She rubbed her hand over her face, and Parker’s coffee fully hit his bloodstream.
She wasn’t wearing her brother’s watch.
Parker dropped the coffee on the counter and grabbed her wrist. “Didn’t you get it?” he asked, rubbing the madly beating pulse beneath his thumb. “I went back to the pawnshop. Had it delivered to your house.” His voice cracked when she turned her wrist, settling her palm against his. “I know how much that watch means to you.”
“I got it,” she whispered.
“But you aren’t wearing it. I . . . Why aren’t you wearing it?” Had he somehow tainted that, too? Taken a precious memory of her brother and destroyed it?
“I—” She shook her head on a sigh, then reached into the pocket of her fleece, pulled out the Rolex that Parker had retrieved, then had cleaned, serviced, and returned to her. “I thought maybe it was time to stop wearing it.”
“What?” He couldn’t fathom it. In the short time he’d known her, he’d watched her reach for that little bit of family legacy time and time again. Why would she give it up?
“It’s gotten pretty heavy,” she said, and even functioning on half a cup of coffee, Parker knew she didn’t mean it literally. “So many memories. Good. Bad. Awful. Wearing it was like a constant physical reminder. Much as it means to me, much as it’s a part of me, it doesn’t make me happy.” She stared up at him, her expression naked and honest. “But you do.”
Oh thank fuck.
He grabbed her by the waistband, pulling her flush against him, and stole her startled laugh for himself. Threading one hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, he let the other one slide in a smooth, steady slip down her back and over her ass, until he could curl his fingers to brush against her core. When she gasped, he took advantage, plunging his tongue in counterpoint to the steady back-and-forth drag of his fingers.
Finally, dizzy with the lack of oxygen and tired of the clothes separating them, Parker pulled back.
Georgia stood there, her eyes wide, her mouth red from the scrape of two-day stubble. He ran a hand down the length of her arm, cupped the hand that still held the watch.
“It isn’t really mine,” she said. Red tinged the tips of her ears. “My mother gave it to my father for their ten-year anniversary. I used to sit on his lap and twirl the bezel. Used to listen to my mom accuse my dad of loving it more than he loved her. Used to listen to my brother proclaim how it would be his one day—that drove me nuts.”
“Yeah?” Parker asked, content to let her talk so long as she let him touch and explore. He stroked the curl by her face. Touched the freckle by her cheek. Cupped her hips in his palms. It would take a lifetime, but he’d map every inch of her, again and again, until even when he was old, deaf, and blind, he’d still intimately recall every inch of the woman who held his heart.
“It’s part of me—but I got so wrapped up in the weight of it, in carrying it with me, that I let myself forget all the good memories it was supposed to represent. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“If you don’t want to wear it, I can lock this up. Keep it safe for you.” He took a steadying breath. Parker knew they had to talk about it, that there could be no moving forward until they did. “I can keep it until we bring Will home.” He waited for a flinch, for the sadness and worry and fear she carried to scroll across her face. “I don’t care what it takes, Georgia. I’m going to fix this. We’re going to find him.” He’d already started, had spent days scouring files and servers and plugging data into his program. Already, a plan was coming together.
“You can’t promise me that, Parker.” She reached for him, placing a steady palm over his chest, his heart thumping out an excited greeting. “I won’t ask you to make a promise we both know you might not be able to keep. You’ll do everything you can; I know you will.” She grasped his hand, turned his wrist so she could flick open the strap of his Swatch. Removing it, she set it on the counter, then slid the Rolex over his fingers and clasped it into place. “I’m not in this alone anymore.” With what looked like a great deal of effort, she lifted her chin and met his gaze, her expression naked and vulnerable, her fear easily visible. “Right?”
“Right,” Parker said, staring down at his wrist and the watch that rested against his skin. She was right; it was heavy. A promise between them, a reminder that neither of them was alone, that they had each other, no matter what.
“I had it resized . . .”
He twisted the bezel, listening to the click-click-click as it turned. It was a noise he could get used to.
He glanced up, caught the uncertain expression on her face, and blurted the only thing that came to mind, the only thing that mattered. “I love you.”
From the moment he’d seen her, Georgia had been beautiful. Strong. Sexy. An interesting package he wanted to unwrap and explore. She’d been sexy as hell running the tactical simulation. Beautiful and soft as she’d let him dress her wound. Fierce and sexy and playful and a myriad of other things when they’d gone to bed.
None of it compared to the radiance, the warmth, the breathtaking splendor that transformed every inch of her when he said those three words.
“I love you,” he repeated, dropping his head to hers, just to be closer to the sun. “I love you.”
If he spent the rest of his life in the pursuit, he’d never find happiness like this.
Two seconds later, as she always did, Georgia proved him wrong.
“I love you, too.”
EPILOGUE
Ethan strode into the conference room, his shoulder tight but finally free from the sling he’d been forced to endure. His strength was returning in stages, though not fast enough for his liking. Still, his range of motion was back; he was regaining his accuracy on the firing range and compensating well with his left hand in the meantime. He was ready to get back to work.
Thank God. He trusted his team, had handpicked them for Somerton Security, after all, but being sidelined, letting other people handle things, run things, take point . . . It drove him nuts. Time to restore order to his universe.
“Good morning,” he said, watching in satisfaction as everyone in the room quieted down and took their seats. “We’ve got a lot to cover,” he said, moving to the head of the table. “First, we’ve got a couple of new people joining our team in part-time support capacities. Isaac Flores is our new in-house attorney and will be acting as our government liaison.”
Judging from everyone’s expressions, it seemed they’d all already met. Thankfully, Georgia looked at ease with the decision. She’d sworn she would be, that Isaac was the right man for the job, but Ethan had still wondered if it would present a problem. Judging by the way Parker dropped his chin on her shoulder and stole a handful of Reese’s Pieces from Georgia’s pile, he’d worried for nothing. They were solid—made each other happy and strong even as they drove each other crazy.
“And Henry Walsh is on loan from the Justice Department. As he was part of an active investigation into the CWU and has been thoroughly briefed, he’s agreed to stay on and assist us with cleaning up the mess Charles Brandt left behind.” Ethan sat back in his chair and resisted the urge to rotate his shoulder. “I’m sorry to say that there’s a lot to do.”
“I thought Somerton Security was in the business of private security,” Ortiz said, twirling a pen between his fingers.
“We are,” Ethan replied, relaxing into his chair. There’d been a time when he’d thought that was all Somerton Security would be—a business and exit strategy, there and waiting for the day he finally retired from active duty. “And as far as the public is concerned, we’ll continue to grow our client list and provide a range of private security offerings—any of you are more than welcome to continue to work solely in that capacity.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to offer us a much more interesting option?” Liam asked, scratching at the red stubble lining his jaw.
“Because thanks to Isaac’s legal maneuvering and a newly stru
ck deal with the Justice Department, Somerton Security has exclusive control over Parker’s program. For all official intents and purposes, the government has washed its hands of it.” Not the easiest sell in the world, though Isaac had managed to convince the right people that fighting Parker over the intellectual property rights—not to mention control—opened the door to serious liabilities. Between the very public hit at FedExField, a raid on a government attorney’s town house, and a government-sanctioned hit on a high-value and very visible public contractor, the DoD had relinquished all control in exchange for ironclad confidentiality agreements and a handshake deal that rendered Somerton Security an unofficial government contractor. Ethan couldn’t have hoped for better.
“Everyone in this room has operational knowledge of the program and the events of the last several weeks,” Ethan continued. “I hope you’ll all consent to being part of a special division tasked exclusively with managing all program-based operations going forward.”
“So nothing’s changed?” Liam said. “We continue to operate as we have.”
“Everything’s changed,” Parker said, sitting up straight and leaning toward the center of the table. “Brandt’s actions, the money we traced back to him—it was the tip of the iceberg.”
Parker glanced to Ethan, then back to the rest of the room. The confidence was a change Ethan hadn’t been entirely prepared for, but one he was glad to see all the same. It had been a long time coming, and, though he’d never admit it, Georgia had been right. He hadn’t done enough to foster it.
“We know of at least two dozen times Brandt used the program for personal gain. But there are at least as many predictive reports we can’t trace back to buyers—or to Brandt.”
“You’re saying there’s another player,” Liam said.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” Parker explained, even as Georgia laced her fingers in his. Parker breathed, his nerves visibly rushing out of him. “It could be years before there’s enough information out there, enough data to track, to figure out exactly how far this goes and who stands to benefit the most.”
“Where do we even start?” Ortiz asked.
“Here,” Parker said, his voice strong and firm as he pulled up a presentation. “Six months ago Charles Brandt authorized a raid on a cartel compound in South America. Both William Bennett and Ian Porter were reported killed in action.” Parker paused, and Georgia squeezed his hand. “Several months after the raid, someone sent in a tip, first to Brandt, and when he never made contact, eventually to the Justice Department.”
“Proof of life?” Henry asked, color draining from his face. “Did the cartel actually confirm Bennett survived?”
Ethan looked at Georgia as he said, “When rumor reached me that Will may not have died as we’d been told, I couldn’t ignore it.”
Georgia nodded once. They’d talked about it, and Ethan had put all his cards on the table. Explained why he hadn’t wanted to tell her, to get her hopes up, until he had concrete evidence. In truth, he’d never really believed the rumor could be true. That one of his men, one of his friends, could have been left behind, forgotten. Not under his watch. But it had happened, and Ethan was determined to set that right. No matter what the cost.
“Is he still alive?” Ortiz asked.
“There’s compelling evidence that as of six weeks ago, Will was still alive. But tensions within the cartel are escalating—their infrastructure is crumbling, and factions are fighting for power. It’s making confirmation difficult.”
“But . . . ?” Ortiz asked.
Ethan let a slow, predatory smile curl his lips. It’d been a helluva long time since he’d operated undercover, but come hell or high water, he intended to find Will. If he took down one of the largest human trafficking operations on the planet in the process, then so be it. “But Parker is going to use his program to find a way into the cartel, and a way to bring Will home.”
“You’re going undercover,” Ortiz stated, his tone conveying just how insane he thought the idea was. “With one of the most violent cartels on the planet.”
“Yes.” And nothing and no one was going to stand in his way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Looking back over the course of writing this book, it’s truly shocking to me just how many people lent me their enthusiasm, support, encouragement, and creativity. A thank-you seems terribly insufficient, but I’ll do my best anyway.
Kelli Ireland, who has been there from the beginning of both my career and that one fifteen-minute train ride where I first conceived the idea that would become this book, thank you for your unwavering friendship and your steadfast conviction that I had a winner in Georgia and Parker. A bet is a bet: I owe you a steak. A big one.
Shana Lindsey, I don’t think you realize the myriad ways your support and friendship has impacted my life and my writing. Your work ethic is something to both admire and envy and will be the reason you find your way to success. No one will be cheering louder than me when that day comes.
John Carey, the best accountabilibuddy a girl could ask for, thanks for reading so many of the early rounds, early pages, and sitting there and staring me down when I just didn’t want to. And of course, thanks to your cat, who charmed my editor and found this book a home.
Elaine Spencer, agent extraordinaire, a thousand thank-yous for believing in both me and this book from the very beginning, and more, for your unwavering confidence that we would see this book to life—even when I had trouble keeping the faith. Hope is not a plan, but I’m forever grateful you keep it in your arsenal anyway.
Alison and Joel and the entire Montlake team, I don’t think you know how incredibly thrilled I was to land among your enthusiasm and talent—I could not have hoped for a better home for this series.
And finally, a very special thank-you to Rachel Goodman, the jellyfish to my sea urchin. You get me, and for that, thank you seems woefully inadequate . . . so next round is on me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Dyer likes her heroines smart and snarky, and her heroes strong and sexy. An attorney and recent coffee devotee, Elizabeth spends the majority of her time tucked into a corner table at Starbucks or pinned beneath her (overly affectionate) bullmastiff. When she isn’t working or wrestling the dog, you can usually find Elizabeth writing the types of sexy, suspenseful books she most loves to read.
A born-and-bred Texan, Elizabeth resides in Dallas, where she indulges in Netflix marathons, Instagramming her dog, and brunch. Definitely brunch. Adorably awkward, Elizabeth hates the phone as much as she loves all the social media things and hearing from her readers. Follow her on Twitter (@lizdyerwrites) or Instagram (@elizabethdyerwrites) or Facebook (@elizabethdyerauthor).
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