Live and Let Love

by Gina Robinson

  So Jack broke out his secret weapon—a one-legged backflip. He caught the Rooster off guard and sent him stumbling backward out of the way, off the dance floor, and into a table against the wall.

  Take that. Next time, I’ll show you what I know about hand-to-hand combat and lethal pressure points.

  “Footloose” ended. Jack was still on his feet and the Rooster was finally starting to sway. Barely. Jack had to do something to speed up the process.

  “Give my worthy opponent a drink so he can keep up with me in the next round,” Jack said. “He looks thirsty.”

  Willow stepped forward and handed Kennett his drink, but the bastard only took a sip and handed it back to her. Jack cursed to himself. There was part of the problem—Kennett had drunk barely half the cup.

  “I paid for a tush push,” Sheryl said from the sidelines. “I want to see it.”

  Nora gave Jack and Kennett a harsh look. “Do you two think you can follow directions and actually do the dance I’m teaching?”

  Jack grabbed his leg. “I’m trying, teach.”

  People laughed.

  “These two men are pretty evenly matched,” Lettie said.

  That’s a lie, Jack thought. I can dance this asshole under the table. And I would if I weren’t dodging deathblows and hobbling on one leg.

  “Let’s make this interesting,” Lettie said. “Sheryl wants the tush push. But what song are they going to dance to? Willow? You got Con into this; you pick!”

  Jack’s gaze, and everyone else’s, turned to Willow as she was taking a sip from Shane’s cup.

  Nooooo!

  As she pulled it away from her lips to answer, Jack thanked small mercies and made a mental note to have Con knock that damn cup out of her hands if he had to dance into the middle of the mob to do it.

  Her lips curved into a smile. “Lady Gaga’s ‘Poker Face.’ Let’s see them tush push to ‘Poker Face.’”

  Jack swallowed hard. Despite its lyrics that celebrated violence, Willow loved that song. He used to dance to it for her and with her. By requesting it, she’d just eliminated some of his favorite moves.

  “That’s just silly,” someone said.

  Lettie held up a hand to silence the protests. “The lady has chosen.”

  “People line dance to it all the time,” Nora added. “We’ll show you how it’s done. Spin it, Roger.”

  Jack joined in with the music, doing his grooving as the crowd laughed. The tush push was meant to be done to certain songs and this definitely wasn’t one of them. But he pushed his tush all the same.

  “Stick it out there, boys!” a woman yelled, probably Sheryl.

  Someone was getting her money’s worth out of this show at least. The Rooster was tiring and backing off. Jack’s leg was regaining motion and feeling. Finally able to really dance, he got caught up in the music and began pushing the Rooster to keep up with his moves. Forgetting himself for the moment, he hammed it up and swirled his hand around his face when Nora did, imitating Lady Gaga in the music video. Too late, he caught a glimpse of Willow’s pale face and realized he’d gone too far. He’d sparked a memory in her of himself.

  The crowd began to twitter.

  Jack wasn’t being all that funny. He glanced at his opponent and realized they weren’t just laughing at his silly tush push moves or his theatrics. Finally. Shane was swaying on his feet as he tried to rotate his hips and keep up with Jack.

  “Looks like your favorite’s had a little too much, Lettie.” Bob White sounded gleeful as he shouted over the music.

  * * *

  Willow stood on the edge of the dance floor next to the action. Con followed Nora’s lead and circled his face with his hand in a movement mimicking Gaga in her music video. Willow gasped. Jack used to do that very move to make her laugh when they danced to the song. He was just doing what Nora did. Just as Shane was. A lot of people imitated that popular move. But that was Jack’s exact flourish.

  Willow felt suddenly short of breath and a little dizzy. And so tired. She needed something to drink. But as she lifted the glass to her mouth Con danced to the edge of the crowd a little too close to her. She started and stepped back just in time to miss being hit, spilling Shane’s drink all over herself and the floor before she could touch it to her lips again.

  Con mouthed, Sorry, and danced his way back to the center of the dance space. Shane started swaying. Willow blinked, trying to ward off the feeling she was about to pass out. Was Shane swaying or was she?

  Shane stumbled, fell onto his knees, and collapsed onto the floor. Her gasp blended with the crowd’s laughter. More than just Shane had had too much too drink.

  Con shook his head. “Looks like my opponent has decided to sit this one out. He’s just dead.”

  Willow’s ears rang. Ohmygosh. That’s a variation of Jack’s favorite line from Thunderball.

  She felt so dizzy. Her ears rang and the room closed in around her as she stared directly at Con.

  “Jack?”

  * * *

  Jack heard Willow call his name, shoved past the crowd, and caught her before she crashed to the floor. Damn, he’d gotten too cocky. He never should have used that line, common as it was. Any Bond fan knew it, but Jack’s using it was still reckless.

  His heart raced. What had he done to Willow? One small sip shouldn’t have sent her out like this.

  “Water!” he called. “Someone get us a glass of water.”

  A crowd had gathered around Shane, too, mercifully keeping the full focus off of Jack holding Willow.

  He wanted to cradle her and coo her back to consciousness. Beg her forgiveness for accidentally drugging her. If only Willow had been a germ-a-phobe, she’d never have drunk from Shane’s cup.

  And damn his weakness, even limp in his arms she felt good. He was worried about her, but with the small dose she’d gotten the drug should wear off quickly.

  Becky appeared at his elbow with a pillow in each hand and began issuing orders. “Give them space. Make room for both Shane and Willow. Give them air!” She touched Jack’s elbow. “Lay her down and get this under her head and this one under her feet.”

  As Jack did as he was told, he realized he’d made a serious mistake. Willow suspects I’m me. As schizophrenic as that sounded. It was damage control time. He reluctantly did as Becky commanded.

  “Jack?” Jack frowned and, doing his best to appear confused, looked at Becky. “Who’s Jack?”

  It was a critical stage for the mission just now. Willow may have just blown his cover. He had to keep his head and use this situation to his advantage.

  “Jack’s her late husband. Died two years ago.” Becky shook her head. “Poor thing. You’ll have to excuse her. Today’s the anniversary of his death.”

  “I’m sorry.” He paused. He really was. It was his fault, after all. “And I look like him?”

  Becky shook her head again. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a picture. She doesn’t talk about him much. She says she’s still too emotional and can’t without breaking up.”

  Damn, he had hurt Willow badly. It was for her own good, but hearing Becky say it aloud cut him to his hardened core.

  * * *

  Willow came to with Jack standing over her. Or, well, a man with Jack’s eyes. Con? The two were blended together in her mind as she regained consciousness. She was confused. And still heavy lidded and sleepy. Con didn’t look like Jack. But he acted like him and his eyes were the same as Jack’s.

  “Happens all the time,” whoever he was said to Becky. “Ironically, I must look like a Jack. People call me that a lot.” His grin was perfect and charming. “Must be my evil twin.”

  “Jack was not evil!” Willow couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out. Too many years of defending Jack’s sometimes violent job to her inner conscience.

  “She’s back!” Con smiled at her.

  Her head buzzed. She wasn’t thinking clearly and her social inhibitor had somehow been turned off.

  The roo
m buzzed with the hum of people trying to speak in hushed tones.

  “No, no, of course he wasn’t, hon,” Becky crooned to her as she patted Willow’s hand and looked relieved. “You gave us a scare. How are you feeling?”

  Willow pushed up to a sit and stared at Con.

  “Take it easy,” Becky said. “Give yourself time to recover.” She looked over her shoulder at the people around them and those who were attending to Shane. “She’s fine. She’ll be fine. She just got a little overexcited.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief and the buzz of conversation shifted to Shane, who was passed out cold.

  Willow didn’t want to recover. She wanted to stare at Con. Was he? Could he? Could he actually be Jack?

  Willow shook her head to clear it. Someone appeared with a glass of water and handed it to Becky.

  Becky put her hand on Willow’s shoulder and held the glass out to her. “Drink. It will help.”

  Willow pressed the glass to her lips and took a sip. Drinking gave her a chance to study Con more closely.

  NCS claimed they’d done a DNA analysis on the remains she’d buried and they were Jack’s. Definitely Jack’s. And the Sense, she couldn’t discount that, either. She’d felt Jack being ripped from her at the very moment of the explosion that took his life. He’d been thousands of miles away at the time.

  But Jack was Jack. She wouldn’t put anything past him and the Agency. If Jack had done anything else for a living, anything but living the covert life of a spy, she would have chalked those eyes, dance moves, smiles, and line from James Bond up to her own vivid imagination, especially given the day. She could have dismissed the Sense acting up now, claiming it was merely responding to her own emotions. She would have forced herself to admit the horrible irony of meeting Jack’s twin by a different mother on the very anniversary of his death. How could fate be so cruel?

  But Jack had been a secret agent. And secret agents were capable of any deceit. Even faking their own deaths.

  She stared at Con, or Jack, or whoever he was, over the lip of her glass. If that was Jack standing there, pretending not to be her husband, acting like a casual stranger while her heart nearly failed, she was going to, going to …

  Well, an ordinary person would say she was going to kill him. But Willow didn’t believe in that.

  She was going to teach him a lesson. Something civil and nonviolent so he’d learn the error of his ways. And she was going to get him back.

  But what if he really was just Con, a man who reminded her of Jack? What would she do then? Something crazy like fall in love with him? And would it really be with him or would she only be falling in love with her memory of Jack?

  Con squatted beside her and smiled kindly, looking her directly in the eye. “How are you feeling? It’s very warm in here.” He cleared his throat. “Becky told me this is an especially difficult day for you. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.

  “I’m also sorry to tell you that your date has had too much to drink. He’s passed out. A couple of the men are going to take him home and stay with him for a while to make sure he’s okay. He’ll be fine.”

  Feeling Con’s hot hand on her and the warmth of his touch, she nearly sputtered her water in his face.

  “Good.” She paused, still trying to focus and clear her mind. Why did she feel so groggy? Almost as if she’d been drugged? “Did you win?”

  He smiled at her, looking pleased. “Yeah, I did. I’m donating the TV. Lettie’s going to auction it off and give the money to the animal shelter.”

  “That’s so sweet.” That’s exactly what Jack would have done. Willow blinked back tears at the thought.

  “I’m sorry. I’m upsetting you,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

  There was no way she was letting this man who might be Jack disappear, walk right back into the twilight without her. Not until she knew for sure that he was Jack. Not even if he really was Con. Not if he was the man who could bring her back to life again after Jack. Until then, she’d have to keep him close at hand. If he really was Jack, he could disappear like a wisp of frosty breath, simply evaporate.

  “Take me home.” She forced a wobbly smile. “Please?”

  She needed a plan. And she needed one now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jack recognized that gleam in his wife’s sleepy eyes. She was suspicious, wondering whether Con was really him, Jack. He didn’t read microexpressions for nothing. He shouldn’t have used his Bond line. No more spy humor.

  Jack’s mind was racing. He’d originally planned to knock Kennett out so he could break into his place later, after the party, and get what intel he could. So much for that plan now. He couldn’t chance it if the men taking Kennett home were going to stay with him until he slept it off.

  As Jack led Willow to his car, with his arm around her to steady her, he felt her studying him. “I’m sorry.”

  She tilted her head and looked up at him. “About what?”

  “Everything—my zealous dancing. Spilling your drink. Somehow being an unpleasant reminder of your late husband. You looked at me and called his name just before you passed out. I feel somehow responsible.” He didn’t have to try too hard to look sheepish. He was completely responsible. He should have been more careful with his drink doping.

  “Nothing about remembering Jack is unpleasant.” Her voice trembled with emotion and her eyes shone as she looked at him.

  She misses me.

  Was she trying to kill him? It took all he had not to let any more emotion than the curiosity of a stranger show on his face as he beeped the car unlocked and opened the door for her. She was so slight, he could have carried her the half mile home. But he didn’t think she’d go for that, and he didn’t know how he’d keep his hands off her once he’d held her in his arms again. So he elected to burn the gas.

  “Your late husband must have been some man.” He tried to sound noncommittal, conversational. “Not Italian, was he?”

  “Not that I know of.” She slid in and looked up at him as he prepared to close her car door.

  He caught himself acting as he used to, as himself. He liked to gently shut her in the car, protect her.

  Willow stared up at him as if he was the second coming of Jack, a lover across time and death.

  “Not that you know of?” He made himself slam the door just a little too hard. Or maybe he was more frustrated than he’d thought. He walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

  She answered as he buckled up. “Jack was mysterious. He had a few close friends, but otherwise was pretty much a loner. He didn’t like to talk about himself, his childhood, or his family. He said they were all unpleasant.” She yawned and covered her mouth.

  “His father is gone. I only met his mother and brother twice. At our wedding and his funeral. I didn’t get much of a chance to get to know them on either occasion. Jack didn’t keep in touch with them. His past is pretty much a mystery to me.”

  His mother. He was glad he hadn’t had to deal with her at his funeral. Now there was a picture—the old lady putting on grief. Did she really have a heart? He was damned glad to be dead to her.

  There are very few people who grow up to be killers. You had to either be a born psychopath or endure a hellacious childhood. Jack had had the latter and preferred to forget it, and the people who peopled it, as much as possible. There was one benefit in playing Con—he could make up a happy childhood and play off Aldo’s great big loving family.

  Jack stuck the key in the ignition. “A little mystery is good for a relationship.” The irony of that statement was almost too much.

  She seemed to catch it. “Is it?”

  She stared at him with the moonlight reflected in her eyes and rolled down her window. Willow didn’t like being confined. She loved the feel of cool night air blowing through her hair. And right now she was probably hoping it would wake her up. All she really needed were a few hours to sleep it off.


  As if she willed it, a gentle breeze blew in, tinged with the crisp cold of autumn.

  “That’s what they tell me.” He fired up the car and pulled out of the driveway.

  The drive to her house took less than two minutes, even cruising along the gravel road at a whopping 25 miles per hour and resisting showing off with any extreme driving maneuvers. He’d have loved to take her for a long drive, show off his skills. But he had the feeling she’d sleep through it anyway. She kept nodding off.

  He parked the car by the front door and turned off the ignition. “I’ll walk you in.”

  “Afraid I’ll pass out again?” Her tone was light, even as she studied him with intensity and suspicion.

  Ah, suspicious minds.

  “Just doing my duty. You look beat and I promised to see you safely home.”

  They got out of the car. He walked her to the front door, resisting the urge to put his arm around her again. She looked steady enough on her feet to manage on her own, though she moved drowsily. There was a light on in the house and porch light on above the entry where they stood.

  She unlocked and opened the door before pausing and studying him, lingering as if she was in no hurry to go inside and conversely looking at the same time as if she longed for her bed. She stood too close to him for comfort. His comfort. And looked up at him practically begging to be kissed. She looked so sexy with that sleepy, drowsy expression.

  As he inhaled the sensual scent of her perfume, he wasn’t in any hurry to leave, either. He looked deep into her eyes, mesmerized, when he knew he should take a step back and walk away. But he was held in place by the sense of peace he always felt in her presence. By the warmth of her personality and his desire for her and the way she used to love him.

  Since he’d found her years ago, Willow had been the one good, truly good, person and thing in his life. In his world of violence and death, Willow would never harm anyone or anything. Especially him. She did nothing but love him. He didn’t deserve it. He’d never deserve the love of such a gentle, caring woman. But it seemed so natural to kiss her good night, just as he had hundreds of nights before. Just one small kiss—