Malene sure knew how to pick his covers. Did she have to make things nearly impossible
for him? How could he stay just down the street from Willow and keep the hell away
from her?
Contrary to popular belief, his heart wasn’t made of ice and buckshot.
It had taken NCS two years to find the Rooster. NCS and the U.S. government were nothing
if not tenacious and patient. Like RIOT’s deadly SMASH assassins, NCS didn’t give
up until they got their man. They may still not have found him if the Rooster hadn’t
taken an audacious risk and come after Willow to draw Jack out.
Courtesy of that little explosion in Ciudad del Este, and a skilled plastic surgeon,
Jack didn’t even need to dab on face paint or don a mask to be undercover. But were
his new face and altered accent good enough to fool Willow, with her intuition and
the Sense? Did she feel his presence already?
The doctors had dubbed his new accent part of Foreign Accent Syndrome. He was one
of only a hundred people worldwide with this particular syndrome.
Syndrome.
He shook his head.
Okay, if that’s what they want to call it.
He thought of it more as a condition. Or maybe a pattern. At least the doctors hadn’t
labeled it a disorder. That would have gotten him kicked out of the Agency on disability.
The CIA couldn’t have assassins running around suffering from disorders, no matter
how benign.
The nurses in Ciudad found it sexy as hell. He wondered what Willow would think of
this new accent of his. If she’d find it sexy, too.
Hell, he wondered a lot of things, like whether she still loved him. And whether it
was fair to even hope she did. It was better for his widow to move on.
He wasn’t here to reconcile with his wife or disrupt her life and the peace she’d
reportedly found. He might be hard, but he wasn’t cruel. When he was finished here,
he’d slip back into the shadowy world of espionage and Willow would still be a widow.
If the mission to kill the Rooster, who was going by the name Shane Kennett, went
as Jack planned, Willow would never even realize he was alive and had been in town.
And everyone would believe Kennett’s death was accidental.
Jack was the one with the problem—jealousy. The irrational feeling she was cheating
on him. Technically, a widow can’t cheat on her dead husband. It was only when the
dead husband was still alive that things got complicated.
Compartmentalize. That’s how he dealt with his job. That’s what he’d do now. Set his
emotions aside. Focus on the goal. He
had
agreed to take this mission. He owed Willow for all the heartache he’d given her.
He simply had to make sure she didn’t catch him in the act. He had no intention of
upsetting her applecart. Jeez, that was awful humor.
No, no damn way Willow would find out. She believed he was dead. Why would she think
otherwise now?
He felt like a piece of crap for hurting her. It hadn’t been intentional. After the
explosion, even NCS thought he was dead. The situation simply evolved from there.
He was glad he hadn’t been around to see Willow cry over him. He didn’t deserve her
tears.
Hidden in a commercial apple orchard across the street from Willow’s rural home, Jack
studied her large, custom-built ranch-style house. A daylight basement faced the road
and contained her candy kitchen and retail shop. At least he had the satisfaction
of having left her a hefty life-insurance policy. It looked as if she’d made good
use of it, too. No regrets on his part there.
Damn his weak soul, he wanted to see her before he went to Aldo’s. Get a good look
at her so he could gauge her effect on him without an entire party full of people
as witnesses. He had to know how he’d react to her in person. So he could steel himself
and prepare for the evening ahead and the big apple growers’ dinner he was expected
to attend as Aldo’s guest.
Just one quick look, one glimpse of her long, silky auburn hair as he imagined what
it felt like in his fingers. One look into her laughing, peridot-green eyes. One more
peek at the spray of freckles across her nose and the way her lips curved as she smiled.
That’s all he needed.
He’d have to use extra caution. Willow had always been intuitive, had the Sense, as
her grandma called it. The years of living with him had honed it and trained Willow
well in the art of realizing she was being watched, of the dangers of being loved
by a spy.
And then there was their dog, Spookie, a shelter rescue. She’d be sure to recognize
Jack and try to lick him to death. In general, Spookie was leery of strangers. So
if she came charging out to him, wagging her tail, it’d be a dead giveaway. He missed
that little mutt. Fortunately, he didn’t see her around.
He mapped his covert path to a view of his girl. Willow’s home sat on a rolling hill
and a gravel drive wound up to it. He hated gravel. It crunched—a built-in alarm system.
A nuisance.
An aggregate patio sat just outside the shop’s door. Three small, round tables topped
with pink-and-white-striped umbrellas and flanked by delicate wirework chairs for
her guests dotted the patio. She’d placed a wrought-iron bench, surrounded by cornstalks
and pumpkins, by the door in the shade of a maple tree. Flower beds skirted the patio
and punctuated the rolling yard.
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
The orchard smelled like ripe apples and leaves moist with frosty dew. Anyone looking
would have noticed the mist his breath made. Another giveaway he couldn’t afford.
A gentle westerly breeze rattled the trees. Maybe it was only his imagination, but
he swore he smelled the warm scent of caramel wafting out from Willow’s kitchen. Caramel
apples, now there was something to make him feel like home.
There were parking spots for three or four, maybe five, cars in front of Willow’s
basement, with a garage and spots for her own car on the level above, attached to
the main level of the house.
A silhouette of a slim, curvy woman moved past the windows. His heart raced. He took
another deep breath. The daylight basement faced east. With the morning sun bearing
down on the windows, it was impossible to make her out for sure. But by the way his
body was reacting he was certain the vague silhouette was Willow.
He stared, mesmerized. He’d always loved the way she moved—confidently, totally unaware
of how sexy she was. He’d have to push in closer to get a real look at her. He’d give
anything to hear her laugh and see her smile, to make her happy.
Jack pounded his fist against the Northern Spy apple tree he lurked behind, cursing
beneath his misty breath and wishing he were a different kind of man.
* * *
On this second anniversary of his death, Willow remembered Jack in her own way. Sent
flowers to the military cemetery three hundred miles away where his remains were buried.
Had the cemetery staff place them. Jack wouldn’t want her wrapped in grief. Stifled
and stuck in the past. He’d always lived life in the minute. His job and personality
demanded it.
She hated violence, didn’t believe in killing, and preferred not to think about what
Jack may, or may not, have done while living his moments in the name of national security.
Of course, some people would probably say going on a date to the growers’ dinner on
this particular day wasn’t the most respectful way to remember Jack. And maybe they
were right.
But they hadn’t come up against Shane. He was persistence personified. He simply wouldn’t
take
no
for an answer when she tried to decline his offer to take her to the dinner. He claimed
it would be good for her to be out among her friends on this difficult day, rather
than feeling the pain alone. It was hard to argue with his logic. And his kindness
and concern would have been flattering and endearing if she could just shake the feeling
that taking her out was somehow self-serving.
She shivered, suddenly cold. That vague feeling of premonition that people say is
like someone walking over your grave washed over her again. She shook her head to
clear it. She was letting the day and the spooky time of year get to her.
Shane had never been anything but charming around her. Physically, he was a dream—well
built and powerfully strong. But the Sense reacted as badly around him as if he were
a serial killer. Crazy!
Just because he didn’t make her heart trill didn’t mean he’d committed multiple sins
against humanity.
But it was puzzling. What did the hot, sexy organic apple farmer see in her? He could
have had almost any of the single women on the bluff, and half the married ones made
eyes at him. Why chase her?
She mentally shrugged. Probably the thrill of the chase. A man like Shane was a hunter
at heart. Having been married to Jack, she recognized the type.
She scraped the bowl of caramel sauce in front of her with a spatula, drizzled the
caramel into her coffee, and took a sip. She’d give the jars another few minutes to
cool, label them, and load them up to take to Bluff Country Store. Ada would be waiting.
Willow paused to admire the view out of her daylight basement windows.
Breathtaking. On this clear autumn day the mountain sparkled with a fresh crest of
snow against a deep-blue sky in the distance past her neighbors’ apple orchards. A
gentle breeze stirred the dry leaves and bundles of cornstalks on her patio, which
rattled against her window creepily. She loved fall and the childlike sense of imagination
and fright, but she couldn’t shake her very real sensation of foreboding.
* * *
Jack hid behind an overgrown arborvitae on the edge of Willow’s property nearest her
driveway, waiting for his chance to dart to her window for a quick peek or a long
look, whichever he damn well had time for. He felt like a stinking Peeping Tom, and
it didn’t sit well with him. As Willow’s husband he shouldn’t have had to lurk and
leer like a pervert.
Willow.
Her propensity for helping wounded animals got her into trouble time after time. After
living with Jack, she should have known better than to go after a stray. You can’t
cure a broken human being, even if you smother him with love and gentleness.
At least Jack would have the pleasure of taking out his wife’s unsuitable date. For
love of wife and country. How many men were officially sanctioned and paid to take
out the competition? Sometimes a license to kill was a very good thing.
A car turned up Willow’s driveway and parked off to the side. The crunching gravel
gave it away. A young woman, no older than twenty-one or -two, jumped out. She wore
black jeans, a white blouse, and carried what looked like a long pink apron. The help
had arrived.
Jack trained his binoculars and watched as she opened the door. He heard the tinkle
of the bell before it closed behind her.
A bold idea occurred to him.
What the hell? A guy has to live on the edge, especially if that’s all he’s got.
* * *
The bell over the door tinkled. Willow felt the rush of cold, fresh air pour in all
the way back in the kitchen, raising the hair on her arms from more than the cold.
“Hey, boss!” Shiloh called out to her from the front entrance.
“Shiloh? I’m back here.” Willow let out a sigh of relief. Who had she been expecting?
Jack’s ghost?
Shiloh laughed. “Who else would it be?”
Willow glanced at the clock. Right on time, as usual. “We have a busy day ahead of
us. Wash up and meet me back here.”
Willow wiped down the counter, waiting in the kitchen for Shiloh to join her. The
bell over the door tinkled again. A customer already? This was their lucky day.
“I’ll get it!” Shiloh called back to her.
Eager to make a dent in the day’s work, Willow didn’t turn around to see who’d wandered
in. She set up for dipping apples with her back to the counter as Shiloh asked if
she could help the first customer of the day. The sexy, accented sound of a man’s
deep voice stopped Willow cold as she was stabbing a Popsicle stick into a prize-size
Red Delicious apple.
“I can’t believe I’m breaking the male code and stopping to ask for directions.” He
paused as if embarrassed. “But I’m hopelessly lost. And my GPS has betrayed me. Back
down on the road, it said I’d arrived. But clearly, I hadn’t. Not unless my cousin’s
vineyards have morphed into a shot-oiled road and apple orchards as far as the eye
can see.” He laughed. “I’m looking for Salemo Vineyards? Am I anywhere close?”
The hair on the back of Willow’s neck stood up. Her heart raced. That laugh sounded
so Familiar.
Like Jack’s.
Willow felt almost light-headed from the shock of hearing Jack’s laughter after two
silent years. She grabbed the counter in front of her for support and turned slowly
over her shoulder to look at the man who had the temerity to impersonate Jack’s laugh
and give her almost frightening hope.
Their eyes met. He stared at her with a penetrating, searching, devilish look that
was almost hunger. It momentarily took her breath away. Then he smiled, revealing
killer dimples.
By any standard, he was gorgeous. Easily one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen—tall,
athletic build, dark hair, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored slacks and a
sweater. Dressed the way women dream men should.
His face was perfection. High cheekbones. A strong chin. A straight nose. And those
deep-brown eyes that danced with devilment. Arresting eyes. Eyes disturbingly like
Jack’s.
Looking at such masculine beauty, she’d never felt more disappointed. Or puzzled.
His face was Jack’s. And definitely not Jack’s. The shape and structure so familiar.
The eyes. Jack’s eyes as surely as if he’d come back from the dead. The same twinkle.
The same intelligent curiosity sparkling in them.
But his nose was perfect where Jack’s had been crooked and slightly too large. Jack’s
face had had character. This man’s skin was smooth and unscarred where Jack’s had
battle scars from serving his country and risking his life. Jack had been a man’s
man. This man was the metro opposite of her late husband. And yet she couldn’t look
away from him or help feeling as if she’d known him practically forever.