I’m tempted to make something up, but this is Liz. She deserves the truth. “I liked him.
Her tone turns serious. “You never mentioned that. This could be bad.”
The understatement of the year. Guys I get into meaningful relationships with tend to end up dead, courtesy of my favorite vindictive goddess. Partnering with Zack Armstrong could prove exceedingly dangerous. Even lethal.
For him.
“I’ve got to go.”
I click off, the sound of Liz’s protests ringing in my ear, and concentrate on the familiar six-foot-plus werewolf coming toward me. Deputy Director Jimmy Johnson emerges from his office. “Here’s the memo I promised you about your new partner. Better late than never.”
He may be chronically behind with paperwork, but otherwise Johnson’s tenacious about his job, a real pit bull. And, despite being only five foot six, he’s one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met.
I snatch the sheet from his hand and drop it on my desk. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Armstrong?”
“I thought I did.” His look is quizzical, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. “Zack! Good to see you again.”
The two men greet each other with a hearty handshake.
“Good to see you again, Deputy Director.” The Southern accent is smooth; the cadence of his voice is, as I remember, low and lilting. It was the first of many things that got to me about Zack Armstrong.
Johnson dives in without preamble. “Emma Monroe’s your new partner. I don’t have to waste time with introductions. What’s it been, a year since you worked on that case together?”
“Just over,” Zack answers, flashing a sideways glance in my direction.
What Johnson couldn’t possibly know is that we share more than a past case. We both have secrets— supernatural powers we’ve managed to keep hidden from the bureau, the world and, as far as Zack is concerned, each other. Unbeknownst to him, I sensed what he is the instant we met. We never discussed it. He’s never revealed it. But of course he wouldn’t, not to an outsider.
And then there is the other secret we share. Zack and I slept together.
Once.
It was during our last night in Charleston. We’d celebrated wrapping up the case, indulging in a good meal and too much wine. The attraction had been building for weeks, the sexual tension as thick as the South Carolina air. I wish I could say that one thing led to another. That I was impulsively swept away. But I’m not impetuous when it comes to sex. I can’t afford to be. The potential consequences are too high.
We agreed that we’d go our separate ways after. There would be no telephone calls. No texts. No emails. No contact. Period. With twenty-four hundred miles between us, it seemed safe.
Johnson startles me with a slap on the back. “Show him the ropes. He’s all yours.”
I offer my hand. “Good to see you again.”
Zack takes it.
A woman can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. Zack’s hasn’t changed. It’s confident, firm and friendly. It’s the handshake of a man who has nothing to apologize for and no regrets.
Johnson is already on his way back to his office. Zack doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on me.
“I’m pleased to be working with you again, Agent Monroe.”
Is he? The handshake. The demeanor. Both seem genuine. But despite the old-world charm, I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
Maybe coming here isn’t something he wanted at all. Maybe it’s strictly a bureau-initiated transfer. Maybe he’s merely worried about how I’m going to react. My curiosity has gone into overdrive. The possibilities ricochet through my mind like bullets in a steel barrel. I want to know how he feels. To taste the truth, whatever that may be. And I could. All it would take is lowering the dampening spell that keeps my powers in check. But giving in to temptation like this would be uncharacteristic. Using my gift comes at a price.
“I thought we’d moved past you calling me Agent Monroe,” I say finally. “Emma or Monroe will do fine.”
Zack releases my hand, then subtly breathes in my scent before stepping back to continue his appraisal. His gaze, now cool and calculating, sweeps the length of my body. He’s searching for a reaction, sizing me up. He sees what I want him to see, what he saw when we worked together before: a no-nonsense professional who is dedicated, capable, all about the mission. Denying my powers and disguising my beauty have become second nature to me.
Over the centuries I’ve become an expert at concealment, at blending in. My dark hair may be long, but it’s never loose. I use a simple band to pull it back; some days I wind it into a tight bun. I wear sunscreen. No mascara. No lipstick. No makeup. Period. Today’s suit, like all of my suits, is black and tailored. The white cotton twill blouse is classic, conservative. I don’t accessorize. I don’t wear jewelry. I don’t wear silk where a man can see it.
Zack’s eyes, an intense dark brown ringed with gold, linger a fraction of a second too long on my collarbone. I can’t help myself. For one fleeting moment, I remember the feel of his mouth there. Suddenly, I’m conscious of the rise and fall of my chest. My throat is dry. I push the memory aside. The last thing I need to be doing right now is dwelling on what happened in Charleston. I know I should say something. I just have no idea what. Zack breaks the ice.
“It’s been a while,” he says.
“Yeah. So, how are you?” Before he has a chance to answer, I add, “I should introduce you to the others.”
Zack lifts his hand in the air and shouts out, “Zack Armstrong, new guy.”
There’s a collective “Hey, Zack.”
He turns back to face me square on. “I’m itching to get started. What have you got for me?”
I take a step closer and lower my voice. “That’s it? You have nothing else to say to me?”
He matches my tone. “I was hoping to postpone the awkward ‘What are you doing here?’ conversation for as long as possible. At least until lunch?”
Since I’m not anxious to go down that road, either, I gesture to the desk facing mine. “Have a seat. This one’s yours.”
When he sits, I check my reflection in the window behind him. The glamour I rely on is firmly in place. The lock on my powers under control. He shouldn’t be able to see through the wholesome, plain-Jane facade to discover what’s underneath, what’s real. Thanks to Liz, no one should.
“You heard what the man said.” He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms wide, giving me a glimpse of what I know to be a well-muscled chest under the fabric of his shirt. “I’m all yours.” His look is serious, expectant. “What can I do?”
A thousand possibilities rush through my mind. Not one of them has anything to do with the case.
I pull a sheet from the file and give Zack the rundown. “Amy Patterson has been missing for two weeks. She’s thirty years old, an artist. She lives alone. We got the case this morning.”
Zack pulls a pen and a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “What kind of an artist?”
I quickly scan the report. “Painter, Expressionist, mixed media mostly.”
“Kidnapping gone bad?” he speculates.
“Could be. She’s successful. But there’s no known family and, according to her manager, no request for ransom.”
Zack sets the pen and notebook down, centering them deliberately on the empty desk. “Who reported her missing?”
“The manager, Bernadette Haskell. She’s known Amy for years. Haskell owns the gallery in La Jolla where Amy’s art is exclusively exhibited, and handles Amy’s gallery bookings and commissions worldwide. I spoke to her earlier this morning. She said Amy rarely leaves her apartment. She both lives and works there. Plus, she has a huge show coming up in New York. And before you ask, yes, she called there to see if Amy might have gone ahead to check the space out.” I shake my head. “She’s not in New York, either.”
His brow furrows. “Why is the FBI involved in a straightforward missing-person case? Shouldn’t the local police be handling this?”
