Chapter 1

ONE

T he grand ballroom of the congressional country club was a bit understated, in Truman Gunn’s opinion.

Like a fading Cold War femme fatale, it held copious secrets and an allure no modern-day building could mimic. In the heart of DC, and host to decades of the elite members of the intelligence world, the high ceilings and wood floors were but a fa?ade for the back-door deals and classified information whispered in the shadows.

A small band played classical music, and lights were strung from the multiple chandeliers to add a whimsical touch. On one side, people indulged in plates of canapés, while the other created a backdrop for the newly wedded couple to greet and chat with those in attendance.

Young Capitol Hill staffers, CIA counterintelligence officers, and cynical Washingtonians shared champagne and gossip inside the walls tonight, just as they had for decades.

Truman adjusted the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt under his Armani tux. He was one of at least a hundred men dressed like penguins, but the suit was custom-made and fit perfectly. As he wove his way through the revelers, he received more than one approving glance from the opposite sex.

As he passed a table of thirty-somethings, one—obviously bladdered and looking for someone to take home with her—reached out and grabbed his hand. "Hey, sexy. We have an empty seat." She patted the chair next to hers. "Why don't you join us? Me .”

Her fake eyelashes hung like curtains over half-lidded eyes. Her lipstick was smeared. He wondered if she'd been invited by Brigit or Michael—she didn't seem to fit either of their traditional circles, but this trip was his first vacation in ten years, and for a brief second, he considered taking her up on her offer.

Unfortunately, it wasn't an actual vacation—never was for a spy. While his cover was attending this formal reception, he was on a mission. He was always on a mission.

Not that he would let Brigit or Michael know. To them and everyone else, he was visiting the States for this party and a little R&R.

While he had no interest in sleeping with a random stranger, he took her hand, kissed the top of it, and turned on the charm. "Perhaps later. You'll save me a dance, sunshine?”

She blinked and giggled. "Are you British?"

Several of her friends at the table tittered as well. "Only when necessary." He winked.

That seemed to confuse her liquor-addled brain. He left her and her friends to their vices and continued on to his quarry.

Past, present, and future merged around him as he waited for an older couple in front of him to finish their conversation with the bridal pair and move on. He recognized the foreign ambassador’s face from the dossier in his hotel room. If he didn't know better, Truman would have believed this was the hub of espionage activity in Bethesda, Maryland, on this early spring night.

Brigit spotted him over the shoulder of the ambassador’s wife, the relief on her face nearly comical. Once the duo moved on, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Thank God you're here. My face is going to crack from smiling.”

To his surprise, his former ‘boss’ was dressed in Chanel. Her hair was in a chignon, and her makeup was perfect. He returned her embrace. “Don’t you look peng, luv?”

"Please tell me you're not teasing." After only a few months of living in the States permanently, her accent was fainter. “You told me not to dress like a peasant, right? Those were your exact words, I believe."

He glanced at her husband, the Deputy Director of the CIA. "Did you burn the Green Day shirt like I told you?"

Michael gave him a tolerant smile. "It's probably the only reason she's wearing that dress instead."

The two of them made a formidable power couple. Truman could see by the twinkle in Brigit’s eye that she was happy. He was glad. She deserved it.

He’d traveled the world with the good doctor, using her as a means to get his MI5 ass past closed doors, into private meetings, and privy to profiles she’d created on the world’s leaders, all while using the cover of being her ‘assistant.’ "You could never look bad in anything," he assured her. "Even marriage looks good on you."

She playfully punched his shoulder. “No glasses tonight?”

“No need for a scholarly appearance. I’m free to be me, and the real me doesn’t need them.”

"You are mine for the next three days, and I have a whole itinerary of things we’re going to do."

“Cracking good.” He darted a glance at Michael again. He hoped to convey a humorous, if somewhat sincere, plea: Help me . "I don't want to take all of your time, though. I'm quite knackered, in fact. My biggest plan is to sit by the pool and read my favorite James Bond novel."

Michael gave a slight shake of his head that seemed to say good luck with that .

Brigit, in proper psychotherapist form, turned serious. “You look tired. Is everything all right? We’ll chat tomorrow, yes?”

“Gidge,” he said, using the nickname she hated, “I’m right as rain." The line was getting longer behind him. “Text me later, and we'll set up a time for coffee."

He kissed each of her cheeks, shook Michael's hand, and breathed a sigh of relief that he’d done his duty and could now be on his way.

Except…

As he passed a group clustered in a circle, downing the champagne and hors d'oeuvres as if they hadn't eaten in weeks, he caught the profile of someone who looked familiar. Someone who shouldn't be here.

Dark hair, straight nose, dressed in an ugly yellow thing straight off the rack at Banana Republic.

It can't be . She's still in Uptown South for another five months .

Although his training and experience had taught him never to show emotion, he saw a glimpse of his face in one of the wall mirrors. His reflection told him he was doing a piss poor job of hiding his shock.

Go figure. Emma Grant could not be at this party. No way. No how.

He eased around the group, forcing his features into a bland expression. The woman was looking this way and that as she threaded herself through the same crowd he had upon arrival. Security was everywhere, trying to blend in, and more of the director’s colleagues and an assortment of senators and congresspeople were adding to the melee.

Thad and Ruth Pennington, current president and First Lady, had garnered their own mob in the far back, even though they were surrounded by the Secret Service. Ruth was Michael's sister, and Thad was already on the campaign trail for his second term.

Truman was surprised they’d left their daughter, Ella, behind. He had no doubt they loved the girl, but his cynical side often rose to the surface whenever he saw them include her in a photo op. Thad’s popularity always skyrocketed when Ella was included.

The woman-who-couldn’t-be-Emma had longer hair and was thinner, but that dress… Emma had owned an identical one. She’d been wearing it the night he’d arrested her for her involvement in the Alice in Wonderland international jewelry theft ring while he’d been stationed here in DC with Brigit.

Well, she hadn’t been wearing it at the exact moment he cuffed her and called Scotland Yard—no, she’d been naked at that point. Him, too.

No surprise things between them had gone to shit after that.

The drunk woman who wanted to take him home suddenly appeared in his path. “There you are.” She fell into his arms, slurring her words. “I’m ready for that dance.”

Good thing he was in shape—her dead weight could've knocked him off balance. He propped her up, but she kept her arms wrapped tight around his waist, and the next second, he understood why. "Play along," she whispered. “It’s me. Zara. We met at the wedding, remember?”

One of Conrad Flynn's army of spies. Damn, he did need a vacation if her tacky getup had fooled him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He crooned, giving her a smile in case they were being watched.

“Director Flynn would like a word. See him over at the staff door?”

Truman groaned out loud when he saw Flynn staring him down. The CIA director of Operations and spy extraordinaire looked as miserable as a penguin stuck in a tropical jungle.

"Funny," the woman said under her breath. "He tends to evoke that response from me, too.”

The tux Flynn wore was vintage Tom Ford, and Truman had to respect a man in mohair trousers. He pried her away from his chest far enough to glance into her face. Zara Morgan, one of Flynn’s most accomplished operatives, stared back.

She batted those god-awful, tacky lashes at him. “I’m supposed to be home by now, tucking my little one into bed. Can we get this over with?”

Zara and Flynn’s wife, Julia Torrison, had been in on the last mission Brigit had worked for SIS. It had been a shit show, but Truman almost longed for a time when he was still partnered with the brilliant mind and devil-may-care attitude of Dr. Brigit Kent. “Dare I ask what the Irish wanker wants?"

"Above my pay grade." Zara slipped a hand into his and gave a tug.

Truman glanced once more in the direction the woman-who-couldn’t-be-Emma had gone. He couldn't see her now, but worry ate at him. “ Quid pro quo . You do something for me,” he told Zara, “and I'll make sure Flynn leaves you be so you can go home.”

She grinned up at him as she stumble-walked them toward her boss, still playing the role of the drunk. “There’s no escaping this meeting, so suck it up. If you don't come quietly, you could cause a problem and ruin Brigit's reception. Neither of us wants that now, do we? Stone will put you six feet under if you upset her.”

With one more backward glance, he searched for the yellow dress, but it—and the woman wearing it—had disappeared. “There's a gal in a cheap lemon chiffon wrap dress. A brunette with dark brown eyes and a mole right about here." He pointed to a spot on his neck. How many times had he kissed that sensitive place on her neck? “She doesn't belong here, and if you see her, you need to notify security. Will you do that for me?”

“Is she a terrorist?”

“No, but a criminal.”

She didn't miss a beat as the two of them arrived at their destination. “This is where I leave you." She patted his shoulder and spoke to Flynn. “Can I go now?”

Flynn dipped his chin. “After you do one more sweep. And tell Lawson tee time is here tomorrow at ten.” The man’s dark eyes met Truman’s as he pushed open the door. “Let’s go.”

“He promised to babysit so I could go to the spa with Julia and Brigit tomorrow,” Zara said, exasperated.

The director’s brows winged up. “Julia didn’t mention it.”

Zara frowned, peeling off one of the falsies. “Fine. Golf for you and spa for us. I’ll get a babysitter.”

She huffed, then staggered away, playing her part and becoming lost in the crowd. Flynn made a dismissive grunt and led the way.

"What's this about?" Truman asked as he followed through the kitchen, dancing around servers with trays. "I have somewhere I need to be."

Flynn, the bastard, didn't speak, leading him out of the kitchen and down several connecting hallways. They passed a maze of rooms for overnight accommodations, and he halted in front of one with a key card. "The deputy Director and I would like a word."

He could guess what that word might be. "I'm here on vacation, that's all. I came to wish Brigit and Michael congratulations and take some time off.”

“You were there when they tied the knot at Christmas. This…”—he waved a hand signifying the celebration—“is for show, and I know better than to believe you flew all the way here to spend five minutes chatting with them."

Bullocks. That neutral expression he'd been trained to rely on kicked in while he debated whether to step across the threshold. "I assure you, I'm not here to step on toes.”

"Good." Flynn slapped him on the back, nudging him forward. "We'll make this quick."

He hadn’t expected an ambush. It was midnight in London, and the jet lag was scratching at his eyes and his brain. Quick would be good. Then he could return to the party and look for that yellow dress.

He stepped into the immaculately appointed room and found Michael sitting at a desk waiting for him. "Take a seat,” the man said. “Would you like a drink? Redbird is your favorite, isn't it?"

Flynn moved to a chair near the marble fireplace, pulled out his mobile, and texted someone. Michael stood and motioned at a bar cart behind him, waiting for Truman’s reply.

A power play? He stayed standing and shook off the offer. “What can I help you with, Deputy Director?"

"My wife." The hulk of a man poured himself a drink but didn't offer one to his underling, which Truman found interesting. There was no love lost between the two of them, but he was surprised at Michael's obvious rudeness, although Flynn didn't seem to care.

Truman thought about Brigit and how happy she'd been downstairs only a minute ago with this man by her side. Why would Stone ask him for help with her? The only thing he could think of was… “Blimey, tell me she's not sick. It's not cancer or something else fatal, is it?"

Michael returned to the desk, scanning Truman from head to toe. "No, nothing like that."

Truman nearly sank into the chair in relief. Instead, he gripped the rounded back of the Queen Anne, reaching for patience. "Well, out with it, then. What do you want?"

He felt more than saw Flynn tense like a jungle cat, coming to attention, ready to pounce. Michael sipped his drink. “A few weeks ago, I gave her a rare boulder opal ring. One she’d had her heart set on for months. At a birthday party earlier this week with out-of-town guests,”—the pointed look he gave Truman told him they were foreign dignitaries—“she was jostled while holding a coffee drink. It contained ice cream, and she went to the ladies’ room to clean up. She removed the ring, rinsed it off, and set it on the sink to dry while she washed her hands. Before she finished, she was interrupted by a woman exiting one of the stalls, crying and carrying on. Brigit tried to calm her, and while she was distracted, the ring went missing.”

“You called the coppers?"

“It was an elaborate con, and although the venue had security cameras, the police were unable to identify the thieves. We believe at least two, if not three, were working together to steal that ring."

Emma. Truman shook his head, trying to clear it. “Junior-level criminals is what you’ve got there, banking on good fortune rather than a solid plan. They had no guarantee she would remove the ring when she got to the bathroom and were simply counting on the odds being in their favor. What is it you think I can do for you?”

Flynn crossed the distance and shoved a blue folder at Truman. “I believe you’re familiar with the Alice in Wonderland Gang?”

A coldness bloomed low in his belly. He didn't accept the folder. “Yeah, mate, I helped Scotland Yard break them up.” He and his mentor, Ian Bastian, had tracked the elusive crew across continents and through the darkest parts of the world’s underbelly. Nothing was off limits to their network of burglars who had even stolen right out from under the noses of the Royals. Inside Buckingham Palace, no less. A ring that been the damning evidence that night with Emma. “You can't think they’re responsible for this. They’re all behind bars.”

Michael sat forward, toying with his glass. “Except for one, who you know on a more, shall we say, personal level?”

It was a good thing Truman was hanging onto the chair. "What are you talking about?"

“Emma Grant, previously known as Lucinda Owens.” Michael watched Truman’s reaction carefully. “She was released from Upton South three days ago. That's only an hour from here. You wouldn't happen to know where she’s staying now, would you?”

Everything inside him went still. That had been her in the ballroom. If he didn't play his cards right, she might implicate him in something far worse than a romantic dalliance. What the bloody hell was she up to? “I assure you," he said, keeping his voice level, which was no easy feat when talking about the woman who had stolen and then obliterated his heart. The only woman he’d ever wanted a future with before he’d uncovered the Queen Mother’s ring in her bag. “I know nothing about her release or whereabouts.”

Michael and Flynn scrutinized him, looking for a tell that said he was lying.

Let them. He wasn’t about to give away a damn thing.

“You’re sure?” Michael asked. “You haven't heard from her?"

He snorted. "I sent her to prison. She told me to burn in hell the last time I saw her."

Hell was precisely what his life had been since then, being without her.

Flynn sat on the edge of the desk, tapping the folder against his thigh. "Do you think you can find her? We have questions for her."

"A petty con like that isn't her style.”

"We'd still like to talk to her," Michael said.

"Why would you automatically assume she’s involved?"

"Are you familiar with the Kraals Museum in North Bethesda?” Flynn flipped open the cover of the folder, extracting a sheet of paper. He handed it to Truman. “It was opened a year and a half ago and has hosted quite a few extensive and expensive collections of art, antiquities, and jewels.”

Truman glanced at the list of items but didn’t take it. "And?"

"Emma's father is— was —the trusted curator,” Michael said, continuing to watch him closely. “Last week, he went missing, along with the Bradshaw diamonds.”

A set of stones worth more than the entire country club and golf course. “Her father was never involved with the Red Hearts.” It was a nickname the media had given the AW gang. “We vetted him. He was clean.”

“As Ms. Grant claimed to be before, during, and after her trial, I believe,” Flynn said, tucking the sheet back into the folder. “We simply want to speak to her, see if she has any theories on where her father is.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about him,” Michael said, “but I want a happy wife. I want that opal back in my possession, and I want it now. Even if Grant doesn’t have any involvement in its disappearance, she may know who does. Find her and bring her to me.”

Truman only nodded before heading for the door. Oh, he was going to find her all right.

And she was going to send him to hell all over again.