His Word: A CIA Military Romance

by Monroe, Lilian

  His Word

  A CIA Military Romance

  Lilian Monroe

  Contents

  1. Hailey

  2. Freddy

  3. Hailey

  4. Freddy

  5. Hailey

  6. Freddy

  7. Hailey

  8. Freddy

  9. Hailey

  10. Freddy

  11. Hailey

  12. Freddy

  13. Hailey

  14. Freddy

  15. Hailey

  16. Freddy

  17. Hailey

  18. Freddy

  19. Hailey

  20. Freddy

  21. Hailey

  22. Freddy

  23. Hailey

  24. Freddy

  25. Hailey

  26. Freddy

  27. Hailey

  28. Freddy

  29. Hailey

  30. Freddy

  31. Hailey

  32. Freddy

  Epilogue

  Lilian Monroe

  Guilty

  1. Nicole

  2. Martin

  3. Nicole

  4. Martin

  Also by Lilian Monroe

  Copyright © 2019 Lilian Monroe All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author except for short quotations used for the purpose of reviews.

  * * *

  Don’t forget to grab your FREE bonus chapters for all my books by signing up to my reader list:

  Click here to get your free stuff!

  If you’re already signed up, you can follow the link in your welcome email to access the Lilian Monroe Freebie Central. Happy reading!

  xox Lilian

  1

  Hailey

  Of course I was late.

  I checked the time on my phone and glanced out of the taxi window, biting my lower lip. The Russo Art Gallery was still at least ten minutes away, and the exhibition had already started.

  The biggest night of my life, and I couldn’t even manage to be on time for it. No matter how hard I tried, clocks always seemed to work differently for me. Little gremlins lived inside the gears and made time run faster when I wasn’t expecting it.

  Well, that was the only logical explanation I could come up with.

  I could play it off as the ‘fashionably late artist’. Maybe I could tell Gianni that I was late on purpose because I wanted to make an entrance. He was Italian, after all. He’d understand theatrics.

  My leg bounced up and down as the taxi came to a stop at a red light. I swallowed, trying to push down my frustration. It was no use being mad at the taxi driver—this was my own fault.

  Today was the first day that my art would be showcased in a gallery. Not only that, Gianni Russo had agreed to feature me—me, of all people—at the biggest gallery event in Washington D.C.

  Butterflies crashed around my stomach as the taxi drove on, and I gulped down a lungful of air. It was a beautiful Saturday evening, warm for September, and the city was alive and buzzing with energy that only served to make me more nervous.

  I’d planned on getting to the gallery early, before the crowds arrived. I’d planned on hanging back and observing from some dark corner as people commented on my pieces—maybe even hiding in my studio at the back of the building. But now, I’d be making a grand entrance as if I were some sort of celebrity. Everybody would see me come in, and I’m sure Gianni would make a big deal of introducing me to D.C.’s social elite.

  I’d be the center of attention the instant I walked in.

  Also known as my worst nightmare.

  I needed to find a way to be on time to these things. Maybe I could set all my clocks fifteen minutes ahead. I sighed, gripping the silky fabric of my dress and smoothing it out again. Changing the clocks never worked, because somehow, I’d then just take fifteen extra minutes to do everything.

  I’m telling you—gremlins.

  Being perpetually late was a flaw, but I couldn’t help it. No matter how hard I tried to be on time, I always managed to lose myself in my own world.

  I should have told my best friend, Tanya, to sneak into my apartment and change the clocks without me knowing—but I lived with my boyfriend, Jayden, and he always loved making me feel bad about being late. I didn’t want to give him more ammunition.

  Shaking my head, I took another breath. It would be fine, right? I could tiptoe in without anybody noticing. I’d sneak into my studio whenever I needed a break from the crowds.

  Jayden said he’d be there as soon as he finished work, so I could use him for support.

  “You okay?” The taxi driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You look nervous. Big date?”

  “Something like that,” I answered with a forced smile. It still seemed surreal to tell people that my paintings were being showcased. It was something I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. All the stacks of sketchbooks, the paint-stained clothes, the thousands of dollars I’d spent on art school—it all led up to this moment.

  And I was late.

  I pulled up my phone camera and checked my makeup for the thousandth time. My phone buzzed. It was Tanya, telling me she’d be a few minutes late.

  You and me both, girl.

  We turned the final corner and I typed out a quick answer. I hadn’t heard from Jayden since this morning, and I had a bad feeling I’d be going in there on my own. I sighed, shaking my head to clear my jumbled thoughts.

  The Russo Art Gallery was a grand building with big white columns and a wide, marble staircase—perfect for making an entrance, and terrible for walking in without anyone noticing. I paid the cab driver and slipped out of the taxi, taking a deep breath. Gianni had organized multi-colored lights to shine on the front of the building, so the whole place looked even more grand than it usually did.

  Fantastic.

  Just breathe.

  My eyes swung up the steps and my heart dropped to my stomach. Right there, hanging from the apex of the roof—draping down the front of the entire building—was a forty-foot banner with my name plastered all over it. My eyes widened and my heart leapt in my chest. A subtle entrance would never have been possible, even if I had been early.

  Gripping my clutch in one hand, I gathered the silky, royal blue fabric of my rented gown and started up the steps. A limousine pulled up behind me. I glanced back to see an older woman in a floor-length, black gown and a man in a tuxedo exit the vehicle. They followed me up the stairs, the man giving me a funny stare. I glanced away from him just as my toe stumbled on the last step. My open-toed shoe caught on the lip, pinning my long gown to the stair as I flailed forward and lost my balance.

  An ugly little yelp escaped my lips as my arms and legs went akimbo. I went flying forward, straight into the grand marble staircase leading up to my first gallery exhibition.

  Of course I did.

  Maybe it was a good thing I was late.

  On any other day, I wouldn’t mind stumbling. It happened to me more often than I liked to admit. There could be a whole YouTube channel dedicated to me tripping over my own feet. All my cups at home were made of plastic, because I’d grown tired of cleaning up shards of glass whenever I broke something. I was used to it.

  This time, though, I hated it. It didn’t matter that it was just me and the older couple on the steps. It didn’t matter that no one would see, and that no one had their smartphone out to film me. It didn’t matter that I caught myself with my hands before ruining my dress on the ground.

  This was supposed to be my big day. There was a forty-foot banner above my head with my name on it, and I couldn’t even manage to ma
ke it up a set of stairs.

  The man jogged up the steps toward me.

  “Are you hurt?” He hooked his arm underneath mine to help me up. His voice had a musical lilt to it and a depth that commanded authority.

  I snorted. “Only my ego.”

  He flashed a grin at me as the woman—his wife, probably—made it to us.

  “Gianni should get these steps fixed,” she said. I recognized the same Italian accent that Gianni Russo had. She tutted, shaking her head. “These steps are all different heights. I’ve almost tripped on them many times.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” I laughed nervously, brushing imaginary dirt off the front of my dress.

  I couldn’t imagine the woman falling over, ever. Her movements were graceful and fluid. She literally didn’t have a single hair out of place, and her ears and neck glittered with expensive-looking diamond jewelry that I’d be too terrified to touch, let alone wear.

  The man was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp, blue eyes that drilled straight into my soul. “Marco Russo,” he said, extending a hand, “and this is my wife, Francesca.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Hailey Ford.”

  “Ah,” the woman said, clasping my hand. “Gianni has told us so much about you.” She smiled at me and I resisted the urge to pull my hand away. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she kept them trained on me until I cleared my throat.

  “Shall we…” I nodded toward the entrance.

  “Of course.” Her eyes finally left mine and a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades.

  Marco led the way, while Francesca hooked her arm in mine. I wondered if it was to be friendly, or just to make sure I didn’t fall on my face again.

  Either way, I appreciated the support. My little tumble had distracted me long enough that I’d forgotten I was nervous… mostly. I walked up the last few steps with my head held high, excitement curling in the pit of my stomach as we made our way to the art gallery’s big double doors.

  This was the biggest night of my life. Tonight, my work would be thrust in front of critics and art lovers. I was baring myself in front of them. It was the most vulnerable I’d ever felt in my life—but also the most exhilarated.

  I’d left home when I was seventeen and for ten years, I struggled to make anything of myself. This was my big break. Or at least… I hoped it was.

  My future was about to be decided.

  2

  Freddy

  “What have you got?” I asked as Gary snapped the last few pictures with our long-lens camera. I watched as the trio of people on the steps entered the Russo Art Gallery and disappeared out of view. Tearing my eyes away from the door, I tried to ignore the heat coursing through my veins. That girl…

  Gary glanced at the screen on the Canon and angled it toward me. “Marco and Francesca Russo were talking to a woman on the steps. Didn’t look like they knew each other.”

  “Marco and Francesca are here?” I frowned, staring at the screen. “We haven’t gotten any notifications from Border Security.”

  “You think they used false passports?”

  “I’ll have to find out. Get HQ to check. Let me see those pictures.”

  Gary handed me the camera and I zoomed in on the faces. I scrolled through the photos, frowning. Marco and Francesca Russo hadn’t been in the country in almost three years. My current assignment at the CIA was to expose Gianni Russo as the human-trafficking piece of shit he was. My team and I suspected that Marco and Francesca were involved in an international ring that traded young girls for large amounts of cash, but we’d never been able to pin anything on them. On paper, they were clean. The older Russos left most of the actual work to their son, Gianni. The fact that they were in the country meant something was going on—something big.

  I flicked through the photos again, sighing. “You didn’t get a shot of the girl’s face.” I didn’t mean to sound so disappointed. I zoomed in on a photo of her, taken right after she fell, wondering why my heart was beating so erratically.

  Her dress clung to her curves like it was painted on, and even from a distance—without a clear shot of her face—I could tell she was beautiful.

  “She never turned this way.”

  I cleared my throat. “That’s a shame. It would have been good to get an I.D. She might be important.” I handed the camera back to him and looked at the wide steps leading up to the art gallery. This was my first lead role on an operation. It was the first time I wasn’t playing backup for someone like Chris or Zane. I didn’t want to mess it up. My boss, Berkeley, was relying on me.

  Not only that, but I’d spent the better part of my life working to be exactly where I was at this moment. It felt significant. If I could get a big bust and put these greasy, pedophilia-supporting assholes in a cell, all the better for me—and my career.

  The lights on the art gallery changed colors, throwing the big, white columns into multiple shades of blue. My jaw ticked. “I’m going in.”

  “What?” Gary’s eyes bugged behind his wire-framed glasses.

  “I have to see what Marco and Francesca are up to.”

  “We’re only supposed to be gathering intel, Freddy.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what I’ll be doing. What kind of intel are we gathering from this van, while everybody is in there? We won’t learn anything until the whole event is over, and by that time, the Russos could have already made contact with whoever they’re here to see.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but I also know that I can’t just sit in here waiting.”

  Gary pushed his glasses up his nose and chewed his bottom lip. He didn’t like this. Hell—I didn’t like this. But I wasn’t going to go back to headquarters empty-handed. Sitting on the sidelines had never been my forte. I had to do something.

  I reached into the backseat of the van and pulled out my suit jacket. I kept a spare suit jacket and an extra change of clothes nearby wherever we went, because I never knew what kind of situation I might find myself in—like attending the biggest art exhibition of the year.

  I threw my suit jacket on and pulled down the visor to check my hair in the mirror.

  “Freddy…”

  “Watch the door, okay?”

  Garry huffed, but finally nodded. I slipped out of the van and scanned the road before jogging across. I took the steps two at a time before coming to a stop in front of the massive double doors. My heart thudded, and I took a moment to compose myself. I had to be smart. In a moment, I’d be in the same room as our targets, and I couldn’t afford to blow it. This whole operation was resting on my shoulders.

  With a deep breath, I pushed the doors open and stepped through.

  I was greeted with the sound of delicate, classical music, interspersed with intermingling conversations and glasses clinking. Everything stank of money. I’d grown up surrounded by people like this, and an uncomfortable feeling started crawling up my spine. I never fit into places like this, and memories of prep school—of never fitting in—started to tickle the base of my skull.

  The walls in the gallery were stark white, which made the artwork on them stand out even more. The edges of the room had smaller pieces of art hung up on the walls, with small huddles of people admiring the paintings.

  Directly in front of me, in the position of honor, with a crowd of at least a dozen people in front of it, was a huge canvas. My eyes widened. The painting was pure agony in visual form. A woman tore at her face as her body melted off the bottom of the canvas, with angry brushstrokes forming her every curve. I stood still, staring at the canvas from across the room. Noise faded and all my senses honed in on the painting. I could almost smell the oils from the paint. It was exquisite.

  I wasn’t an art person. I’d never been to a gallery opening, and I’d never really understood what the big deal was. I grew up needing to do well to provide for myself and my family. I was the first person in my family to go to college. I was pragmatic. Utilitarian
. Even though I got scholarships to the best schools, there had never been time to spend on things as frivolous as art.

  But at that moment, I stood rooted to the ground, staring at the painting.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  I jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. Gianni Russo stood next to me, his face angled toward the painting. His curly, black mop of hair was wild on his head. One side of his scalp was shaved, and his shirt had one button too many undone. He was thin and wiry, with long, slender, almost feminine fingers. He glanced at me, a light twinkling in his eye.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s awesome.” I cringed at my word choice.

  Like I said—not an art person.

  Gianni chuckled and waved over a waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne. He took two flutes off the tray, handing one of them to me. “I’ll agree with you there—it is awesome.” His slight Italian accent made the word sound more sophisticated than it had on my own tongue. Gianni touched his glass to mine and took a sip. I nodded, only pretending to drink. I hadn’t had a sip of alcohol for ten years, and I didn’t intend to start now.

  “Is that one of Hailey Ford’s?” I asked, remembering the name on the banner outside.

  “It is. Come.” He nodded his head toward a side room. Following Gianni Russo into a side room on my own wasn’t part of the plan. I scanned the crowd around me, suddenly nervous. Was this a set-up? Did he know I was CIA?