Taylor held it up thoughtfully, watching the light catch and flash in the two fingers of red-brown liquid. “You trying to get me drunk, William?”
“I shorely am,” Will drawled. Not drunk enough to ruin Christmas morning for either of them, just drunk enough to keep Taylor in that agreeably pliable and affectionate mood his rare boozing triggered.
Taylor laughed again and clinked it against Will’s. “Merry Christmas.” He sucked in a soft breath, said steadily, “And here’s to Paris.”
“Merry Christmas,” Will said. He took a swallow, set his glass aside and leaned down to kiss Taylor. He whispered, “And here’s to us.”
Chapter One
The razor-sharp edge between Before and After. That’s what haunted Will.
That split second between the moment when all options were still on the table, when there were still infinite possibilities as to how it could all play out, and the moment when the choice was made and consequences rolled out with the inevitability of high tide.
He hadn’t seen it coming. That was part of it. He’d been blindsided.
And the thing was, it had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening. No indication of what lay ahead. In fact, the ordinariness of it was what made it perfect.
“Why don’t we celebrate?” he’d said.
Not quite five o’clock, it was nearly dark as they crossed the wooden bridge. The damp twilight smelled of car exhaust, Mexican food, and maybe, distantly, the ocean. Colorful lights blinked and twinkled in the ragged black silhouettes of the surrounding trees. In the manmade hollow beside the Spanish-style strip mall, the miniature golf course was decorated for the holidays with fake snow and leafy garland. It looked like Santa’s Village. Quaint, cute, commercialized.
Will didn’t mind. He sort of liked the holidays, even if they typically worked straight through them. People tended to be in a better mood around the holidays, and people in better moods were a good thing in their line of work. Less bullets. More bonuses.
Taylor answered, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“A couple of steaks. A couple of drinks. An early night.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Taylor’s “Okay” was said absently. He probably couldn’t have read Will’s expression in the dusk anyway, but he was no longer looking at Will. He was staring ahead at their office, the last space in the mall, where a blond man in a leather jacket was exiting through a glass door that read American Eagle.
“He changed his mind,” Will commented, following Taylor’s gaze. “He doesn’t want to know she’s cheating.”
Taylor made a dismissive sound. They didn’t do cheating spouses. They weren’t PIs. They were security consultants, and as of this afternoon’s successful landing of the Webster Fidelity account, they were moving into the big leagues just like they’d been talking about since they’d left the Diplomatic Security Service to strike out on their own three months earlier.
The man in the leather jacket hesitated for a moment, aimlessly jingling the keys in his pockets, and then started toward the bridge. Technically, there was parking in the mall, but the hair salon at the opposite end guaranteed that there was rarely any available space. Will and Taylor always parked on the street.
Anyway, it was just as well this guy was bailing. Securing the Webster account solidified the fact that they were understaffed. Not as understaffed as they had been two weeks earlier when Will had persuaded Euphonia Jones to quit her job at the DMV and come work for them. But for the first time ever, they did not need another client.
As though reading his mind, Taylor said, “Maybe he’s dropping off his résumé.”
Probably not. Nothing about that slender, slightly aimless figure gave off a law-enforcement vibe.
“So. Outback? Black Angus?” Will returned to more important matters. “Aloha Steakhouse?”
“Aloha,” Taylor said. No surprise there. He did not like chain restaurants. Well, and after Paris, neither did Will.
The blond man had reached the head of the bridge and was starting toward them. His aftershave, a distinctive and disagreeable blend of musk and patchouli—what was that? Obsession?—reached them first. Taylor checked mid-stride.
The man also seemed to lose step and waver, peering forward as though trying to see through the gloom. He said doubtfully, “Taylor?”
And in a voice Will had never heard out of him before, Taylor said, “Ashe?”
He sounded—well, the cliché would be he sounded like he’d seen a ghost. But actually, he sounded like he was a ghost. The ghost of his former younger self. Taylor’s husky voice sounded lighter and uncertain, and there was just the suggestion of a boyish crack. It startled Will.
Taylor and Ashe strode toward each other, and hugged—or rather, half hugged, half collided—before stepping back to have a look at each other. Or at least as good a look as they could get in the wavering shadows of the Christmas lights.
“Taylor. It is you,” Ashe said. “I was thinking it couldn’t be. That it had to be some other Taylor MacAllister.”
“Jesus. How long has it been? What are you doing here?” Taylor was already turning to Will, making the introductions. “Will, this is Ashe Dekker. Ashe is an old friend of mine.”
Will shook Dekker’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” There wasn’t much he could add to that because until that moment, he’d never heard of Ashe Dekker.
Taylor was still talking. “Ashe, meet Will Brandt. Will’s my partner. We worked together at DS.”
“Sure,” Dekker said. “How’re you doing, Will?” His grip was firm, though his hand was ice cold.
“Great.” Will studied Dekker curiously—and felt his interest returned.
Dekker was a good-looking guy. Average height, slim, with carefully groomed stubble and the kind of shaggy haircut that actually costs a fortune. His clothes were casual and expensive: designer jeans, leather jacket, alligator skin Western boots. Will didn’t think much of guys who wore cowboy boots as a fashion statement, but he was willing to make an exception for a pal of Taylor’s.
“Taylor and I were at UCLA together,” Dekker said.
“Right,” Will said. So this was a very old friend, predating any of Taylor’s other
