by Misty Evans
Bree smiled, watching Candace and Miguel hang frosted blue and silver ornaments. Joey hustled in with a stepladder so they could reach the upper sections of the eleven foot tree.
"I miss her every day," Bree said quietly, forgetting the sick feeling Megan’s flowers evoked in her.
Loretta squeezed her arm. “It's so good to have you back. Are you staying for good this time?"
I wish I could. “A visit is all I can manage right now."
Loretta took another sip of her cocoa and nodded. "I'm sure Martin is thrilled. He’s such a good guy." She patted Princess Gracie, now lying on the couch supervising the activities and scanning the floor in case any crumbs might appear. "I better get to work on the fireplace mantle. Linda is minding the store, but it's a busy weekend, so I can't be gone long."
“How is Linda?"
“She's doing great, owns her own business now. I'm so blessed she came back to the island and bought the place next to mine. I get to see her every day, and we help each other out. If you have time, you should stop over and say hi. I know she'd be thrilled to see you."
Bree had many memories of playing in the sand with Linda. How different each of their lives had become. "I'm happy for both of you, and if I can, I’ll run by so I can see her and her new business.”
People were laughing and joking, a few of them humming and singing along with the Christmas carols. It had been such a long time since Bree had been around friends and family at the holidays, she’d forgotten how satisfying it could be.
She was handing Joey the star for the top of the tree when her phone buzzed. Caller ID said Tech Support. She walked away from the festivities to the large glass doors looking out onto the sand and water. Storm clouds hovered and rain drenched the outdoor patios. “Did you get a hit?"
Rory’s voice was tentative. "Sort of."
“What does that mean?"
He chuckled. “Can you give me any video of this guy? Walking, moving around, so I can retrieve some body biomarkers?"
Bree glanced over her shoulder. Everyone was focused on the tree and socializing with each other. She felt a pang of melancholy hit her solar plexus—Mom really would love seeing this, she thought. "I can try, why?"
“The pictures you sent were mostly in profile. He has a couple markers that match one of the people in our database, but it's not enough to say for sure. Video would be better, or at least more straight-on headshots. There's something odd about this."
You're telling me. She turned and looked out at the waves on the water. “Who’s the match in the database?”
"I'd rather not say until I know for sure we have absolute proof. The matches were in the chin and earlobe, but nothing else. I want at least ten that match. When I have only two, it could be an anomaly."
Earlobes were very individual. She understood Rory’s need for absolute proof, yet her gut told her she was onto something. “Earlobes don't lie, Rory. Who's the match?"
He sighed, but before he could reply, she felt a wall of heat against her back.
"I found another box of ornaments."
She jumped so hard, she dropped her phone. It went spinning across the tile floor, bouncing into the French door. Hand on chest, Bree sore softly. “Jesus, Aidan. Will you stop sneaking up on me?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyeing the phone on the floor before meeting her eyes again. “Why are you so jumpy?"
She hustled over to pick up the phone. “Sorry about that," she said to Rory. Her eyes fell on the box in Aidan's hand and her breath caught. She pointed at it. “Where did you find that?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, but she could see the wheels spinning again as he tried to figure out who she was speaking to. “On a shelf in the back. Has your name on it but wasn't sure if you wanted it or not."
Her heart plunged, seeing her mother's handwriting, her name in the beautiful script. “I, uh…”
The word stuck in her throat, a hard lump.
"Hathor?” Rory's voice was concerned. "Everything okay?"
Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder and grabbing the box out of Aidan’s hand, she fought the tears burning in her eyes as she fled the lounge area and ran for the elevators. “I’m… fine."
Using her elbow, she punched the button.
The doors slid open and she scooted inside, dashing at cheeks that were suddenly wet. She ran a finger over the beautiful script of her name and suppressed the sob rising up her throat. “Go ahead. Tell me who the match is.”
The elevator wasn't going anywhere. Bracing the box against the wall, she fumbled in her pocket for the key that would take her to the penthouse. Before she found it, Aidan stepped in.
Rory’s voice sounded far away. “Beatrice won't like if I tell you.”
Aidan filled the space, sucking the air away from her as he met her eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. In his hand, he held a universal key, so he could go to any floor at anytime. He slid it in the penthouse slot.
The doors closed and they rose. Aidan didn't move, his eyes still locked on hers.
“Can you text me that information?” Bree sputtered. Abruptly, she disconnected and took a step back, only to be pinned by the glass wall.
Aidan reached out and brushed a hair from her cheek. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. She shifted the box into her arms. “Nothing.”
“You ran out of there like your ass was on fire, and you’re crying. That’s not nothing.”
“I got something in my eye.”
That knowing tilt of his head. “I think it’s time we talked.”
Her phone, still in her hand, buzzed and she nearly dropped it again. Tech Support lit the screen with an incoming text.
It was a picture. Only a picture. But when she glanced down and saw who it was, her stomach bottomed out.
Chills swept her skin, burning nausea rose in her throat.
Russia. Interrogations. Dark, dank cells. Days without food or water.
“You’re right.” Swallowing a whole new set of fears, she held up the phone so Aidan could see it. His face blanched and he took a step back. “We definitely need to talk.”
Four
A ‘no-go’ area
* * *
“It’s him, isn't it?" Bree demanded, blowing past Aidan when the doors opened. She marched into the suite to the beautiful mahogany table near the balcony, slamming the box down on it before whirling to face him.
“Etienne Chardy is really Henri Moreau. He had plastic surgery to change his appearance so no one could find him, didn’t he?"
Of course she’d figured it out. He should've known better than to try and get anything past her. Stepping off the elevator before the doors closed, he ran a hand through his hair. It had been one hell of the day, and it wasn't over. "I can explain."
Fury flooded her face like a torrent. Behind her, the storm lashed at the windows. “Explain? How? How could you pretend you didn't know who he was and lie to me?"
“He's not the same man you remember, and he had a good reason for what he did to us."
“There is no good reason." Her anger was so palpable, he expected the top of her head to explode. "He’s a traitor! He blew my cover and gave me up to Boris and his comrades. Then he convinced you to trade yourself for me!"
Aidan stayed on the other side of the room just in case she started throwing things and raised his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Henri—Etienne—was trying to save his family. His wife and son were being held by Vaslov. The information he traded for their lives included you. He believed he had no choice, and in his circumstances, I would've done the same. His kid had leukemia and Vaslov was prepared to let him die. If anyone was threatening you and our child, I would've given up every goddamn spy in the world to save you."
Her retort seemed to get hung up in her mouth, anger draining from her face. After a moment, she shook her head. "No. You would've found a way without anyone else getting hurt."
Bree thought she knew him, and when it came
to her safety, and what he felt for her, he would do anything to protect her. Had proven that by what he’d done to save her from that Russian prison, working with Chardy to make the trade. And while they had no children—yet, anyway—the imaginary son or daughter in this scenario felt uncannily real to him. It was something he wanted, a family, and he wanted it with Bree.
"I know you want to believe the best of me, and always end up thinking the worst, but in that situation, I would have done exactly what he did. There’s nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe."
Her face was grim. “Guess you've already proven that to be true.”
Everything about her became very still and contained. All of the previous animation turned off like a light switch. He could see it in her eyes—she was back in Russia, in that cell, wondering what the next torture would be.
He hadn’t had the chance to speak to her before trading himself. Even after the US made a deal for him—thanks to her—and secured his rescue, the most he and Bree had discussed about it was her slapping his face and calling him a moron for making the deal. She hated owing anybody anything, especially her life, and she'd claimed to have nearly lost her mind when she realized what he’d done. She'd never admitted it, but he knew she had demanded incessantly that their boss, the head of Operations, as well as the director of the CIA, do whatever it took to get him released. She hadn’t stopped, refused to sleep or eat, until they gained permission from the President of the United States to release a Russian spy in exchange for Aidan.
If it hadn't been for her, he’d still be in prison, or dead and left to rot somewhere in Siberia.
He took a tentative step toward her, hands still raised. She was like a cornered animal he didn't want to spook. “It’s a complicated situation. How about we sit and talk about it?”
Her eyes snapped to the present and she crossed her arms. “You lied to me, Aidan. How can I trust you to tell me the truth now?"
“Chardy is no danger to you. He no longer works for French Intelligence—he defected to the States over a year ago.”
“Did he betray his own country as well?"
Another step. “He sold secrets, yes, and is wanted by the French for that reason."
“So we took him in? The French are allies. Why would…?”
Understanding dawned and she grabbed her forehead. “The Russians aren’t the only ones he's sold secrets to. The US granted him amnesty in exchange for information. He sold out his country to the Russians, and now to us. Perfect."
“He's trying to make up for what he did to you and the others. When Vaslov took his wife and child, the French refused to help him. He had no recourse but to turn on them.”
He could see her turning the words over. She wanted to rage, be indignant and self-righteous, but she was beginning to understand the horrible predicament Chardy had found himself in. When you gave your all to your country and then felt the sting of betrayal when you needed their help, it made you do things you never dreamed you were capable of.
Bree stood in front of the patio window, the dark, rolling clouds outside mimicking her mood. Shadows crept from the corners of the room, threatening to hide her face from him. He went to a lamp on the side table and turned it on. “You have every reason to be angry with me for not being honest, but Chardy’s situation is very delicate. We have to keep his new identity intact. He has too many people after him, too many countries trying to kill him. You have to swear to me not to tell anyone, especially whoever you're working for."
Her eyes widened slightly, and his stomach sank.
The photo of Chardy when he was still Moreau—she'd run his current face through some type of recognition program and got a hit. That's how she knew who he really was.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. “They already know, don't they?"
She uncrossed her arms and leaned on the table, her chest moving in a deep sigh. “Why do you know all of this about him? About his new identity, his defection?" Not waiting for his reply, she stared at him with incomprehension. “You’re working for them again, aren't you? You're working for the CIA and running operations from here in the hotel."
There was coffee in the glass carafe. His cup from that morning still sat on the sink, unmoved. He walked over and stuck it in the microwave. A headache had set up behind his eyes, and a jolt of caffeine would do him good. Besides, it would buy time to figure out exactly what he could tell her.
"I don't believe it," she said, her voice filled with exasperation. “You went back to them after what they did to me?"
He planted his hands on each side of the sink and hung his head. Of course she would see this as a betrayal. “I don’t work for the Agency”—technically—“I work here, for your uncle.”
She stomped toward him. “Bullshit. You're using this place as a cover. Tell me the truth, Aidan, or I will have you fired on the spot. And after that? I will personally kick your ass all the way back to Langley and deposit you on their doorstep."
Reluctantly, he turned and faced her.
She wasn't kidding; she now wore her spy face, the one that said he was dead meat.
Aidan had faced down vengeful terrorists, gone deep undercover with the worst of the worst, and survived torture in a Russian prison. The only thing—the only person—who’d ever truly inspired fear in him, outside a couple of his SEAL instructors, was the spitfire now standing in front of him with her hands on her hips.
Her glare was full of ferocious love for her uncle and the betrayal burning in her blood. He understood all of it, and she might follow through on that threat just for spite, but mostly because she believed she was protecting Martin and the DeMarco business.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You know I can’t tell you about my job or the mission.”
Her hand flew out to slap him, but he anticipated it, grabbing her by the wrist before she made contact. “What I can tell you,” he ground out as the microwave dinged, “is that my position here in no way endangers your uncle or the Gulf Breeze.”
She tried to wrestle free from his grip, tried being the key word. Her resistance was half-hearted as if she didn’t really want him to let go of her. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
“It’s true.” He released her, slowly, savoring the delicious feel of her skin and wanting more. “I swear it.”
That gave her pause. She might not trust him, but she knew he was a man of his word. He saw her throat work as she swallowed hard. “Regardless, it has to stop. If you’re working for the CIA, you have to quit this job and leave.”
Her demands were reasonable. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. “I have to see this assignment through, and your uncle won’t want me to leave.”
Her voice rose with self-righteousness. “He will when I tell him what you’ve been doing!”
Aidan knew better than to admit anything. He was sworn to absolute secrecy. His ass would be obliterated if he screwed this mission up, but she already knew the key player involved. All it would take to ruin everything would be her telling someone—anyone—in the spy community.
Might already be too late. She’d sent someone the picture of Chardy and they’d used face rec software. If whoever was on the other end put two and two together…
The clock was now ticking. He really had no choice.
“He already knows.”
Silence, filled with confusion. Her brows drew down, then, “What?”
The incredulity in that word made it more of an expletive than a question.
“This is a delicate mission and highly, highly confidential, but I went to Martin and he granted permission to use the spa for…it.”
She started for the elevator. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Wait.” He reached out and grabbed her arm to stop her.
She lost her balance and collided with him, falling into his chest. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, straightening before smacking his hand away, “I’m going to kill you too.”
She looked up at him
then, those beautiful golden eyes he loved. There was fire behind them, ferocious and all-consuming. He needed to calm her down, find common ground. “Can you give me twenty-four hours?”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
He shook his head, breathing deeply to fill his nostrils with her scent. “I’m serious, Bree. That’s all I need. I’ll finish my mission, Chardy will be gone, and the spa will go back to being completely normal. I’ll hand in my resignation the minute this is over.”
She stilled, not moving from him, and he saw her bite the inside of her bottom lip. Her gaze was still fierce, raking over his face, her mind spinning as she considered his offer.
Did she really want him to leave? Something told him, no. She was pissed and reacting emotionally. Not her usual style, but he seemed to be able to bring that side out of her whenever they were together. He pushed every one of her buttons—even those she’d kept buried for years—and he told himself it would be a good idea to sleep with his wits about him tonight. She might make good on the promise to kill him.
She stopped chewing on her lip and her body became fluid again, her chin rising in defiance. “On one condition.”
Shit. He was in deep trouble now, he could feel it in his bones. This was worse than being killed in his sleep. “What?”
Her lips parted and a slow, faint smile spread. “Let me help you.”
He barked a laugh. Now who was joking? “First of all, no. Secondly, hell no. Thirdly, you hate the CIA, so why would you want in? And on top of all that, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“I’m pretty sure you can do whatever the hell you want since you seem to be in charge of this undercover op.”
Deep shit, indeed. He chuckled at her incredible ability to assess the situation and nail the truth in mere seconds. “It’s too risky.”
“From my perspective, you don’t have any choice. You want me to stay quiet about who Chardy really is? This is the only way it’s going to happen.”