Sleep with someone, Annabelle, he’d told her. Just once. I know you have an old-fashioned outlook in that area and I can’t believe that I’m actually telling you to do it, but after listening to you today, I’m afraid it’s going to take that for you to get beyond Mark Callahan. The man is not a god—
He is in bed, she’d drunkenly moaned.
—and you need firsthand proof.
Remembering now, she sighed. The woman standing beside her handed her a tissue, and Annabelle realized that a pesky tear had indeed overflowed to dribble down her cheek. Dammit. She wiped away the tear, then saw that Tag, Noah, and Mark had witnessed the betrayal. Great. Wonderful.
That’s what you get for thinking about sex at a funeral.
Death. Life. Procreation. Divorce. Death. Good Lord, she was losing it.
‘‘Excuse me.’’ She turned and threaded her way to the back of the crowd. She needed to move, to walk off some of this nervous-energy edge. Jeremy would understand. The man had understood the ins and outs of explosives—both the physical and emotional kind.
She opened her black umbrella as she stepped from beneath the tent and strode away from the grave site, walking blindly, ruining her shoes in the sopping grass in the process. At some point she grew aware of a presence behind her. She prayed it wasn’t Mark.
St. Mary’s was a large, old cemetery with ornate monuments and sepulchres that dated back over two hundred years. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed exploring the place. Right now, she simply wanted out of here.
The hand on her shoulder told her that wasn’t to be. ‘‘Hold on, Annabelle.’’
She halted and turned in relief. ‘‘Colonel Warren.’’
‘‘Are you all right?’’
‘‘Yes. I’m fine. I just . . . too much sugar at breakfast, I guess.’’
He slipped his hand to her elbow and guided her to a covered bench nearby. ‘‘I wanted to speak with you and I feared you were leaving. Sit down, please.’’
Annabelle waited while the colonel took a seat beside her. As usual, he got directly to the point. ‘‘Callahan brought me up-to-date with recent events. I’m concerned about the Balkan connection, and I’d like to hear your take on it.’’
‘‘Balkan connection?’’
‘‘Ćurković. Radovanovic.’’
Annabelle frowned. ‘‘Sir, I don’t think that situation has anything to do with this one. Mark’s brother was kidnapped and killed after the unit disbanded. That syndicate has no reason to move against the Fixers.’’
‘‘Callahan seems to think it’s possible and he believes you might be the catalyst. He mentioned a relatively recent event in Hawaii?’’
She ground her teeth, then said, ‘‘I was undercover on a job and I have absolutely no reason to believe that my cover was blown. Callahan is paranoid when it comes to the Eastern European Mafia. He doesn’t see straight when anything is even tangentially connected to his brother’s death. Sir, if we are correct in our assumptions and the unit is being targeted, then the perp is connected in some way to the unit, not the Callahan family. Otherwise, Mark might be burying one of his brothers today instead of Jeremy Russo.’’
‘‘I hope you are right, Monroe.’’ The colonel blew out a heavy sigh, his lantern jaw set hard as he stared out over the graveyard. ‘‘It’s bad enough we have to fight the damned drug, gun, and human traffickers in the Balkans. I’d hate to think they are so entrenched that they are killing our people here in America in their own suburban workshops. After they retired! If that’s the case, we will never be able to relax our guard.’’
‘‘Whoever is doing this has a personal grudge, Colonel.’’
‘‘I tend to agree. However, we can’t afford to ignore any possibility. I told Callahan I’d try to find out what Ćurković’s heirs have been up to of late. To that end, can you brief me on your involvement with Radovanovic?’’
‘‘Certainly, sir.’’
She took a minute to organize her thoughts, then gave a succinct report of the happenings in Hawaii. After a few follow-up questions, he said, ‘‘Hmm . . . as much as I despise the drug runners, I hate the sex traffickers the most. I wish your Italian friend much success in his efforts.’’
‘‘I’ll pass that along next time I talk to him.’’ She expected Paulo to call this afternoon.
Colonel Warren continued. ‘‘Now, I intend to stay in contact with the team until this situation is resolved, so you’ll be hearing from me. In the meantime, I trust you to be my eyes in the field just in case Callahan is correct. If you uncover even a hint of involvement by Radovanovic, I want to know.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
The colonel put his hands on his knees and rose to his feet. ‘‘I’d best get back to my wife before she thinks I deserted her. You take care of yourself, Monroe. That’s an order. I don’t want to attend one of these events for you.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ she repeated, smiling.
‘‘Are you returning to the grave site or are you staying here?’’
Looking past his shoulder, she saw Mark waiting a short distance away, slowly twirling his umbrella. She sighed. ‘‘I guess that depends on my team leader.’’
The colonel frowned. ‘‘He looks to have a burr up his butt, doesn’t he?’’
Annabelle took a closer look. The colonel was right. Anger glimmered in Mark’s eyes, and his lips pressed in a grim line. Oh, no. This wasn’t good. A sense of dread swept over her as she stepped out into the rain. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘I had a phone call. We have another body. It’s Rocky Stanhope.’’
The colonel muttered a curse, and Annabelle’s stomach sank. ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’m not sure. A woman he has been seeing called me. She was hysterical. She said that right before he died, he told her to call me rather than the authorities.’’
‘‘Did this just occur today?’’
‘‘I’m not sure. I couldn’t get much out of her. We need to leave immediately. I told her we would be there this afternoon.’’
‘‘Be where?’’ the colonel asked.
‘‘Colorado,’’ Mark replied. ‘‘Stanhope lived—and died—in a mountain town in Colorado.’’
As his private jet winged its way toward Colorado, Mark decided he didn’t have second thoughts about his decision to partner with Annabelle during the investigation. He figured he was going on at least thirty-seven thoughts by now. Never before had he found it so difficult to keep his mind focused on the business at hand.
His team was dying, and instead of concentrating on the data he’d collected overnight as part of his attempt to learn why, his attention kept drifting to the woman who sat on the opposite side of the plane.
They’d both changed clothes for the trip. He wore jeans and a polo. She’d donned jeans and a white oxford shirt. She sat with her legs crossed, subconsciouslykicking her foot, which allowed her slip-on canvas flat to slip off her heel and dangle from her toes. It drew his gaze like a magnet. The familiar scent of the lotion she used on her skin teased him, and that little moan of pleasure she made when she indulged in an afternoon piece of chocolate tormented him. As a result, by the time the Citation landed at Telluride Regional Airport, he’d worked his way through only half of his research and he departed the jet feeling grouchy and a little bit mean.
If he didn’t get his wits together, he was liable to get them both killed.
He took a look around, pausing a moment to appreciate the majestic beauty of the San Juan Mountains. ‘‘I’m not surprised Rocky settled in the mountains. He had a passion for snow skiing, remember? Skiing in the winter and fishing in the summer. The man knew how to live.’’
‘‘And now he’s dead,’’ Annabelle replied.
Mark grimaced. Man, did that suck.
‘‘We have to catch this guy, Callahan.’’
‘‘We will.’’ He pictured his old teammate as he’d last seen him at Russo’s wedding,
his head thrown back with laughter at something Anderson had said. ‘‘We damn sure will.’’
The rental car Mark had arranged for was ready and waiting for them. As they climbed in a four-wheel-drive SUV and fastened their seat belts, he handed her a file folder. ‘‘Rocky’s lady friend owns an art gallery, and she asked us to meet her there. You want to navigate for me?’’
Annabelle opened the manila folder and scanned the top page. ‘‘Take this road down the hill until it dead-ends at the highway. Turn right.’’
Mark waited for her to say more, but when that didn’t happen, he started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. He should be accustomed to the cold-shouldertreatment by now, since she’d barely spoken to him all day. Annabelle’s words and actions toward him had been all business.
At the funeral, she’d spent her time talking to Harrington and Kincannon. During their three-hour plane ride, she’d studied her own research and notes.
He told himself he was glad for it.
He knew he was lying.
They reached the bottom of the hill and he turned onto the highway. Annabelle glanced back at the directions. ‘‘Go about three miles into town. Then you’ll take another right on Pine. Mercer’s gallery will be in the second block.’’
They were close. Mark felt that familiar buzz of anticipation. Stanhope’s girlfriend claimed she might have seen the killer. Aloud, he mused, ‘‘We might have caught a break with Brooke Mercer. A physical description of the killer could confirm Rad’s involvement.’’
Annabelle opened her mouth, then reconsidered and shut it without speaking. Annoyed, Mark snapped, ‘‘You are underestimating that organization, Annabelle.’’
‘‘No. I think it is much more logical to believe that whoever is killing off our team members has a grudge against the unit.’’
Mark rolled down his window to breathe in the fresh mountain air, hoping it would wash away his frustration. He could admit that at times he wasn’t exactly reasonable when it came to the likes of Radovanovic, but his family had underestimated the bastards in the past and look how that had turned out. His youngest brother—the only innocent one among them—had paid the ultimate price.
Poor, snakebit John—he’d never caught a break. Being punished for the mistakes of others had turned out to be his lot in life. For instance, he had been an innocent bystander the night his three older brothers got liquored up and carelessly set that god-awful fire. Only thirteen at the time, John hadn’t been drinking that night. Instead, he’d tried to stop his older brothers’ foolishness and had been rewarded for his efforts by being banished from Brazos Bend just like Mark and Luke and Matt.
At least the old man had sent John to military school rather than wash his hands of him like he had done with his older sons. Well, that’s what Mark and his brothers had believed at the time, anyway. Only recently had they discovered that Branch had arranged for someone to be watching over each of them without their knowledge. ‘‘Damned manipulative bastard,’’ Mark muttered.
‘‘Excuse me?’’ Annabelle asked.
‘‘Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’’ He slowed down as they entered the old mining town with its quaint Victorian houses and downtown area. With ski season over and the summer tourist season yet to begin, traffic was sparse on both the road and the sidewalks. ‘‘What’s the name of the street again?’’
‘‘Pine.’’ Her cell phone rang just as she spoke. She checked the number and smiled as she flipped the phone open. ‘‘Hi, Mama.’’
Annabelle held the phone slightly away from her ear, and as a result, Mark heard both sides of the conversation. The first thing her mother asked was when she was coming to Kansas.
‘‘I don’t know how long this job will take, Mom, but I promise that the minute I’m finished, I’ll head for home.’’
‘‘What sort of job is it again?’’ Mrs. Monroe asked. ‘‘Your father said something about finding a deadbeat dad? That’s not dangerous, is it? You promised me you wouldn’t do anything dangerous anymore.’’
Mark glanced at Annabelle and saw her close her eyes. ‘‘Mother, you don’t have to worry. Now, what’s the latest with Aunt Polly? Has she given up the idea to run for mayor or is she still causing trouble?’’
With that, she successfully distracted her mother, and Mark quit listening quite so closely to the conversation. Locating Pine, he made the right turn and spied the sign for Mercer Gallery in the next block. Despite the lack of tourists in town, parking spaces were at a premium and he drove around a few minutes looking for one while Annabelle finished her call.
‘‘I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow. Yes. Yes. Me, too. I love you.’’ She flipped her phone shut and said, ‘‘There’s a parking place. Around the corner. See?’’
Mark knew he shouldn’t comment on the call, and as he made the turn, he tried to keep his trap shut.
He failed.
‘‘Still lying to your mother, I hear,’’ he casually observed.
He could see the torque in her jaw as she gritted her teeth. When she failed to respond, it just egged him on more. ‘‘I guess you probably haven’t told her about the divorce . . . since you never got around to telling her that we got married.’’
She whipped her head around and sneered. ‘‘That’s rich coming from you. Your brothers filled me in on your history. At least I’ve only kept one spouse secret, not two.’’
Mark pulled into a parking space, shifted into park, and stifled his smile. It was contrary of him to intentionally annoy her, but dammit, he didn’t like being frozen out. ‘‘But I didn’t lie to my mother. That’s a much bigger deal.’’
She gave him the Annabelle Monroe version of the evil eye. ‘‘You seem to have forgotten the discussion we had at the pub, Callahan. You don’t get to talk to me about personal things.’’
Mark switched off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. ‘‘At risk of sounding childish, what are you going to do to stop me?’’
Her mouth gaped a bit in disbelief as he pressed on. ‘‘If we are going to work as a team, we need to be able to talk to each other. You and I aren’t comfortable the way things are, and that could work against us in an emergency situation. It could work against us in this interview if Ms. Mercer senses a problem and holds something back as a result of it.’’
‘‘I don’t believe you.’’ Annabelle shoved an errant lock of hair behind her ear. ‘‘Now you’re trying to tell me that in order to be a professional, I have to let you into my personal life? You have more nerve than a broken toe, Callahan.’’
His lips twitched as he opened the SUV’s driver’s-side door. ‘‘Just how is your family doing these days, Belle? Are your sisters still mad because you didn’t want to come home and help run the bakery? Did your dad get that heart problem taken care of?’’
‘‘I am not talking to you about my family.’’ She yanked at her seat belt and gathered up her purse.
He climbed out of the SUV and waited for her. Sunshine glistened on her hair and distracted him for just a moment. Then she lifted her chin and her snooty attitude got to him. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and shrugged. ‘‘I’m just curious since I gave you my mother’s secret muffin recipe to bribe your sisters with, not to mention the fact that I compiled all that research about doctors, procedures, and facilities to help your father make his decision.’’
She drew a deep breath, then blew it out on a heavy sigh. ‘‘Lissa and Amy mostly are over being angry about my choice of career. The lemon muffins sell out every day. Dad had the surgery . . . oh, it’s been eighteen months ago now.’’
‘‘He’s doing well?’’
‘‘Very well.’’ She hesitated, then added, ‘‘Thank you.’’
Now he couldn’t hold back his smile. That was like pulling teeth. ‘‘You’re welcome. I’m glad it all worked out. Whatever happened with that tavern your brother-in-law was thinking about opening? Did he follow through on it?’’
Before he could answer, her cell rang again. She checked the number and smiled. ‘‘Paulo! Pronto.’’
Mark grabbed the phone away from her. ‘‘She’s working now. She’ll have to get back to you.’’
‘‘Dammit, Callahan!’’ she exclaimed as he flipped the phone shut.
He continued as if the Italian Stallion had never called. ‘‘You take the lead. You know what to ask, and that way if she gives us a description of Radovanovic or one of his goons, you can’t say I influenced the description.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Focus, Monroe.’’
She snapped her mouth shut and nodded. Minutes later, they arrived at the art gallery. Mark noted the CLOSED sign in the window, but tried the door anyway. Locked. The interior of the building looked dark.
He checked his watch. They were well within the time frame he’d given the woman when she called. ‘‘I don’t have a good feeling about this.’’
‘‘What time did you tell her to expect us?’’
‘‘I gave her a two-hour window. We’re right in the middle of it.’’
Annabelle shielded the sides of her eyes with her hands and peered through the plate glass window. ‘‘I see movement. Someone is inside.’’
Mark rapped on the door loudly. Annabelle said, ‘‘Here she comes.’’
The lock snicked and the door cracked open. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘I’m Mark Callahan. This is my partner, Annabelle Monroe.’’
‘‘Thank goodness you are finally here.’’ The door swung wide and a woman ushered them inside, then quickly locked the door behind them. She immediately moved to the back of the room.
This was one frightened woman, Mark thought. One drop-dead gorgeous frightened woman, too, he amended when she switched on the track lighting to a soft, low glow. This woman was a classic, classy brunette with angular features, a long, lean build, and a hundred-dollar haircut. She wore black slacks and a gray silk shirt and pearls. He caught a whiff of Chanel and hid his surprise.
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