taste in his mouth was almost pleasant, a Pavlovian effect tied to the adrenaline rush of throwing one of those babies into a room. Pull. Pop. Hiss. He loved it every single time.

He wanted to brawl, to clash, and take them down. Hard. They shouldn't have screwed with his day. They shouldn't have stuffed Miss-Khakis-and-Cardigan into the trunk of their car.

He moved with a single step to the closest man and punched, breaking the man's nose, which felt as gratifying as it sounded.

Winters smiled and beckoned for more. Come and play. The man staggered backwards in the haze, head in hand, blood seeping through his fingers.

The second man lurched toward him, arms swinging, as he jumped side to side. Winters jabbed an elbow into his attacker. The man reeled back, sucking in the acrid smoke in uncontrolled gasps.

Hopefully, one of them would hop up jack-in-the-box style, so he could have another round. Knees bent and body agile, he readied. The first man gained his bearings. Winters egged him on. "Try me."

The man charged. Winters landed a punch to his bloodied face. Thud. Knocked out.

The second man staggered forward, brandishing a switchblade with untamed, arching slashes. Looked like the same blade he pushed against the woman's midsection earlier. That was a mistake. Both then and now.

"You're going to wish you didn't bring that out to play today. Never should have threatened the lady. Never should have gotten in my way. Never, ever should have fucked up my job."

Winters grabbed the man's wrist and twisted toward the stained popcorn ceiling. A bone cracked. The knife hit the dirty floor. And all the while, a feminine fit of coughs reverberated from near the back closet. She was choking on the gas and hadn't moved to escape.

"Are you hurt?" he called to the woman.

No answer. Only gasps as she stumbled through the smoke.

"Where's the package?"

"Go to hell." Her words wheezed and faded.

Of course. What'd he expect? His lips upturned in a mixture of annoyance and exasperation, and his eyes burned as his tolerance for the gas neared its threshold. "Do you have it or not?"

The woman scampered and made a weak maneuver to escape. He stepped in front of her with a menacing grunt. This lady wasn't going anywhere.

She wilted without fresh air. As he countered her next move in their hasty dance, she backed into the corner again. He continued to question her, gruff and with quick efficiency, but only more coughs responded. She sniffled and wiped at her watering eyes. He felt bad. Almost.

"Stay put," he said.

He pulled plastic zip ties, his handcuff of choice, out of his back pocket and secured the unconscious men to a table. The woman jumped from her crouch in the corner. She fumbled toward the busted door, arms outstretched, wailing a determined cry. He hooked an arm around her waist. She flailed, arms pumping and legs bicycling the Tour de France.

He tossed her on the bed, clapped his hands on both her shoulders, and held her in place. "I'm not playing, lady. Don't move."

Winters took in the room. The cops might be there within minutes. "Last time. Where's the package?"

The woman hesitated with a sputter of coughs.

Damn, he didn't want to threaten her. He stood to his full height but didn't give an ultimatum. He watched her eyes flicking around the room, looking everywhere, landing on every possible hiding spot...except—bingo. He kept on eye on her and opened a drawer.

"No." She hacked again. "Don't."

The package.

The woman scooted to the side of the bed and jumped for it in his hand. The tear gas gnawed into his patience. What was she doing? His decision making skills weren't firing like they should. Not being able to think in this time constraint, he needed answers. Like who the hell she was, for starters.

He wrapped an arm around the woman and threw her over his shoulder. She was as light as she looked and losing steam with each gas-filled gasp.

"Wait. No. Let me go. Help. Someone help!"

"Pipe down," he said in a manner in which Jared wouldn't have approved.

Still, she continued a feeble holler. "Help. Someone. Help."

There wasn't anyone around, so her hoarse cries didn't matter. In joints like this, most everyone minded their own business. But still, she was a confusing headache. He didn't have to take her. He could've left her for the cops to figure out. But she looked more suited to sell Girl Scout cookies than handle thugs and cops.

She'd been hell bent on grabbing the package and couldn't have had a day of training in her life. She didn't make sense, and he wouldn't abandon her, his protective nature stoked.

Winters cleared the splintered door with her still over his shoulder. In the distance, the police sirens sounded. He made double sure the package was in his back pocket, then hightailed it to his truck.

Once he reached the four-door pickup, he set her down. "Stop hollering. I'm not a bad guy. We're getting the hell out of here, then we'll work this all out. Chill."

A determined flash glinted in her eyes, and he felt her muscles tense before she made a move. Gritting her teeth, she made a swift kick to his balls. Son of a bitch. Thank God for his reflexes. She was a handful, even when gassed.

"All right. If that's how you want to play, lady." He tossed her into the backseat of the truck. "I have the stupid package you're so worked up about. So don't think about jumping out of the truck while it's rolling. We'll make a deal. You'll get something, and I'll keep what I already have."

Winters scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand, then standing outside the open door, caged her in the backseat with his arms and torso. Why did he care if she bailed on him? He had the package. It was his only task. This mission was halfway done, and none of his task list included this woman. But why did she want it in the first place? It didn't make sense.

Propped on her elbows, she kicked at him, landing her feet on his abs. He rolled his eyes. "Well hell, lady."

She would make a run for it given the chance. He knew it. Winters looked at her, then the door locks. She was a liability that he didn't have time for today. He engaged the child safety looks, locking her in the backseat.

His seat punched forward every few seconds as she beat her heels into it. He dropped his head, suppressing a vicious string of swears. Before the cops could fly into the motel parking lot, Winters eased out the entrance. Unsure where to go for the time being, he pushed a button on his cell phone and connected to Jared.

"Got the package. And the lady." He glanced in his rearview mirror at her.

Fresh air had reinvigorated her, and she kicked his seat over and over, making his teeth saw together.

"Let me go, you jerk."

"Sounds like it," Jared said. "Clean up your mess and move it on home. And for God's sake, Winters, play nice."

Play nice probably meant no knockout juice or truth serum.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll figure out who she works for, and how she knew the pickup spot. Then I'll send her on her merry way." She kept kicking. He was so far past annoyed that it was amusing, in a he-must-be-out-of-his-mind kind of way. "She's a spitfire. It's entertaining."

She shouted, "You don't scare me. I'll kick you again. Get close to me and see what happens."

"Jesus Christ," Jared murmured before ending their call.

Winters sighed, resigned to the pounding in his head.
Winters Heat- Chapter Two

Not a bad guy? He seemed like one. The man wasn't law enforcement. He didn't have a badge to go with that gun he slung around, and his mannerisms were more lethal than reassuring.

This nightmare was the makings of a television evening newscast special. The news anchor would look into the camera, earnest and pensive, wondering aloud in a dramatic voice about Mia Kensington's last hours alive. Or maybe a reporter would interview her coworkers and family, everyone guessing about why she was in Kentucky or how she ended quartered into neat pieces that fit inside a handful of grocery bags.

Mia massaged the hammering in her head and tried to swallow against the raw burn in her throat. She sniffled again. Her nose still hadn't stopped running since he threw tear gas at her. Her eyes stung, and no amount of rubbing helped. Mascara smudges covered her knuckles, and her swollen lips were in desperate need of balm. Too bad the men who took her from the airport trashed her purse on the way out the door.

She had no phone, no identification, and no way to get help. The man driving the pickup truck apparently didn't care how many times she kicked the back of his seat. He just went about his business, making phone calls, and glancing at her in the rearview mirror. It was just as well. What would she do if he turned around? She shuddered. She was trapped in the vehicle with him and needed an escape plan desperately.

She studied him at the wheel. His dark brown hair was mussed from the fight at the motel room. Sweat dampened his short sideburns. His tanned neck was corded, and every few minutes, the man ran rough-knuckled hands to the back of his neck, rubbing his nape. He flipped the radio station at the end of every song, pushing the button several times in a row. Were those nervous tics? Interesting that someone so forceful, so brutal, was fidgeting.

Mia shook her head. Nothing she practiced as a psychologist could get her out of this truck. She needed to scrounge up every memory from the self-defense class provided to civilian women on base.

Too bad there wasn't anything on escape and evade. That would have been useful. Far more helpful than practiced groin kicks on a plastic dummy. She glanced at the front seat. Her groin kicks to muscle-man up there failed. She tried the tactic over and over, and he had laughed each time her knee jabbed his muscled thighs and abdomen. Laughed and rolled his eyes like she was the campy comic relief during an action movie.

The man adjusted his rearview mirror again. It worked to her advantage this time, giving her a direct view of him. Too bad his eyes were hidden by sunglasses.

"Want to explain your side?" He sounded rough but more interested in conversation than harming her, which was just as alarming.

Nope, nothing to share here.

He had a strong jawline. His lips were fuller than she'd noticed. She would remember every detail for the sketch artist after she escaped. She wanted his face all over the eleven o'clock news. Headline: Madman Proficient in Gunplay Saves Woman.

No. Not saves. Madman Proficient in Gunplay Kidnaps Woman. She was nowhere near saved sitting in this truck.

He had used the child safety locks. Those only worked on the backdoors. Right? If she could time it correctly, she could surprise him and get out the front passenger door. They were still in a residential neighborhood. Stop signs and semi-regular traffic. If she could get out, a cop could swoop in and save her. Soon as they slowed she would make her move.

He decelerated for a red light. Deep breath in. Time to go.

She lunged over the headrest. Her foot caught his sunglasses, and she used the leverage pushing toward the passenger door.

The man cursed and grabbed her calf. The truck skidded. A thunder started from the depths of her lungs and blazed past her raw throat. An adrenaline blast pushed her, and she launched away, her hand clawing at the door handle, the window button, anything to get an outsider's attention.

He still had hold on her leg, and she kicked, connecting with his face. Maybe his chin. Definitely his shoulder.

He cursed again. "Seriously, woman?"

Her free leg caught in the steering wheel, turning their trajectory. The truck jumped, then rocked back and forth. Mia's forehead hit the front console. She lost her bearings, and stars exploded in her head. He let go of her and slammed on the brakes. She fell forward again. Her eyes watered instantaneously. She crumpled shoulders-first on the floorboards.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" He was angry. She would've said he roared at her, but roaring would have been an understatement.

She turned to see his face and watched him check his rearview and side mirrors, then put the truck in park. A deep breath later, he looked down at her, still on the floorboard, and glared.

They had run off the road. Where was the neighborhood watch? A helpful cop?

He turned the radio off. The only noise was the hum of the air conditioning and the tap, tap, tap of his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The floorboard was uncomfortable. The ridges of the plastic floor mat dug into her shoulder and elbow. She was eye level with a cigarette lighter knob and the new-car scent air freshener tied to it. The little pine tree with the rental company logo on it spun one direction, then the next, mocking her inability to move.

From her grounded position, the man above looked solid as a boulder. His long legs worked to tuck under the raised steering column. His slouch, more relaxed than poor posture, didn't hide the muscles in his broad chest and stomach. His tight cotton shirt did little to obscure his brawn. She saw the sinew in his neck, and...was that restraint tightening his jaw?

This maneuver had been the wrong tactic. Mia rushed to dry her watering eyes and scoot off the floor, but she was at an awkward angle, with her feet splayed in different directions, and her shoulder jammed between the console and seat. She couldn't reach the door handle, and she couldn't get up.

Oh, no. Claustrophobia grabbed her lungs and squeezed, driving her into a blood-pounding anxiety fit. She thrashed and kicked, shoving away from him, and pushed further into her console crevice, without a way to escape.

"You stuck down there?" This time the roar was gone, replaced by the tickle of amusement.

She wiped enough tears away to see his lips were upturned into a grin. Her face felt hot. She tried again to right herself, arms and legs churning in place, and failed in immaculate style. If she lived to tell about this, it would be the worst and most embarrassing day of her life.

After running a hand over his chin, he checked the mirrors again. "Need a hand up?"

Silence was the best answer. She couldn't get out of this predicament without a smidge of help, but the heck if she would engage this kidnapping maniac.

He offered one dangerous hand. The gesture wasn't threatening. Still, she had nowhere else to go. If she had to be stuck with him, she didn't want to be upside down on his floorboard.

Mia wriggled her wedged arm toward him, and he clasped it. His hand was strong, coarse, and overwhelming. With a swift pull, he righted her next to him. He raked a gaze over her that made her shiver.

She returned the obvious once-over. He dressed straight out of an action movie, except she knew there weren't blanks in his firearms. He crossed thick muscled arms across the expansive plane of his chest. Dang. She took on GI Joe and lost.

Avoiding his stare, she looked out the front windshield straight into a ditch, semi-near the red light she'd been hoping to escape at. They were at an impressive angle. The hood pointed down and the tailgate up. The horizon was higher than it should have been. Not one single car drove by. They were alone in their one-car accident.

She scooted toward the door, and his hand landed on her thigh.

"You've gone through hell to stay with that package. You're just going to bolt now?" He shook his head. "I already told you I'm not a bad guy. Believe me. Don't believe me. I don't care. Maybe we can work something out. I don't know. But I've been told to be on my best behavior. So, let's just pretend this whole thing never happened."

That was his best behavior? Gassing her in a motel room, tossing her over his shoulder, and locking her in a truck. His worst behavior was unimaginable. Definitely the stuff that kept FBI profilers busy. He was powerful, all-male, and awareness flushed through her. Her blood ran thick, pulsing in her neck, washing away the panic, replacing it with a stomach-knot.

But he was right, she'd put her life on the line already, and if there was the chance she could get her hands back on the package...

Without a second thought, Mia scampered back over the seat into the second row. Her moves were awkward and uncoordinated. Her butt stuck in the air longer than she thought it would as she pulled herself over, legs fluttering behind her. It took several seconds to move from her unintentional downward dog yoga position and sit upright on her bottom.

Why did she do that? Her face flushed again, and her stomach re-tied its knot. She pressed her knees together and hoped to lasso her unease. She needed to be clearheaded to survive him and work something out with the package.

He looked into the mirror and slapped the truck into gear. "Comfy back there?"

The man placed his mirrored sunglasses back on, fed the truck enough gas to rumble onto the road, and ran his fingers through his dark hair.

Mia tucked a fist under her chin and caught the smell of him on her knuckles from when he helped her up. He smelled red-blooded and robust, a mixture of soap, sweat, and gunpowder. She caught herself sighing.

What was that? Madmen kidnappers shouldn't smell that memorable. This case of Stockholm Syndrome might've started earlier than normal.

She needed to think her next move through. Why did she try to escape without that disk? It brought her to Louisville and got her into this mess. She couldn't abandon it now. It was too important.

Another option had to exist, and Mia decided to sit in the backseat until that opportunity arrived.
Winters Heat- Chapter Three

Cartagena, Colombia

"Find out who took her." Juan Carlos Silva bellowed into his satellite phone and hung up. Standing poolside under the fierce Colombian sun, he dabbed at his brow with a freshly pressed linen kerchief, then smoothed his tailor-cut silk shirt.

It was bad enough his men traveled all the way to the United States and couldn't complete their mission. The job was to collect a simple package containing a disk. But they ran halfway across that country, only to lose it again? Appalling.

He inspected the pristine pool water for a speck of dirt. He wanted to find something wrong. An excuse to yell at the knobby-kneed boy charged with his gardens and pool. Not that he needed one.

His neck pain flared, as it did when inept employees prattled their excuses. If he thought the job would be so complicated, he would have sent more men. Men experienced in American subterfuge. His judgment call on this one was foolish, and while it was his fault, it would be easier to take his frustrations out on someone's hide. He cracked his knuckles and called out for the pool boy.

The phone chirped again, and he thought to ignore it. If those idiots couldn't find a simple woman who escaped with the disk, he would kill them to prove a point. Maybe string them up by their necks and hang them from the front gate of his estate. Perhaps he would make them pick out a machete from his collection and select a limb to lose.

He never should have assigned junior members. But at least two of his men still trailed the woman and that wretched package, and Juan Carlos would grace them with another opportunity to make it right.

Answering the chirping phone, he didn't listen to his man on the phone. "Retrieve what is mine. Take the woman. Both are more valuable than your life."

America wasn't Colombia. The practice of kidnapping was frowned upon more so in the States. Though much of his high-end product originated there, usually his men showed more finesse. Kidnapping was a practiced art.

Perhaps, he should give some direction. It was imperative both items were presented to him. He inspected his manicured fingernails. What advice would help? No, advice was wrong. Incentives were most effective. "Pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary for guidance. For if you fail, I will hand your mother your head."

He disconnected the phone with a decisive click. Irritation made him sweat. The damp beads pooled along his cropped hairline. It was already hot enough outside. He didn't need this added aggravation to sully his appearance. There was a certain look he expected of himself. Sweating was beneath him. He paid people to sweat for him.

Juan Carlos dabbed his brow again. There was work to do. Fresh inventory arrived earlier. Young women to inspect prior to their auction. Easy, untraceable money.

***

Winters rolled his head left to right, cracking his neck, and directed his attention to the woman behind him. "I'm Colby Winters. Most people call me Winters."

He sounded flat and bearish when he wanted to be trustworthy. Trying to make her talk while balancing his irritation made this job more complicated by the mile.

The woman didn't acknowledge him. Again, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She wrinkled her nose at him, which was an improvement over the kicking and shouting.

"And you are?" His temples throbbed. Parker could easily pull her identity from any number of security cameras, but he wanted her to open up. Who knew why?

"None of your business. I don't introduce myself to my kidnappers." She gave him the snake-eyes, pursing her lips to complete her pissed off quip.

"Should have expected that." He gave her a once-over, taking in her swollen lip and puffy cheek, and wanted to bend steel. "Those guys roughed you up?"

"What does it matter? I'm not saying anything to you either. So you'll just do the same."

"Aren't you a tough one?" Intrigued, he gave a half-cocked smile. She was stronger than he gave her credit for. Must've been that deceptive sweater set she wore. The pastel colors lessened her bite.

As best he could from the driver's seat, he studied her face and the slope of her neck to her collarbone. His backseat passenger was, by all standards, attractive. A little vanilla. Like a teacher or librarian, if he ignored the mussed makeup and hair.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He swallowed his gruffness. "Let's try this again. My name is Colby Winters. You can call me Winters. And you are?"

No response.

"Tell me your name, and I'll share a little about me."

She narrowed her eyes. "Fine. Mia."

Their gazes clashed, and his chest warmed. Winters chewed the inside of his cheek before he turned the AC on high.

"Nice to meet you, Mia. We've made some progress here, haven't we? Let's jump to it, doll. Why were you at the airport?"

She shifted in her seat. "I had things to do."

Evasive. Not scripted, but not careless enough to give him any details. "Who do you work for?"

"No one."

"How did you know where that package was? That was mine."

"Yours?" Her chin jutted up. "I don't think so."

Finally, a reaction. She was resolute. Strong. Strident. Even angry. She glared at him in the mirror.

"Well, it sure as shit isn't yours."

She sighed. "That's not true... It is now. But it wasn't before."

Her forceful rebuttal dissolved with a drop of her shoulders. What was her inflection? Unease or... Sadness? Whatever she felt it made him uncomfortable. He was out of practice with souped-up emotional interactions. She didn't even make sense. Nothing but a carnival ride of crazy. "Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. But we can work something out, if you stop being so cryptic."

He flexed his grip on the steering wheel. What the hell did he care anyway? He had the package. For the time being, that was his only objective, and he'd accomplished it. But his curiosity was another thing. Why did a sweater-set-wearing, librarian-look-alike want anything of Titan's?

As if reading his thoughts, she piped up in a hoarse whisper. "The person who owned that package told me to get it."

She wasn't giving him a lot, and the vagueness did nada to pacify his interest.

"You're wrong. I was tasked with the pickup." He didn't want to scare her and summoned any empathy he might have squirreled away. "The owner hired my company to retrieve that package."

"Well, Mr. Winters, that's the difference. Owned versus owns."

Mia didn't elaborate, and he tried to decipher her meaning. What was she talking about—owned versus owns?

He ran his hand through his hair. It was too shaggy and unkempt. He needed a haircut and a shave. The scruff on his face was a scant thicker than usual, though he liked to keep a menacing shadow. Men backed off, and danger-junkie women gravitated toward him. Win-win.

He adjusted the sunglasses and focused more at her than at the road while he drove. "Why don't we start from the beginning?"

"Why don't you?" Her smirk was still defiant. She didn't carry herself like a professional operative and didn't act like someone on a job. But her challenging attitude took some major cojones.

Given the last hour or so, she had reason to act that way, but it was still unfamiliar. Not a lot of people gave him shit. Not a lot of people questioned him. Never a petite woman dressed like an Easter egg. But Mia doled out the brashness by the bucketful.

"Answering my questions with questions isn't going to get us anywhere. Though you entertain me to no end."

She scrunched up her face. "What do you want to know?"

"For starters, where are you from?"

"Alexandria, Virginia. Right outside DC," she said.

"Well, so am I. How about that?"

Her eyes flashed.

His sarcastic quip was too much. He still needed to calm it down. Why couldn't he handle this simple interrogation? "What sent you to Louisville?"

"A client needed me to help him with something."

"And your client is...?" He let the question trail, hoping she would answer. But she didn't. Instead, she focused on smoothing her shoulder-length hair, which stuck out in various directions. Her messed hair was his fault, after he grabbed her like a bag of tactical gear. "Doesn't seem like a good client, sending you to do his dirty work. It's actually a jackass move."

Silence from Miss Cardigan-and-Khakis.

"You walked straight into a bad situation. Two professional teams had the same goal. Secure that package. Or was it three teams, Mia? At least own up if you're working this op, too."

Quiet minutes passed. Mia neither acknowledged him nor the situation. She concentrated on a few strands of hair, twirling them around a finger.

"What do you mean by professional team?" she asked.

Was she screwing with him? Red flag after red flag told him this woman was some innocent who just stepped in a huge pile of crap.

"Assuming you're not acting the part of blameless bystander, I'll play along." He threw a handful of Dots into his mouth, needing to release some tension. "A pro team, a professional team—it's a group of operatives trying to complete a covert task. Every operative knows their role: good guys or bad ones, or a confusing mixture of the two, but they know. And it seems like you've spent some time with both today."

"And you're the good guy, huh?" Mia acted interested for the first time in anything he had to say.

"I'd like to think so, though I'm sure many would disagree." He smiled, showing lots of teeth. It was too much. Too fake. He knew it and was sure she knew it, too. "If I were going to hurt you, I'd have done it by now. You're baggage I don't need. But we seem to want the same thing, and I'm curious enough about you to slow my return until I get a few questions answered."

"Why are you curious? You have what you wanted."

He didn't know what to say next. Awkward wasn't his thing, but today, he aced it. "What do you do? For work. What type of business are you in, Mia?"

"I thought we weren't answering questions with questions."

Smooth move. He needed to change tactics.

"We should get ice for your face." He pulled into another motel parking lot and turned around in his seat to stare at her. "Stay put. Please."

Mia nodded and remained in place, though he wasn't sure why. Nor was he sure why he tacked on the please. He placed a handful of zip tie cuffs on the dashboard.

"I don't need these. Take it as a show of trust you'll sit and stay."

He wouldn't tie her up, and she wouldn't run. He could tell by her body language. In all likelihood, that was because he still had the package, and she wanted it. Whatever her motives, he didn't care. As long as she listened.

He moved fast, secured a room, grabbed an ice bucket, and returned to the truck. He held his breath, hoping she was still there—and she was. He ignored the smile tugging at his cheeks.

Through the window, she studied him as though she had something to say. Her eyes moved from his head and drifted the length of his body, down to the asphalt, and up again. With each sweep, she analyzed him: his chest, his arms, his legs, even the scar on his face. He was feet away, but her intensity made it feel like mere inches. She held his gaze, mouth poised to speak.

Mia broke their stare and focused on the empty parking lot. So much for getting into her head, learning anything about her. He rounded the hood and hopped in the truck.

If she didn't look like saccharine personified, he'd assume she was just checking him out. But nah. Not this one. This one didn't cross men like him, and he didn't hang out with women as soft and touchable as her. He shook his head clear. Soft and sweet, rather. Touchable wasn't something he needed to ponder.

He pulled the truck to the rear lot and unlocked the doors and disengaged the child safety locks, then gave her a nod. Her clothes were dirty. The cardigan set was dingy. Very unlike a librarian. Bruises grew darker on her otherwise flawless complexion. He should have killed those fuckers in that motel room instead of tying them to a table. But there wasn't a point in focusing on the past. Training should have kept regret from his head. But he continued to think of ways those men should've paid for hurting her.

She got out, ignoring him. He grabbed his box of Dots and dumped a handful into his palm, downing them with a mind-clearing gulp.

He threw open his door, got out, and locked the truck behind him, then he leaned on the hood. Mia stood there, feet planted amongst the parking lot weeds. He lofted the key over the truck hood. She grabbed it from the air, surprising him, and looked at the room number. Her fingers played over the plastic card, and she gnawed on her swollen lip without moving from him.

"Go there. Room 102. Right at the end." He held up the bucket. "I'll get some ice."

Mia nodded with a half-hearted smile and turned toward the room. The way she walked, the way she swayed... He noticed. Big time. His pulse beat faster, and his eyes tracked her movements. Nothing to do with watching out for her, and everything to do with taking in the sight. He rubbed the scruff on his face and stalked to the ice machine.

With a full bucket of ice crooked in his elbow, he knocked on the door and pushed it open with his steel-toed boot. She sat stock-still on the bed, palms flat against the floral comforter, ankles locked, knees pinched together. Her face was paler than when he left her. Now that her adrenaline had worn off, it looked like shock wanted to take its place.

Shit. Shock. Something else he didn't want to handle.

He trained one eye on her and fashioned an ice pack from a bathroom towel, then moved close to the bed to examine her cheek and lips. Vacant eyes stared to the blank wall in front of her.

As gentle as he could manage, he turned her face upward for an inspection. Mia's skin was velvety but bruised and scratched. Broken and damaged. Winters pressed the makeshift ice pack against her cheek with his softest touch. Soft wasn't his thing, but she didn't flinch. Maybe he did okay.

"You doing all right?" He tried to replace his normal edge with tone to show he wasn't the enemy. He needed her to know that for tactical purposes. She was an asset. Something he needed to take care of. If she was pleasant to look at, well, that was a bonus.

Her shoulders pinched up in a stiff shrug, and she snatched the ice pack from him. Her gaze flicked to him, then away. And again, she flashed her eyes to him and stole them away. For a brief moment, they weren't numb or exhausted. They were... beautiful.

That flash of prettiness tore at his insides. His blood ran cold just as fast as he felt white-hot. Sweat dampened the back of his neck. He worked to keep his palms from sweating and rubbed them up and down his pant legs. It was as unfamiliar a feeling if there ever was one.

Someone so striking shouldn't be so scared. Was she deteriorating? Falling apart in his care? A valid concern given her borderline-catatonic state, but that wasn't the basis for the twists within his stomach. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

"Mia, are you okay?" He drew out his words, enunciating each syllable, trying to attract her attention. Her distance worried him. She repositioned the ice pack and crawled toward the headboard.

"I need to lie down for a second." She dropped her head onto a pillow.

The detachment in her request made his heart drop. It wasn't right. The cruel world dumped on Mia today. She never saw it coming, and he hadn't made it much better. Did he have to throw her over his shoulders? Couldn't he have subdued the men without blasting tear gas?

She peered from the pillow and gauged him. A slow bulge crawled down her throat, the tension visible from across the room.

The military might have trained him how to survive if captured alive by the enemy, but nothing prepared him for her unblinking hesitation.

"You're not my type, and this room is safe. Just get some rest."

She nodded. Her eyes fluttered, long lashes drooping heavy. They locked onto him, then sealed shut. She was out. His anxiety washed away now that she rested, lessening his concerns a degree. He must need sleep as much as she did.

***

The room was much darker with the setting sun and only a desk lamp was on when she stirred. Hours passed since Mia collapsed against the motel room bed, and she didn't alert him when she awoke. But he knew. Her slight body shifted and tensed under the blanket he'd thrown over her. The even beat of her breathing hitched and reverberated in his ears. Silence thundered. Did she worry—or worse, was she scared—because he was in the room?

"Sleep okay?" Stupid question. His thumbs drummed on the table. He'd been watching her for hours except the minutes he ran out for provisions. But even then, he could see her in the back of his mind. The imprint of her bruised body tortured him.

She cleared her throat. "How long have I been out?"

"A while. I grabbed some food. Got you a few things from the store across the street if you want something clean to wear. Like sweatshirts and stuff."

Playing the gentleman card sounded like a solid plan earlier, now it felt fake and foolish. Normal information-eliciting tactics weren't appropriate, and he had no idea how to proceed with her.

This was why Jared never paired him one-on-one with the untrained or the guiltless. Winters didn't have a careful touch, and he was unsuccessful when he tried. Case in point. Mia acted beyond apprehensive as she picked at her dirt-streaked sweater and pants.

"So..." He turned to the table. "Food? Clothes?"

"I'm starving." Her tongue ran over her lips. Maybe he should have bought some lip gloss or something like that. Women liked that stuff. Needed it. Didn't they? He blew out a frustrated puff.

"I didn't know what you liked, so we have everything from peanut butter and jelly makings to fried chicken, but it's not hot anymore. And candy. I have a bad candy habit. Though I'm more than willing to share if you promise to stop kicking me for the rest of our trip."

She tucked her legs beneath her and inched toward the shabby spread on the table. "Thanks, Mister—"

"Just call me Winters." He needed something to do with his hands. All of the sudden, his arms were gangly and awkward. He stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

She nodded, slid off the bed. After two glances over her shoulder, she made a plate of food using a pile of napkins. She conjured images of movie nights and Sunday pot roast dinners. Safe, responsible activities non-operatives did in their normal lives. A tightness in his throat surfaced as he tried to swallow away confusion.

"You ready to answer some questions for me now, Mia?"

"Not really."

"We could start simple."

"I'd rather just eat." She polished off her sandwich and picked up a drumstick.

"The airport. Why were you there? Hell, how did you know where to go?"

Something changed in her. And just that fast, he regretted pushing her. The fresh color painting her face was gone. Her fingers tore at the chicken. She stared at him with sad eyes. "You said my client is, and I said my client was. You said owns, I said owned."

"So you aren't working together anymore?"

"He's dead."

Her reaction hurt to watch. Heartbreak. Fallen eyes. Aching tonality. The corner of her eyes pinched, and she swallowed a few times. She needed comforting, an emotional poultice. Both were things he knew zip about. Why was it so hard to conjure up a soothing word? Nothing came to mind. He didn't know how. He fell back on what he knew. Interrogation.

"How'd he die?" He worried he'd just made her pain worse.

"They say he killed himself. But he wasn't suicidal. He was scared for his life."

"How would you know that?"

"Because I was his therapist. And, whether I should have been or not, something like his friend."

Winters sat there for a moment and watched her eyelashes flutter. Her eyes grew moist and tears welled. Agony overtook her innocence. He reached out to her arm, trying to soothe away the pain in her. Her skin was so warm whenever he brushed it. And each time, it shocked him how fragile she felt. His fingers traced down her bicep.

Mia's downturned head shot up, panic flashing across her face and a clear warning to back the hell off.

He snatched his hand from her as fast as he could. His finger singed, the tips tingled. Why the hell did he reach to her? Thinking of him as a good guy only recently began to solidify. At least he hoped.

"Sorry about that." Erratic behavior wasn't his norm. "I don't know what that was. Sorry."

"It's okay. Anyway..." She rubbed her arm. "My client said something would happen to him. That if he turned up dead, I needed to go to the airport. To those chairs."

"And when did he die?"

She put the chicken down on the napkin and wiped her fingers. "Two days ago."

Winters's jaw flexed. He'd gotten his marching orders two days ago and had headed out from DC. She bit her lip, uncertain maybe if she'd admitted too much.

The woman needed reassurance. Comforting. And he itched to provide it, but instead forced his hand to keep away from her. He needed to keep his paws off of her. Christ.

Think about work. "Do you know what's in the package?"

"Yes, do you?" Her hesitant eyes said she told the truth. No abnormal pupil dilation, no increase in her respirations.

"No."

"Well, that's probably why you haven't killed me yet and dumped my body." There wasn't a hint of sarcasm.

"You're having a hard time seeing me as one of the good guys, huh?"

"You don't look like a good guy. You look like a killer. You look like you enjoyed that whole thing back at the motel."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment, doll." He drew up a half-smile in an attempt to lighten her mood. "And truth be told, it was fun."

The window cracked. The wiz and thud of a bullet smacking the back wall took him by surprise, only inches away from Mia's head. He dove on her, shoving her to the side of the bed.

"Get down!"

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Garrison's Creed- Chapter One

Sighting the target in his crosshairs, Cash Garrison accounted for all of the variables. Wind speed and direction. Distance and range. Now the world would be free of one more bloodthirsty warlord in less time than it would take for the walking dead man to finish his highfalutin champagne toast.

Hours had passed since Cash nestled into place, high-powered rifle held like a baby to his chest. A thousand yards out from the extravagant mansion, he'd burrowed into position, melting into the landscape, and waited for this moment. Antilla Smooth, dressed like the million dollars he made as an arms dealer and unaware of the grim reaper sighting his forehead, made his way past the French doors.

Cash caressed the trigger, knowing exactly how many pounds of pressure it would take to fire the round. He monitored his breaths and heart rate. When his entire body was still, in between beats and respirations, he'd take the bastard out. One less piece of shit strutting on God's green Earth. The world would be a better place, and Cash's job for the day would be done. He and the team could find a local bar, find some ladies, celebrate and make a night of it. Good plan.

He adjusted for a breeze, blinked his eyes, counted down his breaths, and—stopped. Stunned. Frozen in place. Heart pounding like a coal-eating locomotive.

A woman in a golden dress and sparkled-out jewelry that'd make royalty jealous wrapped her arm around Antilla. A soldier would sell his last bullet for a kiss from her lips. Cash saw her through his scope as though she stood a mere twenty feet in front of him.

She looked like... but it couldn't be.

His spotter spoke the direction in his earpiece. "Send it."

Cash spoke into his mic. "Stand by."

His spotter whispered again. "Eyes on your target. All conditions accounted for. Go. Send it."

Nothing. Cash didn't speak.

Earpiece again. "Go, goddamn it."

The woman slunk around his bull's-eye, her beautiful hair piled on top of her head, save for the loose pieces framing her face. Her smile slipped into a laugh. I've inhaled gun oil fumes. I'm losing my mind right this second.

"Cash, man. You there?" His spotter grabbed his attention, wrenching him back to reality.

"Here. Yeah, man. Here."

"Wind from three o'clock. Dropped to five mph. Hold. Target blocked." The woman draped over the man. This was a nightmare—his nightmare—blasting from the past and slapping him clear off of his prone position and onto his stupefied ass. The spotter spoke again. "Clear. Dial wind right, two mils. Send it... now."

Heartbeat. Breath. Heartbeat.

Fire.

And breathe.

Now, they had to move. Fast. He knew the spotter team should be slipping through the thick Maine forest. Cash paused and glanced longer than he needed to confirm the kill. Tuxedoed man on the ground. Kill shot. Dead. Panic attacked the room. People ran, most likely screaming. Security scrambled. Dogs loosed. Barks growing closer. But the woman. The golden silk-draped woman stood still, staring at the busted windowpane in the French doors. No expression. No emotion. Not a drop of anything.

Cash shook his head, clearing the ghost of her image, and focused on his job. One shot, one kill. Just the way he liked it. He cleared the shell and casing from his bolt-action rifle, policed his brass, and snapped to a crouch, erasing any evidence that he had spent hours in the spot. A half second later, he beat feet, sliding down the side of the wooded hill, leaving no trail.

His spotter buzzed in his ear, confirming their meet-up point. "Rendezvous at location A, twenty-two ten." He could do it. He should do it. He powered down a hill, sliding as dirt gave under his feet. Brush slapped him in the face. Vicious barking closed in. The main house illuminated day-glow bright.

Man, he was going to hear about it for this one. He told his spotter, "Location C, twenty-three hundred hours."

"Cash—"

It took a lot for Roman to break protocol and use his name over the radio frequency, but Cash knew his spotter, his closest friend, was pissed. And an upset Roman was as much fun to deal with as the dogs Cash was about to run back toward.

Not much to do except kill an hour. Cash pulled his earpiece out as Roman cursed again. Nothing good would come at the end of that sentence. Cash laughed. Radio silence wasn't the best road to take, but it was better than coughing up an explanation of the impossible.

***

Nicola glided around Antilla Smooth. His lifeless face stared at the ceiling, and his perfect hair hid the sniper round's entry wound. Given the crimson puddle painting the white carpet round the backside of his brain, the bullet was a through and through, and her night was ruined. Her operation ruined, completely FUBAR.

Chaos filled the room, and she was the calm eye of the storm. Everyone and everything swirled around her. Loud noises. Screaming people. Security moved fast, but what was the point? They'd failed.

She hadn't failed, but the last few months were now crap, and it was time to call the powers that be. They'd be interested in this turn of events. Nicola put down her champagne flute and pulled out her cell. She walked away, feeling her smooth silk gown train trailing behind her.

The phone rang once, and a surprised voice answered. "It's a little early for our chat."

"We should get together for ice cream." Nicola gave the phrase that told Beth, her handler, that this mission was dunzo.

Beth didn't miss a beat. "I have to run errands first. I'll meet you after you head to the dry cleaners."

Dry cleaners. Yup, time to turn into a shadow and slink away. It was the right move, pulling her home. Too bad she had nothing to show for the months spent playing to the dead megalomaniac's ego. She'd been so close, only one or two days away from locking down the international players in Antilla's arms network.

"You've got it. I'll be in and out first thing in the morning." She walked down the hallway, and a guard looked. Apparently, her saunter was too calm, given the way other women shrieked their horror. "Ciao," she said goodbye, keeping up her Italian persona and putting a hand against her throat.

She looked at her designer gown. No blood. At least there was an upside to this evening's party. That and she wouldn't have to feign interest in Antilla, the sick prick, then backpedal when he wanted to take her to bed.

Personal preference. Some ladies in the Agency did what they had to do without a second thought. She'd had second thoughts. And thirds and fourths. She'd wanted to screw Antilla Smooth like she wanted a root canal done by Kermit the freakin' Frog: choppy marionette hands flopping up and down.

"Gabriella?" Someone used her alias. "Gabriella, are you okay?"

Nicola saw a butler who had been friendly to her since they'd arrived at Antilla's Maine estate. Her name poured off his lips, imitating the Italian flare she used when introducing herself.

"Yes, fine. Bene, grazie." He looked unassuming. Who knew why the man worked for Smooth Enterprises, but looks were deceiving. Trust no one. "I need to step outside. Fresh air."

Really, she needed to get out of Maine, but why elaborate? She slipped outside. The night was daybreak bright with the estate's security system fully engaged. Her hand caught her eye. The fluorescents made her olive skin look green, not complementing the dress she'd fallen in love with. Nicola weighed her lack of options, knowing she'd need transportation and, for the moment, not knowing how she'd secure it.

A chill spiked over her skin as a gust blew through the forest. Someone was still out there. The same someone who took out her mark.

Pop. Flash. Pop. The exterior lights died, and she was left to her thoughts in the moonless night. Another chill rolled over her shoulders. No wind this time. She pivoted, reluctantly ready and willing to ruin her dress and take it out of the ass of whoever was to blame. Her muscles tensed. Her eyes adjusted in a flash. A man. Large. Broad. Armed. Twenty feet away at the side of the patio.

He spoke, the baritone timbre coating her in a hurt she'd hidden years ago. "Nicola."

She didn't need to see his face. His voice shattered any semblance of strength she'd mustered. Nicola braced one leg back, prepared to attack. Ready to defend herself. But who was she kidding? If he laid one finger on her, it might be her undoing. All her suffering, pointless.

"Nicola," he said again. Still as firm, but this time knowing. "What the fuck?"

This was bad news of the worst variety. She pivoted back toward the doors, ready to go back inside and hash out an emergency extraction strategy with Beth. No time to wait for tomorrow's withdrawal plan.

Reaching for the doorknob, she willed herself not to run.

"It's you, isn't it?" he said.

Sweet Lord, why was Cash here? Why was the one memory she could never forget standing in the middle of her job? And why was he talking to her, armed and looking far more dangerous than the last time she saw him?

"Stop your sweet ass one second, and turn around, Nicola."

She spun on her stiletto heel, knowing she'd never be able to get to the subcompact gun tucked on the inside of her thigh. Even if she could, she'd never hurt Cash.

"No, sir. You're mistaken." She put on her best Italian accent, knowing it wouldn't fix this problem.

"Bull—"

The butler opened the door. "Gabriella, please come in. Everyone's gathering in the main hall. It's dangerous to be out here."

Cash stood in the shadows. She knew the butler couldn't see him. Yet, her pulse stuttered, and her throat tightened. She wanted to protect one man from the other. Nicola looked over her shoulder, and Cash was gone.
Garrison's Creed- Chapter Two

Cash ran through this mind-scrambling scenario as he pushed toward the semi-agreed upon location. He had two more minutes to scoot his caboose there before his spotter had one more thing to bitch at him about. Cash and Roman were tight. One hell of a sniper-spotter team, and best of bros. From boot camp to Titan Group, they'd been by each other's sides, watching backs, chasing chicks, and fighting in the trenches.

With fifteen seconds to spare, Cash rounded a moss-covered boulder and ran smack into Roman.

"How goes it, dickhead?" Roman scowled. "Your mic not working? Your earpiece burn out?"

A rumble of tires put the pause on their conversation. The armored Range Rover barreled around a tight curve, and they jumped in before it came to a stop. Two doors shut. The driver tore down the road as Cash and Roman righted themselves in the backseat. Cash ignored Roman and waited for the shitstorm he knew was coming.

As if on cue, Roman turned his camo-painted face and stared hard. Cash started to peel off his ghillie suit, unzipping the outfit of fake leaves.

"Hold your roll, Cash."

"Back off."

Roman lowered his voice. "The hell I will."

All the questions, all the confusions morphed into fury. Distrust. "Did you know?"

"Know? Know what?"

Cash lunged forward, wrapping his hand around Roman's throat. "So help me God. Did you know about her?"

Pressed against the window, Roman jabbed his knee into Cash's gut. Like two battling rams, they pounded and cursed.

The man at the wheel, Rocco, shifted in his seat. "What the fuck? Sit down."

Cash felt the Range Rover skid to a stop, knew he and his best friend were trading blows, but none of it clicked in his frontal lobe. He was all emotion and instinct. The back door opened, and Roman ducked out, pulling Cash with him.

Roman caught him in the jaw with a fist full of knuckles. Wet asphalt scratched his face. He righted himself, pulling an arm back. He'd kill Roman if it was the last thing he did. All that bullshit about loyalty and honor. What a crock.

Losing his balance, he fell back. Rocco clasped his punch-ready fist and pulled him off Roman, who pounced up into a fighter's stance, fists raised, knees bent. Rocco had killed the car's lights. No moonlight. Just the three men, two with sweat steaming off them in the cool night air and one level-headed, probably wondering what the fuck. Hell, maybe Roman wondered that too.

***

Shaking, Nicola walked into the main hall. Her fingers vibrated and her heart banged like she was one of Antilla's eight-ball snorting girls. It was a good look for her now that she'd been lassoed into the main hall with distraught women who were genuinely upset that the bastard was dead.

Sweet, funny Cash Garrison. She had no doubt it was him, though he must have a hundred pounds of pure muscle hanging off those long limbs. Could men in their twenties have growth spurts? She didn't remember him as tall. Certainly not as broad. And his voice was deeper than the bottom of the cliff she supposedly drove off of a decade ago.

Nicola looked from one woman to the next. She could identify all of them. Then she eyed the men. They too were catalogued in her memory, but she didn't know what each did for Smooth or how the money funneled in and out of his Swiss banks.

The CIA was right to be disappointed in her. Beth should put her on desk duty at the Farm until she was an old biddy talking about her days in the spy game. Shit. She really needed to talk to Beth.

In the corner, Antilla's head of security barked orders. There was no telling what that crackpot might do. Nicola needed to get the hell out of here. Patio escape plan, round two. The butler touched her shoulder.

"Gabriella, would you like a glass of water?"

Him again? He was always around, always watching. "No, grazie."

"May I get you a lemonade? The taste reminds me of sunset walks on the beach at night."

She went from ignoring him to pinning him against the wall with a stare. "Scuzi?"

He spoke slower. More deliberate. "I said. Sunset walks on the beach. At night."

Nicola processed his words. His look. It couldn't be. Could it? "Non capisco. I do not understand."

"Yes, you do."

Yes, she did. The CIA had someone else in here. The butler. She should have known.

"Yes, I do." She nodded, mapping out her next move. Did Beth know? The games. She hated all the games, and if this guy was here to make sure she did her job, she was going to lose her trademark cool. She hated being checked up on. Hated the doubt that she couldn't pull the gig off. Then again, she hadn't.

"I'll get you a lemonade, or would you like to come with me?"

Hell, why not? "Yes. Of course."

They made their way down an elaborate hall. Oil paintings of New England landscapes and native animals were framed in gilded boxes and lit by brass fixtures.

"They're bringing you in," he said as casually as if they talked about the change in the seasons.

"You?"

"No."

"Why me?"

"Not my call."

"Who else is here?" Or in other words, why was Cash here?

"Just the two of us."

"I didn't know about you. Maybe you don't know about someone else."

"Maybe."

Not the answer she wanted, though she wouldn't believe any answer he gave if it were a definite yes or no.

He handed her a drink and napkin from a side table. "Extraction directions are in your cocktail napkin. You leave tonight. Take this to the bathroom, and move as directed."

"This is because of the patio?"

"What?"

"I was supposed to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow."

"Change of plan."

"Why?"

"Not sure, other than Antilla was eliminated."

"What do we have on that?"

"Wasn't us."

"What—"

"You need to move. Go. Follow the directions. The extraction team is ready to pull you out in five minutes."

The butler turned and walked away, leaving her, drink in hand. Nicola sipped her lemonade and headed for the specified bathroom. She took in the empty lounging area and vanity counters and entered a quiet bathroom stall, closing the door behind her. She unfolded the edges of the napkin. It was blank. What the hell?

She held it to the light. Nothing. No ink. No code. No marks.

She'd been made. Confirmed it herself. Fucking safe phrase wasn't worth shit if someone unsafe knew it existed. Her pulse thumped in her neck. Her ears strained to hear the incoming attack. She was trapped, save the narrow window that opened two stories above a terrace. The window was tall but skinny. She might not fit. No time to overthink it, and thank God, she'd skipped dinner. Nicola chucked off her heels, lifted her skirt, and palmed her Beretta.

Despite grabbing a fancy, overstuffed pillow for use as a makeshift silencer, the shot was loud when she blew out the window. Hoisting herself up to the sill, she looked over her shoulder to see her extraction team, courtesy of the butler, blow through the outer door. No time to second-guess her next move, and oh, the landing would hurt. Barefoot, she sucked in a breath and pushed through the shattered frame.

Glass shards scraped her chest and back as she sidestepped through. Teetering for a hot second on the outside, she realized that the window frame was too narrow. She couldn't turn her head to look back at her attackers, but she felt hands grabbing at her dress. Before a hand could clamp around her calf, she leaped.

It felt like slow motion. Weightless, reaching for the sky, she floated in a sea of gold silk as her dressed billowed around her until she hit the manicured terrace lawn. Everything hurt. Her exit strategy wasn't strategic, and it gave her zero chance to position for a tuck and roll, but it did do one very good thing. It kept dangerous men inside the house.

Bang. Bang. Pop.

The men were inside, but their guns shooting out the window had a wide open range. She pulled up as fast as she could manage. Dirt spat around her. Their shots missed but not by much. Nicola hobbled as fast as she could. They were, no doubt, regrouping and busting ass to get her on the terrace.

As she half-limped, half-ran, she tried to assess her injuries. Nothing broken. Definitely going to have to make a chiropractor appointment. Blood had ruined her gorgeous dress, thanks to the window exit. Definitely a sprained elbow and wrist.

The thicket of the woods loomed ahead, and she closed in on it, praying she'd reach the dense cover. Only then did she realize that she still gripped the subcompact gun but had lost her purse, and with it her untraceable cell phone. How the shit was she going to call Beth?

First plan of action: get far away from this mansion. Maybe stumble all the way to another mansion, break in, and use their phone. She jammed her bare foot against the sharp side of a downed branch.

"Son of a bitch!" It hurt like an ice pick stab, shooting straight from her heel to her hip bone. She lost her balance, tumbling down the hill, head first, sprained arm next. Her throbbing foot screamed in pain.

Nicola came to rest at the bottom of the hill. Dress thoroughly ruined. Bleeding top to bottom.

"Get up, girl," she told herself.

Nothing moved except for her lips. No, she'd worked too hard, had too much to prove. A little thing like this wasn't going to take her down. She was too freakin' smart to stumble like a newbie recruit fresh off the Farm.

"Nothing that can't heal. Get up. Now."

Her skin prickled. She wasn't alone. In a heartbeat, she was on her busted feet, gun drawn, pivoting intuitively. She spun twice, focused her hearing, and took one step forward, her foot touching the gravel side of a rural road. A dozen yards up, an SUV idled in the dark. Three men the size of NFL linebackers stood frozen like oversized yard gnomes.

And they weren't the men who chased her.

She readied her Beretta. The slide echoed in the moonless night.

One man put his hands up. The two others straightened as if they'd been hunched, ready to throw down on a Maine backwoods road.

She took a step forward. Damn this pitch-black night. She couldn't see anything more than male outlines. After her run-in with Cash Garrison and then the men who'd shot at her... Lord only knew who else was in on this game.

"Turn around. Move away from the car. Now!" She needed their set of wheels. Maybe she'd strike spy gold and find a charged cell phone.

The man with his hands up took two strides back. Without communicating, the two other men took two steps forward. She did not have time for this. The men from the mansion might be driving this same road or trailing her through the woods. She limped forward, trying not to groan when her injured foot hit gravel again.

"I said move it." She shuffled toward the driver's door.

"Nicola?"

Not Cash.

Not Cash by a million years. Far worse. Far more confusing. She couldn't handle this. Nicola leaped toward the idling car.

***

David leaned against the wall as he heard the pop of gunfire in the bathroom. He loosened the god-awful uniform tie he wore in his role as a butler. Hopefully, Nicola was taken out in one shot, no need for it to get messy.

Tonight had been unexpected. The assassination caused several problems, but most importantly, it affected his retire-from-the-CIA plan. Smooth had paid David handsomely to keep him in the know about investigations into the gun lord's illegal activities and terrorist connections.

Evidently, David missed a memo. With Smooth and Nicola dead, his backup plan formed. He'd check in with his handler at the CIA, get his marching orders, and, until he could find another buyer of CIA secrets, he'd lift enough ammo and arms to pad his retirement account, and go back to his pain in the ass day job as a CIA operative.

And in the unlikely event that Nicola escaped, he would finish her off later. She hadn't figured out the central piece of information that could topple Smooth Enterprises, but why chance the risk? That one secret he'd kept from the CIA secured his future.
Garrison's Creed- Chapter Three

The woman ran to the open driver's door, actively ignoring the men, hiding her face. Too damn late. Cash and Roman sprang for the open rear door, pancaking one on top of the other on the backseat as the woman slammed the driver's door.

Pulling off of Roman, Cash slapped his hand around the car ceiling, searching for the dome light switch.

Click. Dull light illuminated the truth.

The gun pointed toward the backseat, but the woman still didn't look at them, avoiding their stares. He could easily disarm her. Roman could too. Neither did.

"Nicola?" Roman rasped again.

Her arm trembled, vibrating the gun as she flipped the safety into place, but her finger stayed at the ready. "Please get out. Just go," she whispered.

That was her voice. It had been her face. Cash looked at Roman. No, he didn't know. The man was as dumbstruck and hurting as he was. All they could see was the back of a bloody shoulder and arm and leaves sticking in messy hair.

Rocco approached the open door by Roman, perhaps not seeing the showdown. "What's doing?"

They ignored him.

"Nicola." Roman's voice cracked. "Am I going nuts?"

Cash looked at Roman and saw the confusion tearing his world apart, just like it had his. He wore the evidence on his hardened face.

Her unsteady arm lowered, placing the gun on the front console. Her ratty-haired head dropped, and then the face Cash used to adore eyed them both. Her bottom lip quaked, and her eyes spilled tears.

She closed them, and more tears cascaded down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Roman busted out his door, knocking Rocco over in the process. He could have torn it off its hinges. The man wouldn't have cared. The driver's door flew open, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling his baby sister tightly to his chest. Cash had no idea what words came out of Roman's mouth. It wasn't his place to listen.

Their tender moment was shut down when she pushed him off. "Are you here to take me out?"

No one breathed a word. Cash couldn't understand her involvement with Antilla Smooth and couldn't bear breaking it to Roman that he'd seen her all over the warmonger. It tore his heart apart all over again, just like the day they'd lost her.

But they hadn't lost her. She was alive and sitting in front of him.

Nicola spoke up again. "Who do you work for?"

What is she talking about?

Roman seemed to read his mind. "Nic, what are you talking about?"

"Why are you here?"

"You're alive. Let's start there."

"Go away, Roman. It's better this way. If you're not here to—"

"What are you talking about? You're alive. You're coming home. Mom and Dad... they, we buried you. We—"

"You have to leave. Now. If I can't have the car—" She tried to get past him, but he locked her against his chest. "Let go. Damn you, Roman. You don't understand. We can't be here."

"You're in trouble. We can help. We can fix this."

She moved before either Roman or Cash could react. Gun in hand, pressed against her brother's chest. "I love you," she sobbed. "Don't make me."

Roman backed up, hands in the air. "Who are you? What's happened to you?" The tenor of his voice was clear. He'd moved on from shock to fury. At least Roman was catching up with Cash in the what-the-fuck department.

"Go away," she hissed, wiping at tears with the back of her hand.

"I can't. You're my—"

Nicola nudged the Beretta back toward him, groaning when she used her arm. "I need your car. Tell me how to contact you. I'll explain this. I promise. But I have to go. Now. I—"

"I don't think so."

"Goddamn it, Roman. If you're here to kill me, do it. Otherwise, get the fuck out of this car. You too, Cash. Move it."

Kill her?

Gone were her tears. In the span of a second, the emotion was gone. The steely eyed woman was in business mode.

Ten years had passed. Ten long-assed years. Who knew what she'd been doing? Clearly, bad things with bad people.

Cash spoke. "You're hurt."

She rocketed a glare at him. "I'll be dead if you don't leave."

Cash continued, hoping to make inroads even after Roman tried-and-burned. "We can help you. Whatever kind of trouble you're in—"

"I'm not in trouble. Get out!"

"No," Cash and Roman said in unison.

Click-click. The slide of the Glock turned them both to stone. Their third man, Rocco, had Nicola dead center in his close range sights.

"Get that fucking gun out of my sister's face," Roman said, cold as ice.

Rocco's face fell. He lowered the gun. "We need to get the fuck out of here. Work your family shit out in therapy. Buy some self-help books. I don't care. But go now."

Nicola dropped her gun again, pressing her head to the steering wheel.

Roman patted her snarled hair. "Nic, it'll be okay. Whatever's happened to you, we'll work through it. We'll protect you." He snaked his arms around his little sister and hugged. With an efficient lift, he had her up and in his arms.

A game of musical chairs ensued. Cash moved to the front passenger. Roman settled beside Nicola in the backseat. She groaned again when he placed her down. Cash eyeballed the driver's seat before Roc got in. There was a lot of blood in the front seat.

"We have to go," she whispered hoarsely.

"Roger that, hon." Rocco glanced at Roman. "Shit. Sorry on the hon. Roger that, um..."

"Nicola." Roman glared at Rocco.

"Right. Roger that, Nicola." Rocco gunned the engine, and they sped off.

Roman turned to his sister. "Nic, please start talking. Whoever had you, you're safe. Whatever the reason for the—"

"Stop. This isn't what you think. I left on purpose."

And that was all. She stared straight ahead. No amount of brotherly badgering or angry demanding changed her response.

Cash's head spun in circles. She was alive. Alive and armed, even though they'd buried her a decade ago.

His senior year of college, when they got the news, seemed like yesterday. But it was a lie. She was a liar. The only woman to steal his heart was a liar.

Liar, liar, girl on fire.

***

They eased into the driveway at the suburban safe house. Rocco hadn't breathed a word since they'd peeled out miles ago. Roman gave up his interrogation, looking distraught and angry and yet... hopeful. If there were seven phases of grief, how many for shock?

And Cash stayed mum. Hadn't done anything other than strip off his ghillie suit, wipe the face paint off, and pull his cowboy hat on. But hell, it hadn't kept him from watching her in the side view mirror.

Rocco jumped out and popped the trunk. He grabbed a bag and beat feet to the door. "Good night, good luck." He went inside.

The three of them sat in the car. Silent. Cash closed his eyes, remembering the last day, their last conversation, the horrible ache that ate him alive when he lost her.

"Cash?" she whispered into the dark.

Her voice made his spine tingle.

"Oh, screw that, Nicola. Talk to me first." Roman had every right to be pissed. And if he knew the half of it, he'd be pissed at both of them.

She opened her car door, and they did the same. Three doors slapped shut, one right after the other.

Suburbia was scary quiet. She took a step and tripped. As swift as he could, Cash stepped in, catching her. Nicola's body fit just the same in his arms as it always had. His muscles remembered how she felt against him. A shudder shivered up the nape of his neck and down the arms wrapped around her torso.

She locked eyes with him. Older. Wiser. And somehow more beautiful than ever. He should hate this woman. He did hate her, but until she looked away, he was stuck in a trance.

Relief and emptiness swirled in his chest. He rubbed his sternum with his free hand, wishing the feeling away.

Instead of focusing on the old Nicola, he needed to look at this one. "How bad's your ankle, Nic?"

She didn't answer, instead trying to right herself, smoothing the sexy dress that softly clung to her curves. Christ, he didn't remember a tenacious streak. But then again, he didn't really know the Nicola who pulled from his grip.

She hobbled toward the front door, the dress dragging behind her in a grand, out-of-place fashion, and turned to the stupefied men in the driveway. "I need a secure phone. Can either of you help me with that?"

A secure phone? On top of asking if they were going to kill her? Make that stupefied squared. Cash looked at Roman, who looked just as confused with a little "what-the-fuck?' painted across his forehead.

"Yeah, we'll help you." He looked at Roman, mouthing, "what's happening?"

The door shut. Cash and Roman stood unmoving in the driveway.

"That's my baby sister, and hell if I know." His voice trailed off. "We buried her body. There was a body. My mother cried for months." Roman's voice bottomed out.

They leaned against the Range Rover. Two men and too many emotions. Roman dropped his head into his palms, and Cash stared into the night sky.

No big brother should go through what Roman did, holding his mother's hand, consoling her alongside his upset father through a closed-casket funeral. There had been little choice when her body had burnt to smithereens. Check that. When they'd thought her body went up in smoke. Turns out her tall, lean body had just left them in the dark driveway.

Cash wanted no part in remembering that awful day. How he'd said he loved her, how they were going to tell Roman that his best friend was nailing his little sister. That's not what it was, not at all. Not even close. But that's how a dude would see it. Roman was gonna flip, and Cash was going to explain that she conjured up images of dum-dum-da-da and a poufy white dress.

Pushing away from the Rover, he wanted to knock off the mirror or kick the hell out of the side panel. Anything to burn off the acid churning in his gut. Shit, too much time had passed. Young love. What bullshit.

Cash eyed Roman. "You okay, man?"

Roman cleared his throat. "No. I'm not okay. My dead sister's alive and... working for Antilla Smooth?" He paused, as if looking into Cash's soul. "That's what happened earlier? You saw her? You thought I knew?"

That logic seemed so flawed now, but at the time... at the time, it was the only thing he could comprehend. And working for Antilla Smooth? That's not all she was to Smooth, but Cash would keep that tidbit to himself. It'd destroy his boy. Nicola in the arms of a decrepit arms dealer. It went against everything he and Roman lived for.

The Nicola he knew wouldn't touch a bastard like Smooth. But then again, he didn't know Nicola. He knew a liar.
Garrison's Creed- Chapter Four

Nicola bunked down in the bedroom the farthest away from the guys. Who am I kidding? They were just the guys, like this was just another day. Roman and Cash. The two most important men in her life, even if it'd been an eternity since she'd felt their touch or heard their words.

The day she'd walked away from her loved ones had been the worst day of her life—until today. She pinched her eyes closed, remembering their stunned faces. The pain and anguish. And the anger. Who could blame them? She certainly couldn't. She blamed herself, though. She had no choice.

Yes. Today was officially the worst day, and the former was a helluva bad day to knock out of contention.

Her bedroom had a bathroom—well stocked with first aid supplies—like any good safe house. What the hell were Roman and Cash doing running around with guns and slipping into safe houses? Her mind raced. A million maybes skittered through her thoughts. Did they wonder the same about her?

Both men had Popeyed out since she'd last seen them. They were massive. Different builds, but no question, given her run-in with Cash's arms, they'd taken their passion for working out to a whole new level. Roman was stocky and square, broad top to bottom. Cash had some lank to him. Long legs, powerful chest. His chest had been sinful before, but now it was downright deadly.

She shook away the thought of Cash. No need to hopscotch down memory lane. Her cuts needed tending, and daydreaming wouldn't stave off infection. She cleaned them, dousing each raw mark in hydrogen peroxide. A smear of antibacterial ointment and she'd be okay.

Her elbow was another story. She'd have to wrap and sling it. Immobilization was key to recovery, but showing a blatant sign of weakness to three men who saw her as theirs to protect wouldn't work.

Another beautiful dress ruined. The wardrobe was a serious perk of her job, but the dresses never made it home. She'd known this one was headed for the dumpster when she'd wedged herself out the window. But damned if she hadn't hoped she was wrong, somehow. Nope. It was just a stupid dress anyway. But it felt like the only thing she could focus on without curling up into a crying ball.

A soft knock on her door stole her breath. Having no idea what to say or how to explain, she didn't move to answer it. The handle turned, and it slipped open. Cash stuck his beautiful head of blond hair—shower damp and face free of camouflage face paint—into the room. He looked older and harder. Tanner. Maybe a few lines around his eyes. The baby face was gone, replaced by something chiseled.

He held out a phone like it was a pass code and he was requesting entry. She nodded. As he stepped in, he held up his other hand. Clothes as another offering.

"Phone. T-shirt. Pants. Figured you needed to change." He sounded as unsure as she felt.

The air was heavy and the room much smaller than she'd realized. His eyes pierced straight to her soul, squeezing the soft part she'd tried so hard to hide. Nicola nodded again. "Can I have the phone?"

"You can have the phone and the clothes." He placed the items down on the dresser but didn't move.

"All right. Thanks." He took up half the room as he waited, expectedly, for something from her. "If you'll excuse me."

"Nope. Not how it's going to work. Our phone—I'll stay for your call."

"But—"

"You don't have much in the way of options here, Nic. Your big brother is raging or grieving upstairs, going through mood swings like a mental patient, trying to get his head on straight. And I'm..." Pain shone in the deepest blue eyes she'd ever seen. He closed them and took a deep breath. When he finally opened them again, he cleared his throat. "I'm here to monitor your phone call."

His voice carried bitterness and torment. She was an evil bitch. Her eyes tingled with tears wanting to burst free. Again. Instead, she scooted across the bed, self-conscious that her trashed silk gown clung to her body. "Fine. You can stay."

"Like I said, you don't have much option."

She grabbed the items off the dresser and settled back on the bed. "Okay."

She was the devil incarnate, evil's bitchy step-sister. How could she have done this to the two of them? To her family? She wanted to call Mom and Dad more now than she had any other night. Mom would hate her. She should. But Nicola needed her mom, needed her hug. Un-spilled tears tried to escape again, and she breathed them away, focusing on Cash.

He leaned his hulking frame back, put one boot against the wall, and continued to watch. She turned around on the bed but kept an eye on his reflection in the mirror. Nicola punched the number into the phone, waited, and entered another series of numbers.

Beth answered on the first ring, as was her custom. "Hey, girl. Didn't expect you again."

"Gabriella was compromised. She avoided a hit. But not by much."

"You're hurt?"

"Minimal." Nicola never offered signs of weakness when she didn't know who listened. Her best friend would understand by the tone of her voice that minimal was bullshit, but nothing a bath in Bactine wouldn't fix.

"Gotcha. And who are you with?"

"Friendlies." I think. "The situation is... complicated."

"Why can't you give me more?"

"Because my friend—" She glared at Cash in the mirror. "—is too nosey for his own good. For now, I don't need an extraction plan. I'll make contact tomorrow."

"Do I need to be worried?"

That was the best friend asking, not her handler. The two components were often at odds, and Beth knew Nic would never answer in the affirmative, even if it were the case.

"I'll see you soon enough and explain in person. Night."

Nicola clicked off the phone and slid it behind her, not wanting to make eye contact with Cash. He ambled from the wall, one heavy footstep slowly following the next. The noise wrapped around her. She dropped her eyes. Her hands went clammy. The thump, thump, thump of her heart could've vibrated the safe house.

Cash's boots stopped, and she fought the need to look up.

A finger wiped away her resolve. It touched the bottom of her chin and lifted until he held her gaze. Have mercy. Sapphire eyes and a sad smile made her bleed on the inside.

"It's nice to see you again." His voice was hurt and husky.

"You hate me?"

"I might." He smiled again, taking the bite out of their reality.

"I had reasons." But with him standing in front of her and Roman upstairs ready for a riot, they didn't seem worth a shit.

"Seems like a lot has changed."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"Nice dress." His eyes wandered slowly down her neck, down the dress.

For the length of the look, she held her breath, unsure why or how his gaze made her skin blaze. She stammered to fill the silence. "I thought the only upside of this day was I could keep the dress."

He chuckled, breaking the heated glance. "How are we gonna do this, Nic? You want to just explain, or should I start an interrogation?"

"I can't."

"You can."

"But I won't." She stared at the comforter, smoothing a wrinkle. "You and Roman. You look different. You... I guess we all grew up."

"A lot of time has passed."

"I said I was sorry."

"So you did."

"I know it doesn't—"

"Enough with the apologies." The harsh change of tone surprised her. He pushed on. "You want to talk now? To me? Roman? Hell, to Rocco?"

"I already said—"

"And I don't care. The way I see it, you're having a bad day because boyfriend-dearest finally got what he deserved."

"What?" She recoiled. The words felt like a slap across the face. He couldn't possibly think she and Antilla were a thing. Then again, seducing the blood-hungry prick was part of her cover.

"Don't play me for stupid, Nic. You and Antilla Smooth."

"Cash, you—"

"I have no idea what you've been up to for ten years, so start talking, or you may need to classify me as something other than a friendly."

"He wasn't my lover."

"I don't care."

His face said otherwise, and the panging in her head shouted that he needed to know.

She tried to move away from the Antilla line of fire. She might've had a compromised operation, but she wasn't going to pass out details of a covert operation because of past feelings. Too many unknowns. "Why were you out there? And Roman? Both of you decked out like—" Like snipers. Oh, holy hell. He raised an eyebrow, watching her connect a few scattered dots. She'd been on an adrenaline cocktail, then shocked by their meet-and-greet, and now, the jagged pieces started to align themselves. "One of you took Antilla out?"

One of them ruined her operation? Everything she'd put in for months? The good guys finally had a chance, and they destroyed it?

His jaw gnashed before it set, and he spoke through his teeth. "What's it to you?"

That was confirmation enough. Cash and Roman blew up her mission, shattering any chance to further infiltrate Smooth's world, to take out illegal arms dealers. No!

She lunged at him. It was the wrong move, an amateur move, but she wasn't thinking like a trained agent. Screw her busted foot and arm. Nicola landed square in front of him. What was she going to do unarmed? Shake him to death? They'd already confiscated her only gun.

With her one good arm, she beat his chest, pounding out every frustration and emotion that ached within her. The bedroom door flew open revealing Roman and Rocco poised, ready to do... something. She looked up at Cash towering over her, his face cold. Emotionless. She realized she'd been screaming. Her cheeks were wet. Shit, fucking tears. Years of training with the best disintegrated in one night.

Roman looked at Cash. "What the fuck?"

"She's upset that I blew her boyfriend's brains on the carpet."

Roman's face fell until disappointment snarled onto his face. "Boyfriend?" He turned from her, muttering something to Rocco while walking back down the hall.

Cash whispered, "I can't believe I loved you."

God, no. This was all wrong. She didn't know enough about who they were or why they were there. Explaining her part could have exponential effects on the CIA's other operations.

Why had she run into them tonight? Aching to tell the truth, aching to remember his love, Nicola looked in the mirror as she collapsed onto the bed. Maybe she was too weak for the job. Self-doubt ate at her like she was back on the Farm, in her first week as a recruit when every man, and the handful of women, had eyed her like lunch. She hadn't been much, just potential, and she still felt the need to prove herself.

She could do this: act like the agent she was trained to be and stop reacting. Emotions shouldn't dictate action.

I can't believe I ever loved you. Don't react. Don't move. His voice clanged through her memory. Her internal orders didn't work.

"Wait!" Nicola jumped off the bed as best she could, and bounced on one foot to the door.

But Cash was gone, taking the phone and leaving her the clothes. She tore off the mess of a dress, moving as fast as she could, threw the t-shirt over her head and—

And, oh God, did the shirt smell like Cash Garrison. Clean soap and a masculine, peppery scent. On one foot, with one good arm, she balanced with the shirt covering her head and just inhaled, immediately transported back to college. She was in her second year, and he was finishing up his fourth. They lay in bed, naked. His balled up t-shirt served as her pillow.

This shirt smelled like her past. A distant memory. A deep hurt blossomed in her chest.

Oh, no. I'm going to break my cover.

She finished pulling it on but grabbed the collar and held it to her nose. Just one more time. Just enough to relive the memory.

Cash told jokes. Always made her laugh, but at that moment, in that memory, he was dead serious and unsure how he would tell Roman they were together. At the time, they'd said together forever, and it'd been time to tell her brother. After she'd walked away, she'd cried for weeks. It still hurt.

She shook her head. Time to get this over with.

Nicola hopped down the hall, limped up the stairs, and found the men at the kitchen table, passing a bottle of Gentleman Jack. Roman stood up, staring at her limp. Cash threw back a shot.

Rocco waved. "Not much in the fridge. Power bars on the counter. But if you feel like joining us, shot glasses are next to the sink. We're drinking to shitty days. Cheers." He downed a shot.

"Nicola." Roman eyed her. "Are you okay?" He smashed glare at Cash. "What's with the yelling? Dickhead said—"

"She's not welcome here." Cash scowled and poured another shot.

This wasn't going well, and she'd been in the kitchen, oh, two point five seconds.

"Shut your face, Cash." Roman glared at the table. "Are you ready to, I don't know, talk about this?"

"No."

Roman sat down. Nicola grabbed a shot glass and sat down at the square table across from Roman with Rocco and Cash on either side of her. The lights were dim, and the table's wood grain was suddenly very interesting. Instead of studying it, she grabbed the bottle of Jack, poured herself a shot, and threw it down.

It burned. It was perfect.

The kick gave her a shiver. God, she needed that. So she did it again.

When she looked up, Roman and Cash eyed her, maybe a little shocked to see her drinking like that since last time they'd seen her, she was all hi, I'd like a pink drink with my pink paper umbrella. Well, she still liked pink drinks. That hadn't changed.

Damn, could she handle three shots in a row with nothing in her stomach? Nope, probably not. She slid the shot glass back a few inches.

"Antilla Smooth wasn't my lover." She met her brother's eyes.

He coughed and squirmed. "Didn't know that was the discussion we were having."

Cash's face didn't register anything other than fury. If he didn't believe her, that was his problem. It didn't matter anyway.

Rocco picked up their slack. "Why were you running through the woods? Barefoot."

"Better yet, why were you all over him?"

So Cash did want to join in the conversation. He seemed to ping pong between hurt and jealousy. She couldn't blame him.

She studied Roman instead of answering because she didn't know what to say. His eyebrows bunched. Then she glanced at his bicep. No, no. A memorial tattoo. RIP. Her year of birth. Her year of death.

Sucking a breath, she breathed out, "I'm sorry."

Roman nodded. Nicola watched her big brother, who clearly hurt right now, but didn't know why.

"Sorry? You've made that clear," Cash said.

"Cash, stop." Her palms felt clammy. "I didn't freak out on you because I was pissed you killed him. It's... complicated."

"Yeah, today's the definition of complicated."

Rocco interrupted. "Dude, calm it down. She's not going to talk to us with you up in her grill. Nicola, go on."

"Who do you guys work for?" she asked, curious, but really buying time until her brain registered a what-to-say-now plan.

"Nope, not your turn yet." Rocco stated it like he was wrangling an out-of-line preschooler.

She closed her eyes, then blinked. "I don't know where to start."

"Try the day you died." Cash used air quotes around died.

Rocco knocked him in the shoulder, and Roman grumbled.

"Cash and I..." She stole a glance at Cash. An indecipherable flash in his eyes said that he'd never told Roman.

"You and Cash what?" Roman asked.

"Never mind. Simple version. Remember my job in college? I worked part-time for an accounting firm, translating international accounts. Unknowingly, I stumbled onto a money laundering scheme. I didn't know it, but one of our clients was a mobster who did a lot of business overseas. I'd been tracking cash-for-hire assassinations and hadn't a clue. Once I connected the dots, I couldn't believe the truth. Then I naively showed up and accidently saw a goon-squad massacre. Wrong place, wrong time. I'd figured out they were killers, but then I actually saw them murder a man. Too bad that they also saw me. I ran out as the FBI swooped in. A sting operation. Their timing was good for me, bad for the other guy." She shook her head, remembering the first time she'd watched someone die. "I was in federal protection by the end of the day."

"Bullshit. It doesn't work like that." Cash slapped the table.

"Sometimes it does."

"But you still go by Nicola?" Roman asked.

She nodded.

"Because?"

"I eventually left federal protection and took a job where I was... safe. I never got used to a different name. I'm Nic. It just worked."

Roman kneaded his temples. "You didn't call. Send a damn letter. Nothing."

"I thought it would be better. Safer. I had a hard enough time adjusting to life without you all. Mom's face if she got a letter from me? Dad would go insane trying to find me. You and Cash..." Remembering the decisions still hurt. "I had to."

"You walked away from your life to help prosecute some low life piece of trash?" Pain was evident in the scratch of Roman's voice.

"You walked away from us?" Cash followed up, and she knew he meant him and her, not their three musketeers.

"I walked away to stay alive. The mobsters knew me, knew what I was privy to. The FBI sting took out a few members, but not the whole organization. I had to disappear. My death had to be untimely and coincidental. If not, those same contract killers would've found me—our family—and made me watch as they hurt everyone I loved. The mob had to believe I'd died running away from them. What would you do, Roman? You'd endanger our parents? Me? No, you wouldn't. You'd do what it took to protect them. Just like I did."

Cash and Roman seemed lock-jawed. Rocco asked, "Wait? You were trying to protect them?"

"I did protect them."

"You didn't give us a chance. I'm your brother, for fuck's sake. You should've talked to me."

"I didn't have time. The FBI gave me thirty seconds to decide. They showed me crime photos and asked if I'd help them with the financial paper trail. All I could think was I'd been tracking accounts payable and receivable for murders. A lot of them. I wanted to keep you safe."

"Protecting these guys? Shit." Rocco tipped back on the back legs of his chair. "How ironic."

Nicola flashed him a glare. "Ironic? You want to tell me how?"

"Ah, nah. These fuckers can fill you in later. Why don't you tell us about tonight?"

"Can't."

"We've already done this song and dance, so let's cut to it so we can all finish getting drunk and go pass out." Rocco apparently wasn't taking any shit.

"My turn." She eyed each of them. "Who do you work for? Who sent you?"

Rocco bounced back down onto all four chair legs. "All right. Fair is fair. A company called The Titan Group."

"You work for Titan? All three of you?" The military, hell, the CIA, turned to Titan for jobs they didn't want on their books. How had Cash and Roman ended up on that payroll?

She shook her head out of the question cloud, and saw all three bright-eyed and interested as to how she knew Titan Group existed. Damn it. She was off her game. Little mistakes could be her undoing. She needed to tread with serious care.

Cash answered. "Yeah, all three of us. Roman and I joined the Army after college. We're a good team. We're still a team. We've been a team since day one. Grade school. High school. Sniper school. But you wouldn't know anything about that kind of loyalty, would you, Nic?"

"Lay off, Cash." Roman's defense wasn't that strong, but she appreciated it.

"What the fuck ever." Cash punctuated his words with another shot of whiskey.

"Christ, almighty. What is it with you two?" Roman glared from her to Cash. "You two used to be friends. Do you remember that? Shit."

Nicola traced the rim of her shot glass with a manicured nail. "You don't have to lay off. I can take it. I'm just one of the guys."

Roman rolled his eyes, but Cash pinned her with his stare. "Now it's your turn again. Why were you hanging off Antilla Smooth's nuts?"

She deserved that. They were with Titan, and they were her family, once upon a time before she walked away. She could trust them to a point. "I was on the job. Undercover."

Roman and Cash might have stopped breathing. They were frozen in shock, ready for a slight breeze to knock them away from the table. Rocco, perked up, more interested in that than the family drama. "No joke? Nice. Whose payroll you on?"

"Not going there." She shrugged.

"How long you been under?"

"Months. Since the start of spring—"

"So you were sleeping with him?" Cash interrupted.

He was going to out himself to Roman if he wasn't careful. Then the three of them would have that discussion to deal with.

Then again, Roman looked shell-shocked. He wasn't registering Cash's attitude.

"No. I wasn't." She smirked at him. "I was seducing him. Ignoring his advances made his interest in me grow. A manipulative game of cat and mouse. So no, Cash, I didn't fuck him."

Rocco laughed. "Cash doesn't know anything about women not fucking him. You might have to explain seduction to the man because they just throw themselves at him. He doesn't have to lay groundwork."

Roman laughed too. It was her turn for a flash-bang of jealousy. Cash glared at Rocco, who apparently took to heart the just-one-of-the-guys line she'd thrown down.

Cash was handsome, more so than when they were younger. His blond hair could use a haircut, but he was missing his trademark life-is-good attitude. She missed his smile, focusing instead on the width of his chest. All three men had muscles, but Cash was something to appreciate. Even his face looked strong with a hard jaw line that flexed when he tried to contain any number of emotions he had to be feeling.

Nicola continued. "My op was blown when you took out your target. I called in for an extraction plan. There was another team there. Not sure what happened or why, but they went after me. I did what I needed to."

Roman looked up. "And that was?"

"I shot out a window, jumped two stories, and ran into you assholes." She tried for a smile, a little humor, but got nothing. A-plus for effort though.

Cash said, "You shot a window?"

Roman followed. "And jumped out?"

"Hey, I'm not an asshole. Just so you know." Rocco laughed. Weird. Cash was always the one laughing in her memories, and now he was without jokes and zingers.

"Guess I'm not what you remember," Nicola whispered, stealing a glance at Cash.

Roman stood, rubbing his tattoo. It was beautiful, and it was a lie. How did she ever think it was right to hurt them?

"Nicola." He kissed her head. "That's enough for me. For now. I'm headed to bed, knowing you're alive. Best damn thing ever. And tomorrow, we'll talk about calling Mom and Dad."

She nodded.

Roman continued, "Cash, Rocco, good night, assholes."

Rocco stood, nodded, and bowed out without a word, leaving just her and Cash. Her and Cash and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. She nudged the bottle toward him. "Want another?"

Silence hung in the air.

She nudged it again. "How about this: do you need another?"

A smile cracked the thick tension on his chiseled face. "That would be a hell yes."

It wasn't a joke, but it was more his style. She wished he would smile the way he used to. Big and brawny, but so damn beautiful. Just once. "Me, too."

He poured them both a shot and watched her down the liquor.

"Down the hatch, like a pro. Like shooting Jack?"

"I'm pretty good at a lot of things now, but I'm more of a Jim kinda gal."

"You were before too. Good at things and a fan of sweet bourbon. But you dressed your drinks up frou-frou style."

"But I'm... a different person now."

"I think we both are."

"You saw me with Antilla." Nicola didn't ask. Just repeated what he'd already told her.

"Yeah, I did." He fidgeted with the shot glass, sliding it back and forth between his large hands.

"Why'd you come up to the house? That couldn't have been protocol."

"I couldn't not come to see. To really see you. I was having some scope-sighted nightmare. It didn't make sense. It still doesn't."

She reached for the bottle. Ugh, bad arm. An ache hit her throat and bubbled out. Cash looked at her, forcing her to 'fess up without uttering a question. "I landed on my arm. It's sprained. I need to wrap and sling it."

The thick tension couldn't have been sliced away with a machete. Seconds ticked by, and the shot glass pinballed between his fingers. Cash studied her arm, and she flushed. "You need help?"

"No. I think I got it. I'm just going to sit outside for a few minutes." Because I need to cool down this absurd hot flash. She hobbled over to the back door and peered at the deck. It had a picnic table, nothing else.

"It's good to see you again," Cash said.

"You said that already." She didn't know what else to say and didn't want him to go away. But that was exactly the reason he should.

"So I did." He breathed the words out slowly and stood. His broad chest loomed, and his beautiful blue eyes twinkled when he nodded good night.

Good night, Cash.

They were words she'd thought a thousand times since she left and couldn't bring herself to say aloud now. What was her deal? One second, she was feeling a little hot under the t-shirt when he looked her way, the next she wanted to sob.

It didn't matter what she did or how she felt, he was gone in a blink. Silent and all shadow. Just like a sniper.

If you liked reading this excerpt of GARRISON'S CREED, you can find it available at these retailers.
Westin's Chase- Chapter One

He saw no point in being the leader if he couldn't guide his men home at the end of every job. His team. His operation. And right now, his disaster. Fire exploded around Jared Westin as he rolled for cover. Gravel dug into his cheek, and branches scratched at his eyes. Acrid smoke billowed, leaving the bitter taste of accelerant on his tongue.

Radio silence was a bitch. He was fine. He would survive, despite the bite of the bullet in his calf and the shrapnel in his shoulder. His men and the rescued hostage were his concern.

Stuck on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan, he saw that his only way out was through a hostile mess of turbans and firepower. Not the best strategic position. Jared's only comfort was knowing the released American would soon be on their helo and out of enemy fire. Rocco and Brock had hustled the guy down the side of a cliff toward the pickup zone before the firefight got bad.

Thump, thump.

The enemy's aim was blind, but close enough to cause harm. Dirt and rocks flew at him each time the bullets found groundcover instead of flesh.

Popping up his head, Jared eyeballed the area. He had a third man in this melee. Roman remained somewhere nearby, drawing enemy fire. A flash of a grenade hit ten yards to Jared's right, followed by Roman's return fire. He must've had the same damn thought. If I'm going to die on a cliff in Afghanistan, let me do so in a pile of empty brass shells. There was no way either of them was dying without a fight.

Jared checked his super-mag clip—full, with lots of potential. Plus he had a Sig Sauer strapped to his thigh. It had a solid reputation of accuracy, and he needed those bullets to hit their mark.

Fire burned through the brush nearby, and he caught sight of his man. Roman's shadow danced in the fiery glow cast against the rocky mountain. He was hunched against a boulder, reloading.

Jared reached into the gear pack strapped to his back. He needed something explosive. A bloody distraction. In the background, the chop, chop, chop split the night as the helicopter neared the landing zone. It was right on time, and he needed to get a move on. If not, they would be on their own.

Moving too quickly, his head spun. Blood loss must be worse than I thought. Spectacular. Jared rifled through the bag. More ammo. Two knives. And... thank the gun lords above, a handheld grenade launcher and two big-ass rounds.

Palming the launcher, he recalled the sexy woman he had to thank for this beauty. She went by Sugar. He had no idea of her last name or her real name, but, damn, he loved working with her. She handed out grenade-launching hand cannons as gifts. Now if that wasn't a turn on...

And if this thing saved his life, he would have to come up with a decent way to say thanks for the cover.

He snapped the metal handle into place, loaded up the first 40 mm grenade, eyed Roman, and shot out a blast. The explosion ripped open a possible escape route. Jared slammed the second cartridge into place. Locked and loaded. After a nod to Roman, saying this was their chance, he let it rip.

Jared covered his face and ran toward the hellfire with his super mag firing. Brass casings spurted from his weapon, leaving a trail behind him. He pushed through the burn in his body and the pain in his leg and shoulder, ignoring the heat that seared his clothes. When his magazine clicked empty, he tossed the piece into the flames.

Behind him, pops of firepower said Roman was behind him. Jared took a harsh breath. The smoke burned his throat. Gun pulled from the holster on his thigh, he pivoted and picked off enemy tangoes. They hit with bull's-eye precision. Sig Sauer deserved a thank you when this shit mission was done.

Their chopper hovered two hundred yards away in the pitch black night, hanging motionless off the side of the mountain. Roman was fast on Jared's heels, and the two of them beat feet as quick as they could toward the bird.

As Jared closed in, Rocco and Brock became visible, hanging from the opening, providing cover. Bright explosions ripped through the night as bullets rained down behind them. Two rappelling ropes blew in the violent mountain wind. Hell yes!

With no time to overthink his moves, he launched over the edge of the cliff and into the inky-black abyss. He crawled through air, reaching for a lifeline. The seconds took too long. Without the ropes, he knew death was certain. A free fall down into the rocky mountain spikes meant lights-out for good.

Gravity took over, and momentum lost. Jared's weight began a rapid descent. His skin prickled as he splayed his fingers, reaching—hoping— for success.

One hand fisted the rope, his wounded arm taking the brunt of his body and gear poundage. With a grunt and heave, Jared growled up to a second handhold. He had two hands tight on the rope, and Jared looked over at Roman. Swaying in the obsidian night, Roman screamed, "Hoorah!"

Crazy bastard.

His heart screamed, punching his bruised ribs. The jump was the best damn adrenaline rush he'd had in a long time. Jared took a painfully deep breath as the helo pulled up hard and swam off into the sky.

***

The devastating sound of the chopper leaving brought tears to her eyes. Gunfire and battle cries in a language she didn't understand screamed into the chilly night. Her saviors had come for one of them, but not both. It didn't make sense. They hadn't tried to find her. She heard them show up, create hell, and leave after finding her counterpart—the only other American in this camp.

They have no idea I'm here.

That was worst case scenario because that meant they weren't coming back. Big time bad news. Maybe she should have listened, stayed stateside, and handled her work headache differently. But, no, she needed an adrenaline rush. Needed to get her mind off everything at home that she wanted to avoid. And when a Middle East gun-tracking assignment popped up through black-op back channels, she'd hopped on a plane without even telling her friends.

Not that they would let her pull a stunt like this. Because... well, she would've been captured.

Hanging out with the elite gun-slinger types was problematic. Even if she was decent on the trigger, she wasn't elite or even as good an operative as she thought. Her background was intelligence gathering. She was only a former ATF agent with a desire for something bigger and too much time on her hands. Pathetic. All she had was an ego that rivaled the size of this goddamn mountain, and—

Sugar. Shut. The. Hell. Up.

She shook her head, then rubbed her eyes. "You will survive. You are that good. Who the hell needs a military rescue?"

It'd been more than forty-eight hours since her dumbass partner had stumbled into enemy hands and she'd tried to rescue him. That hadn't worked out according to plan, and she was tossed into a makeshift cell and given nothing more than dirty water and rock-hard bread. As a foreign woman, they could've done much worse to her—and that threat still loomed. But I can handle this. She could kill each one of her captors and walk off that mountain before she had any more woe-is-me thoughts.

Jeers came her way from her captors who'd survived the rescue operation, and her cage allowed no escape. She stepped away, feeling the earthen walls at her back and the lump at the back of her throat. She laid her palms flat against the cold dirt and dug her fingernails in. Two men approached, shooting into the night like it was Mardi Gras. Celebrating? Oh, yeah, because they still have me.
Westin's Chase- Chapter Two

Jared wasn't in the mood for any shit. Never was. But today, his alpha flare was on fire, as if he'd guzzled a six-pack of testosterone and chased it down with a pound of jerky. He would be at the firing range later, working off this... energy until his buzz died down.

Something was wrong. His gut said it. His instincts screamed it. But as he wrapped up the debrief meeting with his team, nothing amiss had surfaced.

He needed to go for a run. Damn the gunshot wound in his calf that was healing at a glacier's pace. He wasn't one to listen to the docs, but the bullet had nicked the tibia and scrambled some nerves. Messing with his health meant messing with his livelihood, so he planned to sit on his ass for two more weeks. Begrudgingly.

The war room was rowdy after the ending of what had to be the closest thing to an office meeting that his team would ever have.

Nicola, Jared's lone female operative, cursed loud enough to quiet the room and tossed her cell phone to Cash. He looked at the screen, then chucked it to Winters, who did the same, sending it to Roman, like a game of cell phone hot potato.

Annoyed and knowing this was the detail his gut said he'd been missing, Jared scowled. He wanted an explanation. Right away. "What?"

Nicola sat down at the table, her brow pinched and lips pursed. Cash and Winters traded glances.

"Cut the shit," Jared growled. "Two seconds until I knock faces for answers."

Roman threw him the phone. The screen was open to an e-mail from Parker, Titan's tech genius.

FROM: Parker – Titan HQ

TO: Titan – all users

SUBJ: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

What the fuck? Jared scrolled down to the message.

Afghanistan captive count was TWO. Confirmed the second hostage is Lilly Chase. Will be on the news in ten minutes.

Jared looked up, and everyone stared at him. He shrugged. "Not the first time Washington bureaucrats got it wrong."

They could go back in and grab hostage number two, assuming they got the contract for the job. If not, he was fine with that. His gunshot wounds needed more time to heal. Sometimes, nabbing a contract wasn't worth the headache.

"You don't know?" Cash asked, dropping into a chair, his face tight. He looked ready for the next world war.

Parker burst through the doors like his ass was on fire. What the fuck? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot was right. Every member of his team stared at Jared, waiting for a reaction.

No one said a word. Brock nodded to Parker, who clicked on a flat screen in the middle of the room. He flipped the channel from ESPN to CNN. Commercial. He flipped the channel again to Fox News, and—

"What the...?" Not believing the screen, Jared pushed out of his chair, balled fists supporting his weight on the table.

"That's Sugar," Parker said.

"I know"—his jaw ached as he ground out the words—"who the fuck that is."

Everyone looked at the screen, then at him. Anger bubbled inside his chest. His mouth went dry as a thousand insane questions mocked him.

"Sugar's an ATF agent. ATF. Alcohol, tobacco, and firearms, not some military operation. Not some..." His pulse pounded. Tunnel vision was in full force, and he couldn't put the words together. It didn't make sense. Jared swallowed his reactions and refocused. "You mean to tell me Sugar's on the side of a goddamn mountain in Afghanistan, and we fucking left her there?"

Parker nodded.

Jared threw Nicola's phone across the room, and it shattered. No one moved.

His chest tightened. "Unmute it."

Parker flicked the remote, and a news anchor's voice filled the room. "...but what we do know is a state department spokesperson reports that diplomatic efforts are being made, but since this woman made an unsanctioned trip to—"

"Turn it off."

The screen went black.

"Diplomatic effort? They just sent us there and didn't tell us there were two fucking people." He took a growling breath. "Unsanctioned, my ass."

They all nodded, knowing it had been an official op gone bad. The government pulled this shit, and then had Titan fix their mistakes. Often.

"What's a fuckin' ATF agent doing in Afghanistan?"

No one answered. Probably, no one knew, but he didn't care. Jared slammed his hands onto the table. "Parker, find out. Now."

Roman and Brock slipped into chairs at the table, and everyone sat there, with the exception of Parker, who'd likely started hacking into every classified federal database that existed.

Jared dropped into his chair and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Her name is Lilly, and she's a Taliban playtoy right now."

"You didn't know her name?" Cash asked, raising his eyebrows. Jared knocked a glare at Cash, who threw his hands into the air. "Sorry, man. Thought you two were vibing."

"'Vibing?' Shut it, Cash," he growled.

"You two aren't... weren't?" Winters asked.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. No. She's our arms dealer. She's part of the Titan network. I don't have to fuck everything that's hot. Case in point—Nicola."

Cash smirked. "Easy, man. Leave my wife out of that comparison."

"And don't say that shit about my sister." Roman sneered.

Nicola rolled her eyes. "I think we all thought that you and Sugar... saw eye to eye on some things."

"Everyone, shut the hell up." He needed to think. Goddamn, my gut aches. Not his leg or his shoulder, where fresh wounds were healing, but his gut. "Gear up. We're going back in."

No one moved. This wasn't his typical "calm, cool, collected, plan everything to the nth degree, then execute" reaction.

"Now!" He slammed his hands on the table.

Brock stood up, looking ready to pull the second-in-command card. "We don't have a contract."

"She's our girl, and I owe her more than one favor."

"We don't have State Department approval."

"I don't need it." Jared smirked. "I'd call over to Sixteen Hundred Penn Ave and buzz the president if I gave a damn about protocol, which I don't."

Brock crossed his arms. "We don't have a plan."

"Do what we did before, but finish the job this time." Why am I explaining myself?

Brock countered, "You're recovering and aren't thinking clearly."

No shit. "If you want to keep your paychecks coming, you'll be ready to move out."

Jared stormed out of the room, not caring about the opinions behind him. The clack, clack, clack of Thelma, his bulldog, followed him from the war room to his office. Now there was some loyalty. That dog could eat the carpet, the drywall, and the silverware off his kitchen table, but she always knew when to fall in line and come along.

The secure door closed behind them, making him wish Sugar was standing there, too. Intense eyes that distracted him. Lips that gave him wet dreams. And one killer body. From tits to ass, that woman had it going on. Besides that fun-land of a figure, she nipped at his pissed-off personality, tossing grenade-style sass and a smile that knocked him senseless. He hated it. Sugar was IED-dangerous. One misstep, and kaboom.

They both knew it. Both avoided the other. Apparently, to the detriment of learning, she'd hightailed it to hell's playground.

Jared's phone buzzed. He swiped the handset to his ear, didn't listen, and then grumbled. "The only thing I want to hear is, 'Wheels up in thirty.'"

***

Chewing on cinnamon sticks was a nasty habit. But Kip Pearson embraced the god-awful taste. Since his childhood, the scent had always soothed his agitation, though the damn bark turned his mouth the color of Indian clay and chased away the ladies.

Twenty minutes were left until he had major explaining to do, and that shit was for the grunts.

Working for GSI's Internal Affairs Division meant he didn't have to deal with the headache of following the rules. He only enforced them as he saw fit. That was why he loved carrying on with the IA routine, and that title meant he didn't need to sit in his truck, contemplating where to tell his boss to shove it.

Kip glanced in the mirror, wiping orange spittle from the corners of his mouth, and then opened the truck door. He flicked the spit-covered spice stick like a cigarette butt and ignored the guard on the way in to GSI's main headquarters.

Growling at people in the halls, he swung open the pompous doors, emblazoned with "Buck Baer."

Buck's secretary didn't bat an eye when Kip announced himself. She must be used to the ballbusters who work for Buck. Very well-paid ballbusters. And considering that the rocks hanging from her ears weren't knock offs, Buck's secretary was making serious dough, too. Everyone's on the take. Impressive.

"Mr. Baer will see you now," she said from the desk, not taking her eyes of the monitor.

Yeah, I bet he will. Good thing Kip hasn't wasted time resting his ass in some cushy chair. Buck's place was too nice, had too much glitz. Kip would rather have hard-nosed furniture that'd been beat up and torn down. That would fit his demeanor. But not Buck. He liked the show. But if that's what the prick wanted to do with his moolah, it wasn't worth a second thought to Kip.

He elbowed through another set of solid-wood doors that were meant to impart how well GSI was doing in the private security industry. Other firms tried for high security and impenetrable walls. Buck wanted in-your-face success.

The jerk stood from behind his desk. He always looked angry, at least when Kip walked into the room.

"You stink like cinnamon." Buck clapped his hands onto hips. "Thought I told you to cut that shit out."

"Back off, Buck." What he wouldn't do to face off with him and see who could really take who. It would stop their supervisor-subordinate dance. One good ass whipping, and his boss would wise up.

"I sent you to evaluate the outpost for a simple reason—cover our tails. Now I have the goddamn Secretary of State and the goddamn Defense Intelligence Agency wanting answers."

Kip shrugged and pulled out another cinnamon stick. "Sounds like a personal problem."

"We made a deal, Pearson. You earned your money, and I earned mine."

"Don't worry so much. All ends are almost tied nice and pretty for ya." This conversation was an annoyance. He didn't see his boss as his superior. They were on par. Strength, check. Tenacity, check. Intelligence, nah. Kip would have to take that one. But all in all, Kip wasn't subservient, even if the man signed his paychecks.

"That woman is alive!" Buck slammed his hands down on the desk, stout fingers stretched on the expensive-looking wood that was so damn showy.

"Not for long. You have any idea where I left her? In the hands of some very... eager beavers. She's probably wishing she'd died in a car bomb."

Buck pointed at the television. Its muted screen showed his former partner's face. That made things slightly more complicated. "So they know she's alive. Big deal."

"Damn government contracts. I'll never accept a stipulation for an outside observer. Hell, I'll never let you find a fall girl again." Buck rubbed his temples. "They want us to go get her."

Kip used air quotes. "So 'go get her.'"

"You're a piece of work." Buck leaned back into his executive desk chair and cursed. "If this was clean, her death wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. I told you, find a throwaway observer to bring with you. Suspended ATF agent? Few family or friends? She sounded easy, perfect. But now it's messy."

"Price of greed, my friend. I can't help how shit went down. I certainly didn't foresee The Titan Group thrown in the mix. Imagine my surprise when they arrived to save my ass. I'd sooner expect you."

"I don't go into the field anymore." Buck crossed his arms.

Kip laughed. No shit. Buck was a face guy these days. He'd packaged up all his brutality so that he could shake hands in DC and secure jobs. Glad-handing son of a bitch. "I know. That was a joke, man. Seriously, though. What do you want from me?"

"No complications. That's what I ordered. That's what I expect."

"No complications? Christ, you and your boys caused enough problems that IA had to get involved. No one would've noticed a few missing millions."

"Pearson—"

"Greed always trumps good ol' common sense. You had to go for multi-million. And selling the guns? Not the smartest move, ol' Buckaroo." Kip twirled the cinnamon stick in his finger. Its burnt-orange stain was already set deep on his knuckles.

"You took the money, too." Ignoring the name-calling, his boss levied the charge like it should scare him. "If I go down, you go down."

"Shaking in my Levi's." Kip couldn't help but urge the bastard on. He'd walked in wanting a fight. But no matter what he wanted, Buck wouldn't step up to a ring-side showdown.

"I will pummel your face. Don't care if I am wearing a tailored suit."

Yeah, right. "Unless you're down for blows, Buck, let's finish this up. I was a dirty cop before you hired me. No shame here." And there wasn't. He'd been on the take for years, and he had a nice life to show for it. Big house. Kickin' truck. Cell phone full of pros who would roll out of his bed with a smile. "You offered me this job with a solid explanation of my future duties and compensation. I've been covering up your good-time ways and cashing my paychecks. It's all good."

Buck smoothed the front of his suit, and his irritation was as clear as the cost of the Rolex on his wrist. "How do you propose we fix this?"

"Well, shit, man. I'm not one of your special operations leaders—"

"Stop pushing me, Pearson. I know what the fuck my ground team will do. Your report. Your fuckin' paperwork." He sucked in a long breath that didn't help with his red face. "I want your official report ready in an hour. I want a clean bill of health for my outpost job. I want a report so pretty that the fucking president of this damn country will call me and extend his regrets that anyone dared to think GSI's on the take."

"But we are." Kip was having too much fun at the risk of giving his boss a coronary.

"Goddamn it, Pearson!" Buck raised his fist and snarled, but then paused for a breath, steadying himself.

Too damn bad. "Look, Buck, you can't fire me. I'm in a great position. And the sooner you realize that, the better it is for both of us. I'll write a report you can send to your government friends. Hell, I'll testify before Congress. But it'll have some dirt smudges and a red flag or two. Nothing that'll lead to anything. You can't turn in a report that's pristine and shiny. Shit, man, you'd think this was your first time at the rodeo."

Buck's head bobbed. "Watch yourself, Pearson."

He laughed. "Yeah, I'll do that. And if I were you, I'd watch Titan. Rumor has it, our fall girl, she's part of the tight clutches Jared Westin calls his family." Kip probably should've dug a little deeper into Lilly Chase. But when a fine piece of ass like Sugar made herself available, he offered her the gig, only feeling the slightest bit bad that he would have to kill her.

Buck's forehead veins protruded. The old bastard was probably a respectable bad ass back in the day. Back when he started GSI. Anyway, he was just an inch away from giving out blow jobs to bureaucrats to keep his money flowing.

The desk phone rang. After staring at it, he finally answered, without dismissing Kip. "Buck Baer."

Buck's face returned to its normal color as he breathed through his nose, his nostrils flaring. "Blow the side off that mountain. I want a crater where an outpost used to be. And I want Lilly Chase dead."
Westin's Chase- Chapter Three

Dawn cracked over the mountain. It was beautiful, despite the crosshatched cage impeding her view. The frozen air had chilled Sugar all night long as she'd huddled against the dirt floor. Her aches and pains were accentuated by lack of sleep and her concern for her safety.

She sat up, rubbing her hands over her arms for warmth. Movement caught her eye. The small hands that had thrown her pieces of stale bread the day before reappeared, as if waiting for her to wake. They waved hello.

"Hello?" Sugar whispered.

An inch at a time, a navy scarf pushed into Sugar's cell. Caked with mud, the thing was crusty and rough as Sugar pulled it through and wrapped it around her shoulders. An added layer of warmth soothed her shivers.

Then she saw the hands again—really saw them. In daylight and without explosions, those hands were more than small. They were... the size of a child's.

Please... no.

She crawled to the cage barrier and pushed her face against it, hoping to see a man or a teen, and not a poor kid caught in hell. But she saw nothing other than the rocky landscape and wind-billowed tents. No kid. No adults.

Sugar rocked back on her knees and wrapped her scarfed-covered arms around her shins, balling up to preserve body heat. A tiny head poked in front of her cell and then drew back.

It was a child. A little girl. Sugar's heart broke. Tears would've flooded her eyes had she not been dehydrated. No, no. Why does hell have to house babies?

Crawling back to the edge of her enclosure, she put her fingers through the holes and whispered again. "Hi, out there."

The curious head popped forward, staying near the edge of Sugar's makeshift cell. The girl had big brown eyes—the most inquisitive Sugar had ever seen—knotted hair, and dirt-streaked cheeks. The image wrenched her heart.

Sugar wiggled her fingers through the barricade again. The little girl did the same, putting a finger onto the crosshatch and imitating her.

"Hi," Sugar whispered again, smiling. She pointed to the lock. "Can you open that?"

The little girl shook her head, but curled her finger again.

What language would she speak? Dari? Pashtu? Sugar knew a few basic words, but nothing that would translate well to an... eight-, nine-, ten-year-old. How old was she?

The finger disappeared. Maybe Sugar shouldn't have asked about the lock. Any minute, she would have to deal with the fuckers keeping her caged. Any minute—

The little girl was back, bearing a gift. A piece of bread squeezed through a hole. Sugar pushed her finger through the hole in acknowledgement. "Thank you."

The bread wasn't much, but did the job. Leaning against her enclosure, her fingers still snaked toward freedom, Sugar finished the scrap in two bites and ignored the taste of dirt. A soft touch met her finger, and she looked out of her cage. The little girl sat on the other side and had locked a finger around hers.

Sugar whispered hello again, scared that they would both get into trouble.

"English," the little girl whispered back, nodding.

"English," Sugar repeated, unsure if it was a question or an affirmation. "You know English?"

She nodded, and a little smile spread across her face. Their locked fingers stayed in place, while the girl played in the dirt with her other hand.

"My name is Sugar."

"Sugar," the little girl repeated, not looking away from a tiny dirt pile on the ground. "You are bad?"

Bad? Had the little girl ever seen a woman like Sugar behind makeshift bars? If she was out here, she'd seen too much, like the shootout during the night. Sugar tightened her finger around the girl's, trying to sound trustworthy. "No. Not bad. Good."

"Good." Big brown eyes reached into her heart and squeezed.

"Yes, good." She nodded, reassuringly. "What is your name?"

"Asal."

"That's pretty."

The little girl smiled, showing all her teeth. Sugar heard something move in the background, and Asal scampered away. She was all alone again. For a few minutes, Sugar hadn't been stranded in a rudimentary cell, freezing her ass off on the side of a mountain. She was making a young friend, who she had a feeling hated this damn place, too.

***

No better way to fix a fuck up than with a little cash and coercion. Wasn't that the American way of doing business? Sure was in Buck's book. And his book was nothing but corrupt commandments and legendary loopholes.

This plan was worth the eye roll from his secretary when he'd sent her running off for the impossible—a simple phone number that would dry up his worries.

Buck leaned back in his chair, cradling his phone against his ear. He had a small window of time to pull this off. Jared Westin was as predictable as he was loyal. If Lilly Chase had a connection to the Titan Group, that devoted jerkoff would run all the way back to Afghanistan to find her. Some people couldn't help being the good guy.

"Yeah, hello?" a clipped voice answered.

His secretary had been successful, worth every Benjamin he threw at her and all that jewelry he gifted on the regular. "This is Buck Baer, and I have a proposition for you."

"Excuse me?"

That reaction was to be expected. Let's try again. "This is Buck Baer."

"Are you looking for—"

"No. I'm not. I want to talk to you." Time for business. He cracked his neck. "Let's table your surprise for when I really toss something buzzworthy your way."

"What do you want, Baer?"

"An open mind, for starters." He waited and was rewarded with silence. Bingo. "Don't breathe a word of this, don't fiddle with recording gadgets, or link up to whatever toys you boys have at Titan until you know the stakes."

"And the stakes are?"

"The stakes are simple. Your worst nightmare. The daughters you think no one knows about and the sweet wife you've hidden from your mercenary life are with me. You might keep a secret life from Titan, trying to keep your pretties safe and sound, but nothing gets by GSI."

"Bullshit."

"I have your wife's phone, and I see you're calling her right now. Cute."

The voice growled, "You will die if you hurt them."

Buck shrugged. "I don't want to hurt them. Really. But here's what I do want. Lilly Chase."

"You kidnapped my family because of Sugar?"

"I'm not even asking you to hand her over. I only want intelligence. I suspect Titan will be on the ground before GSI plans to mobilize. If you want to see your family again, all I need is the where and when after you have hands on Lilly Chase. Then—presto—you'll get your family back. Unharmed. And I'll even throw in a couple hundred grand for your worries."

Ensuring Buck's victory before nearing the finish line, the voice again growled, "I'm going to find you, slit your—"

"You might, but your family will die. So it's a lose-lose for everyone. Don't bother bringing Titan in on this one. I know how great your cocksucker boss thinks he is, but do you believe he's better than me? Would you stake your family's life on it?"

"Why do you want Sugar?"

"I took you for a smarter man." Did the world not see she was the one thing that could crumple his empire? Women talked more than they should. She would certainly come back to the States and tell the world what he was actually doing in Afghanistan. Buck shook his head. He was betting that she wouldn't mention what a great entrepreneur he was. No, her focus would probably lie in the terrorists he was aiding in exchange for cash. "It's better not to ask questions."

"Jared will come after you. Me. Both—"

"Titan's days are numbered." Buck gestured nonchalantly. "Jared and I have a not-so-friendly game of Annihilation running. Stems back from our Ranger days. This is more personal than you realize."

"Probably not." The man's voice was harsh and knowing.

The man's comeback was unexpected, but men under duress rarely behaved as they should. "So, do we have an agreement?"

"You take my family, return them at your leisure, then I let you live another night?"

Feisty son of a bitch. Too bad this guy works for Titan. Buck sighed, uninterested in explaining himself, but needing to shore this up. Time was ticking. "No one will take me out. Not you. Not Jared Westin. Not a rogue ATF agent who should've minded her own business and died in the Middle East. You'll always know in the back of your mind that I took them once, and I could do it again."

Silence. Silence was golden. It meant: "Yes, sir. I'll do it, sir. You've got me by the balls, sir."

Just the way Buck liked his friends and enemies. "We'll be in contact. And until then, know everyone is safe. Temporarily."

***

Jared didn't care about inciting fallout in the Middle East or pissing off people in power. It wasn't his concern. Loyalty ran like blood through his veins. Sugar was a part of his network, which roughly translated to being part of his team. The Titan net had been cast over her, and he would do just about whatever it took to get her and shake some sense into her. Afghanistan? Shit...

The knock on his door made him wish for good news. But he wasn't counting on it.

"Get in here," he yelled.

The door opened, and Parker walked in with a folder in one hand and a tablet in the other. The look on his face wasn't promising.

"Speak."

Parker slid the tablet onto Jared's desk. "Details on the hostage we pulled out."

Jared grabbed the electronic device. He tapped on the screen, and it lit up. Kip Pearson. The file gave Pearson's generic stats like height, weight, and profession. "He works for GSI?"

Global Security International was Titan's rival. Wish we'd known that shit when we flew Kip home. Wish the asshole had shouted, "Hey, buddy, you've left my partner on the side of a Taliban-infested mountain." What the fuck was that all about?

"Yup. As their version of internal affairs."

"Damn it." He bunched his forehead. "IA left a partner behind? That's a stretch. What was their objective?"

"I hacked into Sugar's e-mail and—"

"Great." She would have both their butts for hacking her e-mails.

Parker shrugged. "Most everything from GSI were invoices—"

"She works with them?" Of course she works with them. He wasn't her sole client. Actually, he was a newer client. Jared scrubbed a hand over his chin. How much Titan business would it take for her to drop GSI? He had other branches of Titan that she didn't know existed, and they all needed weapons. Why does it matter?

"She works with everyone worth a damn." Parker opened the folder. "Here are the details on the job. GSI had a contract with Uncle Sam to arm and train Afghanistan outpost police. But there were red flags that made it to Washington—missing guns and moolah."

"Get to the part I care about, Parker."

"Reports were inconsistent. Military Blackhawk UH-60 did a flyby and reported what looked like Taliban fighters and Afghani OP police training together. Washington folks complained. GSI jumped to investigate. Cue their internal affairs. Sugar's on suspension with ATF for—"

"Yeah, I know what for," Jared growled. He didn't need reminding. She had ousted herself as an undercover agent to protect his ass and watch out for his team member. Sugar saved Nicola and Cash a lot of worry, and him from a giant headache. He couldn't forget that kind of honor and allegiance.

Parker shifted on his feet. "Kip sought Sugar out after hearing she was on indefinite desk duty. The guy thinks he's smooth, but looks like she was itching for something to do. The rest is in here." Flicking the folder, he paused, then laid it on the desk.

Jared snatched it, then paged through. It held nothing interesting. "Tell Brock I expect an approval of our return within an hour."

"GSI already has the job. They went back and asked for it. Something about trying to save face since we had to go in and save their man."

Jared slammed his hands on his desktop. "Excuse me?"

"They already—"

"Find me Kip Pearson's location. Now." He would hunt the bastard down and find out what wasn't on paper. All the training in the world wouldn't keep Jared Westin calm and collected, but it would help him interrogate the piece of shit who'd left his partner behind.

"One more thing."

He didn't have the patience to read the entire file. "What?"

"Turn the page. There's a fifty-page report from Washington explaining why we only knew to pick up one hostage."

Jared thumbed through the thick wad of paper. "Short version."

"Before Kip was captured, he transmitted a status report that said Sugar pursued a lead solo and was killed by a car bomb. No one would have thought twice about a fatality like that, but I guess some bureaucrat double-checked. No one wants to see a US contractor die in a bomb. But, more importantly, no politician wants to hear about a female civilian dying like that. Analysts checked several sources and came up empty. There was no car bomb."

"What? Washington read the transmission wrong? Or..." Too many possibilities came to mind. "Or GSI had no intention of Sugar leaving Afghanistan alive."

Parker nodded. "They've always been sketchy."

"You're telling me." He rubbed his temples, deciphering fact from bullshit. He'd known GSI far too long to trust them. "Let's assume the red flags were correct. GSI had the contract to train Afghani police, but were also training Taliban. Uncle Sam requested their internal affairs to follow up with an independent observer like Sugar..." Jared cracked his knuckles, thinking of the ways he wanted to take down GSI. "Fuckin' traitors."

Parker nodded. "Here's the kicker. No one's picked up on it. They had no reason to look for it, but Kip's transmitted message was on a timed delay. He sent it before Sugar landed in Afghanistan."

Anger pounded in his chest. Blood thumped in his neck. A roar started deep within in his lungs. "She was set up."

"Looks like."

"GSI's gonna kill her." He took a deep breath. He excelled in these situations. Shut off emotions. Factor in problems. Execute solutions. Save Sugar, and rain hell along the way. "Time to suit up." Jared bounced a look to Parker, expecting to hear the hold-up list again.

"Everyone's on it." Parker paused as if he had to explain. "You said to suit up twenty minutes ago."

"Fine. Out." Well, shit. He'd been so wrapped up in vibing talk and Brock's crap about a contract that he'd assumed his team wasn't on board. He shouldn't have assumed. He was distracted to the point of forgetting how loyal his team was to him. To Sugar. To the detriment of any order or contract.

Parker walked out the door, leaving Jared with the report and his thoughts. His team seemed to know how high the stakes were for him. Hell, they knew even before he did. An ache in his chest punctuated that realization.

Jared skimmed the report Parker had left on his desk—Sugar's e-mails. She would kill him for reading her private messages. Then again, she would have to be alive to do that. A live Sugar was better for all involved.

He skipped past pages and stopped. His name appeared in an e-mail to someone he didn't know. By the looks of it, the message was to a girlfriend she worked with.

Thanks for helping with GUNS while I'm gone. I couldn't do this without you, and right now, I need the distraction. This job couldn't come at a better time... Damn, I don't know what it is about him.

The last time he'd seen Sugar, the situation had been tense. But to run across the world? He scowled at the paper and kept reading.

When he's not being a dick, I want to kick him to get a reaction. When he is... it gets my blood going. Seriously, how grade school is that? So my decision is made. I won't be tempted. I won't be interested. It's my new motto. Hell, my battle cry. Stay away from Jared Westin.

Jared tore the page out of the folder. Parker hadn't pointed it out, but he had to have seen it. Why else would it have been included? Parker wouldn't see it again, but Jared needed to. He smoothed it out and stared at it.

This was unacceptable. Walking into a mountainside firing line to avoid him was completely, categorically unacceptable. And a battle cry of avoidance? His chest felt tight. His fists clenched. Sugar. What he wouldn't do to get his hands on her and say—

And say what? Jared looked at his dog, who looked back, head cocked and wrinkles furrowed. She offered no answers.

He folded the paper, then shoved it into his back pocket. He would make her explain herself after he figured out why he cared.

If you liked reading this excerpt of WESTIN'S CHASE, you can find it available at these retailers.
Gambled- Chapter One

Afternoon light poured through the slats of the bedroom blinds. Brock Gamble had been home alone, drunk, for days. No wife. No kids. Just him and empty bottles of Jack and Johnny.

A freight train of nausea catapulted from his soured stomach, and he stumbled into the bathroom to dry heave, which was nothing new. Collapsing to his knees, his gaze tripped over the counter. It was free of all of his wife Sarah's necessities. He twisted his head toward the bathtub, where no one had touched the bath toys he always stepped on.

His loneliness echoed around him.

Time ticked by while he climbed further into his personal hellhole. At first, this had seemed surmountable. Sarah would come home. It would blow over once he could explain. But then a week turned into two, and she didn't.

I miss her so damn much. And the kids... The pain was incomprehensible.

One bad decision had led to another. When his family had been kidnapped, he hadn't thought clearly. He'd betrayed one person after the next. His family when he hadn't utilized any of Titan Group's black ops resources. His mentor, Jared Westin, who'd taught him everything the military hadn't. His men, the Titan team that bled loyalty. And he'd betrayed Sugar, a friend who he had abducted and offered in exchange for the safe return of Sarah and the kids.

It hadn't worked. Big surprise. He'd been led around by his nuts instead of making tactical, strategic choices.

Regret hit him like a brutal tidal wave. The same wave pounded him day in, day out. As it threw another mighty punch of guilt and betrayal, Brock knew he'd throw up and pass out soon. Just to have the sandman visit him with nightmares.

Finally, crawling back to the bedroom, he stood long enough to scour the room for a liquor bottle. Something, anything, as long as it was mind-numbing.

He needed another swig, so he would either die in his sleep or, if not that lucky, be able to forget whatever dream would torture him while he slept.

***

"Mommy." Kelly stomped in, followed closely by Jessica, who stomped just like her older sister. "Jess is copying me. She won't leave me alone. Tell her to go away."

Jessica stomped her foot exactly like Kelly had. "Jess is copying me. She won't leave me alone. Tell her to—"

"Girls, find Grandma. Tell her that you need something to do." If sibling antagonism was a sign of normalcy, Sarah's kids were going to be just fine. They'd survived an abduction and moved in with her mother, leaving her husband... who knew where her husband was. He hadn't come home, and she'd needed to get out of their house. Everywhere she looked was a memory of a life she didn't want anymore. She wasn't staying under that roof, married to a man she didn't really know. The decision was far from rational, but she'd pulled stakes and left him a note.

I never asked questions about what you did at work because I trusted you. I don't know you, and I don't know how you live with yourself.

It'd been harsh. She'd been emotional. And if she had to do it over again, she would have said something along the lines of I can't wrap my head around Titan, and how people you work with might want to harm us. I was in shock. Still am. You promised that whatever you did at work, we'd be safe at home, and I feel betrayed, confused, and vulnerable. This isn't just about me; I have to keep our children safe.

It wouldn't have mattered what she wrote, he hadn't been there after she'd survived a shootout. He hadn't come home to check on her, hadn't called about the kids. Sarah had known that he ran off to save the world while working with Titan. That he did things that were questionable, but he promised it was for the greater good.

So many questions. So many overwhelming emotions. And none of it was worth sticking around for if his livelihood endangered their children.

Kelly and Jessica ignored her suggestion to find Grandma and took turns mimicking each other. Maybe it was their age. At eight and six, Kelly and Jessica were like Teflon. Nothing seemed to stick, at least on the surface, though Sarah was sure she should start squirreling away money for therapy. No family walked out on a dad and remained unscathed.

It was only a matter of time before their invisible wounds surfaced.

Brock was gone for weeks at a time for work. That may've been their saving grace. The girls were used to being without him. She'd been used to time without him too. But this was different.

Every night, she cried herself to sleep because, in her heart, she loved the man she'd thought she knew. He was long gone, maybe never really existed. She'd learned more about Brock in the week living with the enemy than she had in a decade of marriage.

She'd been naïve. Purposely or not, she'd closed her mind to what he did on his work trips. When he came home with gunshot wounds or explosive burns, she knew it was because he'd saved someone's life. Not taken another's.

Surrounded by half-emptied boxes in her mom's Pennsylvania guest house, Sarah wondered how life in Virginia had been so... sheltered.

Her cell phone rang. She grabbed it as the girls ran outside. Sugar. "Hey—"

"Are you sulking or surviving?"

If there was one thing she'd learned about Sugar, it was that the woman was direct. "Surviving. Mostly."

"What about the girls?"

She stared out a window, wrapping and rewrapping a dishtowel around her hands. "They seem excited to be in a normal school. It's small, private, not overwhelming. So it's working. Much different from homeschooling them."

"What about you? You run up north, how's that going to help your problems?'

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. "Meaning?"

"Brock."

His name made her arm feel like stone. It fell to her side. The towel dangled, as lifeless as she felt. "You know him better than me, Sugar. Definitely in a different light."

"Bull."

She laughed sadly. Sugar never held anything back. "I miss him and wish things could've been different."

"Cut the crap, Sarah. That's the dumbest thing you've ever said to me. I was ATF. I was trained. If he was too panicked to use Titan and had to do something to save his family, I was a good bet. I'd survive. No one was taking me out like that."

"I just feel—"

"If you spout some woe-is-me shit, I'll probably come to PA and kick some sense into you. Give the guy a break."

"Excuse me?"

"Give him a chance to explain."

"You've forgiven him for what he did to you? Fine." She snapped the towel. "Well, I can't."

"That's my burden to bear, babe. He was trying to save you."

"If he'd made different choices, if I'd known the kids were in so much danger..." She turned to see if they could hear her, but Kelly and Jessica were occupied terrorizing each other. "If he'd—"

"If he did what, Sarah? I've had the same conversations with Jared. So answer that—if he'd what? Desperate men made desperate decisions. They're all morons. So you deal with it."

She couldn't stand still and stalked out of the room. "I'm angry at him."

"Hell, me too."

"You weren't married to him."

"You still are."

She bit her lip then said, "I still am."

Still, she couldn't get over her angry. It was a vicious, nonsensical circle. Like a hamster running on its wheel, once her mind started spinning, she panted through mental laps, trying to find an answer. Trying to find relief or release or resolution. But the repetition didn't help.

"Sarah," Sugar snapped. "Did you hear me?"

"What, uh... No."

"What's your plan? Sit on your ass and ponder all the ways he could've reacted better to his family being snatched?"

Maybe she shouldn't squirrel money away for her kids' therapy in the future. She should spend it now and secure her sanity, because it'd been tough on her. Sarah took pride in her self-sufficiency and a rock-solid foundation at home. Maybe that had been a lie she'd told herself, and she wasn't really strong. Maybe she was weak and pathetic but had never realized it before.

Sarah shook her head. "My plan is to move on. To protect my kids. And never feel like this again."
Gambled- Chapter Two

Brock opened his eyes to the same scene, different day. Maybe. He wasn't sure and didn't care. But he did know that, sooner or later, he'd have to eat. Having the shakes from alcohol withdrawal wasn't a good enough excuse to ignore the warning bells in his head. He needed to eat, and if the food stayed down, then good. If not, well then, he'd given it the old college try.

Rolling up and dangling his legs off the bed, he gathered his bearings and glared at the empty granola bar wrappers. They littered the floor. On the dresser, an empty container of peanut butter sat abandoned. A knife he'd used way too many times sat on top of an empty sleeve of bread.

Screw this. He had to eat, and with a disgusted groan, he slid off the bed and made his way to the kitchen. With each step, his stomach swished, his gag reflex jumped into action, and his ears... were now hearing sounds. Imaginary voices? Great. A new low.

There were voices in his head.

His pathetic, downward spiral was taking the scenic route. Surely, this was cosmic retribution for all of the shady work he'd done in the past, however good his intentions might have been.

Using the wall to stay upright, he pinched his eyes closed to ignore the lights and hushed away the voices.

"It's about time, Buttercup."

It took more than a second to blink. He wasn't sure if the men sitting at the table were really there.

"You need a goddamn shower."

"Christ, we should've done this a week ago."

Winters, Roman, and Rocco sat around his kitchen table, burgers in hands, and stared at him. The aroma of fast food made his mouth water and stomach turn simultaneously.

Brock had worked by their sides for years, and he'd abandoned them. Put their lives in danger. He'd done the worst thing a leader could do, and that was lie and lead them astray.

Why were they there?

They were Titan. He was a piece of shit, unworthy to be in the same room.

Winters kicked a chair out toward him. The loud scratching across the floor reverberated in his ears. "Sit your ass down. Before you fall and split your head."

He didn't want to. He wanted to escape from the glares and coming accusations, but Winters was right. Brock faltered forward, using the chair before he hit the floor. He tried to clear his throat, but it was too dry and abused from days of drinking and dying. "Whatever you want, get it over with."

If they were there to kill him, it'd be welcome. So why hadn't they? His blurry brain didn't care. He just wanted them out, because he had a date with a half-empty bottle of something amber-colored that sat on the counter.

Winters slapped the table. "Brock?"

"Yeah?" Brock's eyes strayed from the men to the bottle, and his mouth watered.

Roman crossed his arms and looked at Rocco. Winters ignored them all and finished his burger.

Rocco probably had Brock's job now. He'd be a natural team leader. Smart. Respected. It'd be a good fit. Titan and Rocco deserved each other. Loyal. Trustworthy. Unstoppable. Damn it, I need a drink.

Rocco cleared his throat. "You trying to kill yourself?"

"Yup." Why bother with a lie?

"You're doing a good job of it."

His head tilted to the side, and not because he wanted to move. It was more of a list, a weight too heavy to hold up. "Not really."

Winters crumbled the wrapper and licked his thumb. "We're not going to let you do that, fucker."

Absurd. It took a lot of energy, but Brock laughed. It came out in a garbled, scratchy cough. "Yeah, all right. Don't let me die."

Rocco shook his head. "Eat. Shower. This is your intervention, or whatever it's called."

"Whether you like it or not," Roman leaned forward on the table, "we've been a team for years, and screwing up isn't a death sentence."

Yeah, it was, actually. "It is when you've done what I've done."

"We all know what you did." Roman's intense stare burned into him. "Shit got harsh, Brock. You made a wrong decision."

"I crossed the line."

"No kidding. But we move on," Roman volleyed back.

"I don't deserve to."

Rocco downed his soda then shifted his focus back to him. "No, you don't, asshole. But that's how it's going to be."

Why did they care? "Go away."

"You have a good woman. A family none of us knew about. And no one here can say that they wouldn't lose their mind to save them either. Not Parker or Cash either."

"But Jared." Brock's head swung side-to-side, spinning. "He's a different story."

"True that. But you know who else has a fan? Sarah—in Sugar. Nicola and Mia too. And because all you fuckers are love struck and bringing girl talk into our inner circle,"—Rocco gestured to Winters and Brock—"we've got chicks gossiping. And they like Sarah. Man, we're family. Estranged at the moment, but the roots are still there. So we can't let you kill yourself."

Winters reached for another burger and threw it at him. It landed on the floor. "Brock, buddy. Eat. Get dressed. Get sober. Get your wife back and claim your life."

***

One solid week. That was how long it took to sober up and keep down a meal.

One solid hour. That was how long Brock had sat a few houses down from his mother-in-law's house. He contemplated how badly his rehearsed speech sucked then glanced at the dashboard clock.

He gave a self-imposed deadline. One minute to pull it all together. His mother-in-law had left Sarah alone at the guest house, and the kids weren't at home either. They were at school. What a novel concept. Brock walked up the driveway, past the main house, to the backside of the property. The guest house loomed ahead.

The only thing he knew for certain was that his life awaited him on the other side of the door. He twisted the knob but stopped. Took his hand off and sucked down a breath and ignored the urge for a drink. Barging in wasn't the right move. Knocking was. Knocking to see my wife. This blows.

Two quick raps and he stood there, unsure what to do with his arms. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. Checked his hair in a reflection on a nearby window and then pocketed his fists into his jeans to keep his fingers from tapping.

The door didn't have a peep hole, and she couldn't see who was there from the front windows. The angles were all wrong. He tried to ignore how this house had little in the way of security, not that his ramped-up safety measures had kept his family from danger.

The door cracked and Sarah peered out, one big brown eye wide open. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi." His heart clutched. What was he doing here?

"Brock?"

He couldn't read her voice. "I'd like a chance to..." To what, explain? Justify? Beg? His mind remained blank. "Can I come in?"

She pulled back. "No."

He'd expected that. The muscles in his chest tightening and the ache in his throat, he hadn't. "Five minutes, then I'm gone."

"No." She inched the door closed but didn't click it shut.

The Sarah he knew had been bubbly and smiling. This surprised version of his wife seemed hardened. How someone could give an impression like that while only showing an eye and saying a few words, he didn't know. But he knew he couldn't leave. Not yet.

"Three minutes." How would three minutes make a difference when he couldn't string his thoughts together and—

"Fine." She swung the door wide.

He lost his thoughts again. It'd been weeks since he'd seen her. Titan missions lasted that long, but today was different, and wasn't she the most beautiful thing he'd ever set eyes on.

Her petite frame that always fit under his arm, her perfect freckles that he could map in the dark. The way her auburn hair fell over her shoulders. How familiar it always smelled, like sunshine and summer.

"Three minutes. Then it's good-bye." Nothing in her tone was sunshine or summer.

He nodded, words not coming.

Her brow pinched. "If you're coming in, then come in, Brock. Otherwise—"

"No, I'm here. Coming." He stepped through the threshold into a small living room that very much reminded him of his mother-in-law. Doilies and pristine furniture. A few cardboard boxes were flattened and leaning against a wall. The kids had toys strewn on the floor, and he'd kill to have a Barbie to step over in the middle of the night again.

The living room opened into a kitchen, and he followed Sarah to the table. A newspaper had been laid out. Pen marks and circles decorated what looked like the classifieds. Heaviness hung on his chest. She's slipping further away from me.

He tried to read her notes without being obvious. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she countered, sitting down and snagging her pen.

Sarcastic Sarah. Again, not expected. "I didn't mean..." God. Could he really not form coherent thoughts around her?

She studied him then tilted her head to the side, slowly twirling the pen. "I'm looking for a job."

"A job?"

"You know, what people do to make money? Not everyone kills and maims in order to put food on the table."

He deserved that one. Time was ticking, and he had no response. "I've missed you like crazy, angel."

Angel had just popped out. It was natural, more than saying her name, but maybe not appropriate. Too bad. She had always been his angel. Nothing had changed for him.

Her bottom lip quivered until she thinned it into a line. Sarah twirled the pen again and studied the paper. "Here's one for a preschool teacher." Her voice waivered. "I'd be perfect for that."

He took a step closer, and his arms ached to hold his wife. "Yeah, you would."

"How would you know, Brock?" Her chin jutted up, her eyes watery and wounded. "We don't know each other."

"You don't mean that." He pulled the chair out next to her. So close, but he wouldn't touch her. He shouldn't. No matter how badly he craved her. "I need to explain things to you. Be upfront whereas before I was... vague."

"Vague? Vague wasn't my problem."

"I didn't know what to do. I messed up. Bad. But it was like my world went black when you all were taken. I couldn't think. Nothing was logical. It was all survive and react."

"I never knew how close our family was to danger. Brock, you almost had another woman killed. That's not an environment I want to raise our children in."

She was concerned about Sugar? He wanted to shake Sarah. So what? God love Sugar. But he loved his family. His wife. There wasn't anything he wouldn't sacrifice to return them to safety. "Sugar is not your problem. And I know, from the bottom of my soul, you wouldn't care what I did if it protected Jess and Kelly. Let's boil it down to basics. Bad things happened, and I was the cause."

She looked away, and tears streamed over her cheeks. "I can't talk about this. I can't even breathe thinking about it."

He needed to wipe them away. Needed to make her hurt dissipate. But he didn't know the rules right now. Couldn't risk scaring her. "I take the blame for all of this. Things should've been different before you were taken." Guilt exploded in his gut. He threaded his fingers into his hair. "I would've done anything to bring you girls home safe. You can't see that, and I can't explain that. So just know I did what I thought was best while I was out of my mind."

She sniffled, wiping away the waterworks. "I'm not sure what to think."

The minutes were clicking by, and he hadn't said anything worth a damn. "I want my wife back. I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel safe again." It was rushed. Not eloquent, but there it was. The truth.

Her eyes locked on his, the look caressing him down to his soul. What he wouldn't do to kiss her right now. That was how he always felt about her. Especially when he came off the job. He needed her touch. Her kiss. Salve to the wounds she couldn't see.

Shutting her eyes, she licked her lips and refocused on him. "Three minutes are up. I think you should go."

His heart sank deep in the murky waters of abandonment. "Angel—"

"I can't do this. I can't risk the girls again."

"I can make this better. Safer. Don't take my girls from me." His voice cracked. Time was up; he needed a last plea. "Don't walk away. Not from us."

She shook her head, and he tried to remember everything Mia Winters had told him when she'd shown up shortly after her husband had left, touting her therapist card. That Sarah probably felt victimized. That she didn't understand her own feelings yet, that she needed to place blame and have an outlet. That shutting down and barricading herself were self-preservation mechanisms.

Thank God his buddy's wife was a psychologist with a major case of two-cent-itis, because Brock hadn't thought past his own feelings. He'd been content to wallow and drink.

"I love you. And I love our girls." Against all of Mia's advice, he pulled an envelope from his back pocket and slid it on top of the newspaper. "If they're okay to stay with your mom for a little bit, maybe you can take a chance with me, focus on rebuilding our family again. Rebuilding us."

Sarah rubbed the corner of the envelope. "What do you mean? What's in here?"

"Airplane tickets."

"Airplane tickets?" She yanked her hand back like the envelope had bitten her. "Why? To where?"

"A private island in the Caribbean." He took her hand, enveloping it between his palms. Her arm stiffened, but she didn't pull away. "We can, ya know, focus on you and me. We'll hash everything out in a neutral setting. Reconnect." Neutral, reconnect. Two buzz words Mia had used over and over.

"I don't want to reconnect."

This was the best idea he had. His go-big-or-go-home strategy, and it'd taken a lot of help from Mia. There might be simpler ways to rebuild their life other than jet-setting to a tropical getaway, but this was the one that worked best in his head. Mia said the idea was too big, and maybe he should've listened. Maybe he should listen to anyone but himself where his family was concerned, because his choices weren't working.

Brock pressed her hand in his grip, unwilling to let go and give up. "I talked to, um, somebody. A therapist. Mia Winters. She works with Titan sometimes and said this idea was too much. Too bold or aggressive. But why hold back? I've got nothing left to lose."

Sarah's bottom lip dropped open. "A therapist?"

"She also said there was stuff we could do. Talk about. Think about. Do, to work shit out." Why did talking to someone make him feel like a pussy? Such an awkward conversation, with Mia, and now Sarah. But screw it, whatever it took. He brought her knuckles to his chin, not daring to kiss them but needing their touch.

"I'm not sure..."

This was the most uncomfortable conversation, maybe ever. But if it had to be said, then fine. He was saying it. "We could go see a counselor, or whatever they're called. Do that once-a-week appointment thing for a few months. Or we could take off, just the two of us, for as long as it takes. I'll answer your questions. We'll make changes that work for us. Make us us again. Better than before."

"But..."

She wasn't saying no. That was a good thing. She hadn't reminded him that he was long past the three-minute mark. "It'd be like a second honeymoon," he urged.

She snatched her hand away.

Wrong thing to say. Honeymoons were all about flirting and screwin' and—well, he'd take that too. "Angel."

"Time to go." She stood up, nearly knocking over her chair.

Still seated, he looked at the floor, dropped his forearms to his knees, and bent over. So close, and she was backing away again. He scrubbed a hand over his face then raised his head to rake his gaze over her. That knockout was still his wife, and there wasn't a thing wrong with wanting her like he always did. Perfect breasts. Perfect hips. Pouty lips that could kiss and suck. No, nothing about the word honeymoon was off-putting to him.

Brock unfolded himself from the chair. He crossed his arms and studied. Dilated pupils. Shorter breaths. Her sharp stare dropped to the tattoos on his arm then roamed across his chest. He might not be Titan anymore, but he still had the skills to decipher the micro-emotions of a victim. Sarah wasn't reacting as a victim. Not right now. She was reacting aroused. Shocked, maybe at how she felt, angry that her responses betrayed her attitude. But honeymoon didn't scare her from him, just their conversation.

"Hell, I've missed you." The words rumbled from his chest.

She took a step back, her nipples outlined through the fabric of her shirt. "You already said that."

Springing an erection on her would be a worst-case scenario. Smart idea or not, he took a step forward. And another. Until Sarah was against the wall and he had inches to spare. "If you think packing up and moving out does anything to change my wanting you, you're crazy. Because goddamn, angel, it'd be a lie. Take your ticket. Think it over and get on the plane."

He brushed the hair off her cheek, pinning it behind an ear, and kissed her cheek. He lingered, letting his hips feel their fire, and he breathed in summer and sunshine. A nice, long breath. Just in case she didn't show and he needed something to remember.

Brock stepped back. Her eyes were closed. Her chin dropped down. His eyes traveled over her body, memorizing every swell and curve. It was her hands that would stick with him. Palms flat against the wall. Fingers splayed and flexed.

He turned, took his one ticket from the envelope, and left her alone with her thoughts.

If you liked reading this excerpt of GAMBLED, you can find it available at these retailers.
Chased- Chapter One

Asher McIntyre left the keys in the front door of his Georgetown row house and stared at the note taped to the mirror right inside the door. His heart thudded, more angry than apprehensive. He didn't need to read the printed paper to know who it was from.

He turned to his alarm system panel. It blinked disengaged and ready to arm. He had turned the pricey piece of garbage on that morning. His note-leaving friend had officially upgraded himself from creepy to criminal.

Asher couldn't stand in his doorway all night and growl at a piece of paper. It was safer to turn around, walk to a coffee shop, and call for investigators to sweep his townhouse, just like they'd done with his car and office days ago. But his head pounded after hours of congressional hearings, constituent meetings, and lobbyist meet-and-greets. He wasn't in the mood to smile pleasantly if he accidently bumped into a reporter or blogger. His soured attitude would be speculated about and end up as political fodder. Every misstep would be analyzed for the next six weeks, until Election Day.

Asher cracked his neck, snagged his keys, and took a step inside. His shoe echoed on the hardwood floor, and he swiped the note off the mirror.

Dear Congressman McIntyre,

Still watching you. Still waiting. Time to right your wrong. Let's meet soon.

Best wishes,

Maxwell

Asher shouldn't have touched it. Could have read the note's nonsense while it remained taped to his mirror, but he didn't want the stupid thing mocking him until the investigators came. He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, and pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. Is all this worth it?

He scrolled through his contacts and found the special agent who had handled his previous notes and hit send.

It rang once. "This is Murphy."

Asher scowled. "A new note was waiting for me today."

"Give me one second." The agent excused himself from someone on the other end of the line. "On your car again?"

"Nope. Inside my townhouse, taped to a mirror." He paced his living room. An invasion of his privacy wasn't anything new, but Asher had no idea what Maxwell was after.

"Son of a bitch. Don't touch—"

"Too late." Asher tugged off his tie, tossed it on the couch, and headed for the wet bar.

He ignored the People magazine he'd thrown there the night before. It wasn't his type of magazine, but his campaign consultant had mailed it to him. The headline stared up from the bar. A fifty most beautiful people list. Five bucks said his name was on that list somewhere, and for the next few weeks, he would have invitation after invitation to events that he didn't care about from women who wanted to appear with him like he was their fashion accessory. Every time a list came out, the same charade unfolded, and every time, it gave him a headache.

"Are you kidding me? You know better than to touch evidence."

That made Asher chuckle. Murphy was formal because he was supposed to be. But they were about the same age and had the same get-the-job-done disposition. By the time they found Maxwell, he and Murphy would probably be buds.

Asher poured a glass of scotch and shrugged. "Sorry, man. Anger got the best of me. I would've stood on my front porch, giving the finger to anyone interested, but then I'd have to deal with that picture on the front page of the Washington Post. One nuisance at a time."

"I'll head your way with a couple guys. We'll be discreet."

Asher swirled the drink in his hand and walked into the kitchen. "Thanks, man—"

Another note was centered in the middle of his stainless steel refrigerator. His Georgetown home was where he crashed, not really his home. That was in New York. Asher had no personal items in DC, certainly not a picture magnet of his sister and her best friend. They were younger by five years and had spent the past week in Disney World for a wedding reception. The picture on the fridge showed them posing in front of Epcot Center.

His hands shook, and his jaw cemented shut. A harsh breath flared through his nostrils. "Murphy, send the whole goddamn FBI."

"Care to explain?"

"There's a recent picture of my sister and her best friend, along with another damn note from Maxwell. Aren't they cute?"

***

Jenny Chase tugged her carry-on bag out of the overhead compartment. The flight from Florida to DC had been bumpy, and she wanted off the plane. In the seat beside her, Molly was unfazed and casually powering on her phone and listing off where they should grab dinner before they headed home to their apartment in Eastern Market.

As long as Jenny could grab a cocktail, she didn't care where they ended up. Molly's phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then kept going.

"Jeez, popular much?" Jenny watched her best friend's phone continue to vibrate.

Molly laughed. "Just Ash. I'm sure whatever it is, it's super important, and I need to know super right away." She slipped the phone into her purse. "Let's have pizza delivered instead of going out."

Just Ash. Just the man that starred in every fantasy that Jenny had ever had since she could remember fantasizing about a guy. Of course, he was probably the star of many women's dirty imaginations. He was Hollywood handsome and Washington powerful. That combination did wicked things to a woman's fantasies.

Jenny silently chanted, "It's only Ash." Only Ash...That was how she needed to think about him because both Molly and Jenny had given up that anything would develop.

Shoot, even now her cheeks felt warm. What thirty-year-old woman couldn't kick a high school crush? How many nights over the years had Jenny confided to Molly that she loved her brother? Too many, all starting back in high school when she'd circled his name in hearts. Even when Ash had flirted with her in college, the sparks had never panned out to anything more than heated glances and breathless moments.

Jenny tried to act nonchalant. "Maybe you should see what he wants. That sounded like a lot of phone calls."

"Text messages too," Molly added. "He hates to be ignored. Not everyone hops to his attention when he wants something. Drives him crazy."

Kind of like he drives me crazy. Jenny shuffled through her purse without reason. Pathetic, really, but every time he came around or called, she became a mess.

Over the years, Asher had become rich and famous. Incredibly important. She wasn't in the same ballpark as him with her hodgepodge of jobs. Nothing that would constitute a career. Jenny helped her sister, Sugar, with the gun shop and range she owned. But mostly, she honed her craft. She was an actress. A few good parts here and there. A few commercials. A couple of cable pilots that had never taken off. But live performances were what made Jenny's heart flutter and pound.

Much like Asher McIntyre did. She laughed and ignored Molly's sideways glance. Her mind had come back full circle to him. No one stacked up to him because, like it or not, she'd been in love with him since she'd met him. Just like no other type of acting stacked up to the roar of an applauding crowd on opening night.

Whatever. When she needed an Asher fix, all she had to do was read a newspaper or check a tabloid. He was all over it, pretty girl hanging on his arm.

Molly nudged her. "Jenny? Pizza? You okay with delivery?"

"As long as we stop and grab a bottle of wine." They moved into the plane's aisle and trudged into National airport. The crazy flight was the topping of a crazy week. Jenny couldn't comprehend that Sugar was married now. Her sister was the wildest, toughest girl she knew, and Sugar had basically eloped in Vegas, adopted a kid, then celebrated her wedding reception at Disney World. Sugar always knew what she wanted and got it. Me? Not so much. Part-time gun-range assistant, full-time wannabe acting star. At least it kept the bills paid and offered a super lax schedule.

"Wine. Good deal." Molly nodded.

They rounded the corner from the long hallway into the airport waiting area. Six men in black suits waited, watching each passenger. Their stances and their looks screamed that they were packing heat.

Jenny knew those types all too well. Hard to ignore them when Molly worked with the high society of the political world, and when Ash was the Asher McIntyre, Mr. Rising Star Politician, the congressman who was soon to be the senator to New York State. Hell, probably soon to be president, give him enough time. And even if he didn't carry that title, he had any number of Most Eligible, Most Handsome, Most Beautiful crowns that had been printed for the whole world to see the smile that about made Jenny pass out from hormonal over-exposure.

Congressman today. Senator in a little more than a month. President...whenever he wanted. His career was just another reason why nothing would materialize into a relationship. Ash was world famous; everyone hung on his every word. And she was clinging to an acting career where no one seemed interested in watching her say anything on stage. Stop that! Big audition in a couple days. They'll love me.

The leader of the suits brigade stepped in front of Molly. "Ms. McIntyre, Ms. Chase, come with us."

Molly turned to her, rolling her eyes and cracking a smile. "Guess I shouldn't have stolen the bathrobe, huh?"

"Should've checked your text messages and voice mail," Jenny whispered back.

No matter how many times law enforcement escorted Molly somewhere for work or inspected their apartment after the McIntyre family had another threat, men with badges made her nervous.

Other passengers streamed around as the obvious men encircled them. "Congressman McIntyre has asked that you come with us."

"Of course he has." Molly was used to the protective detail routine. She never looked concerned. "And you are?"

"Special Agent Murphy—"

"FBI?"

The man nodded.

"Give me a second to talk to Ash." Her best friend fished her phone out of her purse, hit a button, and had a fast conversation that ended with her mouthing, "Fine. We'll go with you."

Jenny picked up her carry-on bag and let the men whisk them to baggage claim. "Least we don't have to take the metro."

Why not have an armed caravan take them home? It was the perfect ending to a crazy week and crazy flight.
Chased- Chapter Two

Asher stared out his sister's living room window. The FBI entourage pulled up and double-parked. He'd had the apartment swept, and nothing out of the ordinary had turned up.

Molly jumped out of the black SUV.

He kept watch. Waiting. Waiting... And there Jenny was, back turned toward him. He wanted to look away. Needed to, in fact, but didn't. His hand rubbed over an ache in his chest. He'd been forcing his thoughts away from Jenny Chase for the better part of knowing her. Little good that had done.

When he found Maxwell, Asher was liable to give up his entire political career and tear him apart limb by limb for threatening either woman.

Molly ignored the fanfare of an FBI escort, grabbing her bags and trouncing toward the front door. But Jenny stood outside the SUV, not shutting her door. Apprehension hung on her shoulders, and still she wouldn't turn around.

Look at me.

Then she did. They locked eyes, and he swallowed hard as her gaze fell to the street. Such a gorgeous girl. He knew the deep caramel bronze that painted her eyes, could see her dark hair even when his eyes were closed. Years ago, he had sworn off any woman who would be a distraction from his career. Maybe that made him self-centered, but really, he considered himself determined. Why be in a real relationship if he couldn't commit to anyone but himself? Man, that made him sound like a jackass. But it was the truth, and he didn't want to hurt his sister's best friend. Hell, he didn't want to hurt Jenny.

Even if the chance for something to materialize out of their spark had existed once, he had missed the chance, and an unspoken rule had formed between them. Don't cross the line.

The door flew open, pulling his attention away from Jenny. Molly stormed inside, tossing her bag and a purse. "Want to explain the security detail in more depth than 'there was a threat'?"

"In a second."

Jenny walked in but didn't speak. She avoided eye contact, and Asher craved all their flirty fun that rarely happened anymore. Maybe she'd grown tired of their game. If anything, he was more entranced with Jenny now that her interest in him was waning. It wasn't in him to lose. She's not a game, dick. Get yourself in check.

Three agents followed Jenny, reminding him that this wasn't a social call. Shit, he didn't care. He needed to hear her sultry voice. "Jenny."

"Asher." Her glossy lips teased him, making his name purr.

God, was she a sight. Every part of his body had readied for her to walk in. Even the hair at the nape of his neck continued to tingle.

"Haven't seen you around." That was what he came up with? He sounded like a dull politician, and that was how she saw him anymore, anyway.

She shrugged.

He'd blown her off too many times. For all your smarts, you're a moron, McIntyre. In Jenny's eyes, he was nothing more than a suit who gave speeches. His eyes fell to a pile of magazines on their coffee table. The same damn People magazine was top of the pile. Great. So he was either a dull politician, or, according to tabloid crap, he was hopping from one actress's bed to the next.

Molly tilted her head toward the waiting agents. "What's with the welcoming committee?"

He gave an apologetic smile to the agents. "How about you girls sit down? I need to chat with Agent Murphy."

She shook her head. "Nope. Jenny and I planned to order a pizza, throw on our PJs, and drink a bottle of wine. None of that can happen until you've explained whatever the incident is this time and everyone leaves."

Murphy cleared his throat and tilted his head down the hall. This wasn't going well. "Give me a minute."

Asher followed him to the kitchen.

"We can leave a man here if you'd like, Congressman. Other than that, there's not much to do other than keep an eye out."

Asher's gut tumbled. He liked proactive measures and was sure that the investigators working on the notes were chasing all possible leads. But still, one man outside? It was better than nothing, but he wasn't thrilled and couldn't call in a federal favor to babysit them. "If that's what you recommend, we'll take it. Thanks."

He returned to the living room as Murphy pulled his men and left.

"Here's the deal. Someone left me a couple threatening notes. Nothing out of the ordinary. But today, one of the notes included a picture of you both at Disney World."

Molly's face paled, and Jenny's jaw dropped. He wanted to comfort them both for the same reason in very different ways.

"No one's going to hurt you. They're just trying to get my attention." And they fucking have it. "This is precautionary."

"What's precautionary?" Molly asked.

"There's an agent outside. He'll stay there and keep an eye out." Asher wasn't ever unsure of his moves, but the one he decided that minute made him both unsettled and uncertain. He plowed forward. "And I'm staying on your couch tonight until I figure out what the best move is."

What did Jenny sleep in? His throat constricted. Silk draped over her curves would be nothing short of spectacular. The woman was his walking, talking dream. Shit, this spend-the-night-on-the-couch idea had major flaws. What good would he be if all he could think of was don't touch instead of watch out?

"The couch?" Molly's shaky voice brought him back to reality.

Jenny didn't move. Didn't respond. Her hands clung to the couch cushion as if the idea of him sleeping under the same roof was dangerous. And it was.

He took a long breath and pulled out his phone. "Pizza and wine is on me. We'll figure out what to do so I don't have to sleep on the couch another night."

"I'm leaving tomorrow." Molly rubbed her hands on her thighs. "Work trip for two weeks." She jumped up and paced. "We should have a bottle of wine in the kitchen. I'll grab it and some glasses."

If he did spend a second night, it would be just him and Jenny? His mind raced. The idea was too much to comprehend. He had spent years avoiding her temptation, and now he could barely stay away. Why? Because he'd put her in danger?

Molly started down the hall. "I can't believe someone followed us in Disney World."

He watched his sister then turned back to Jenny. "We have to talk tonight. Hang tight."

He followed Molly, and she spun. Her lip quaked. "I hate this stuff, Ash. I need a minute to wrap my head around it, then I'll be fine. Okay?"

She clung to the door jamb in the kitchen. She liked her privacy, and every time he dropped a bomb on her, she needed a few minutes on her own, then his kid sister was back. "Got it."

If any of the tabloid magazines had a clue that he was getting booted back and forth by the two women he was trying to take care of, they'd have a field day. Two different ladies. Two different, very raw feelings bit at his mind. Protecting them both was crucial. He wanted to go all patriarchal on Molly and all alpha possessive over Jenny.

Rubbing palms into his eyes, Asher tried to think of anything besides Jenny's pouty, pink lips.

He rounded the corner blind and slammed into soft, luscious curves. Instinct took over. He caught Jenny and pivoted. She found her balance, back against the wall. His left hand landed high above her head. His right caged around her waist. They stood the closest they'd ever been. Decadent warmth radiated from her body. Whoa, she smelled sweet. Delicious and mouthwatering. Butterscotch and vanilla.

He swallowed away an immediate urge to breathe her in and remembered his quickly fading rule don't cross the line. "Where were you going?"

Her long eyelashes fluttered. "It'd be better if I stayed somewhere else tonight. Let you two do the sibling thing. Ya know, a McIntyre family slumber party."

"Is that what you want to do?"

Her cheeks blushed, and hell if he knew why he'd asked that question. What he did know was the don't cross the line rule abdicated his rule book. Now that he'd broken their unspoken proximity barrier, he couldn't get close enough to her.

"It'd be safer if you stayed here."

"I'm heading to New York for an audition tomorrow." Her eyes bounced over his shoulder, and what he wouldn't do to have her lay those beauties back on him.

"Look at me."

She bit her bottom glossed lip. "No."

"Why not?"

Her eyes flashed to him, searing him straight to his groin. "Not everyone listens to you all the time, Mr. Congressman."

"I don't care if you listen or not, but I do care if you ignore me."

"What difference does that make? You've been ignoring me for years. Now if you don't mind, back up."

They stared, silent. He savored the electric charge that pulled them closer and leaned over. His lips hovered near her earlobe. "I'm tired of pretending."

Jenny pushed his chest and ducked under his arm. "What?"

The pounding in his chest reverberated into his throat. Two hot marks burned him where she'd pushed her balled fists. The tips of his fingers prickled to touch her cheeks, her hair, her curves.

Asher narrowed his focus on her but leaned against the wall.

She stepped backwards until the back of her legs met the couch, then she dropped onto it.

Molly walked into the room, much calmer and holding a half glass of wine in one hand, an opened bottle and two glasses by their stems in the other. She pivoted a look from Jenny to him and back. "Everything okay?"

"Your brother has lost his mind." Jenny pulled a blanket over her and burrowed into the couch.

He shook his head. "Actually, I think I just made my mind up."

***

The living room turned into a sauna, and heat crawled up Jenny's neck. Her heart pounded into overdrive. She couldn't swallow past the knot in her throat, couldn't respond with any witty comeback that would make their banter nothing more than an innocent flirtation. Asher wasn't acting innocent, and she had no idea what he was doing.

Done pretending and made up his mind? Her mind spun around his words. What?

He was messing with her. He had to be. Nothing else made sense. Flirt and walk away. That was how their at-an-arm's-distance relationship existed, even if she wanted more. Even if she'd die for him to hold her against the wall like that again.

She shivered at the memory, even while self-doubt and self-preservation had her snuggled onto the couch with a blanket as a protective barrier. If she let him have his way with her, she would be irreparably broken and just another notch in his bedpost.

Asher picked a book off a nearby shelf, paged through it without looking, and tossed it onto the coffee table. It covered a magazine Jenny knew had a photo of him with a real actress.

Molly laughed for the first time since they'd learned about the threats. "You two kill me."

He crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes twinkled as if he were letting Jenny in on a secret, but then he turned toward the kitchen. "I'll call for the pizza, then have to make a couple phone calls."

"No prob. Take your time." Molly offered her a wine glass.

She unburied her arm to grasp the stem and held it steady while Molly filled it.

"More, please." Jenny wiggled her glass. "Or just give me the bottle and a straw."

Molly rolled her eyes toward the kitchen where Asher could be heard ordering pizza. "What just happened between you two?"

Jenny shrugged. "Same thing that always happens. He flirts, walks away, and I'm left looking silly with a sad crush."

"That's not what happened. I can tell that much." Molly topped off Jenny's glass and sat on the other end of the couch. "What'd he make up his mind about?"

She took a long sip of the wine, not bothering to enjoy it. "No idea."

"With the way you're draining that wine glass, I'd say that's a lie."

Jenny tilted her head and knew she blushed. "Maybe a small one."

"The wine is helping?"

"A little." She swallowed another massive drink. "A lot. I don't know."

"Better watch out, that wine's going to hit you fast on an empty stomach." Molly picked up the remote and skimmed through their DVR.

Nothing looked good. Jenny could still feel Asher's arms around her, and the scent of his cologne lingered on her shirt. Cable reruns weren't going to be any form of distracting entertainment. One minute turned into five minutes, then fifteen, and Jenny had no idea what had been on the television. All she could picture was his arms around her.

"Molls," she whispered like he might be hanging around the corner and not ordering pizza or discussing national security or whatever he was doing on the phone in their kitchen. "He said he's 'done pretending.' What does that mean?"

Molly's smile went as wide as her eyes. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know." Jenny chewed on the inside of her mouth. "He had me up against the wall."

"He what? The wall?" Molly's jaw hung open, and she inspected the wall like there might be evidence of the encounter. "No way."

"I'm being serious." Jenny rubbed her temples. "Why did he do that? I'm totally reading into that, right?"

"Shoot, Jenny. What's there to read into? A man presses you against the wall and says he's done pretending? For years, I've been saying it's only a matter of time. He's all book smart and politically savvy, but the guy is obtuse when it comes to finding a decent woman." Molly kicked her leg off the couch and knocked the book Asher had placed on the table to the floor. The latest People magazine was front and center. "Case in point, that couldn't possibly have been a serious thing."

They both knew that there was a picture of Asher with an A-list actress who'd fumbled through an E! interview, unable to recall how many states the US had. She and Molly had replayed that a hundred times.

Asher walked in. "Pizza's ordered. Should be here in a hot minute." He glanced at the book on the floor and the magazine they stared at. He arched an eyebrow and gave half a smile. "Always up to no good." He tossed the book back over the cover and winked. "You doing okay over there, Jenny?"

"Stop messing with me, Ash."

"And miss a night with my two favorite ladies? Never." Asher dropped in the middle of the couch. His arms spanned behind both of them as he leaned back. "What are we watching?"

Molly topped off her glass of wine. "Actually, I have a headache." The doorbell rang. "That was fast. I'll get it, grab a slice and my glass, and head to bed. Nothing better for a headache than pizza and vino. You paid for this already, right, Ash?"

"Yup." He didn't shift to the empty side of the couch.

Holy shit. Jenny wanted to hug and strangle Molly. Don't leave me alone with him. I'm not sure of my next move.

"Night." A laidback Asher leaned forward, letting his hand drag over her shoulders, then grabbed the empty wine glass. He filled it to an appropriate level, unlike Jenny's monster glasses. "Feel better, Molls."

Molly brought the pizza to the coffee table, grabbed a slice without a plate, and left the box on the table.

This isn't at all awkward. And by not at all, all Jenny could think of was yes, this was obvious and awkward. The big, pink elephant in the room had donned a tutu and was dancing with sparklers in hand.

She gulped her wine. "Molly doesn't really have a headache."

What? Shut up, Jenny! Her nerves made the room shrink. She couldn't take a stabilizing breath and had no idea what uncensored line would fall from her lips next.

Asher shut off the television, turned, and raked a penetrating gaze over her while sipping his wine. Her nipples grew tight, and she shivered to her toes. The room was too quiet.

Finally, he swirled his glass and set it down. "I know she doesn't have a headache."

"You know?"

His expressive eyes narrowed. "You know what else I know?"

No. I don't. She shook her head. And I'm not sure I want to know. Her handling of his newfound focus left her quivering like a waif of a woman. Actually, drinking like a wino-sailor. The push-pull of their flirtation had never allowed for him to make a move. It was their unspoken rule, and apparently, she'd grown more than confident he'd never make a move. Tonight, she was unprepared.

"Guess, sweetheart."

Sweetheart? She shook her head again. No way am I guessing anything.

He smiled in that trusting, all-knowing way he had about him. "Here's what I know. First, someone threatened you girls. I'd walk away from everything I have to make sure justice is done. But second"—he took her wine glass out of her hand—"I needed to find you, Jenny. I need to put a stop to the one lie between us that has been as consistent as it has been irrational."

"That's the line of a politician." Taking a deep breath was out of the question. The wine made her head swim. He made her head spin. She tried again to fill her lungs and felt them refuse. There wasn't enough oxygen in her ever-shrinking living room. "You could mean anything."

"But I don't." He took a piece of hair hanging over her eye and tucked it behind her ear. Her pulse screamed in her neck, but his focused stare never wavered. "You know what I'm talking about. You've always known. Now it's your turn: What do you want?"

Her eyelashes fluttered; her stomach dropped. His voice was always low, but its vibrations washed over her, making her throb.

"I want..." You. That was the answer. It had always been the answer up until the opportunity presented itself. But she didn't trust her feelings or his motivation. "Not to be confused."

He shifted closer, evaporating their distance. His broad palms covered her cheeks, and his thumbs stroked slowly. Her bottom lip drifted open, and her eyelids sank. The quietest sigh fell from her mouth, and she hated how easy she was to manipulate.

"You are gorgeous." His tone was deep and hungry, and he was close enough for her to register the rich aroma of his faded cologne. "And it shouldn't have taken me this long to tell you that."

Asher brushed his lips over hers. Like the intense roll of a summer storm, crackling lightning and thundering pulses ran their course, uncontrolled and unstoppable.

"Ash..." Her lips tickled against his, and her mind drew blank, focusing on the sparks that spread from her lips into the softest of kisses.

His fingers feathered into her hair, and she opened her mouth to him. He tasted like red wine, sweet and savory, and each velvet stroke of his tongue wicked away her hesitation. She struggled to stay in the moment, wanting to remember every amazing second, but the indulgent and delicate kiss was fading. Years of taunts and teases had lined up, urging their bodies together.

Jenny leaned into his embrace. He dropped a hand from her hair and wrapped it around her back, pulling her close to his chest, into his lap. Exactly where she wanted to be.

He ate at her mouth, lust pouring between them. He was all-powerful, all-consuming. He groaned against their lip lock. "God, Jenny."

Her legs straddled his thighs, and she rocked her hips, flexing over him. His hand still buried in her hair knotted and tugged, exposing her neck. His teeth dragged over her bottom lip and scraped down her neck.

"Yes." His teeth rasped again, and she arched into his strong embrace. "Please, Ash. Please."

Please what? It didn't matter, whatever he'd give her, she would give back. Jenny wouldn't hide from him.

He suckled down to her collarbone. Harsh and surprising. The more he kissed, the more she needed. Pent-up frustration multiplied. Wild want pulsed between her legs. She was wet. He was erect. They still had their clothes on, and nothing about this first kiss said it was ending anytime soon.

"God, sweetheart, nothing better than you."

Red-hot in his arms, Jenny grasped at him, wrapping her arms around his impossibly broad shoulders. He picked her up and swept her down. Her back was on the couch, and he loomed over her then dropped down with a mind-bending kiss, pressing his weight between her thighs. One leg stayed pinned between him and the back of the couch, the other snaked up his strong, lean muscles.

She opened her eyes, skipping her hands into his hair. He leaned to the side and tore at her shirt, pushing it up her stomach, over her bra, and locked his mouth around her nipple.

"I love that." Intense pleasure-pain roared through her as he plucked and sucked. "I love..." You. She always had. But that wasn't for him to know. No reason to ruin this.

He pulled the other bra cup down and covered her breast with his palm. His massaging fingers were better than she'd imagined, and as he rolled his tongue over one tip and his thumb and forefinger over the other, she couldn't feel anything other than the ecstasy rolling from his touch, moving lower, lower, lower, all the way to her craving canal.

"Keep moaning like that, and we'll never make it into your bed." His light-colored eyes had darkened. Their shocking intensity made him look possessive, carnal—

A loud rap on the door froze Jenny into place with her hands gripping his shirt. They stopped. Their uneven breaths and heaving chests mirrored one another, and his head dropped, placing one languid kiss over the breast he'd been deeply sucking.

Asher pulled her shirt down. "Change in shifts. New agent. They'll need to check in with me."

He sat up as another rap echoed on the door and ran a hand over his face. Jenny pulled her legs back, flushed and dizzy, then scooted back on the couch, staring at him. What to say?

A third knock banged through the apartment, and Molly walked down the hall. "Jeez, isn't anyone going to—" She did a double take, and Jenny knew they were so busted. "Never mind. I got it."

Asher stood up. "No. Hang on. You're not answering the door when there's a lunatic out there." He walked to the front door, looked out the peephole, and answered.

Molly mouthed, "Oh my God," and pointed at her brother then Jenny.

Cheeks flaming from arousal and awareness, she shrugged, pulling the blanket over her. She mouthed back, "Go away."

Asher walked in with the agent and made introductions. The congressman was back; whoever the man on the couch was had been shelved. They finished small talk, and the agent moved to his post. Asher shut and locked the door, turned, eyeing both her and a giggling Molly. Very mature, Molls.

The hot and heavy moment was so gone, and they'd been so obvious, she had to laugh too. Even Asher-the-Congressman chuckled, and Jenny pulled the blanket over her head. "Go away, Molly."

Molly stopped giggling and whistled as she walked out of the living room. "Scandalous."

Still under the blanket, she heard Asher walk across the room and felt the cushion dip when he sat down. "You okay under there?"

"I feel like I'm fifteen and just got caught making out with the captain of the football team."

"Nope, just your best friend's older brother. Can't wait for the Molly McIntyre inquisition." He tugged the blanket off her head. "You're gorgeous and cute. Not a bad mix." Then he tossed the blanket back on her head. "Feel free to come out if you're hungry for cold pizza."

Well, she was hungry and would have to come out eventually anyway. She let the blanket fall.

"That was fast." He turned the lamp off and the television on, snagged her arm, and pulled her against him. Just like that, he was relaxed again and holding her.

She didn't get it. Not that she wanted to complain, but why now? "Ash?"

He took a bite of pizza. "So what's your audition for?"

She reached over for a piece of pizza, grabbed a copy of the script that'd been buried under the pile of magazines, and handed it to him. "Third callback, and I'm hoping third time's a charm."

"Tassels and Tangos." He read the cover and paged through the bound script one-handed while his other arm draped over her. His muscles shifted suddenly from kicked back to killer. "Who's Maxwell?"

"An acting coach I met at the last audition. Said he had some insight into what the director wanted, but I got a weird feeling. That's his number in case I change my mind."

Asher's face hardened. He tucked her in, took her script, and walked to the door. Jenny leaned over to try and listen but didn't pick up any of the conversation he had with the agent. After a minute, Asher returned, sans script.

"What's that all about?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Probably coincidence."

Icy dread curled down her spine. "Asher. Tell me."

"All the notes have been signed by Maxwell."

If you liked reading this excerpt of CHASED, you can find it available at these retailers.
Book Blurbs

Winters Heat

After putting her life on the line to protect classified intelligence, military psychologist Mia Kensington is on a cross-country road trip from hell with an intrusive save-the-day hero. Uninterested in his white knight act, she'd rather take her chances without the ruggedly handsome, cold-blooded operative who boasts an alpha complex and too many guns.

Colby Winters, an elite member of The Titan Group, has a single objective on his black ops mission: recover a document important to national security. It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out operation. But now, by any means necessary becomes a survival mantra when he faces off with a stunning woman he can't leave behind.

When Titan's safe houses are compromised, Colby stashes Mia at his home, exposing his secret—he's the adoptive father of an orphaned baby girl. Too soon, danger arrives and Mia lands in the hands of a sadistic cartel king with a taste for torture. As hours bleed into fear-drenched days, Colby races across the globe and through a firestorm of bullets to save the woman he can't live without.

Available at these retailers.

***

Garrison's Creed

A SPY RUNNING FOR HER LIFE   
Nicola is an injured CIA agent on the run from a failed undercover operation. Her escape plan shatters when she slams into the man who buried her a decade ago. Cash Garrison. Her first and only love. Now, sexier than her best memory and cradling a sniper's rifle, he has questions she can't answer. Why was she alive? And armed?

AND THE MAN SHE COULD NEVER SEE AGAIN   
Cash is an elite member of a black ops organization, The Titan Group. He thought Nicola died his senior year of college and swore off love to focus on a decade of military missions. But when she shows up behind enemy lines, bleeding out and wielding a weapon, his heart and mind are unsure how to proceed.

BATTLE BETRAYAL TO SAVE THEMSELVES   
Titan and the CIA join forces to uncover a mole hidden in a network of international terrorists and homegrown mobsters, teaming Cash and Nicola again. They fight old wounds and re-ignite sparks while closing in on a double agent. When disaster strikes, Nicola's hidden past makes her the hunted target and Cash's best kill shot may not be enough to save them.

Available at these retailers.

***

Westin's Chase

THE MASTER OF EVERYTHING HAS FOUND HIS MATCH   
Jared Westin knows his reputation and likes it. He gets the job done. No emotion. No baggage. That's why his elite ops company, The Titan Group, is better than the best. They complete projects classified as mission impossible.

And then, in walks a woman as tough as she is sexy. His counterpart in every way, should he choose to admit it.

SHE'S NOT WILLING TO LET HER HEART FALL   
Ousted undercover ATF agent Lilly Chase only answers to "Sugar." Jared is the only man who can see past her leather-and-lipstick demeanor, and that revelation is terrifying. She was fired for helping Titan on a questionable arrest she should've ignored, then partnered with Jared's rival on an assignment in Afghanistan.

Distance and danger do nothing to change her feelings. When she's left on the side of a mountain to die, an unexpected ally comes forward, and might open her heart.

THE STAKES COULDN'T BE HIGHER   
Saving Sugar isn't a normal rescue operation. It pits Titan against its rival, Jared against his nemesis. Chasing Sugar's heart isn't a simple task, either. She fights him, fights them, always ready to run. When she becomes a pawn in a game of collateral damage, Jared must risk his life to save her—the woman whose bravado and surprising sweetness has given him the one thing he never had. Love.

Available at these retailers.

***

Gambled

Brock Gamble's epic fall from the Titan Group labeled him a traitor. He betrayed his men. He failed his family. And when he thought he'd hit the lowest point, his wife walked out with their children, leaving him alone to drown himself in the bottle.

Surviving an abduction didn't end the nightmare for Sarah Gamble. The aftershocks of post-traumatic stress disorder hit her hard. Self-doubt and confusion. Anger and hurt. Running away was an easy escape until Brock shows up on her doorstep offering a trip to paradise and a promise to fix their marriage.

Before the couple can search for answers, Brock is pulled back into the very world that Sarah is so scared of—kidnapping, cartels, and guns—and the stakes are too high for either one of them to ignore.

Available at these retailers.

***

Chased

Jenny Chase has loved Asher McIntyre, her best friend's older brother, since she first laid eyes on him. But their flirting over the years never progressed as well as his career. He's the Asher McIntyre, Mr. Rising Star Politician, the congressman who is soon to be the senator to New York State. He holds a spot on every magazine's most handsome, most powerful, and most unattainable list. All while Jenny has followed her acting dream, waiting for her big break.

Asher McIntyre has never had time for a serious relationship. Work is too demanding. But he's also never stopped thinking about Jenny. When a stalker with a political agenda focuses on her, Asher can't play the role of disinterested buddy any longer. The sparks are too strong, and his alpha gene is provoked. He wants her under his arm and in his bed.

But can two hearts on opposite career paths survive while Asher's enemy seeks to take them both down?

Available at these retailers.
About the Author

Cristin Harber is an award-winning military romance and romantic suspense author. She lives outside Washington, DC with her family and English Bulldog, and enjoys chatting with readers.

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Website: www.CristinHarber.com
