by J. Kenner
I’ve barely slept for the last two nights, and when I do, I dream of my husband. I rub my wrist where Mason’s newly tattooed name is hidden under the cuff of my starched, white button down. I’d thought the permanent reminder would act as a talisman and give me some peace. So far, it hasn’t helped.
I want him back so desperately, but the truth is that even if he walked into the room this very second, he still wouldn’t be Mason. He’d be Jack Sawyer. And I’m having a hell of a time dealing with that. More, honestly, than I would have expected, but the stress is taking a toll on my stomach, and I’ve been waking up queasy and unsettled.
Thus my breakfast of dry toast and apple juice instead of my usual black coffee and a power bar.
From the end of the table, Ryan meets my eyes, his gaze sympathetic but firm. “You’re needed here, Denise. Besides, Winston and Leah are set to go. And Trevor is already on the ground in DC.”
I start to argue, but across the table, Leah gently shakes her head. I worked with Leah on Stark International’s security team before moving over to the more specialized and elite SSA. And while I really want to flip her the bird and snap that she doesn’t have any right to tell me when to back off a mission, I also know that she’s right. So is Ryan. So are they all.
Because the only reason I want to go to DC is to run away from my own hollow heart. But that’s not something I can escape from anyway.
“Good luck,” I say instead. “You have me here for tech support if you need it.”
“When don’t we need you, darlin’?” Winston asks. “You’re the computer whisperer, aren’t you?” He grins and the room laughs, including me. I worked in the field with Mason for years, and more recently with Quince. But what I really love is squeezing information out of bits and bytes.
“Go on,” Ryan says, dismissing Winston and his team with a nod of his head. He turns his attention to Liam and Quince. “You’ve got your assignments. Any issues?”
“Any other day I’d complain that reviewing surveillance tapes is bloody boring,” Quince says. “But under the circumstances, I’m content with a nine-to-five assignment.”
Ryan grins. “Enjoy your evenings while you have them.”
Quince glances at me. I know exactly how his evening will be going. At home with Eliza. I roll my eyes in response to his wink, hoping he can’t tell that underneath my happiness for him, I’m a jealous, lonely mess.
“Foster?” Ryan turns his attention to Liam, a tall black man with a solid build, military bearing, and a dry sense of humor.
Originally from New York, Liam Foster came to the SSA from his post as the head of security for the Sykes chain of department stores. A pedigree that I thought was ludicrous until I learned that the security job was only a blind. Legitimate work, yes, but hardly his focus. And definitely not the line on his resume that landed him at the SSA.
I should have known there was more to him from the first moment I met him. After all, a department store gig wasn’t exactly the kind of job that hardened a man. And despite his kind nature, Liam is definitely hard. Turns out that Liam served in the military for years. And after that he was second in command of Deliverance, a once-secret vigilante organization that tracked down kidnap victims, mostly children, and did whatever was necessary to rescue the victims and bring the perpetrators to justice.
He’s smart, competent, and loyal, and we’ve become good friends.
“I’m set. Got a meeting during B-shift,” he adds. The SSA operates on a twenty-four hour schedule, with teams of agents reporting every three hours. “I’ll be on the job after that.”
Ryan nods assent as Liam packs up his things. He and his team are working a standard protection detail for a rising pop star whose manager insists she needs protection despite the star’s protests.
He pauses at the door, then turns back to me, one thick finger aimed my direction. I sit up straighter, wondering what the hell I’ve done to draw his fire, but all he does is smile gently, nod, and head out the door.
“He’s right,” Ryan says, when the door clicks closed.
“About what? He didn’t say a word.”
Neither does Ryan. I roll my eyes. “It’s like having a bucket full of older brothers.”
Ryan chuckles. “I’m not sure Leah and the other women will appreciate that.”
“Siblings,” I say. “For an only child, I’m surrounded by siblings.” I don’t add that it’s nice. Odd, but nice.
I take another bite of my toast, my queasiness finally starting to fade. “I’m going to go review Winston’s mission specs,” I say as I begin to gather my things. “I can start setting up some parameters, maybe even get some additional intel by the time they land in DC.”
I stand, but Ryan motions me back down. “That’s a good idea, but we need to talk about Cerise Sinclair.”
I settle back into my chair. “Did something happen?”
In her early twenties, Cerise Sinclair is one of Los Angeles’s pretty faces who grew up with money, has a trust fund as a cushion, and pays her daily bills off the income from being a social media influencer. A year ago, she bought a cozy little house in the Hollywood Hills without giving a thought to security. She has three vacant lots surrounding her, all with steep terrain, but not so unfriendly that a determined stalker couldn’t walk there. And considering how much of her personal life she shares on social media—and how often she shares those details in only a bikini—she’s collected quite a few ardent followers. Some of whom seem to think her posts are something akin to foreplay.
Before Quince and I dove headlong into the search for Eliza’s sister and a missing princess, I’d consulted with Cerise on the installation of a security system for the property. The system is top notch and, as far as I know, hasn’t registered any breaches to the home’s perimeter.
Ryan shakes his head. “There’ve been no attempts to enter the residence, but Cerise asked if you could swing by. She didn’t say why, but...”
He trails off, but I understand. Cerise may be a little high-maintenance, but she’s both a client and one of Ryan’s personal acquaintances, having come to the SSA via Ryan’s wife, Jamie, who had interviewed Cerise a while back for a television news segment about the growing popularity of social media.
I glance at my watch. “I can go now and then devote the rest of the day to getting through my backlog and doing research for Winston’s team.”
Ryan’s phone vibrates on the table, and he glances down as I start to stand. “She’s in San Diego for the day, and asked that you come this evening,” he says as he taps out a quick reply to the incoming text. “Just as well. I want you to take a partner with you.”
I settle back into my chair, studying him. “To go to Cerise’s? Why?”
“New man on the team. Might as well ease him in.”
“Ease him in? Since when is this the kind of operation that eases anybody in?” Though relatively new, the SSA has already developed a reputation for complex jobs, many with international components. We’re not a training facility.
Ryan ignores me, instead pushing the button on the desk’s console that shifts the conference room’s status from locked to open. The light above the door clicks to green and I watch as Damien Stark pulls open the door and steps in, all strength and command and poise. He’s flanked by Seagrave and Mason, with Quince and Liam bringing up the rear.
I glance at Ryan, realize my mouth is hanging open, and shut it. I turn my attention to Quince. We’ve worked together enough now that I’ve gotten good at reading his face. But he looks as confused as I do, and I realize that Damien must have asked him and Liam to join the meeting, probably figuring I needed a buffer.
I’m just not sure what exactly I need buffering from.
“Denise,” Mason says, his too-familiar smile both delighting me and making tears prick my eyes. He steps toward me, his hand extended. “It’s really good to see you again.”
I take his hand automatically, realizing in that instant that except for a
light brush when he passed me coffee, it’s the first time we’ve touched since his return, and I have to force myself not to squeeze tight and tug him closer. On the contrary, I gently pull my hand free, my heart pounding in my chest as my whole body sings, begging for more than this simple brush of hand over hand.
“New?” he asks, as I slide my now-free hand into the pocket of my jacket. I must look confused, because he nods toward the pocket. “Your wrist,” he says. “The tattoo.”
Without thinking, I pull my hand out of my pocket. The cuff has pushed up and is gripping my forearm, revealing my wrist and the single word inked in Cass’s clean, simple font: MASON.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, and I shake my head in confusion. “You didn’t have that when we met. I can’t help but think I said something that made you sad.”
“I—” I swallow and try again. “It wasn’t anything you said. Where Mason’s concerned, I’m always sad. I just realized that I wanted a tangible reminder.”
“One of Denise’s good friends is a tattoo artist,” Damien explains, then gestures for us all to take our seats.
I remain standing, my attention alternating between Damien and Ryan. “Can I speak to you two outside before we get started?” My smile is so sweet it’s a wonder everyone in the room doesn’t develop diabetes. “I was just about to update Ryan on a crisis that’s developed in the Michelson matter.”
There is no Michelson matter, but to both men’s credit, they simply nod. Damien stands, then gestures for the door.
I’m about to step that direction when Mason also rises. “Wait a moment. Please.”
His attention is entirely on me, and I feel his gaze burning through me, sending a tumble of emotions roiling through me. I want so badly to be with this man, and yet I’m afraid I’ll reveal too much to him and make things worse.
I’m furious with Damien and Ryan for putting me in this position. Seagrave, too, and that bastard hasn’t even said a word. He’s just sitting there like some chess master moving us around as if we were pieces on a board.
Mason’s the only one I’m not irritated with, even though he’s the one who frustrates me the most, since he’s the one around whom I must watch myself, putting on my Academy Award winning performance when all I want to do is hold him close and tell him the truth.
I say none of that, of course. Instead, I look to Mason and say, very simply, “What is it?”
“If there really is a Michelson case that needs your attention, then by all means, don’t let me stop you.”
I start to take a step toward the door.
“But if you just want to get your two bosses past that door so that you can rip them new assholes, then you’re about to attack the wrong people.”
I stop moving, cross my arms, and stare at the stranger who is my husband.
“I arranged this,” he says. “If it makes you uncomfortable, please don’t blame Mr. Stark or Mr. Hunter. Or Colonel Seagrave, for that matter.”
Beside him, Seagrave grunts, but says nothing else.
“Go on.”
“You know that Dr. Tam thinks that any direct revelations as to my past might be detrimental to my ability to pull out my memories, especially the memories of my last mission. Which, I’m beginning to realize, was an even more crucial assignment than I’d originally believed.”
He says the last with an eye to Seagrave. I knew nothing about his mission other than how long it took him away from me. But I did know how much the government trusted my husband and his skills, so learning that the mission was key comes as no shock.
He looks at me as if waiting for me to ask a question. I don’t. I just twirl my hand in a get on with it gesture.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I feel a pang in my heart, because this is an all too familiar scene. Mason going on about something at length when I’m already caught up, and me impatiently urging him to wrap it up.
“If the SOC wants my memories but can’t give me the canvas on which to paint them, then it makes sense that I should go back out in the field. Step as much into my old life as possible.”
“Work with me, you mean.” The words both excite and terrify me. “I’m not sure how much that would help. It’s been years since we worked as partners.”
He nods. “I know. But right now, you’re the best connection I’ve got.”
I look helplessly at Liam and Quince, both of whom look sympathetic, but offer no practical help. As for Seagrave, his expression remains entirely blank.
“You approve of this? You and Dr. Tam? You’re not afraid that Ma—the man he was before Jack Sawyer won’t get buried?” I hold Seagrave’s eyes, certain he understands my question: If I do this, am I going to lose any hope of getting my husband back?
“We think our Mr. Sawyer might have a point,” Seagrave says.
“And you two?” I say, turning to Damien and Ryan, who know full well what this will do to me.
“Even if he’s forgotten who he is, he still has skills,” Ryan says slowly. “The man will be an asset.”
“And working together may well be therapeutic,” Damien adds, and I know damn well he means that it might be therapeutic for me as much as for Mason.
“I realize it’s strange,” Mason—Jack—says. “I even know it’s going to be awkward for you. I don’t have any excuse. All I can tell you is that I’m selfish. I want my life back, and I will go to the mat with all of you to get this chance. Denise,” he says softly, “please help me.”
I draw in a strangled breath, then look at the ground so he won’t see my tears. I’m better than this. I’m not some emotional twit who cries all the time. But apparently where Mason is concerned, I am.
“Why me? Why not just return to the field?”
“Because we were partners,” he says. “And because I trust you.”
I shouldn’t have asked. His words are too hard to hear. But they also drive home the simple truth that I’m all out of objections. More than that, I want this. As dangerous as it is to my heart and as hard as it will be not to accidentally reveal too much of our past, I want this chance to once again work with my husband.
“Okay.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Okay? Really?”
“Do you want me to reconsider?”
He laughs and shakes his head as I glance over at Quince who’s grinning. We sound, I’m sure, like a quarreling couple.
“We’ll go see Cerise Sinclair together this evening. In the meantime, I can give you the file to read.” I frown. “I was going to run some errands before meeting Cerise. I can pick you up. Are you going to be staying in your room at the SOC?”
“Yes,” Seagraves says.
“Absolutely not,” Jack says. He faces Seagrave dead-on. “I’ll check in regularly. I’ll report to Dr. Tam daily. But you will not hold me prisoner. And if you don’t like it, you’re going to have to arrest me or kill me.”
I hold my breath until Seagrave nods. “Where will you stay?”
For a moment, I actually consider offering him our house. Fortunately, Liam jumps in before I make that ridiculous mistake. “He can stay with me. Assuming you don’t mind the beach?”
I watch as Jack’s face light’s up. We bought property inland because it was the only way to afford a house big enough to raise the family we eventually wanted. But my husband loves the beach.
“No problem. I’ve always wanted to live by the beach.” He grins at all of us. “Or, at least, I think I have.”
8
“Nice place,” Jack said, standing at the windowed back wall of Liam’s beachfront condo. The condo sparkled and still had that new car smell that signified either fresh construction or a recent remodel.
“It’s been around since the nineties,” Liam said when Jack asked the question. “Most of the units were remodeled at least a decade ago. But this one was owned by an elderly woman who lived with her six cats—and no, I’m not exaggerating. When she passed away, the family didn’t want to bother with it—they live in Ida
ho—and they put it on the market without any updates. Got a few nibbles but everyone haggled. I made a cash offer, then had Jackson draw up some plans. Then I hired Syl to act as a contractor, and the rest is history.”
He shrugged and grinned, looking pleased with himself. “Got it reappraised after the remodel, and even with my outlay of cash, I’m still in the black. That plus an ocean view. I consider it a win.”
“Not bad,” Jack said. “Syl and Jackson?” He almost hesitated to ask the question. Probably someone he should remember.
“Jackson Steele. He’s a pretty famous architect. Ring any bells?”
“Not even a tingle.”
“Jackson’s Damien’s half-brother. He designed The Domino, actually.”
“That I remember. The business park where the SSA is located. Was in the news for a few years while it was in development, right?”
Liam nodded. “I’m impressed,” he said as he headed into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Thanks. Black is good.” He moved to the back wall composed of glass sliders. “It’s weird what I remember. I know who’s president. I remember the oceans and continents, and I know the plot of at least a half dozen Star Wars movies.”
Liam laughed. “Not surprised. Denise is a huge Star Wars fan.”
Jack frowned, then looked back over his shoulder, and saw a flicker of something cross over Liam’s face. Like he was irritated with himself.
“Denise? So, she and I saw a lot of the movies together?”
“You were partners,” Liam said evenly, his attention on the coffee pot. “And you both like action movies and fantasy.”
“Huh.” Jack turned back toward the ocean, wondering what it was about Liam’s response that made him feel so off. Like he should remember something. Like maybe he wasn’t as honorable a guy as he liked to think and he’d taken his partner to the movies, not simply as casual friends, but for the pleasure of sitting next to her in the dark, their fingers brushing over the popcorn.