‘Your reputation precedes you, Mr West.’

Her voice came at him gravel-rough, with just enough honey at the edges to keep things interesting. She bent lower; she had to if she wanted to get a good look at his face.

‘You’re not as pretty as I’d been led to expect.’

‘Give me time. Bruises fade.’

Rowan smiled at him then, careless and casual, and that smile …

That smile was a weapon.

‘Mr West, let me drive you up to the house and have a medic take a look at you. My men are taking bets on how many ribs you’ve broken and whether you’ve lost your hearing. Odds are three to one that you’re simply a very good lip-reader.’

‘They just want to look at my lips.’

Jared let them curve and he knew what effect they had—of that she was certain.

‘I get that a lot.’

‘And I’m sure you use it to your best advantage.’ She let her gaze linger, appreciating him, and after a slow count to three she stopped. ‘The fact remains that I’d like someone to take a look at you.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘Do you take them?’

He smiled again. ‘From you, I might.’

KELLY HUNTER has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds, and losing herself in a good book. She is married with two children, avoids cooking and cleaning and, despite the best efforts of her family, is no sports fan! Kelly is, however, a keen gardener and has a fondness for roses. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home.

The Spy who Tamed Me
Kelly Hunter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my wonderful editor, Joanne Grant.

Thanks for your patience.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ROWAN FARRINGDON DREADED Sunday dinners with her parents. The tradition was a new one, instated exactly one month after her parents had retired and bought themselves a gleaming glory of a house that has all the showiness of a museum and no warmth whatsoever. Even the floral arrangements were formal.

She’d made a mistake two months ago, when she’d turned up with an armful of scented overblown cream- and butter-coloured roses and had had them relegated to the laundry sink—doubtless to be tossed out at her mother’s earliest convenience.

She hadn’t made that mistake again.

For some reason her mother loved this house, and insisted that Rowan—as her only child and heir—love the house as well.

Never going to happen.

Rowan’s hurried ‘I’m well set up already, Mum. Sell the house. Spend every last penny you have before you go, I really won’t mind …’ probably hadn’t been the most politically sensible thought ever voiced, but Rowan had meant every word of it.

To say that Rowan and her mother neither knew nor understood each other was something of an understatement.

Four people graced the enormous round table at this particular evening’s formal dinner. Rowan’s mother, father, grandfather, and herself. Presumably the round table gave the impression that everyone sitting at it was of equal importance, but the actual conversation around the table told a different story.

Rowan shared a glance with her grandfather as her father launched into yet another monologue that revolved around dining with dignitaries and very important people she’d never heard of. Both her parents had been Army in her younger years, and had made the switch to foreign ambassador postings later on. They’d led the expat life for most of their lives, while Rowan had been largely left behind with her grandfather. His job hadn’t exactly been geared towards the raising of children either—he’d been an Army general—but he’d never once left her behind and she loved him all the more for it.

Rowan’s phone buzzed once from its pocket in her handbag, sitting on the side table where she’d put it when she arrived, and Rowan winced. She knew what was coming.

‘I thought I asked you to turn that off?’ her mother told her coolly, her almond-brown eyes hard with displeasure.

People often thought brown eyes were soft, liquid and lovely.

Not all of them.

‘You know I can’t.’ Rowan rose. ‘Excuse me. I have to take that.’

She took her phone and the information on it out into the hall and returned a minute or so later. She crossed to her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

‘You’re leaving?’ Her mother’s voice was flat with accusation rather than disappointment.

Rowan nodded.

‘Trouble?’ asked her grandfather.

‘I’m covering for one of the other directors this week, while he’s out of the country. One of his agents has just emerged from deep cover. We’re bringing him in.’

‘We barely see you any more,’ her mother offered next—never mind that before they’d retired they’d barely seen her at all.

‘You barely saw her during her childhood,’ her grandfather told his daughter bluntly. ‘At least when Rowan leaves at a moment’s notice she gives us an explanation.’

There was enough truth in those words to make her mother’s lips draw tight. Enough of a sting in them to make Rowan’s memories clamour for attention.

‘But it’s my birthday,’ Rowan had once said to her mother as her parents had headed out through the door, their travel bags rolling behind them like obedient pets. ‘Grandfather made cake. He made it for us.’

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ her mother had said. ‘Needs must.’

‘But you’ve only been here one day,’ she’d said to her father once, and had received a stern lecture on tolerance and duty for her efforts.

‘Where are you going?’

She’d stopped asking that one. To this day she didn’t think she’d ever received a truthful answer. The take-home message had always been that they were going somewhere important and that Rowan wasn’t welcome.

‘You need to toughen up,’ her parents had told her over and over—and toughen up she had.

That her mother now wanted a different type of relationship with her only child concerned Rowan not at all.

‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’

‘Your grandfather’s not getting any younger, Rowan. You could do more for him.’

Her mother’s salvo had been designed to hurt, but Rowan just smiled politely and let it land on barren ground somewhere left of its target. Rowan saw her grandfather at least twice a week, and called him every other day and then some.

Not that her mother knew that.

Nor did Rowan feel the urge to enlighten her.

‘You’d like this agent who’s just arrived,’ she told her grandfather, for she knew he’d be interested. ‘He’s been causing utter mayhem with very limited resources.’

‘Is he ex-Army?’

‘No, he’s one of ours from the ground up. Very creative.’

Ten to one that the next time she called her grandfather he’d know who she was talking about. He might be long retired, but he still had impressive contacts.

‘Yes, yes, Rowan. We know your job’s important,’ her mother said waspishly, and Rowan turned towards the immaculately coiffured woman who’d given birth to her.

For a woman who’d presumably had to fight the same gender battles that Rowan still fought, her mother appeared singularly unimpressed by Rowan’s successes and the position she now held within the Australian Secret Intelligence Service.

‘Enjoy your meal.’ She managed a kiss for both her parents. ‘I brought apple cobbler for dessert.’

‘Did you make it yourself?’

One more barb from a mother who’d barely lifted a hand in the kitchen her entire life—such was the privileged expat existence she’d led.

‘No. A friend of mine made it because I paid her to. It’s her grandmother’s recipe, passed down through the generations. I hope you like it.’

Dismissing her mother, she crossed next to her grandfather and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

Her phone pinged again and Rowan straightened. ‘Time to go.’

‘I suppose that’s your driver?’ her mother said sarcastically. ‘He’s a little impatient.’

‘No, he’s just letting me know that he’s here.’

‘Maybe you’ll see your way to staying for the entire meal next month. If I even bother to continue with these dinners.’

‘Your call, Mother.’ Rowan glanced towards her father, who’d sat uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. ‘Are you displeased with me as well?’

Her father said nothing. Ever the diplomat.

‘You know, Mother … both of you, come to think of it … just once you might want to try being proud of me and the position I hold instead of continually criticising my choices. Just once. Maybe then I’d give you the time of day you so clearly expect.’

And that, thought Rowan grimly, was the end of Sunday dinner with her parents.

Her grandfather stood, always the gentleman, and accompanied her into the hall and to the front door while her parents stayed behind. It wasn’t his house—it was her mother’s immaculate mausoleum—but it would never occur to her to afford her daughter the same kind of courtesy she’d spent a lifetime offering to others.

Her mother had been a well-respected foreign ambassador, for heaven’s sake. Marissa Farringdon-Stuart knew how to honour others.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Rowan’s grandfather said gently.

‘She’s getting worse.’

‘She’s losing her grip on what’s acceptable behaviour and what’s not. Early onset dementia.’

‘Nice try, old man, but I know what dementia is and what it’s not.’

What her mother dispensed had nothing to do with dementia—it was carefully calculated vitriol.

‘She’s jealous, and some of that’s my doing,’ her grandfather said gruffly. ‘I never had time for her. I learned from that mistake and made sure I had time for you. Plus, you’ve done extremely well in your chosen profession. Your mother’s competitive. That irks her too.’

‘And my father? What’s his beef with me?’

‘Who’d know?’ There was no love lost between her grandfather and the man his daughter had chosen to marry. ‘He’s an idiot. Too much noble blood and not enough brain cells.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she murmured.

‘You look beautiful this evening,’ her grandfather told her gruffly.

‘Flatterer.’

Rowan tried to look her best for Sunday dinner—her mother expected it—but there was no escaping the fact that her eyes were unfashionably slanted, her mouth was too wide and her ears stuck out rather a lot, no matter what she did with her hair. In the end she’d cut her hair pixie-short and to hell with her ears.

She could look ‘interesting’, at a pinch.

Give her half an hour and the right kind of make-up and she could even look arresting.

But she would never be beautiful.

‘Take the apple cobbler home with you when you go. Ask for it. She’ll only toss it the first chance she gets, and I had Maddy make it especially for you. Extra cinnamon.’

‘I’ll save you some.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ Rowan embraced her increasingly fragile grandfather. ‘See you Wednesday?’

He nodded. ‘And bring me carnage, politics or intrigue.’

Rowan stepped from the house and headed towards the waiting vehicle. ‘You can be sure of that.’

CHAPTER TWO

HE’D MISSED BIRTHDAYS, two Christmases and two New Year’s Eves, but he hadn’t missed his sister’s wedding. That had to count for something.

So he’d been slightly late and utterly filthy? His sister Lena had still slotted him into her wedding party without a moment’s hesitation, before turning back to the celebrant and marrying his best friend, Trig—Adrian Sinclair.

That had been several hours ago now. The wedding dinner plates had long since been cleared away and the dancing was now in full flow beside the lazy snake of an Aussie river, with spotlit red gums soaring into the night sky. Jared had tried to be there in spirit as well as in body. He’d smiled until his jaw ached. He’d danced with the bride and he’d teased the groom. He’d stood until he couldn’t stand any more, and then he’d sat beneath one of the big old gum trees, his back to the bark, and let the party happen around him.

It had to be mid-evening by now—with many of the guests gearing up to kick on well into the night. Jared, on the other hand, could feel the adrenalin seeping out of his body and leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. He needed to find a bed and lie in it for a few days, weeks, months … He needed to find a place to be, a place to stay.

Damon had offered the beach house, and, yeah, maybe that would work for a few days. But people had a habit of dropping by the beach house, and what Jared really wanted was to be alone.

He watched with faint interest as Trig headed his way with a woman in tow. She’d arrived about an hour ago and hadn’t seemed the slightest bit perturbed that she’d missed the wedding ceremony or the food. Not a guest, he surmised. He didn’t quite know what she was.

Immaculately dressed—he’d give her that. All class, with slender legs and a pair of high-heeled shoes that he figured had cost a small fortune. Both his sisters had gone through an expensive shoe phase. He recognised the look of them, even if he couldn’t recognise the brand.

The shoes stopped in front of him and he looked up, his head resting against the tree trunk, steadying him, holding him.

Up close, he could see that the slender athletic form he’d been admiring had more miles on it than he’d thought. Up close, he could see that whoever had put this woman’s face together had had one hell of a liking for the unusual. She had a wide, lush mouth that tilted up at the edges, and wide-set eyes that tilted up at the edges too. Her nose was small. Her brown hair was short and boyish. Her ears weren’t big, but maybe—just maybe—they stuck out a little.

Together, her features made up a whole that was too odd to be classically beautiful and too arresting to be ignored.

‘Jared, I want you to meet Rowan Farringdon,’ Trig said. ‘The new Head of Counter-Surveillance, Section Five.’

Section Five. Jared tried to get his brain to work. Section Five was Eastern Europe, and when he’d left two years ago it had been headed up by Old Man Evans. Hard to say if she was going to be an ally Jared could use or not.

Probably not.

‘Your reputation precedes you, Mr West.’

Her voice came at him gravel-rough, with just enough honey at the edges to keep things interesting. She bent lower; she had to if she wanted to get a good look at his face.

‘You’re not as pretty as I’d been led to expect.’

‘Give me time. Bruises fade.’

She smiled at him then, careless and casual, and that smile …

That smile was a weapon.

‘Your sister suggested that you might want a lift up to the house. I have a car here.’

He’d noticed it. Black. Sleek. Probably armour-plated.

‘Why all the security for a wedding?’ He’d noticed them—of course he had. Fully a quarter of the guests here tonight were Special Forces and plenty of them were packing. As was the woman standing in front of him.

‘You know the answer to that one, cowboy.’ She smiled again, more gently this time. ‘We’re here for you.’

‘You’re not my section head.’

‘And for that I am truly grateful. You’ve made quite a mess. Bravo. But the fact remains that we’re here to take you to Canberra and make sure nothing untoward happens to you along the way.’

‘Give me the weekend and I’ll go willingly.’

‘Mr West …’ It was a murmur shot through with indulgence. ‘We’re giving you tonight, and for that you should be grateful. You were due back two years ago.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Jared shot her a lazy grin, just to see if it would annoy her. ‘You’re young for a director.’

‘I’m forty years old and cunning as an outhouse rat.’

She was ten years older than him.

‘Like I said …’

Her laugh came low and unfettered and slid straight into the number one spot in the list of things he needed to make this woman do again.

‘Don’t underestimate me, Mr West. And I won’t underestimate you.’

‘Call me Jared,’ he murmured, and then he caught Trig’s sudden alertness and switched his attention to his oldest friend—who was now his brand-new brother-in-law.

‘Jared …’

Trig looked faintly amused—or was it resigned? Maybe Trig had ESP, or maybe he’d simply known Jared so long that he could read every twitch, but somehow Trig had sensed his interest in this section head with the funny face and the whisky voice and the smile that was a weapon.

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Really bad idea.’

‘I’ve had worse.’ Jared turned his attention back to the director and smiled.

Rowan Farringdon wasn’t slow on the uptake. ‘Listen to your friend, Mr West. I’d chew you up and spit you out before breakfast.’

‘I wouldn’t complain.’

‘Oh, but you would.’

Did the woman’s lips never stop tilting towards a smile?

‘If I get in that car with you am I going to end up at the farmhouse or in debrief?’

‘At the farmhouse for tonight. I give you my word. You don’t have to be in debrief until ten past nine tomorrow morning.’

‘Any idea what they plan to do with me after that?’

Her expression grew guarded and in that moment he got a glimpse of the razor-sharp politicking that could make a woman section head at forty.

‘I dare say that’ll depend on the way you play your cards from here on in. You can play? Right?’

He was handsomer than she’d expected, thought Rowan—and she’d expected a lot. His body was big, and brutally honed for fighting, and the close-cropped black hair on his head only added to his formidable air. In contrast, his face could have graced billboards or movie screens, and his mouth had a ripeness to it that would leave lovers dreaming for just one more taste. Great jawline and cheekbones—and eyes that had seemed soft and liquid-bright whenever he looked at his sister, but were sharp and assessing now.

This was the man who’d singlehandedly destroyed a hundred-billion-dollar illegal arms empire. Singlehandedly exposed a line of rot within the anti-terrorism unit he’d worked for that had stretched all the way to a sub-director’s chair. The fallout had been spectacular, and there was fierce debate as to whether there was still more to come—whether he’d withheld information … saved the best until last.

She would have.

‘Mr West, let me drive you up to the house and have a doctor take a look at you. My men are taking bets on how many ribs you’ve broken and whether or not you’ve lost your hearing. Odds are three to one at the moment that you’re simply a very good lip-reader.’

‘They just want to look at my lips.’ Jared West let his lips curve into that lazy smile again. ‘I get that a lot.’

‘I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you use it to your best advantage.’ She let her gaze linger on the lips in question, because they really were that good, but after a slow count to three she stopped and snapped her gaze back to his eyes. Control. She had it and she fully intended to keep it. ‘The fact remains that we’d like someone to take a look at you.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘Do you take them?’

He smiled again. ‘From you—I might.’

‘You could use a Taser on him?’ Trig suggested. ‘That might work.’

‘I could, but he looks rough enough already. If I killed him there’d be paperwork.’

‘Director, would you mind if I had a word with the groom in private?’ asked West.

He tried to make the words sound like a request—he did give her that. But he expected her to grant his request. That much was very clear.

Rowan wasn’t going anywhere until she’d figured out his health status.

‘Try over by the river,’ she suggested. ‘It’s private there.’

‘It’s private here.’

‘Mr West.’ Gloves off, then, and to hell with protecting his ego. ‘How about you stand up and prove to my people that you can still walk?’

His chin came out. His gaze was all fierce challenge—no weakness in it at all.

‘I can walk.’

‘I’d like to see that.’

But he didn’t get up.

Pride was a bitch.

‘See that he gets to the house. We’ve a doctor waiting for him.’

Rowan didn’t wait for Trig’s reply before heading towards her car. She knew what it was going to cost West to get moving again. She’d been monitoring his movements ever since Antonov’s super-yacht had blown up. The trail of destruction he’d left in his wake and his relentless drive to get home in time for his sister’s wedding had been truly spectacular. No sleep for the past fifty hours and he was beyond exhausted—his body was struggling to hold him upright.

The only thing keeping him upright was willpower.

This was a man who’d been streamed for command from the moment he’d taken his first special intelligence service entry exam. He’d excelled at every position they’d ever given him. And if you counted his time with Antonov as solo dark ops work, he’d excelled at that too. She’d been expecting a pretty face atop a fierce intellect—a will of iron and a predisposition towards making trouble.

She wasn’t disappointed.

‘Great walk,’ Jared murmured as he watched her walk away, all confidence and sway. And he still liked her ears.

‘Can you walk?’ Trig wasn’t going to be distracted.

‘I think so. I just can’t get up.’

Trig held out his arm and Jared grasped it—high near the elbow, a climber’s grip. Next minute he was standing, and gasping, trying not to pass out or throw up or both. Two harsh breaths after that Lena materialised beside him, swathed in wedding dress white, with her hand wrapped around his other upper arm to keep him balanced.

‘You’re heading up to the house?’ she wanted to know.

‘In a bit.’ There was the small matter of having to get there on his own two feet to consider first.

He could walk.

Couldn’t he?

‘Use the bed in the master bedroom.’

‘You mean your bed?’ Their wedding bed? Unlikely. ‘Yeah—no. Pretty dress. Maybe you should step back a bit.’

She didn’t, and he bit down hard on his nausea. Lena never had been inclined to do as she was told. She was a lot like him in that regard. Instead she stepped up into his space, put a hand to his cheek and studied him with worried eyes.

‘You look awful. Like you’ve been through hell to get here. Tell me you’re not going back?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Lena.’

She got that stubborn set about her jaw that boded well for no one.

‘Got some cleaning up to do,’ he offered gruffly. ‘Nothing too strenuous.’

‘Do you still have a job?’

‘Could be I’m not flavour of the month.’

Trig snorted.

‘What did the director say?’ asked Lena next.

‘That we’re leaving tomorrow.’

‘Did she tell you that there’s a doctor waiting up at the house to check you over? She called for one two minutes after she laid eyes on you.’

‘Women will fuss.’

‘Don’t you dare lay that line on me. Or on her, for that matter. If I’d walked into your wedding looking like you do you’d have dragged me to the hospital two minutes after I arrived.’

‘I’m going,’ he muttered. ‘Stop looking at me as if I’ll break.’

‘I had a year of people looking at me like that.’

‘I didn’t look at you like that,’ he protested faintly.

‘Yeah, because you weren’t here.’

‘I’m here now. Lena.’

It sounded like a plea. It was a plea. For mercy. For absolution. And she really needed to step away from him soon—before he ruined her dress.

‘I’m going. I’ll find a bed. Do whatever the good doctor says.’ He covered her hand with his own and leaned into her touch. A moment of weakness—a tell for those watching. And there were plenty watching this little exchange. ‘I’m going. I was just enjoying the party, that’s all.’

He took one breath and then another. Stepped forward.

And the world went black.

CHAPTER THREE

‘STUBBORN, ISN’T HE?’ Rowan said to the hovering bride, in an attempt to put her at ease, while a local doctor recently persuaded to make house calls ordered the groom and one of her agents to lay Jared West on his back on the bed.

The bedroom décor was a mix of rainbow meeting Venetian chic, and the unconscious Jared looked decidedly out of place in it—never mind his hastily cobbled together wedding attire. Once a wolf, always a wolf … no matter what clothes he wore.

‘You have no idea,’ Lena said glumly. ‘I should have let you escort him to hospital the minute he got here.’

Jared’s eyelids lifted mere millimetres—just long enough for him to glare at them momentarily before they lowered again.

‘What’s his name?’ asked the doctor.

‘Jared West,’ said Lena. ‘Pain in the arse extraordinaire.’

The doctor grabbed a small flashlight and bent towards the patient. ‘Jared? You with me?’

Jared grunted what might have been a yes.

‘I’m going to check your pupils for responsiveness to light. This won’t hurt.’

‘Not concussed. Concussion was three days ago. I’m over it,’ Jared mumbled, but he proceeded to co-operate.

‘Glad to hear it. Does that diagnosis come with a medical degree as well?’

‘Comes with experience.’

‘Is he always this argumentative?’ Rowan asked Lena from the end of the bed.

‘Yeah, that’s him. He prefers to call it persuasion.’

‘Got any bumps on the head?’ the doctor asked his newest patient.

‘Couple.’

Jared let the doctor examine them.

‘What about your neck? Any stiffness there? Movement okay?’

Jared had his eyes closed when he answered. ‘My neck’s okay. Shoulder’s wrecked.’

So much for the busted eardrums theory, thought Rowan with a sliver of relief. If Jared could answer the doc’s quiet questions without watching the older man’s lips, he wasn’t deaf.

‘You’re not deaf,’ she said, and was rewarded by the faintest curve of Jared’s lips. ‘There goes a week’s wages for at least half of my agents.’

‘Yeah, but the other half will be richer for it.’

‘What’s he like when he really smiles?’ Rowan asked.

Maybe it wasn’t an entirely appropriate question to voice, but it never hurt to be well informed and armed for the battles ahead.

‘I haven’t seen it for a while,’ Lena said. ‘But historically it tends to be pretty lethal. Nations fall. Angels weep. That sort of thing.’

‘Amen,’ Jared mumbled.

‘See, if he wasn’t all beat up I’d thump that arrogance out of him,’ offered Lena. ‘Because I love him.’

Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away before her brother could open his eyes and see them.

The doctor picked it up, though, and his next words were soothing. ‘He’s conscious, he’s coherent—’

‘No blood coming out of any orifices. I’m perfect … Got any painkillers?’ the patient said next.

‘For what?’

‘Ribs.’

‘Sit up and let’s have a look at them.’

Jared moved to a sitting position on the edge of the bed with a little help from Trig. He also accepted help when it came to the removal of his borrowed suit jacket, but he unbuttoned the shirt beneath it himself.

He took his time, but Rowan figured that the delay had more to do with Jared’s current lack of fine motor skills than with any real desire to delay the process. Finally the shirt came off, to reveal a sweat-stained bandage held in place with silver electrician’s tape.

‘I dislocated my shoulder at one point as well. But I got it back in.’

‘Yourself?’

‘A bathtub helped.’

‘Jared, can you raise your arms above your head?’

‘Last time I tried that I woke up two hours later, facedown on the deck.’

‘When was that?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘Any additional problems since then?’

‘A crucifying lack of sleep.’

‘Jared, I’m going to check your lungs and heart. Then you’re going to raise your arms for me while I do it all again, and then you’re going to lie back down while I examine your ribs more thoroughly.’

Jared nodded.

Rowan tried to afford the man some privacy, but it was hard not to stare at the spectacular bruising that bloomed across his sculpted chest as the doctor unwound the bandage. He’d taken a beating, this man. And then some.

The doctor listened to his lungs and heart with a stethoscope and then poked and prodded around his stomach and lower still while everyone else stood and watched. And then, as the patient began to raise his arms and the doctor began to press on his ribs, he passed out again.

‘May as well keep going,’ said the doctor as he caught him and eased him back onto the bed with impressive nonchalance.

Jared came round moments later but stayed right where he was, encouraged to do so by the doctor’s hand on his shoulder.

The examination continued and the doctor finally made comment. ‘Without access to X-rays, I’m thinking he has four substantially cracked ribs.’

‘Show-off,’ muttered Lena, her voice ragged with worry. ‘What else?’

‘Soft tissue damage—as you can see. Probably some compression damage. Do we know what hit him?’

‘We know there was a series of explosions on board a yacht, and we can reasonably assume that Jared was thrown around by them. He also drove a truck through a warehouse wall and rolled a four-wheel drive in the desert.’

That was all the detail a civilian doctor needed.

‘All of which happened two to three days ago.’ She looked at the physician. ‘He’s been travelling ever since. Does he need a hospital?’

‘No,’ said West. Conscious again. ‘I’ve already been to one.’

Not by my reckoning. ‘Where?’

‘In … um …’ His voice drifted off. ‘Might have been Budapest. X-rays. Strobe lights. Everything. They gave me pills.’

‘Sure it wasn’t a disco?’ she offered dryly.

‘I like you,’ he said.

‘Can you remember the name of the pills?’ the doctor asked.

Jared snorted. ‘No. They were good, though. Kept the packet for future reference. Pocket.’

The doctor leaned down and rifled through the shirt on the floor, pulling out a small container. ‘How many did they give you?’

‘Five.’

‘Two to three days ago, yes? It says here one a day. Where are the other two? And don’t tell me you doubled up on them.’

So the patient said nothing.

‘What are they?’ asked Lena.

‘Cocaine derivative. Explains his ability to keep going, perhaps. And why he’s crashing so heavily now.’

‘Yep,’ Jared muttered. ‘Sleep.’

And then abruptly he tried to sit up again, with limited success.

‘Why are there strawberries? Am I in the bridal suite?’

‘No,’ Lena told him. ‘You’re in the spare room.’

Jared subsided somewhat, but kept eyeing the strawberries warily. ‘And those? Growing in the giant stripy teacup?’

‘What about them?’

‘Why?’ His voice conveyed vast layers of confusion and a complete inability to comprehend such a thing.

‘Her house, her rules,’ offered Rowan. ‘Don’t over-think it.’

His eyes opened to slits. ‘Does your spare room have strawberries in it?’

‘I don’t have any room to spare.’

‘You probably let people crash in your room instead.’ His lips quirked. ‘I like it.’

‘Jared,’ said Lena sternly. ‘Director on deck, remember? Less flirting—more respect.’

‘Why are you still here?’ Jared asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your wedding reception? All I’m doing right now is going to bed.’ His voice softened. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay. I made it here, didn’t I? Don’t make me regret the effort.’

‘If you need a hospital, Jared, and you’re lying about having been to one already, I swear on my new husband’s soul that I will make you regret it.’

‘She’s vicious,’ Jared told his best friend. ‘I hope you factored that in?’

The groom smiled, wide and warm. ‘Get some rest.’

‘I would if you left.’

The bride and groom made their exit, with Lena glancing back over her shoulder and warning her errant brother to be good just before the door closed behind them.

Only then did Jared allow his face to reset into a grimace of pain. ‘Hey, Doc? About those painkillers …’

‘On a scale of one to ten—one being zero and ten being unbearable—how much pain are you in?’

‘If I lie perfectly still I can get it down to about a seven.’

The doctor told him to stay in bed and rummaged through his black medical bag for two little blue pills. He got a glass of water to wash them down with.

‘This is going to knock you out. You may shower in the morning when you wake. No sudden movements. Preferably no more boat explosions or motor vehicle incidents.’

He looked at the patient and expanded his list.

‘No surfing, boxing, skydiving or martial arts training. No weights, rock-climbing or kayaking. Getting the picture?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘Gentle swimming … floating, paddling. Pretend you’re three again. Shouldn’t be too hard, by the sound of it.’

Rowan liked this elderly smalltown doctor.

‘Listen to what your body is telling you and you might just come out of this in better shape than you deserve.’

Rowan liked this doctor a lot. ‘You’re not looking for casual work on an as-needed basis, are you? Because your bedside manner could really work for us.’

‘I’m two years away from retirement and I’ve seen everything I want to see and then some when it comes to medical emergencies. I don’t need to see any more of those.’

Pity.

‘Hey, Doc …’ the patient mumbled. ‘Do you think she’s got a funny face? I think so. But I really like it.’

The doctor sighed. ‘That’ll be the painkillers kicking in.’

‘Great voice too,’ Jared told them next. ‘Makes me think of sex. Does it make you think of sex?’

‘Son, you need to get some rest. Stop fighting it.’

The doctor slid Rowan a glance, his smirk in no way hidden.

‘You might want to leave before he proposes.’

‘I might want to hear it for blackmail purposes.’ Come to think of it, she might just want to hear it for her own selfish reasons.

But it was a moot point. The man on the bed was already asleep.

‘Do we have the all-clear to fly him elsewhere in the morning?’

The doctor nodded. ‘Get him X-rayed as soon as you can … keep him hydrated, keep an eye on him.’

‘Thank you for your co-operation.’

‘Not a problem—no matter what my wife says. Always a pleasure to help our special intelligence service.’ The doctor smiled his charmingly distinguished smile. ‘Who do I bill?’

Jared woke in a bed that didn’t rock with the rhythm of the ocean. It wasn’t his bed—he knew that much. His bed for the past two years had been a narrow bunk beside the engine room of Antonov’s super-yacht. It had been a floating fortress, locked down so hard that no one had been able to get near it undetected, and it had been more than capable of sinking anything that tried.

His bed hadn’t been soft, like this one, and his bunkroom sure as hell hadn’t contained a chest of drawers beneath a wooden window. Was that a pot full of strawberries sitting on top of it? He thought he remembered being puzzled by them last night as well. Because … why?

He opened his eyes a little more, turned his head and discovered lime-coloured sheets and a floral magenta and green comforter. If this was a motel he was clearly in the lollipop suite—but he didn’t think this was a motel.

He rolled over onto his back and winced at the pain that seared through his body. There’d been a doctor at some point last night. The doctor had told him that his estimate of two cracked ribs had been a little under. There’d been pills last night too, and then there’d been blessed oblivion.

He was at Lena’s farmhouse. He remembered now.

And he could use a couple more of those painkillers.

He heard a door open and then footsteps that seemed to stop at the end of the bed. He opened his eyes a little more. Pretty was his first thought. Funny was his next.

It was the woman from last night. He remembered her mouth and her ears. He didn’t remember her eyes being quite such a tawny vivid gold.

‘You awake?’

He also remembered her voice. His body heartily approved of her voice. ‘Mmm …’

She wasn’t just any woman. She was a director of counter-intelligence and he was in deep trouble. She wore a white collared shirt, dark grey trousers and a thin silver-coloured necklace that looked as if it would break the minute someone tugged on it. She was older than him by a few years and then some, and he was attracted to her, aware of her, in a way that he hadn’t been aware of a woman for a very long time.

‘We met last night,’ he offered, in a voice still thick with sleep.

‘So we did.’

No rings on her wedding finger. No rings anywhere on those slender, expertly manicured fingers.

‘Not sure I remember who you are, though. Memory’s a little fuzzy.’

Could be he was winding her up—just a little. Could be he wanted to see if her eyes would flash with irritation at having to introduce herself again, section director being such a forgettable position and all.

But her eyes did not flash with irritation. Instead, crinkles formed at the edges of them as she smiled, slow and sure. ‘Oh, you poor darling man. I knew you were confused last night, but I didn’t know you were that far gone. I’m your sister’s wedding caterer.’

‘I see.’

He really didn’t see.

‘You don’t remember begging me to give you a lift to the nearest motel?’ She looked so guileless. Damn, she was good. ‘Because I did. Take you to the nearest motel, I mean. But the night manager took one look at you and remembered that he didn’t have any vacancies. I was a little sceptical, but he was very certain. He figured you were either going to puke all over the room or die in your sleep, or both, and apparently that’s bad for business. Also, you had no ID. He didn’t like that either.’

Jared smiled. He had no idea where she was going with this story, but he figured he might as well let her run with it. Or maybe he just liked hearing her voice.

‘What happened after that?’

‘I offered to take you to the hospital.’ She leaned her forearms over the slatted wooden bed-end. ‘To which you said an emphatic no. You then told me I had the sexiest mouth you’d ever seen.’

‘I did?’ He might have thought it. He didn’t think he’d said it.

‘I was swearing at you at the time. Trust me, I was surprised too.’

Jared let his gaze slide to her mouth, all shapely and tilted at the corners as if she was always ready to smile. “You shouldn’t have been that surprised.’

‘And then …’ she said, and followed those words with a very long pause. ‘Then you said that if I gave you a bed for the night you’d give me an orgasm I would never forget.’

‘I— What?’

‘I know. An offer too good to refuse, right? I mean … I have this mouth, you have that face … I think you’ve cracked a rib or four, but we could have worked around them. So I brought you here and offered you coffee, but you said if it wasn’t Turkish you didn’t want it. That’s when I got my first inkling that we might not be soul mates.’

We might not be wha—?

He was almost awake, and thoroughly confused, and, okay, he might have offered her a good time at some point—it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility—and the coffee line sounded like him, but still.

‘And then you told me that the ripples in my hair reminded you of deep ocean waves—in the moonlight, no less—and I figured we might just be soul mates after all. I’ve been wrong before.’

‘I did not say that. I would never say that. Your hair’s too short for ripples. It’s unrippleable.’

‘I gave you a glass of milk and three prescription painkillers and you groaned your gratitude. It was a deep and growly groan. Very sexy. I still had faint hope of an exemplary orgasm. Ninety seconds later you were asleep.’

She was better at this game than he was. He was playing injured, for starters. But maybe, just maybe, she was the better player.

‘You can stop now, Director. I know who you are.’

‘Of course you do.’ She shot him a very level gaze. ‘You need to stop playing me for a fool, Mr West. You need to stop looking at my mouth. And then you need to pay attention to what I’m about to say.’

He eased into a sitting position, wincing as he slung his legs over the side of the bed. At least he still had his trousers on. He remembered bandages too, but maybe they’d been coming off rather than going on. Either way, they were nowhere to be seen. Neither were any of his other clothes. Possibly because they’d been filthy.

He eyed the suitcase in the corner with interest. ‘I’m listening.’

‘You need to know that there’s no record that you were working for us during your time with Antonov. No one’s going to claim you as their dark pony. You’re on your own.’

That got his attention. He dragged his gaze from the suitcase back to the section director standing at the end of the bed. ‘So you’re throwing me under a bus?’

These things happened when you came back covered in filth rather than glory.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, but she didn’t deny it.

‘I want to talk to my handler.’

‘Then talk. Because right now the closest thing you have to a handler is me.’

‘No offence, but I don’t know you.’

‘No offence taken, but I do hope there’s someone in-house that you’re willing to talk to. I’ll be in your sister’s kitchen, Mr West. As for you, it’s time to get dressed. My people are almost ready to leave and you’re coming with us.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes. Either willingly or not.’ She smiled gently. ‘We don’t care.’

‘You know, they never mentioned that in the brochure.’

This time she laughed. ‘Maybe you should have read the fine print.’

If Jared had figured to slip quietly out of the farmhouse unnoticed, he’d been sadly mistaken. A big breakfast cook-up was in progress by the time he emerged from the bedroom, with his brother, Damon, wielding the tongs and his sister Poppy presiding over the flipping of fried eggs. The director was there too, sitting on a stool, sipping coffee and reading something on her computer, looking for all the world as if she had a place in his family—as if she was comfortable there.

He headed for the coffee machine. Looked at it and sighed. It was shiny, spanking new, and he had no idea what half the knobs on it did. ‘Does this do double-shot espresso?’

‘Only if you ask nicely,’ said Damon’s very pregnant wife.

Ruby was her name, and Jared eyed the bright green bow atop her head warily. She opened the lid of the coffee container and the aroma of freshly ground beans assaulted his nose and sent him straight back to a little coffee house in Istanbul.

Ruby obligingly waved the container beneath his nose. ‘We can put this in a pot and make it Turkish-style, if that’s your preference?’

‘I’m beginning to understand why Damon married you.’

‘You mean, it didn’t instantly dawn on you?’

‘Um …’ Why was his world suddenly so full of beautiful smart-mouthed women? ‘Turkish coffee would be great. I can make it.’

Ruby favoured him with a pretty smile. Jared risked a glance in Damon’s direction before taking a careful step back. He liked women with pretty smiles. He did. He’d never before been scared of one, but there was a first time for everything.

‘I … uh … I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back for your wedding.’

‘Play your cards right and you can be Damon’s plus-one at the birth.’

Oh, dear God. She was probably joking. Hopefully she was joking. But he figured a change of subject wouldn’t hurt. ‘Anyone seen the newly happily married couple this morning?’

‘They’re still in bed.’

Jared winced. There was another image he really didn’t want in his head.

‘You don’t approve?’ asked Poppy.

‘I do approve. I just don’t want to think about it.’

‘Very healthy,’ his new sister-in-law murmured.

‘If I whimper will you back off?’

‘I didn’t think terrorist-hunters whimpered.’

‘This one does.’

He shuffled around to the kitchen side of the bench, opened a couple of cupboards before finding a saucepan and dumping some water in it. Surprisingly, Ruby carefully shook a damn near perfect amount of ground coffee into it before putting the coffee tin back on the counter.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Poppy.

‘Good.’ As if a rhinoceros had rolled on him. ‘Peachy.’

And then Poppy was beside him, worming her way beneath his arm and hugging him carefully, and he closed his eyes and rested his cheek on her head as he gathered her in—because it was good to be home, and they had no idea how much he’d missed this, missed them, and for what?

He’d brought down the Antonov operation. So what? Another arms dealer would take Antonov’s place. He’d exposed a few moles in high places, but he’d be a fool to think he’d exposed them all. He knew he hadn’t exposed them all.

He opened his eyes to find Rowan Farringdon staring at him with puzzled eyes. He knew he was showing his weakness for family but he just didn’t care any more. He closed his eyes and hugged Poppy tighter.

‘Do I get one of those?’

The voice came from the doorway. Jared opened his eyes and looked straight at Lena. She looked well, if a little tousled, and her pretty floral sundress suited her. She looked happy.

‘If you want,’ he offered gruffly.

‘I do want.’

Lena started towards him, a slight hitch in her step—no way was he going to call it a limp—and then he had his arms full of Lena and Poppy both.

‘Got to do something to take that look off your face,’ said Lena.

‘What look?’

‘The faraway one. You need to come back to us, Jare.’

‘I am back.’

Lena stared at him intently for what felt like a very long time before silently shaking her head and stepping away and turning towards the director.

‘When does he have to leave?’

‘Five minutes ago.’

Poppy’s big blue eyes were grave. ‘How much trouble are you in?’

‘Don’t care.’

‘Will you stay working for them?’

‘Don’t know.’

Poppy didn’t care that they were having this conversation in front of Rowan Farringdon. Neither did Jared.

‘Do you want to?’

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

Damon shoved a dripping bacon and egg sandwich in his hand. Jared extricated himself from Poppy and bit into it with relief. He didn’t need a plate—he was an old hand at eating on the go.

‘Ready when you are, Director.’

‘I haven’t finished my coffee yet.’ You haven’t even had yours, her look said. I’m cutting you a break, here. Take it and shut the hell up.

He shut the hell up.

He bit into his sandwich more slowly this time. Coffee appeared and he reached for it gratefully. One minute passed. Two minutes. They left him alone. They asked no more questions.

And then two suited men darkened the doorway and Rowan Farringdon shut her little silver computer and stood up.

‘Agent West,’ one of them said, and there was a measure of respect in the man’s voice that Jared had never heard before. ‘It’s time to go.’

CHAPTER FOUR

ROWAN’S OFFICE WAS the same as the offices that housed the other five section directors. Large, as befitting her position, it also had a small apartment tucked in behind it, for when she worked around the clock and needed to freshen up with a shower and a change of clothes—or, indeed, catch a couple of hours’ sleep after coming off a thirty-six-hour shift.

Jared wasn’t strictly her responsibility any more. In all good conscience Rowan could have left him to Corbin to break or to fix. But she, like everyone else in the building, was uncommonly interested in whatever further information he might have to divulge.

Not that Jared West seemed inclined to divulge anything at all—at least not to Corbin.

Rowan gave yesterday’s recording of Jared’s debrief one last scathing glance before leaning back in her desk chair and tilting her head from one side to the other in an effort to ease the tension in her neck. It was only Tuesday morning, but she felt as if she’d been here for ever.

She reached for her headset and put it on. ‘Sam, have Agent West see me as soon as he’s out of debrief.’

Some people in this building wanted to hear a real debrief, not the fairytale version that Jared was out there spinning—and as of this morning Rowan had been given the task of earning his trust and breaking him open.

If she could.

Jared didn’t get out of debrief until midday Wednesday, and if he never again saw the inside of that little white room with its one-way mirror it would still be too soon.

Rowan Farringdon’s request caught up with him two minutes later. Five minutes after that he was standing in her outer office, staring at a lionfish in a wall-sized fish tank while her plump and pretty assistant buzzed him in.

He liked it that she didn’t keep him waiting. He liked it that she stayed seated behind her desk, because it reinforced their respective positions within the service. They weren’t equals here. He didn’t expect them to be.

He stood before her desk, feet slightly apart, hands behind his back, and waited while she looked him over in silence. The bruises on his face combined purple with a sickly shade of yellow. He wondered if she thought him any prettier.

She got more arresting every time he saw her. Today she wore dark grey tailored trousers and a fitted shirt that had two layers—the inside layer a soft-looking dove-grey cotton, the outside layer a fine white silk. She looked comfortable in her clothes, her skin and her surroundings. Power suited her.

And Jared … Jared had always been attracted to power.

She gave him approximately three seconds to settle before looking up from her paperwork and getting to the point. ‘Mr West, your debrief is a joke. Everyone knows it; not everyone’s happy about it. Who do you intend to confide in?’

No one.

‘I want to talk to my handler,’ he said instead. ‘I told Corbin that. I’ve told you this before as well. How many times do I have to say it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She looked momentarily torn. ‘Serrin’s dead. He’s been dead for two months.’

Jared kept his shoulders square and his face stony. This blow wouldn’t break him. He was just … tired. Tired of all the games. Tired of dealing on his own and making mistakes that cost other people too much.

‘Was it me? Did I leave him exposed?’

‘Yours wasn’t the only dark operation on Serrin’s books. He came unstuck elsewhere.’

One less stain for Jared’s soul. Assuming she was telling the truth.

She tilted her head to one side, her eyes searching and her smile oddly compassionate. ‘Jared, things would go a lot easier if you could bring yourself to trust me.’

‘I really don’t do trust.’

‘I know. I’ve read your file. Very few people are even allowed into your life, never mind privy to your thoughts. Your mother died giving birth to your brother. You’re fiercely protective of your sisters, not so much your father or your brother, who you blame—just a little—for your mother’s death. The only other emotional attachment you’ve ever made in your thirty years of living is to Trig Sinclair. You accepted him into your family unit when you were five.’

She still wasn’t wearing any rings on those expertly manicured fingers.

‘Here’s the problem,’ she continued. ‘A lot of people around here think that you haven’t quite finished exposing Antonov’s reach. A lot of people want to help you finish what you started. So here are my questions, given that you’re disinclined to share details. What are you waiting for? What do you need?’

A break, he wanted to say. Absolution. But he doubted she could give him either. ‘I need to go to Belarus,’ he said instead. Would she do it? Belarus was within her jurisdiction—her part of the world to monitor. ‘Just for a few days. Corbin won’t send me and I don’t know why.’

She laughed, and it was still one of the nicest sounds he’d ever heard. ‘Jared, have you seen your latest psych report?’

He hadn’t seen it. Chances were he wasn’t going to see it. ‘What does it say?’

‘That you have attachment issues, delusions of autonomy and a well-developed death wish. Corbin’s not going to send you to Belarus. He’s going to have a hard time sending you to the bathroom alone. All those sharp edges.’

‘I am not suicidal.’

‘Tell me what you want done in Belarus and I’ll put someone on it. Discreetly. You can run them from here.’

‘I don’t work that way.’

‘No? Maybe you should.’

She stood and headed for the door, but he wasn’t ready for this interview to be over, and he hadn’t yet let go of the rough edges he’d acquired after two years playing thug for Antonov.

He shot out his hand to keep the door closed and got up in her face.

Up close, he saw her eyes had little flecks of chocolate-brown in amongst the amber. He could smell the fresh lemon scent of her hair, feel the puff of her breath against his lips, and he knew that he was too close, that his lips were far too close to hers. Another inch and he’d be tasting her—and he wanted to. God. He wanted to fall into this woman and take his own sweet time climbing back out, and it didn’t matter that she was a section head or that his behaviour was way out of line. Maybe he’d forgotten what normal behaviour was. Meet a woman, like a woman, ask her on a date. Maybe he should start there.

‘Have dinner with me.’

‘That’s your next play?’

Nice to know he could surprise her. ‘Why not?’ He could feel the warmth in her, sense the steel in her, and he wanted both. ‘You can toy with me. Mentor me. Discipline me. I’m young. Impulsive. Smitten.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Could be why I like you.’ He eased back, just a fraction, and watched for signs of arousal in her—the faint flush of her skin or the hitch of her breath—but he didn’t find any. Just a soul-deep caution that matched his own.

‘You need to back off, Agent West.’

‘How about I take you to lunch? I promise to behave.’

‘No.’ She pushed her knuckles into his injured ribs—not hard, but a warning nonetheless. ‘You’re out of line.’

‘Would you hurt me?’ He leaned into her hand. ‘I don’t think you would.’

‘I’d rather not have to. Doesn’t mean I won’t, Mr West—

‘Call me Jared. Call me by my name.’ He hadn’t answered to his real name for such a long time—two years or thereabouts. He’d been Jimmy. Jimmy Bead. ‘Just—use my name. The way you did before. I want to hear people say it.’

‘Is your last name not enough?’

‘First name’s better.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s more me in it.’

‘Jared—’

‘Yeah. That’s the one.’

He stepped back all the way this time, and gave her the room she deserved. Her hand fell away and he felt the loss of warmth as if someone had dipped him in the Atlantic. He had a feeling that his psych report hadn’t covered half of what was wrong with him at the moment.

Or maybe it had.

‘If I say that my next question is for your benefit as well as mine, will you believe me?’ she asked quietly.

He ran a hand through his hair. He’d been doing that of late too, and it wasn’t something he’d ever done before—either as Jared or as JB … Jimmy Bead. ‘What’s the question?’

‘Do you know who you’re hunting? Antonov’s last insider. Do you know who it is?’

‘I— No. I think it’s a director, but I don’t know who it is. If I could have nailed a bullseye to his forehead I’d have done it.’

‘That much I do believe.’

‘Get me to Belarus,’ he begged.

‘No. Not yet. You need to rest. Take some leave. No one’s going to send you back out into the field in the condition you’re in. Get some sleep and let your body heal and then we’ll talk again. And, Jared …?’

‘That’s me,’ he muttered, and there was a joke in there somewhere, though it was probably on him.

‘Welcome back.’

CHAPTER FIVE

THE WEST FAMILY beach house sat on the edge of a long stretch of unpatrolled beach in northern New South Wales. Jared’s brother had bought the sprawling house several years ago, with the intention of making it his home, but that hadn’t happened yet and all four West siblings tended to treat it as their own personal place of sanctuary and of rest. Although preferably not all at once.

Lena and Trig’s big old farmhouse was a twenty-minute drive away, although given how much time they’d spent at the beach house with Jared this week he could be forgiven for thinking them homeless. They were supposed to be on their honeymoon, for heaven’s sake. A honeymoon that Lena had said they’d cut short because there was no place like home.

Jared hoped, for the umpteenth time, that they hadn’t cut it short because they’d wanted to keep an eye on him. They kept making excuses to drop by. Lena in particular wouldn’t stop hovering—which was rich, given how much she hated it whenever someone did that to her.

She had already been by this morning. She’d skipped out to the shops, because apparently Jared needed more food in the fridge, but she’d left Trig behind with Jared. Trig was currently out on the deck, examining his parachute, because apparently they were doing a jump just as soon as Jared’s ribs had healed.

Without physical challenge in his life, Jared got cranky, Trig had informed him blithely. And they needed to fix that.

Apparently a lot of things about Jared needed fixing.

Jared glared afresh at the psych report in his hand. His psych report, fresh off the back of his debrief. A normal person probably wouldn’t have asked his brother to swipe a psych report from the secure ASIS databanks, but to Jared’s way of thinking that was what genius younger brothers were for.

It had been three days since Rowan Farringdon had called him in to her office and asked him what he needed in order to finish the job. Three days and now he was on leave for two weeks—thinking about his future, trying to settle into the ‘now’ and going quietly out of his mind.

‘Who writes these delusional masterpieces anyway?’ he asked Trig.

‘Psychiatrists.’ Trig looked up from the parachute spread out before him, eyes narrowed as he took in Jared’s scowl. ‘Stop obsessing.’

‘I’m not obsessing. I’m disagreeing with the evaluation.’

‘You shouldn’t have the evaluation. No disagreeing with that.’

‘Apparently I have an Oedipal complex.’

‘Your mother’s dead, dude. How can you be in love with her?’

‘Could be I’m in love with a ghost. A perfect memory.’

‘Was she perfect?’

Jared thought back to what little he could remember. His mother’s wild curly black hair and the deep blue eyes that both he and his sister Lena had inherited. Her patience with her wayward children and her fierce defence of them when anyone else tried to discipline them.

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