Trapped in the crosshairs, one couple faces a deadly mission…and a dangerous passion

When a routine case goes bad, private investigator Brooke Rogers is seconds away from death. Until Jared Nash comes to her rescue. The rogue FBI agent is tracking his estranged missing brother when it leads him to the ruthless Russian mobster Brooke’s stumbled upon. Now in the arms of her sexy protector, Brooke is on the run for her life…

The woman who thinks herself unlovable has awakened desires in Jared he buried long ago. Nothing can deny their passion. But when the firepower of the mob rains down on them, Jared must choose: follow his duty and save his brother…or follow his heart and save his woman.

Her breathing grew shallow…

She was light-headed, on the verge of blacking out. Could a person suffocate from fear?

“Brooke, nothing bad is going to happen to you.” His fingers curled around her wrist. His touch was light. Gentle. Soothing. “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

She used to be the one to reassure victims. Now the tables had turned. If only she could go back in time, she’d change the event that had changed her. But that was impossible. Now she could only hold it together until the panic subsided.

Jared stroked her hand. Up close, his jaw looked wider and his lips fuller. She wondered how they’d feel pressed against hers. Would his kisses be slow, deep, thrilling—

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She couldn’t tell him that she was thinking about kissing him. Not when her worst nightmare had come true. Not when someone was out to kill her…

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

That idea, pushed to its extreme, fired up my imagination and inspired me to write Risk It All.

Brooke Rogers has a new career as a private investigator. The past she wants to forget has left her with trust issues and nightmares, but at least she’s alive. Then she unknowingly sets foot on property owned by a mafia boss and is captured. Fortunately for Brooke, FBI agent Jared Nash is working undercover nearby and his conscience won’t allow him to leave the gorgeous blonde in harm’s way. After he rescues her, he has no desire to let her go. She’s smart and feisty but also surprisingly vulnerable, and he is attracted to her far more than he should be. Jared accepts her offer to help him search for his missing brother, partly to keep her close and safe. He can tell some past event still haunts her, and the only way to gain her trust and unleash her passion is to reveal deeply personal experiences of his own.

I hope you enjoy Jared and Brooke’s story of danger and passion.

Anna Perrin

Risk It All

Anna Perrin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNA PERRIN grew up reading romances and thrillers, so it’s no surprise she loves creating romantic suspense stories. She is a two-time Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award winner, has a bachelor’s degree in business administration and lives west of Toronto. Her favorite pastimes are spending time with her two terrific daughters and enjoying the crazy antics of her many pets.

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To Hayley and Julie, my amazing daughters I feel so lucky and proud to be your mom

To Patience Bloom, editor extraordinaire Your encouragement and suggestions are truly appreciated

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

FBI special agent Jared Nash shut off the industrial-grade mower he’d been using on the grounds surrounding the Sidorov mansion. Sweat trickled under his sunglasses while he scanned the sprawling front yard, the dense hedges bordering the property and the quiet residential street beyond. Nothing. No overt signs of trouble at all.

He blew out a frustrated breath. Two and a half long days of staking out former Russian mob boss Dmitry Sidorov in Langeville, a small city east of Columbus, had worn on his nerves. A year ago Sidorov had left Brighton Beach, the Russian mob’s unofficial headquarters in the United States, after he had barely survived a spray of bullets. Since then he’d been living a quiet life, no longer involved in anything criminal, at least according to the organized-crime branch of the FBI. But Jared’s younger brother, Steve, had mentioned Sidorov despised him right before he had gone missing. Steve’s connection to the former mobster was a mystery and the only lead Jared had, so he’d gone undercover to check out Sidorov.

He hefted the mower and dumped it into the open bed of the battered Green Thumb pickup. The truck and equipment, as well as the T-shirt he wore, were courtesy of a local gardening company whose grizzled veteran owner had been more than willing to cooperate, no questions asked, with a federal agent.

Parked next to the truck, a silver Lexus sedan gleamed in the midday sun. Jared had already taken a good look at its briefcase-carrying owner and memorized the license plate so he could check up on Sidorov’s visitor later.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the hired muscle, Sergei Latschenko, pacing the length of the tennis courts. He had spoken to the guy several times and learned Latschenko had recently quit smoking. Nicotine withdrawal was making him twitchy—and potentially dangerous, because of the Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol he carried inside his leather jacket.

Steering clear of him, Jared retrieved hedge trimmers and rawhide gloves from the truck. The four-acre estate, with its exotic flower gardens and expansive lawns, required a lot of upkeep. His calves and back still ached from hours spent yesterday digging yet another freaking garden and transplanting a dozen hydrangea plants. The lawn-maintenance-worker gig meant he was free to roam the property, but it hadn’t allowed him access to the mansion, which was a serious problem. If he couldn’t wrangle his way inside, how could he gain more intel on Sidorov?

He’d spent a wakeful night, considering and rejecting scenarios to gain entry to the place. With Latschenko and his gun patrolling the grounds, it was too risky to head inside uninvited. The occupants of the house included Sidorov, his twenty-two-year-old daughter and his housekeeper. The latter he’d met briefly, and he’d noticed her tentative smile and kind eyes. Instinctively, he knew she would be his way in if he could gain her trust.

Early this morning, he’d seen her struggling to carry a huge terra-cotta pot from the shed, so he’d stopped unloading bags of soil from his truck and gone to help. She’d immediately taken pity on his hot, sweaty self and waved him into the mudroom, where she’d handed him a cold can of cola from the extra fridge located there. When the phone in the kitchen had rung, she’d gone off to answer it, her slippers swishing on the tile floor. He’d taken the opportunity to steal into the main-floor office and install a bug. He’d been sorely tempted to flip through the file folders on Sidorov’s desk, but decided that was pushing his luck.

Upon her return to the mudroom, the housekeeper had offered him a taste of her Russian cooking after his chores were done. The timing was perfect because he’d overheard Sidorov telling Latschenko they had a meeting across town in the afternoon. After he’d sampled the housekeeper’s food, he’d find a way to remain inside, check out the contents of those folders and search the house.

He walked to the perimeter of the property and began trimming a long row of hedges. A few minutes later, his sense of unease returned. He stopped and looked back at the house. In the distance, a shadow moved under Sidorov’s office window. Was it a shrub shifting in the breeze or the trouble his instincts had alerted him to?

Striding across the grass, he wished he was carrying his gun instead of hedge trimmers.

* * *

Brooke Rogers had no qualms about peering into strangers’ windows, but she usually got paid to do so. Today was a freebie for her sister.

Thirty minutes after their phone conversation, Savannah’s words still rang in her ears. “Trevor is cheating on me, Brooke.”

“What? No way,” she’d answered, her gaze skimming the final sentences of the document on her laptop, unconcerned by her sister’s pronouncement. Savannah, affectionately called Chicken Little by family and friends, was a pessimist who predicted dire outcomes no matter how innocuous the circumstances.

“It’s true. Trevor doesn’t love me anymore.”

“What makes you think that?” Brooke had stifled a yawn as she’d gazed longingly at the stairs that separated her main-floor work space from the second-floor living quarters of the house she rented. She’d pulled an all-nighter and had promised herself a well-deserved nap as soon as she had emailed this report to her client.

“He’s been out late three nights this week, supposedly working, but I’m sure he’s being unfaithful. He’ll never admit to it, so I need you to get me proof—photographic proof—to throw in his lying face.”

Brooke had winced at her sister’s shrill tone of voice. “Didn’t you tell me he got promoted at the bank last month? That probably explains his long hours.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him. You’re not usually so trusting.”

Absolutely true. Two years of spying on cheating spouses and tracking down deadbeat debtors had made Brooke pretty jaded. An occupational hazard of being a private investigator, she supposed. Was her brother-in-law screwing around? He didn’t seem like the type, but she’d learned motivated adulterers were astonishingly devious. She hoped her sister was wrong, because Savannah would be devastated by that kind of betrayal.

What her sister had said next proved she was on the verge of losing it. “I followed Trevor’s car to a lavish house in Langeville. I fully intended to make my presence known, but then I just couldn’t ring the doorbell and meet my competition in person. I need you to get a photo of him with his rich lover so I can confront him.”

She should have talked Savannah out of her craziness. Heaven knew, Brooke had years of practice dealing with her emotional sibling. But would reassuring words be enough to ease her sister’s mind? For a day or two, maybe. Then her doubts would return, stronger than ever.

“You know about my miscarriages, Brooke. I can’t lose Trevor, too.” Savannah’s voice had broken, the pain real this time, not a melodramatic ploy for attention, and Brooke knew she couldn’t deny her request.

“Where are you?”

“At a coffee shop in Langeville.”

Slurping down coffee and stress-eating a sour-cream glazed donut, Brooke had guessed, the caffeine and sugar aggravating her anxiety. “Go home,” she’d told her sister gently. “I’ll come, but I won’t be able to concentrate if I know you’re hovering somewhere nearby.” She’d jotted down the address, then promised to call later and give a complete account of her visit.

After quickly emailing the report to her client, Brooke had left Columbus and headed to Langeville’s most exclusive residential community.

Her GPS had led her to a gray stone mansion with a multitude of elaborate columns, positioned at intervals along the front, and recessed niches, showcasing statues. On the top floor, a domed solarium let in sunlight from all directions. The impressive house and grounds had her whistling under her breath, but a familiar Lexus in the driveway confirmed she was at the right place. She parked her SUV several blocks down—in case Trevor happened to glance outside—and walked back.

Normally, she’d find a vantage point and rely on the sophisticated lens on her camera to capture details of her target’s illicit encounter, but she couldn’t be sure she’d wind up with the evidence that would reassure Savannah. No, this time she had to get up close.

Despite serious misgivings, she squeezed through a space in the hedges, then stayed near the cover until the house was only a short distance away. If caught trespassing, she’d have a heck of a time explaining her presence, but she’d made a promise to her sister and she couldn’t break that promise. Two years ago, she could have flashed her Columbus Police Department badge, saying she was following up on a complaint from a neighbor, but her career had ended after she’d been shot. She still mourned the loss when she let herself think about it, which was almost never.

She slowed her steps next to a truck loaded with yard equipment, eyeing the house uneasily. Was her brother-in-law meeting with a bank customer? That was the most logical explanation. Anybody wealthy enough to afford this impressive place could demand special treatment and get it—unless Savannah’s worries were valid and her husband was giving very special treatment.

The odor of cut grass tingled in her nose as she hurried across the manicured lawn. Spotting a window with open drapes on the far side of the house, she squeezed between several tall bushes, her sneakers sinking down into the rich soil of the garden. Unfortunately, the property sloped in such a way that, even at five feet ten inches, she wasn’t tall enough to see inside. Muttering under her breath, she hoisted herself up and braced her left elbow on the window ledge. A quick look inside...and she was exhaling in relief. No sexual frolics were going on in the bookcase-lined room. Her brother-in-law, wearing a gray suit, his steel-rimmed glasses and a serious expression making him look every inch the successful banker that he was, sat on the visitor side of a mahogany desk, leafing through papers in his briefcase. The man behind the desk appeared to be in his late fifties with a hooked beak of a nose and a square jaw.

Clinging to the wall like a gecko caused strain in muscles Brooke hadn’t realized she possessed. Her ponytail stuck to her hot neck, and her armpits became damp with perspiration. She lifted her camera and peered through the viewfinder. The stranger’s nose made a clean, sharp edge, so she squeezed the shutter. Next she took a picture of Trevor with his papers.

Her supporting elbow and toes screamed in protest, but she blocked out the pain. One more shot with the two men in it, and she was out of here. As if she’d willed it, the older man came around the desk to stand beside Trevor. Excellent. This last photo should get rid of Savannah’s suspicions about her hubby entirely.

The man pointed a gun at Trevor’s head.

Oh God.

Her elbow gave way and gravity did the rest, dragging her down to the garden below. When her butt hit the ground, the discomfort hardly registered over the shock of what she’d witnessed and the terror of expecting a gunshot to ring out.

Her heart zigzagged like a rabbit in her chest. No shot yet. She dug around in her pocket. Crap. She’d left her cell phone in her car. No way to call 911. She crawled along the back of the garden on her knees, determined to put distance between her and that window, then broke through the bushes, her camera clutched to her midriff.

A low, masculine voice said, “What the—?”

With a sinking feeling, she looked up. In front of her stood a strapping six-foot-plus guy wearing grass-stained jeans and a green T-shirt stretched tight over impressive muscles. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, a baseball cap covered his hair, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw.

“This is private property,” he said, stating the obvious. “You’re trespassing.”

As she got to her feet, she eyed the Green Thumb logo on his T-shirt, which matched the one on the truck in the driveway. The guy was an outside contractor with no vested interest in who came onto the property. So why was he objecting to her presence? Unless he resented her scrambling around a garden he was paid to take care of.

“You have to leave,” he insisted sternly. “Now.” The name Joe was stitched on his shirt pocket, and one gloved fist held a pair of heavy-duty, long-handled hedge trimmers.

Joe’s bossy manner set her teeth on edge, but he still deserved a warning about what was going on inside the house. The image of her brother-in-law with a gun to his head had drained every drop of moisture from her mouth, so she had to wet her lips in order to speak. “You need to leave, too. It isn’t safe here.”

His sunglasses stalled on her mouth for a moment, then shifted downward to the camera in her hand. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I saw a man with a gun.”

His body went rigid. “Where?”

“Inside the house.”

“Inside?” The location of the gun seemed to surprise him more than its existence. Then he shook his head. “How could you have seen inside the house?”

“I climbed up on the window ledge,” she admitted.

“Why?”

She frowned. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You can answer me, or you can explain yourself to the owner,” Joe said. “And before you decide, you should know that Mr. Sidorov is very protective of his privacy and won’t be pleased to learn you’re trespassing. Especially with a camera.”

“Can you forget about my camera and focus on the gun?”

He eyed her skeptically. “You’re probably mistaken about what you saw.”

“I’m not mistaken,” she said, though she wished she was. But the sight of that gun pointed at Trevor’s head was an image she would never forget, even without the photographic evidence on her camera. “Can I borrow your cell phone to call the police?”

“I don’t have one with me.”

“Is it in your truck?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed in that direction, and he fell into step beside her.

“No, it’s not in my truck.”

Seriously? Who didn’t carry a cell phone these days? Or was Joe lying so as not to get involved? “Look, Joe, maybe I was trespassing, but this is a life-or-death emergency. I didn’t just see a gun. It was pointed at my brother-in-law’s head.”

His expression turned even grimmer. “Who is your brother-in-law? Why is he here?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She wanted to scream with frustration. Her heart was still racing, her stomach sick with fear, as she waited for the report of the gun. She hadn’t seen a silencer on the barrel, so she knew if the trigger was pulled, she would hear the resulting shots. The absence of any such sound so far gave her hope. Maybe the home owner—Sidorov—didn’t intend to kill Trevor. But, at the very least, he’d threatened him, and she’d feel a lot better when her brother-in-law was out of range of that gun and there were cops crawling all over this place.

The whole situation felt surreal, as if things could spin out of control at any moment. She had no idea what was going on in the house, why Trevor had come in the first place. Even if he was released unharmed, a crime had still been committed, and there should be consequences. “The police need to know about this, and I can prove what I saw.” She patted her camera, grateful Savannah had insisted she bring it. “Please, loan me your phone.”

Joe shook his head. “I wish I could help, but Sidorov doesn’t allow outsiders to bring cell phones onto the property. He takes his privacy seriously, and his ban on phones is intended to prevent unauthorized photos of his property and his family.”

This time she believed Joe. She’d have to return to her car, use her own phone and pray the police responded quickly. She hated the idea of leaving the premises—it felt too much as if she was abandoning Trevor—but it was the only way to get the assistance he needed. She quickened her pace, cutting a path across the expansive lawn.

Joe’s long, muscular legs had no trouble keeping up with her. He spoke in a low voice. “There’s a security guard, Latschenko, who patrols the grounds. He’s new and eager to impress his boss. He was down at the tennis courts ten minutes ago, so hopefully you’ll miss him.”

And if she didn’t miss him, she didn’t want to think what kind of trouble would ensue. “Thanks for the warning.” When Joe stopped walking, she broke stride in confusion. “Aren’t you leaving, too?”

“Nah. I need this job. Latschenko likes to talk, so I’ll try to keep him occupied while you make your getaway.” His teeth flashed white in his tanned face, and then he veered off in the opposite direction.

Despite his initial bossy manner, Joe had turned out to be a surprisingly decent guy, she thought as she broke into a run. Her sneakers pounded across the lawn toward the driveway, her breath puffing in and out in controlled bursts. Within minutes, she’d be back at her car and the police would be on the way.

A man suddenly appeared from out of the shadow of the lawn-maintenance truck, looming in front of her and blocking her escape. “Stop,” he ordered, and she had no choice but to obey or plow into him.

The guy was heavyset with acne-scarred cheeks and a fierce scowl. He must be the security guard that Joe had warned her about. She’d expected him to be wearing a uniform, so she was surprised by his black leather jacket, a choice which struck her as masochistic on such a hot summer day. Was that bad-to-the-bone thug style really worth the discomfort? Or was Latschenko dressed like that to conceal a weapon?

She quickly eased her right hand—the one holding the camera—behind her back, and not a moment too soon. The guard’s gaze moved over her in a thorough, head-to-toe survey that made her skin crawl as if he’d touched her. “Who are you? Show me some ID.”

“I don’t have any with me.” She’d left her purse locked in her car, wanting to keep her hands free to take photos.

“How long have you been here?”

“Uh, only a few minutes.”

He pointed a finger at her accusingly. “Put both your hands where I can see them.”

The camera. She pressed it harder against her spine, wishing she could make it disappear.

He unzipped his jacket. “Hands. In front. Now.”

If she’d still been a cop, he wouldn’t be talking to her with such disrespect. Or if he had, she’d have told him to watch his mouth and get out of her way. Unfortunately, she was no longer in a position of authority, and his uptight facial expression and body language told her he wasn’t going to back down until she had complied with his demands.

As she moved her right hand with the camera into view, Latschenko’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and he reached inside his jacket. She knew, with absolute certainty, what would be in his hand when it cleared the black leather, and she was right.

He held a semiautomatic pistol pointed straight at her.

Chapter 2

Brooke stared into Latschenko’s cold eyes and remembered another time, another place, when she’d found herself staring into the barrel of a gun. Would today end the same way? With bullets ripping into her flesh? With her collapsing onto the ground and blood trickling out of her like water out of a leaky garden hose?

Latschenko’s gaze shifted downward to the camera, then back to her face. “Damn, I thought that was a gun. What the hell are you doing here, lady?”

Fear clogged her throat like a massive rock, preventing her from uttering a word, a sound or even swallowing. She knew her silence would make this confrontation even more dangerous, but her vocal cords had shut down at the first glimpse of his weapon. She knew the damage it could unleash. She knew the physical agony that came with a gunshot wound and the mental terror of wondering whether it was severe enough to result in death.

He made an impatient gesture with the weapon. “Hand over the camera.”

She told herself she had no choice, that he had the power to take it from her, so there was no point resisting, but anxiety had short-circuited her brain’s signals to her muscles. Her arm wouldn’t budge. She was paralyzed. Helpless. Useless. A complete disgrace to the profession she had once revered.

“Yo, Latschenko.”

The yard-maintenance guy was back from the tennis courts, and his calm voice was at complete odds with the tense situation. Was Joe clueless or cocky, or a mixture of both? Given her current situation, Brooke didn’t care. As she watched his tall, athletic figure stroll across the manicured lawn, she experienced a wave of relief so strong her legs nearly gave out. Surely, Latschenko wouldn’t shoot her in front of a witness.

Joe spoke again. “What’s with the gun? Why are you scaring my girl?”

“Your girl?” Latschenko sputtered. “What are you talking about? What the hell is she doing here?”

Joe continued walking until he stood next to Brooke. The mirrored sunglasses made it impossible for her to see his eyes, to gauge what he was thinking. With a half smile, he slung one heavily muscled arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze that felt oddly protective. He still held the hedge trimmers, which hung down beside his jean-clad leg. Heat radiated from his body, and the warmth seeped into her, easing her fear-induced paralysis. “She noticed I’d forgotten my lunch at home and didn’t want me to go hungry.”

“What about the camera?” Latschenko demanded.

Brooke stole a glance at the street. How good was Latschenko with that gun? It was harder than most people thought to hit a moving target. She flexed her leg, relieved to feel the muscles respond. Maybe she should run for it—

Joe’s fingers tightened on her arm, a subtle warning not to do anything rash. “I told her about the terrific gardens here,” he said. “I guess she wanted to take a few pictures.”

She coughed to hide her surprise. Joe was the best liar she’d ever met. Better than her, which was seriously impressive, given her success at her job often depended on her ability to dissemble. She was only screwing up today because of that damn gun.

Latschenko’s scowl intensified. “She came onto the property without permission and she brought a camera.”

“That’s my fault,” Joe said. “I forgot to tell her about the rules here. She was only being thoughtful of her man. That’s not such a terrible thing, is it?”

Latschenko’s gun eased downward until it was no longer aimed at her torso. “No, more women should be like that,” he agreed.

What a load of chauvinistic crap, Brooke thought. Did Joe really believe what he was saying or was it part of his boyfriend ruse? She supposed she shouldn’t complain, as he was doing a good job of bonding with Latschenko, and that could work in her favor. Although being passive ran contrary to her nature, she decided to stay quiet and see if Joe could talk her way out of this mess.

The guard stuck his chin out belligerently. “In spite of her good intentions, your girlfriend’s coming here is a breach of security. I’m paid to make sure only people approved by Sidorov come onto the property.”

“I get that, man. Totally.” Joe’s voice was mild and nonconfrontational. “It was a simple misunderstanding and won’t happen again. Mr. Sidorov doesn’t need to know she was ever here.”

“If he finds out, it could cost me my job.”

Joe’s lips turned down, suitably chagrined. “You shouldn’t get into trouble over something meaningless like this.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“She was leaving when you stopped her. Let her go. Please.”

Latschenko stared at Brooke for a long moment while she tried to appear apologetic and naively innocent. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d made strategic use of the misconception many people had about blond hair and a low IQ. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”

The guard’s expression became less fierce, his stance less intimidating. Mostly, he looked hot and irritated. The danger had seeped out of the situation, Brooke realized. He was going to let her go. Nice work, Joe.

Finally Latschenko spoke. “I need to check her camera.”

Oh crap. This was bad. Very bad. Those shots of Sidorov couldn’t be explained away, no matter what Joe or she said.

Once again, Brooke’s fake boyfriend interceded on her behalf. “That’s just going to waste time,” Joe objected. “The longer she stays here, the bigger the risk your boss sees her and blames you.”

The guy in leather mulled over Joe’s comment, and his head began to nod in agreement. Then he suddenly seemed to reconsider, his face hardening in resolve. “If the camera shots are of flowers, she can leave. If they show anything else, Sidorov will have to decide what to do with her.” His outstretched palm came toward her while the gun in his other hand prevented her from bolting.

Her first impulse was to hurl her camera onto the flagstones underfoot, which would smash the viewing screen. Unfortunately, that would only delay, not solve, the problem. The memory card would still be intact, and the images on it could be downloaded onto a computer.

Latschenko lifted his gun until the barrel was level with her chest. “Give me the—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The metal blades of Joe’s hedge trimmers cut through the air and slashed down on Latschenko’s outstretched hand. The guard doubled over, clutching his injured hand against his groin while his weapon dropped near his feet. His cry of outrage warned he wasn’t ready to give up, and with his head down like a bull, he charged his attacker. Brooke darted around both men and kicked the gun. It skidded across the grass until it lay out of reach.

Sidestepping him, Joe swung the trimmers again. This time they connected with the side of Latschenko’s head. Thunk. The burly man pitched onto the ground, flattening a wide patch of grass.

Brooke stared at the unmoving figure, feeling a mixture of relief and horror. A little blood matted the hair at his temple. Was he dead?

Joe pressed his fingertips to the man’s neck and answered her unspoken question. “He’s okay, but he’ll have a helluva headache when he wakes up.”

That awakening probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Latschenko looked to be out cold. Good. He deserved to feel some pain for threatening her, as well as stirring up the terrifying memories she wanted to keep buried deep down in her psyche.

Joe grabbed her arm. Hustling her over to the Green Thumb pickup, he shoved her into the cab from the driver’s side and followed her in. As the truck reversed quickly down the driveway, the lawn equipment slammed around in the open bed of the vehicle.

Her mind couldn’t let go of the image of Latschenko’s gun pointed at her, primed to maim or kill her. Her new line of work wasn’t supposed to expose her to life-threatening situations; that was one of the reasons she’d quit being a police officer. Her near-death experience and months-long recovery wasn’t something she was willing to put herself—and her family—through again. But if Joe hadn’t been holding the hedge trimmers and been willing to use them, she might be the one bleeding on the grass instead of Latschenko. Or alternatively, they might have been forced into a confrontation with Sidorov. If the home owner had discovered the shot she’d taken of him holding a gun on Trevor, she had no idea how he might react. Would he have been content to confiscate her camera’s memory card, then release her and Joe? Or would he have decided they were witnesses who needed to be disposed of? And what about Trevor? Would their presence have endangered him even more?

When she’d agreed to Savannah’s request to check up on her husband, it had seemed straightforward and simple, even silly. Instead, it had morphed into a dangerous incident that could have ended in multiple homicides.

Brooke managed to fasten her seat belt only seconds before a trio of familiar sensations hit her: a steel band squeezing her ribs, the runaway pounding of her heart and an overwhelming urge to throw up.

She closed her eyes, swallowed repeatedly and ordered herself to calm down. Naturally, that only exacerbated the problem, and her anxiety spiked higher. The truck lurched to one side, and she grabbed on to the dashboard to steady herself. Meanwhile, she kept up an inner reassuring dialogue. This is nothing new, she reminded herself. You know what to do. Sucking air deep into her lungs, she concentrated on a slow, even count. One...two...hold. Three...four...release. Again.

After several repetitions, her nausea retreated, and her heart settled into a rhythm that was still quicker than usual but no longer insanely fast. She released the dashboard and concentrated on keeping her hands open and relaxed on her thighs. As the panic attack gradually faded, awareness of her rescuer crept in. She thought about Joe’s unruffled demeanor throughout their ordeal and the way he had disposed of Latschenko. No hesitation, no wasted moves, no excess force. Just ruthless efficiency. As if handling armed thugs was nothing new to him...

With the truck speeding down the road and her mind rehashing everything that had transpired, she realized one undeniable fact.

She had trespassed in the wrong damn place.

* * *

As Jared drove the truck, every muscle in his body was tense with frustration. Usually, he found rescuing a victim from a dangerous criminal deeply satisfying and one of the reasons he stayed committed to his job despite the long hours, reams of paperwork and internal politics. Today, however, that satisfaction was overshadowed by anger and self-recrimination. His altercation with Latschenko had ruined his chance to search the house and possibly uncover proof Sidorov had been involved in his younger brother’s disappearance. But what else could he have done? The blonde trespasser had been in imminent danger. Her survival had to take precedence over his original plan, which was a long shot born of desperation. That logic was inescapable to any reasonable person. So why did a niggling voice in his head question his motives? Why did it accuse him of placing the well-being of a stranger over that of his own flesh and blood?

No, that was ridiculous. Despite the fact that he and Steve had a complicated relationship, colored with anger and resentment and hurt, none of that had influenced his decision to run interference for the woman. He had made the right call, according to his training and conscience. The noise in his head was caused by worry and uncertainty.

Next to him, his passenger was hyperventilating, her rapid breathing audible in the confines of the truck. She was obviously terrified, and her reaction didn’t surprise him. Latschenko was a tough, scary dude, and Jared didn’t regret knocking him out.

When the woman had first crawled out of the garden, he’d known her presence was a complication he didn’t need, but he’d been confident he could control the situation. Her claim that Sidorov had drawn a gun on his visitor had substantiated his suspicions the supposedly retired mafia boss hadn’t completely walked away from his criminal past. Jared had warned her to make a speedy exit. Everything would have been fine if she’d moved a little faster or if Latschenko had been content to hang out a little longer at the tennis courts. The difference of a few seconds had proved disastrous, a point driven home when Jared had spotted the two facing each other, the guard’s gun aimed at the blonde’s slender stomach. He could have walked away from the situation, but he’d felt compelled to intervene. What if he hadn’t? Would the woman have managed to escape on her own? Or would she have ended up like Steve—missing, with family members trying desperately to figure out what had become of her?

There was no point dwelling on what-if scenarios; he had to decide his next move based on what had actually gone down. He would take her to her car so she could contact the police, even though the last thing he wanted was lawmen swarming all over Sidorov’s place. If the former Russian mobster felt he was under scrutiny by the authorities, he wouldn’t go about his usual routine or take part in the candid, potentially incriminating conversations Jared had hoped to record on the bug in his office.

When his passenger’s breathing had evened out and she was no longer gripping the dashboard, he spoke to her. “Where’s your car?”

She expelled a long breath. “A couple of blocks south of Sidorov’s property. You’ll need to circle back.”

He glanced over at her. Strands of pale blond hair, shaken loose from her ponytail, hung straight and delicate as corn silk around her face. A deep blue, sleeveless top hugged the generous curves of her breasts, and faded jeans emphasized her narrow waist and extremely long legs. She possessed a spectacular body that had felt awfully good pressed against his side.

He returned his gaze to the road, checked traffic and made a U-turn. “What type of vehicle am I looking for?”

“A white RAV4.” She shifted around in her seat, probably still feeling the lingering edginess of adrenaline. “Thanks for helping me. If you hadn’t stepped in... Well, I’m not even going to attempt to finish that sentence. Do you always think really fast on your feet? That lunch-toting, garden-loving girlfriend story was darn creative, and you told it so convincingly it seemed like the guard was going to let me leave.”

He slowed the pickup to allow a van to merge. “I figured it was worth a try, but unfortunately, Latschenko didn’t quite buy it.” He added, “What’s your name?”

“Brooke Rogers.”

“You said your brother-in-law was being held at gunpoint. What’s he mixed up in?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes...of course.” Her slight hesitation indicated a little less conviction than her first denial.

“Why were you looking in Sidorov’s window?”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like “neurotic sister.”

He shot a sideways glance at her. “I didn’t catch that.”

“It has nothing to do with you.” Pink infused her cheeks, a sure sign she was embarrassed, but he’d been trained to get all the facts, and he intended to keep after her until she came clean.

“I ran interference for you and nearly got shot. The least you can do is answer my question.”

A dark green Ford Explorer switched into their lane without warning, forcing him to brake hard to keep from rear-ending it.

“My reason for being there is personal,” Brooke said. “What were you doing there? Why were you pretending to be a gardener?”

He shot her an offended look. “What do you mean, pretending?” Bracing the bottom of the truck’s steering wheel with his knee, he held up his hands to prove his point. “There’s nothing phony about these calluses. I cut grass, trim hedges—”

“—and warn off trespassers, which I doubt is part of your job description,” she finished for him. “You walked up to a guy with a gun like it was no big deal, you tried to use his fear of his boss to manipulate him, and when that didn’t work, you got the drop on him.” She paused. “You’re an undercover cop.”

He stiffened. “You’ve got some imagination.”

“You insisted I leave because you didn’t want me to come into contact with Latschenko, and also because I was distracting you from your assignment.”

Damn right, she’d been distracting. Then again, any man with a pulse would’ve had a tough time ignoring a woman whose face and body were more striking than any Hollywood starlet’s.

“How long have you been watching Sidorov?” she asked.

He needed to shut down her curiosity, without letting her know she was on the right track. “Hey, I’m not watching anybody, Blondie. I get paid to do lawn maintenance, and that’s what I do.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t want to seem ungrateful for your handling of Latschenko, but my brother-in-law is in danger, and I need to know what’s going on.”

He kept his eyes on the road and his manner benign. “I understand your concern, but I’m the wrong person to ask.”

“I don’t believe you. And until you admit the truth about why you were on Sidorov’s property, I won’t talk about my reasons for being there.” She sat up straighter and pointed through the windshield. “That’s my vehicle.”

He checked his rearview mirror, then slowed the Green Thumb truck to a crawl while he scanned the immediate vicinity. There were no occupied parked cars and no one hanging around who could have her SUV under surveillance. Satisfied with his findings, he pulled to the side of the road opposite it.

The instant he parked, Brooke jumped out. As he joined her on the street, he noticed her top had slipped down, exposing pale pink bra straps and the upper swells of her breasts. His body hardened as if she were topless, which annoyed the heck out of him. Work boots clomping, he crossed the street ahead of her.

“What are you doing?” she called out.

“Making sure your SUV hasn’t been tampered with. I assume you wouldn’t want me to drive off and then discover you have a flat.”

“No, that would be bad. Thanks.” Her lips curved in a smile that shimmered through his body.

Whoa. That felt good. Too damn good.

He must have looked at her for a few seconds too long because her smile faltered as she stared back at him. What was she thinking? More important, what was she feeling? The same attraction he was?

Eventually, she cocked an eyebrow as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

What, indeed? With her blond hair, long legs and dynamite figure, she must have guys gawking at her all the time. The thought that he was one of a crowd of admirers cooled his ardor like a few ice cubes tossed down his jeans, and he jerked his gaze away from her.

“Move your car after you call the police,” he told her. “Latschenko might wake up and come looking for you.”

While she unlocked the driver’s door, he circled the vehicle, checking each tire in turn. At the last one, he leaned down and attached a GPS tracking device to the underside of the car. Now wasn’t the time for a lengthy conversation, but he definitely wanted to talk to her again and check out the contents of her camera. Based on their earlier exchange, her cooperation was unlikely unless he produced his FBI credentials, which he wasn’t in a position to do; he’d left them in his car at the lawn-maintenance company when he’d gone undercover. And there was another reason he needed to keep track of her. She was related to the guy in the suit who had been threatened by the Russian mobster he’d been watching. Maybe he could learn more about Sidorov by questioning her sister’s husband.

Chapter 3

Brooke tugged her purse out from under the front passenger seat, where she’d hidden it, and dug around inside until her fingers made contact with her cell phone. As she touched the digits 911, a flash of silver in her peripheral vision caused her to look up from her phone. A familiar sedan had just reversed onto the street. Trevor’s car. But was her brother-in-law behind the wheel, or was it someone else moving the Lexus away from Sidorov’s property?

The front headrest obscured the identity of the driver, but then the brake lights came on, the car jerked to a stop, and the driver’s door opened. A man wearing steel-rimmed glasses and a gray suit lurched sideways and vomited onto the asphalt road.

“Trevor,” Brooke breathed, her forehead sagging against the steering wheel in relief. Had he escaped or been released? There was no way to know, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was unharmed.

“This is 911 dispatch. What’s your emergency?”

She jolted at the voice coming from her cell phone. She’d been so focused on the sedan and Trevor that she’d forgotten she’d placed the call. She started to answer, then hesitated as Joe’s words played back in her mind. What’s your brother-in-law mixed up in?

She’d been quick to defend Savannah’s husband, but it had been a knee-jerk reaction. She didn’t really know the man. He came across as a bland, unexciting guy, and, over the years, she’d come to appreciate his stability and even temperament because that was exactly what her volatile sister seemed to need. As for what he needed or wanted, apart from Savannah, she had no clue.

Why had Trevor met with Sidorov? If it had been a business meeting, why had they met at the Russian’s home instead of at the bank? If it wasn’t a business meeting...she didn’t want to think about what it might have been. If she carried on with this call, she’d set in motion events over which she’d have no control, and those events would give rise to consequences she couldn’t foresee. What impact would that have on her sister? She needed to talk to Trevor and understand the situation fully before she decided whether or not to involve the police.

“Do you have an emergency?” the calm voice prompted again.

Hoping she wouldn’t regret her decision, she said, “Sorry, my mistake. There is no emergency.” Then she hit End and tossed her cell phone into the cup holder between the seats. When she glanced up, Trevor’s car door had closed, and the Lexus was pulling away from the curb. She watched the right signal light blink on and the vehicle execute the turn before she started her engine and followed.

Within the next few minutes, Trevor’s erratic driving confirmed his attention wasn’t on the road. He kept veering to the right, then swerving back to correct. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have suspected he was drunk. Other drivers in his vicinity must have reached the same conclusion because a few hit their horns in angry response to his edging into their lanes. Finally, he seemed to gather his wits and drive in a competent fashion. The traffic was light at this time of day, forcing her to keep a considerable distance between them or risk being spotted. She wasn’t ready to confront him yet. At this point, she preferred to stay back and keep tabs on where he was going.

It was quickly apparent his destination wasn’t the local police station. If he’d intended to go there to report the incident with Sidorov, he would have followed the sign posted at the main intersection downtown, instead of driving past it. What was his plan? Would he return to the bank this afternoon? Given what had happened to him, it was hard to imagine he could be productive workwise. But where else would he go? Lots of men under stress would head to a bar and drink to forget their worries. Trevor never drank to excess at social gatherings, but today he might feel he had reason to make an exception. Or maybe he wasn’t in the mood to drink in public. Maybe he’d stop in at a liquor store. His usual drink of choice was scotch, she remembered absently.

Up ahead, he blew through a stop sign, turned left without signaling and then ran a red light. Horns blared, and two cars swerved to avoid hitting him. It was impossible for her to follow; the risk of getting T-boned in the intersection was too high. Sitting at the red light, waiting for it to turn green, she was only moderately annoyed she’d lost him. Trevor wasn’t some stranger she was tailing who might disappear forever. She knew someone whose call he would always take, no matter how stressed or distracted he was.

Brooke pulled into a plaza, parked her SUV and opened the window of her vehicle to let in some fresh air. Then she pressed her sister’s number on her cell phone. When Savannah came on the line, Brooke got straight to the point. “Trevor isn’t having an affair.”

“Are you sure?”

She wanted to yell, Damn right, I’m sure, but she curbed the urge to vent her frustration and answered quietly. “Yes, Savannah.”

“Don’t use that patronizing tone with me. You can’t begin to understand how I feel. There’s no one special in your life. No one who could break your heart.”

Not anymore. Chad had dumped her a few weeks after she’d been shot. Brooke pushed away her own hurt to focus on her sister. “You’ll wreck your marriage if you keep being jealous. Trevor doesn’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard for me not to worry. Women flirt with him all the time. It happened the other day in the grocery store. I came back from getting cereal, and some woman in a low-cut top and a skintight skirt is asking his opinion about melons.”

Her sister’s tendency to blow things out of proportion usually amused her, but not today. “I swear to you that his trip to Langeville today had nothing to do with a woman.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then a long sigh. “Trevor and I used to be so happy,” Savannah said wistfully. “What’s happened to us?”

Brooke felt a rush of sympathy. Her sister might be melodramatic, but she was really hurting and needed some encouragement to get through this rough patch. “Maybe you and Trevor should spend some time together and figure out how to connect again.” Well, listen to her. Giving advice to the lovelorn when her only serious relationship had ended badly.

“I like that idea,” her sister said. “Maybe we could go away somewhere.”

Somewhere far away, Brooke thought suddenly. A place where they’d be safe from Sidorov, Latschenko and their guns. A plan began to form in her mind, and she spoke in the compelling voice she’d perfected during her stint as a police officer. “I need you to call your husband and tell him to meet you at—” she dipped her head to better see the red-and-white sign at the far end of the plaza “—Dean’s Diner. Immediately. It’s located in a plaza near Highland and Conestoga.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone, but it’s extremely important you get in touch with him and insist he do this.”

“He won’t answer his cell phone if he’s driving, and even if he does pick up, he’s not going to like being asked to come to some diner. He’ll want to know why.”

“Tell him it’s an emergency and if he truly loves you, he has to come without knowing the reason. As for you, leave your house right away. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“Jeez, Brooke. You’re starting to worry me, and that’s not like you. You’re the one always telling me to lighten up.”

“Not this time,” she said grimly and disconnected.

Satisfied she’d done all she could for the moment, Brooke gazed at the diner she’d decided on as their meeting place. She’d have preferred the comfort and privacy of her sister and Trevor’s home, but she couldn’t be sure it would be safe there. Who knew what Sidorov was capable of, especially after he discovered his security guard had been attacked?

She felt her eyelids droop and determinedly forced them back open. Her lack of sleep was making it hard to stay alert and focused. She needed a blast of cold water to her face and a jolt of caffeine to her brain, but the effort required to walk over to the diner seemed as monumental as running a marathon. A five-minute rest. That was all she needed. Then she’d push herself to keep going.

* * *

Jared approached Brooke’s SUV from an angle with as much stealth as possible, considering he was still wearing work boots. The last thing he wanted was for her to notice him and take off out of the plaza parking lot. He’d already returned the Green Thumb truck, given its owner two hundred bucks and an apology for the complaint about him that would surely be forthcoming and picked up his own car, a blue Mustang.

When he drew level with the open driver window, he glimpsed Brooke slumped against the car door. His heart rate kicked up a notch, and his training took over; he reached inside the SUV and laid his fingers across the base of her throat to check for a pulse. Her skin was soft and warm from the sun, her heartbeat a steady rhythm.

She jolted upright and shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” The alarm in her voice turned to confusion as recognition dawned in her eyes. “You! What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but she didn’t give him a chance. “You couldn’t have followed me. I’d have noticed a Green Thumb truck on the road anywhere behind me.”

“I took the truck back to the lawn company and picked up my own car.” He pointed to his vehicle parked several spaces away.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How have you turned up here? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“I put a GPS tracker on your SUV.”

Her skin flushed with anger. “Okay, that’s creepy, but it also explains why you made a point of checking my tires. It was just an excuse to get close enough to my SUV to attach something. I knew that Boy Scout routine was too good to be true.”

“Sorry about the deception, but I knew I had to talk to you again.”

“As I recall, our last conversation ended because you weren’t being honest with me. If that hasn’t changed, then we’re done talking.”

Her blunt words didn’t surprise him. She seemed to be the type of woman who wouldn’t take crap from anyone. Normally, her straightforward manner would strike him as annoyingly brusque, but instead he couldn’t help admiring her guts. “Okay, let’s start over. You were right. I’m not a gardener.”

She looked pointedly at his Green Thumb shirt and grass-stained jeans. “Nice disguise. What’s your name, and who do you work for?”

“Jared Nash. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

Her dark blue eyes shone with satisfaction. “I knew it. You were way too calm about Latschenko and his gun, and you lie really convincingly. Speaking of lying, I’d be naive not to ask to see some ID.”

He retrieved his credentials from his jeans pocket and passed them over. She studied them carefully, then returned them to him.

“Now that we’ve established I’m not a creep stalking you for nefarious purposes, will you let me sit in your vehicle while we talk?”

She nodded, and as he moved to the passenger side of the SUV, he heard the door locks release with a click. Once he’d settled next to her, she asked, “Would you mind taking off those sunglasses? I’m tired of seeing myself in them.”

He removed his mirrored glasses and tucked them in the neck of his T-shirt. “Is that better?” he asked, giving her a long, penetrating stare. Most people tended to shy away from his intent gaze, but not her. She didn’t look away or even blink. Once again, he felt a grudging respect for her. Not that it mattered. He was here because she had information he wanted. “You said you were going to call the police. Did you?”

She shook her head. “I started to, but Trevor drove away, so I decided to hold off for a while. Now that I know the FBI is involved, I’m not sure if that’s necessary. But before I decide what to do, I have a few questions. Why is Sidorov under surveillance?”

He was tempted to tell her it was none of her damn business, but if he wanted her cooperation, he had to give her something. “He’s a person of interest in an investigation.”

“What kind of investigation?”

The most important one of my life. Blocking out the sudden churning in his gut, he answered. “A man’s missing, and Sidorov might be involved. That’s all I’m prepared to say.” Time to change the subject. “You mentioned you’d taken a picture of Sidorov threatening your brother-in-law. I’d like to see it.”

“I haven’t had a chance to check it out myself.”

“Now seems like a good time to do that, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.” She twisted around in her seat, her breasts coming within inches of his arm as she reached back for the camera. She didn’t seem to notice, but he sure did. His heart rate picked up and the interior of the SUV began to feel like a sauna. He told himself she wasn’t being intentionally provocative, but his body wasn’t listening. It was enjoying the view too much.

When she settled back in her seat and rested the camera in the cradle of her thighs, he swore softly under his breath. Oblivious to his discomfort, she stared at the back of her camera with a frown, shifting closer to him to move out of the sunlight streaming through the windshield. She let out a frustrated sound. “It’s too bright. I can’t see the display properly.”

He knew how to fix that problem. He reached over, cupping his big, wide hands over her smaller, narrower ones to make a better shield against the sun. Her closeness made him aware of her scent. It wasn’t strong like perfume, more like a lingering soap or shampoo. Could it be watermelon? Yeah, that was it. He’d always liked the juicy fruit, and next time he ate some, he’d think of her.

Her startled blue eyes lifted to his. They maintained eye contact for a good long moment, neither one of them speaking. Eventually she fidgeted in her seat, and the camera shifted under their hands. “Look again,” he murmured.

She dropped her gaze to the camera, then groaned softly. “The shot shows the gun, but Sidorov’s face is so blurry it’s unrecognizable. I can’t believe I screwed it up.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were shocked by Sidorov’s actions, which is completely understandable.”

“Now I don’t have proof of him threatening Trevor.”

“I have some software on my laptop that might be able to sharpen the image.” He breathed in her scent again before moving back to his side of the vehicle. “Why were you looking in his office window?”

“It has nothing to do with your investigation.”

“That wasn’t our deal. You said if I told the truth, you’d do the same.”

She remained silent, her lips pressed together in annoyance.

Prepared to wait her out, he rolled down his window. Birds chirped in a sprawling oak tree close to the road. The smell of burgers grilling on a barbecue somewhere reminded him he hadn’t eaten since early morning.

After a few minutes, his gaze strayed to his passenger. He took in her high, sculpted cheekbones, her thickly lashed eyes and her flawless skin. No doubt about it. Brooke Rogers was drop-dead gorgeous—and as stubborn as she was beautiful.

Eventually, she huffed out a breath. “Okay, I was there because of my sister. She has this crazy notion her husband is having an affair.”

“With whom?”

She didn’t offer up the culprit, so he threw out a few possibilities. “Sidorov’s daughter? The housekeeper?” Another option occurred to him, and he figured he might as well voice it. “Sidorov himself?”

“Heavens, no,” she sputtered.

“Tell me who she suspected.”

“Savannah only gave me the address, not the name or description of Trevor’s supposed lover.”

“So you brought a camera along to get a shot of your brother-in-law and his lover together.”

“My sister insisted,” she admitted, “but I knew there wouldn’t be any naked bodies cavorting about. Trevor’s priorities are Savannah and his bank career, in that order.”

A banker. Why had Sidorov pointed a gun at a banker? Had he lost money due to bad investment advice, or was he simply disappointed by the services he’d received? His reaction seemed extreme, but an ex-mafia boss might be accustomed to threatening those who didn’t live up to his expectations.

“I want to talk to your brother-in-law. Find out why he met with Sidorov and what caused the guy to draw a gun on him.”

“I’ve been wondering about that, too. In fact, I’ve arranged for Trevor and my sister to come to the diner in this plaza. It seemed safer than meeting in their home.”

He couldn’t fault her reasoning, given what Sidorov had done. “When do you expect them?”

“Hopefully within the next half hour or so. I figured I’d get a coffee while I waited for them.”

“Good idea. Let’s go.”

They left her SUV and headed across the parking lot to the diner. Inside, the place had a late 1950s, early 1960s vibe going on. Oversize photos of movie stars and rock-and-roll idols of that era hung on the walls. The floor was black-and-white tile, and red vinyl covered the chair seats and booth benches. The place was nearly empty, the lunch crowd having already cleared out, and the jukebox in the corner quietly played an old Elvis song.

Brooke excused herself, pointing to the restroom sign. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Jared headed for a booth near the back of the diner, wanting privacy for the upcoming conversation with Brooke’s brother-in-law and his wife. A waitress came over, dressed in a white cotton blouse, short flared skirt and ankle socks. She gave him a friendly smile, even though he saw signs of fatigue: dark circles under her eyes, a yellowish stain on her shoulder and mussed hair that had barely been brushed today. As she placed the menus on the table, he noticed a light stripe on her ring finger.

“Two decaf coffees,” he said.

Her smile faded, probably anticipating a poor tip, yet another disappointment for a new mother whose marriage or engagement had broken down. Her next words were a valiant effort to change his mind. “Our sandwiches are like nothing you’ve ever tasted. We use the highest-quality ingredients as well as bread baked daily by a local, award-winning bakery.”

His stomach responded to the mention of food with a few hunger pangs, and the diner’s offerings sounded infinitely better than the take-out meals he’d eaten over the past few days. “Okay, your sales pitch has won me over. I’ll take three sandwiches. A BLT, a grilled cheese and a roast beef. Hold the mustard.” Brooke was welcome to eat whatever appealed to her, or she could ask for something else.

The waitress’s smile was back in full force as she jotted down his order. “I knew you looked hungry when you walked in. Your meal won’t take long. In the meantime, I’ll get your beverages.”

The coffees had been delivered by the time Brooke returned from the restroom. He watched her add a generous helping of cream and three packets of sugar to hers.

“Don’t judge,” she muttered. “I need a pick-me-up.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I had an apple when the sun came up.”

“That’s hours ago. I’ve ordered enough food for both of us.”

“Thanks, but Latschenko’s gun pointed at my stomach killed my appetite.”

“You should eat whether you feel like it or not. Low blood sugar is probably the reason you passed out in your SUV.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t pass out—I fell asleep. And that only happened because I pulled an all-nighter for work.”

Now probably wouldn’t be a good time to mention the coffee he’d ordered her was decaf. He and insomnia had been keeping each other company till the wee hours of the morning lately, so he’d started cutting out caffeine after noon. “What kind of work keeps you up all night?”

She took a moment to answer him. “I’m a PI.”

He noticed her fiddling with her mug, not meeting his eyes. “You seem reluctant to mention it. Why is that?”

“My profession has a somewhat sleazy reputation.”

He could tell that bothered her. It surprised him a no-nonsense woman like her cared about other people’s opinions. Or maybe it was his opinion she cared about. After all, it was his eyes she was avoiding. It wouldn’t take much to ease the awkwardness she was feeling.

“I don’t consider your work as sleazy.” He added, deadpan, “Even if you were sneaking around with a camera trying to get an X-rated shot.”

She laughed, her whole face lighting up. Damn, she had a pretty smile. Up until now, it had been understandably absent, but he hoped she’d have reason to smile more in the not-too-distant future. “By the way, I was impressed by your fancy camera, even if Latschenko wasn’t.”

“A tool of the trade that cost me a small fortune. I’m grateful it wasn’t confiscated, although I guess if it had been, that would have been the least of my worries.” She tapped the table with her fingers, unconsciously keeping rhythm with the song on the jukebox. “Thankfully, my clients aren’t all jealous spouses wanting proof their significant others are cheating on them. I do jobs for insurance companies, lawyers, whoever needs info and is willing to pay for it.”

The waitress arrived with a platter of sandwiches cut into wedges. He transferred a few roast-beef wedges to his plate, then nudged the platter closer to Brooke. She didn’t take the hint. Instead, she took a sip of her coffee, grimaced at the decaf’s mild taste and set down the cup. “Enough about me. How long have you worked for the FBI?”

“Twelve years.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

“What office do you work out of?”

His mouth was full of roast beef and bread, so he didn’t respond immediately. The food was delicious, and he was going to take his time savoring it. His companion should take a break from talking and do the same. An apple at dawn wasn’t enough to keep a mouse going for hours, much less a tall, athletic woman. But because she was stubborn, the only way he was going to get her to eat was to insist. “The waitress wasn’t kidding about these sandwiches. They’re fantastic. You really should try one...especially if you want me to give up information.”

“I guess that’s a bargain I can accept.” She looked as if she was trying not to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate and curved upward as she selected a grilled-cheese sandwich from the platter. One bite later, she was devouring it with relish. “These are exceptionally good,” she admitted, reaching for another wedge. “I taste a couple of different types of cheese.”

“Then I don’t regret nagging—I mean negotiating—for you to eat.” He added, “I work out of the Cincinnati office.”

She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. “What did Sidorov do to become a person of interest in your missing-person case?”

He shook his head. “Can’t answer that one.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Take your pick. The matter is off-limits.”

“Okay, but you can’t blame a girl for trying, especially when a member of her family was threatened by your ‘person of interest.’”

“Trevor is the one you need to grill for answers, not me.”

She nodded. “Oh, I plan to. In the meantime, I want to thank you again and also to apologize. I realize by coming to my rescue, you ruined your cover. I’m sorry about that.”

She sounded sincere, but sorry didn’t fix the damage her presence at Sidorov’s place had done. Sorry was just a word people used when they screwed up. He’d heard that word uttered by his brother more times than he could count over the years, and each time it irritated him more than the last. But it wasn’t Brooke’s fault he had a bad history with the word. They finished eating in silence, and there wasn’t enough remaining to need take-away containers.

The waitress came by to clear the table and deliver the bill, telling them to take their time settling up. A few minutes later, a woman entered the diner, dressed in a floral skirt, pink frilly blouse, high heels and silver bangles on her wrists. She waved away the hostess and strode purposefully toward their table. As she got closer, she called out in an annoyed voice, “What’s the big emergency, Brooke?”

This had to be Savannah, the jealous sister who had unknowingly sent her sibling on a perilous errand. The designer clothes she wore were on the opposite side of the fashion spectrum compared to Brooke’s tank top, jeans and sneakers, but the family resemblance was unmistakable. Savannah was a shorter, plumper version of her sister with a wider face and green eyes.

Brooke looked past her to the diner’s entrance. “Where’s Trevor?”

Savannah huffed out a breath. “I suggested he wait in the car while I talked to you. His color is off, and he’s not acting like himself at all. I think he’s picked up a flu bug and should be home in bed.”

The banker might be feeling unwell, but a virus was hardly to blame. Jared addressed the banker’s wife. “Trevor isn’t sick. He’s terrified.”

“What? Who are you?” Her lip curled as she took note of his grass-stained shirt and jeans. Her gaze settled on the embroidered name on the shirt’s pocket. “What are you talking about, Joe?”

Brooke spoke before he had a chance to. “Don’t let the grimy clothes fool you. This man was working undercover when he very possibly saved Trevor’s life.”

That was stretching the truth a bit, Jared thought, but certainly dramatic enough to get her sister’s attention. Interesting how Brooke had failed to mention she’d been in danger, too. He could only assume she didn’t want her sister to be stressed out about more than one member of her family at a time.

Brooke continued in a low, determined voice. “Go get your husband, Savannah. We need to talk to him.”

Chapter 4

When Savannah entered the restaurant the second time, her hand was curled possessively around the arm of the briefcase-carrying man Jared had last seen entering Sidorov’s mansion. As the couple approached the booth, a pale-faced Trevor smiled faintly at Brooke, but directed his words to Jared. “I understand you want to talk to me. Who are you?”

Jared introduced himself and, for the second time in an hour, dug out his FBI credentials. As Trevor glanced at them, his skin went even paler, revealing freckles that hadn’t been noticeable before. “You’re with the FBI?”

When Jared nodded, he and Savannah exchanged uncertain glances before looking at Brooke curiously.

“Please, sit down,” she urged. “Both of you.” She moved to the opposite side of the booth and slid in beside Jared so the couple could sit together facing them. They took their seats silently, then waited for Jared to speak.

He had conducted hundreds of interrogations during the course of his career, and his next words rolled off his tongue without conscious effort. “What’s the nature of your relationship with Dmitry Sidorov?”

“Why are you asking?”

Trevor’s curiosity was understandable, but Jared was in no mood for it. He pinned the man with a withering stare. “I’m asking because that’s my job. You have two choices. Answer my questions in a direct manner or refuse to cooperate with an FBI agent. The latter will have consequences I promise you won’t enjoy.”

Trevor lifted his hands in a take-it-easy gesture. “No need to get testy. I’ll cooperate fully.”

“Talk to me about you and Sidorov.”

“Sidorov is a prospective customer. I met him for the first time today.” His tight expression indicated he wished he hadn’t.

“How did the meeting come about? Did you make initial contact, or did he?”

“He called me, saying he was a wealthy retiree who was considering changing banks. He asked me to put together a proposal of the services my bank could provide and bring it to his home to discuss.”

“Tell me about your meeting.”

“It started off fine, and he seemed receptive to my proposal, but then he went off on a tangent and asked me for information that had nothing to do with his finances.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He wanted to see the loan applications of companies the bank had decided against extending credit to. I told him I couldn’t do that. The loan applications contain sensitive material about the companies’ operations and financial position. My bank’s policy strictly forbids me from sharing that information with anyone other than bank personnel.”

Jared had been watching carefully for any signs Trevor was lying by omission or exaggeration, but the man’s facial expressions and body language were consistent with his telling the truth. “How did he take your refusal?”

“He offered me money to bend the bank’s rules. He said the bank didn’t pay a smart man like me enough, that I deserved more. He knew things about me, personal things he shouldn’t have known.”

“Can you give an example?”

Trevor didn’t answer right away. Finally, he spoke in a low voice. “He knew my wife and I had visited a fertility clinic last week.”

Jared turned his head in time to see Brooke’s mouth drop open in surprise. Her sister reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I wanted to tell you, but the next step hasn’t been decided. I’m game to go ahead, but Trevor has reservations because it’s really expensive, and there are no guarantees.”

Her husband shifted uncomfortably. “I want a baby as much as you do, sweetheart, but in my line of work, I’ve seen many people who overextend themselves moneywise, then get into dire straits and lose everything. I don’t want that to happen to us, but I also hate the idea of disappointing you.”

Although the conversation had shifted away from Sidorov, Jared decided the couple needed a few moments to clear the air. He wasn’t surprised the Russian knew so much about the banker he intended to bribe. The guy was a pro and would, therefore, be familiar with every possible way to turn the screws in his victims.

Savannah untangled the bangles on her arm, then looked up at Trevor. “Is that why you’ve been so distant lately?”

He nodded. “I know once we start treatment, it’ll be nearly impossible to stop until we’re holding our own baby. I just need time to come to terms with spending all that money on something that, if unsuccessful, could break our hearts.”

“Those last few nights you worked late... I thought you were being unfaithful.”

The horrified look on his face proclaimed his innocence more eloquently than words. “No, never. I worked late those nights preparing for my meeting with Sidorov, trying to figure out what it would take to bring him on board. I had no idea at the time Sidorov was doing his own research into me. In exchange for that confidential applicant information, he offered to cover a year’s worth of clinic treatments.”

It was Savannah’s turn to be surprised. “That’s tens of thousands of dollars. He must want the information really badly.”

Apparently, Trevor hadn’t confided in his wife yet about the extent of Sidorov’s desire for that information, so Jared decided to enlighten her. “When your husband turned down his bribe, the Russian resorted to threats and pulled out a gun. Isn’t that right, Trevor?”

Savannah let out a gasp. “What’s he talking about, Trev? Tell me it’s not true.”

Trevor wrapped his arm around her as if to protect her from his next words. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Sidorov put the barrel to my temple, saying he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He gave me five days to get hold of the information, choose several of the financially weakest companies and set up meetings with the owners. At the meetings, he wants me to vouch for him as a legitimate venture capitalist.”

Brooke had been sitting quietly, but now she spoke up. “Why would he want to invest in bad companies?”

Jared voiced the theory he’d been mulling over in his mind from the moment he’d heard Sidorov wanted confidential applicant information. “Sounds like a new twist on an old business—loan-sharking. He’s counting on these owners being so desperate for cash they’ll accept it from an unknown third party based on a reputable banker’s recommendation. After a few months, they’ll be hit with expensive repayment terms they have to meet or else Sidorov’s muscle will pay them a visit. Or Sidorov might use his involvement in their companies to pressure them into laundering illegal proceeds. I’ve seen that happen, too.”

Magnified a little by his glasses, Trevor’s brown eyes revealed anguish and fear. “If I don’t do what he wants, he promised to hurt me and Savannah. He showed me a folder full of info about us—where we live, the names of our family members, friends and my coworkers, what we owe on our mortgage and credit cards. He told me if I went to the police, I’d die before I had a chance to report him.”

Savannah let out a gasp of dismay and reached for her husband’s hand. Trevor swallowed with difficulty, before continuing. “I left his place, totally freaked out, not knowing what I should do. I drove around for a while before I realized all I wanted was to go home and hug my wife. When Savannah called, I was turning onto our street, so I picked her up and we came straight here.”

“Who is this Sidorov?” Savannah demanded.

“The FBI has him tagged as one of the bosses of the Bratva—the Russian mafia,” Jared said. “Last year, he almost died during a power struggle within the organization, so he came to Langeville to recover and, supposedly, to enjoy early retirement. But based on your meeting with him, he seems to have been working at his own criminal operation.”

“I wonder if Trevor is the first banker he’s contacted,” Brooke murmured.

“Can’t the FBI arrest Sidorov?” Savannah asked. “Based on what he did to my husband?”

Jared frowned. “He released Trevor without a scratch, and he could deny he poses any threat to him. Even if a prosecutor was willing to charge him, a judge might release him on bail until the trial. If that happened, Sidorov would pose even more of a danger to Trevor and you.”

“What about witness protection?” Trevor asked.

The banker had apparently watched too much TV. “The federal government has very strict guidelines. Lots of people witness crimes, but it’s rare they receive assistance. From what you’ve said, you don’t know enough about Sidorov’s operations to qualify for the program.”

“Maybe I could learn more,” Trevor offered. “Go along with whatever he tells me to do until there’s enough evidence for him to be held without bail and convicted.”

“That would be extremely dangerous for you. And even if you were successful and approved for witness protection, it’s a life-altering change. After the trial, you and Savannah would have to relocate to another state, you could never work in banking again, and neither of you could ever have contact with your family or friends again.”

Savannah gazed at her sister with tears in her eyes. “That sounds more like punishment than assistance. What are we supposed to do?”

“I think you should go away,” Brooke said.

“Where?”

“How about Hilton Head? You’ve told me a few times your friend Amy has offered to loan you her condo there.”

“If we did that, how long would we need to remain there?” Trevor asked Jared.

“I can’t say definitively. I’ll be continuing with my investigation of Sidorov related to another matter, but it’ll take time to build a case against him. For now, be grateful you have somewhere to stay that’s off the grid.”

“What do you mean, off the grid?” Savannah asked.

“Your friend’s condo is a private residence, as opposed to a hotel that would record your ID and keep your credit-card information on file. You don’t want to leave a paper trail Sidorov could follow, if he chose to. The safest course of action would be to pay for everything with cash from this point forward.”

“Can we afford to do that?” Savannah asked Trevor. “You’ve mentioned before that, even if we sold some investments today, it would take at least a few days to raise the money.”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll take a cash advance on our line of credit. As for work, I’ll tell my boss there’s been a family emergency, and I need to take two weeks off. He’s been pushing me to use up the vacation time I carried over from last year.”

“Sounds like you have a plan,” Jared said.

“Savannah, why don’t you contact Amy and make sure her offer still stands?” Brooke suggested.

“Good idea. Excuse me while I step outside to make the call.”

Savannah slid out of the booth and headed for the front of the diner. Trevor waited until his wife was out of earshot before he turned to Jared. “I didn’t want to scare my wife, but several members of my local bankers’ association have died in the past six months. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, other than feeling bad for their families, but now I can’t help wondering if they’d had any dealings with Sidorov.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“I can ask somebody at the association. All I know is they were all middle-aged and regular attendees of the meetings. Is it just a coincidence they died after Sidorov moved to Ohio? Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it would put my mind at ease if I knew their deaths weren’t suspicious.”

Jared pulled out a notebook and passed it to Trevor. “Make the call and write down their names and anything else you think is pertinent. Where they lived. What banks they worked for. I’ll try to find out what happened to them, but it might take a while.”

“Whatever you can manage is fine,” Trevor said.

Brooke exited the booth. “I’ll go check on Savannah.”

Within minutes, she was standing outside the restaurant in the bright sunshine, waiting for Savannah to finish her call. After a quick “goodbye and thank you again” exchange, her sister dropped her cell phone into her purse, her bangles jangling. “Okay, Trevor and I are all set. Amy gave me the condo’s address and the spot where she keeps her spare key. She’s happy we’re finally going to enjoy the place and wishes she could join us, but she’s too busy organizing a charity gala.”

“That’s great.” Brooke hugged her sister. “I’m glad my suggestion worked out.”

Savannah held her close for a few extra seconds. “You should come to Hilton Head with us. When Sidorov figures out Trevor and I have left town, he’s going to try to find us, probably by contacting our family and friends.”

“He won’t find out about Amy’s condo from me,” Brooke said firmly.

Savannah rolled her eyes. “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you. This guy sounds utterly ruthless. You could be in danger, too.”

Her sister had no idea Brooke had already been detained at gunpoint by Sidorov’s security guard, and she sure wasn’t going to tell her. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m not coming to Hilton Head with you. You and Trevor will finally have some time alone together. The last thing you need is me tagging along.”

“Don’t worry about that. This is hardly the way I envisioned a romantic getaway with my husband,” Savannah muttered. “On the run from a death threat.”

Brooke patted her arm sympathetically. “I know, but try to make the most of it. Remember what Mom always used to say. Make lemonade out of lemons, right?”

“I suppose so.” She frowned. “If you won’t come, then, please, don’t stay at your place. Find somewhere else for a while where you’re sure you’ll be safe.”

“I’ll think about it.” Although her sister’s suggestion held some merit, she wouldn’t feel right about couch surfing at her friends’ houses. Apart from the imposition of a last-minute houseguest, what if her presence brought danger to them? She’d never forgive herself if someone got threatened or hurt on account of her. The alternative—renting a hotel room for an undetermined length of time—wasn’t viable either. Her line of credit was already maxed out to keep her business afloat. Establishing her reputation as a PI had taken more time—and the start-up costs had been higher—than she’d expected. Even so, she didn’t regret her decision to be self-employed.

Savannah stabbed a finger in her direction, a gesture she felt entitled to as the older sister. “Ask that FBI agent for a suggestion. Or better yet, stick close to him. My impression of him is he’s smart, competent and determined. A guy with his training would be really good at fending off bad guys and protecting you. He also has seriously impressive muscles, no wedding ring and a sexy mouth.”

Savannah couldn’t know her conjecture about Nash’s skills had already been put to the test and proved true. And the rest of her description of the man was valid, too, including the comment about his sexy mouth. His occasional smiles had sent tingles up Brooke’s spine, which was crazy given the circumstances.

“He is totally male and totally hot. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, sis.”

She was tempted to deny it, but Savannah’s expression told her that she’d be wasting her breath. What the heck. It was nice to see a twinkle in her sister’s eye. For a brief moment, she’d forgotten about the threat from Sidorov, and Brooke wasn’t going to spoil her fun. “Yeah, Savannah, I noticed. He is totally male and totally hot.”

The sound of a throat being cleared made her jump. Oh crap. Jared Nash was standing a few feet away, having exited the diner without her noticing. What exactly had he heard?

Apparently, enough to be entertained. His lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. She felt her face flush and darted a look at Savannah, who had been facing the diner and must have watched him approach. Her sister gazed back innocently. Too innocently. Savannah had set her up.

The awkward moment was broken by the arrival of Trevor. He and Savannah headed across the parking lot with Brooke and the FBI agent trailing afterward. When they reached the Lexus, the two women embraced again while the men exchanged cell-phone numbers.

“He likes you, too,” Savannah whispered to Brooke. “He was staring at you intently every time you spoke. So take the advice you gave to me and ‘make the most of it.’ Stay close to him and I mean really close. I’ll want the juicy details from you later.”

“Not going to happen.” The sex or the gossip.

“Prude,” her sister teased.

Brooke’s only reply was to say, “Call me when you’re settled at the condo.”

When Nash opened the passenger door for Savannah, she thanked him, then blurted out, “When Sidorov finds out Trevor and I are gone, he might take out his anger on our families. Trevor’s all live in England, so I’m not worried about them. But my sister’s here. Please, keep her safe.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

“Hey,” Brooke objected, blindsided by her sister’s direct plea to the agent, “I can take care of myself.”

“Against a Russian mobster?” Savannah’s head shake conveyed her disbelief as she buckled her seat beat. “That’s optimistic, even for you. I almost lost you once. I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt again.”

Her sister’s words were ones of concern, but Brooke didn’t appreciate the reminder of her mortality or the curious look Nash gave her. Trying not to show her annoyance, she said, “I promise I’ll be extra careful.” Then she closed the passenger door and turned away from her sister.

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