“You’ll be staying with him. The Salemos take in family with open arms without question
whenever one of their own needs a place to crash for a while. They’re just one big,
lovable Italian
famiglia
with hundreds of cousins. Too many to accurately keep track of.
“Your cover as Con is as one of them. A city boy, workaholic public relations exec
for a private firm who has been under too much stress lately.” Emmett grinned in a
way that let Jack know he understood Jack wouldn’t love this cover.
“A public relations guy under stress, that’s the best Malene could come up with?”
Malene knew Jack hated office jobs and all that crap. What did public relations execs
have to worry about? Why couldn’t she get him something physical and outdoors?
“It’s one of the most stressful jobs in the country. No control over circumstances
or schedule. Always at the beck and call of the client. Always putting out firestorms
when the client screws up or someone decides to sue. People with no control feel stress.
At least that’s what I’ve read in the news.”
“You mean like assassins?” Jack smiled and shook his head. “I should ask for a raise.”
“Complete this mission successfully and I’ll put you in for one.” Emmett paused as
a group of tourists walked by. “Back to the business at hand,” he said when they were
past. “His
nonna
thinks he’s overstressed. She’s convinced he needs a break from the city, a few weeks
in the country to unplug and unwind. So she called Aldo’s
nonna,
who called Aldo, and now you have a place to stay in Aldo’s detached guesthouse for
a few weeks.”
“And if I finish up earlier?”
“A public relations emergency can always call you home. You’re going to love this
place, Jack. Aldo runs a little winery and catering business on the premises. Malene
says he makes a mean meatball. They melt in your mouth. And the men in the area like
to hunt.”
Emmett casually slid a small flash drive across the table toward Jack. “It’s all here.
Sound good?”
“Didn’t know I had an Italian side of the family.” Jack reached for the drive, but
Emmett kept it covered with his hand and under his control.
Jack cocked his head. What game was Emmett playing? “It sounds homey. When do I leave?”
He was itching to get going.
Emmett smiled and shook his head. “Not so fast. You still haven’t heard the whole
story.” Emmett paused, turning a serious look on Jack. “What’s the best way to get
to a male spy?”
“What is this, a certification quiz?” Jack pulled back his hand and finished his drink.
Emmett stared at him, his expression completely serious. “Through a woman, Jack. Who
did you die to protect and give a better life to? Who’s always been your Achilles’
heel?”
Jack swallowed hard and waited for Emmett to continue, using every technique he had
for managing his anger and keeping his pulse rate from racing into the panicked, dog-mode
thinking range. If your pulse speeds up too fast, you lose your ability to reason
and process; you go dog mode.
“The Rooster’s in Orchard Bluff. Pursuing your wife, Jack. Befriending Willow to find
out what she knows and draw you out. You told me you never wanted to see her again,
that you have to be dead so she can live the life she deserves.” Emmett paused and
lifted his hand, revealing the flash drive with Jack’s mission details and cover story.
“Are you still in?”
CHAPTER TWO
ORCHARD BLUFF, WASHINGTON
There’s nothing like the smell of freshly made caramel in the morning. Mix it in a
latte. Stir it into a mug of warm cider. Or coat an apple with it.
Exquisite.
The day ahead was filled with heavenly, sweet salted-caramel possibilities.
Or would have been, if Willow Pierce didn’t have a strong sense of foreboding, that
feeling practically an assurance that someone she loved was in danger. She hadn’t
felt like this since Jack died two years ago to the day.
Willow looked at the rows of freshly jarred caramel sauce lining the counter of her
candy kitchen and frowned. She picked up her cell phone to call her mother and check
on her. It rang in her hand.
“Mom! I was just picking up the phone to call you.”
“Willow, baby! You’re all right? You’re fine?” Her mother sounded as relieved to hear
Willow’s voice as she was to hear her mother’s.
“Fine, Mom.” Willow let out a breath she’d barely been aware of holding. “And you?”
“Oh, you know, I’m okay.” She paused. “You feel it, too, then?”
“Yes,” Willow said, nodding although her mom couldn’t see her. “I thought you were
in trouble. Who else could it be?”
Since Jack died, Willow only had her mom and Spookie.
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Do you think it’s the day? An echo from two years ago?”
“The Sense doesn’t echo.”
Willow and her mother, all the generations of women in their family, were intuitive,
sensitive. They shared what Willow’s grandma called the Sense—a premonition of danger,
the feeling your loved one was in trouble. And, on the positive side, a deep, glowing
certainty when you met your soul mate. Willow had felt that glow once—with Jack. She’d
also felt the opposite, the deepest horror of premonition, at the exact moment he’d
been blown up.
“I know. It’s crazy. But it hasn’t always been right? Not one hundred percent?” She
bit her lip, hoping her mother would reassure her. The Sense had to have been
proved
wrong at least once in the past.
“It’s always right, baby. Perfect record.”
“You’re supposed to reassure me, Mom. Tell me no one is in danger, particularly you.
Tell me everything will be all right. That you’ll make sure of it. Lie if you have
to.”
Willow’s mother laughed. “You aren’t five anymore.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“You aren’t as gullible as you used to be. I think you’ve realized by now that I don’t
have eyes in the back of my head and I don’t have superpowers, either. Reassurances
like you want are simply empty promises filled with good intention.”
“Yeah, I know. But they’re still nice to hear.” Willow pictured her mom shaking her
head in amusement. “Be careful today all the same, Mom. Take your meds. Postpone any
skydiving lessons until further notice.”
“As if that will be a problem!”
Willow teased her mom. She was afraid of heights. The last thing she’d ever do was
skydive.
“And I’ll do my part; I won’t step on any cracks that will break your back.” Willow
would have winked at her mom if they’d been using Skype.
“My back and I appreciate that. You be cautious, too.” Her mother sounded amused.
“Drive safely. Don’t run with scissors. No bungee jumping. Lock your doors. And be
careful in that candy kitchen of yours.”
Willow shook her head. “What could possibly go wrong in my state-of-the-art, highly
efficient, beautiful candy kitchen?”
“Oh, I don’t know, you could drop a vat of caramel on your foot. Slip with a knife.
Or leave a batch of sugar syrup on the stove and forget about it like that time you
were in the ninth grade and nearly burned the house to the ground.”
“Who knew sugar was so highly flammable?” Willow teased her mom. “I’m never going
to live that down, am I?”
“No, never. Sorry.” Her mom paused and turned serious. “Treat yourself nicely today.
I mean that, kiddo. Don’t beat yourself up. Cry if you want to.”
“I don’t want to cry. Jack wouldn’t want me to.” She bit her lip again, puzzled. The
Sense wasn’t going away. The foreboding remained just as strong as ever. “At least
we’re both feeling it. Maybe we’ll go together.” Willow put a tease in her voice for
her mom’s benefit.
“Yeah, see you in heaven, baby. But not yet.”
Willow smiled. “Not yet. I’ve got to go, Mom. Shiloh will be in any minute. We have
a ton to do for the festival tomorrow—caramel apples to dip, chocolate salted caramels
to coat, and white chocolate apple pie fudge to make.”
“The candy show must go on.” Her mom chuckled, still sounding relieved. “Be careful
working over the flame. Handle the hot sugar with care. And throw some salt over your
shoulder for luck.”
Willow laughed. “I will. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.” Her mom sounded reluctant to hang up. Willow heard her sigh and then
the line went dead.
Willow disconnected and poured herself a cup of coffee, catching a glimpse of the
apple country calendar on the wall. She took a deep breath, swallowing a lump along
with a sip of hot coffee, trying not to burn her mouth. Death by scalding coffee.
The Sense was making her jumpy. Maybe Mom was wrong; maybe it was just …
Jack.
Two Octobers ago, to the day, National Clandestine Service chief Emmett Nelson appeared
at her former home in Seattle, all but carrying a folded flag and playing “Taps.”
He told her, in the gentlest terms she’d ever heard him use, that Jack was dead.
Dead.
Given the sense of dread she’d had, she hadn’t been terribly surprised. Two years
later, though, it was still hard to even
think
the words.
Blown up by drug lords in Ciudad del Este. There was nothing left of him but a few
bits and pieces. Barely enough to bury. Certainly not enough for an open-casket funeral.
The loss of his body didn’t upset Willow the way people had feared it would. It was
the loss of his essence, his spirit, his soul. His love and laughter. She missed him.
“Don’t worry,” Emmett had said. “We’ll take care of you. Jack left you a nice widow’s
pension and a generous life-insurance policy.” Emmett hugged her in the fatherly way
he could put on like a second skin when the occasion deemed it necessary. “You’ll
always be a part of our clandestine family.”
Now that’s reassuring. You can’t divorce family, and evidently, you can’t divorce
the CIA, either. Or be widowed out of it. No matter how much you’d like to be.
Emmett
had
made good on his promise to take care of her, though. She used Jack’s life insurance
and pension to pursue her dreams. She trained under Seattle’s premier candy chef,
the salted-caramel queen. Moved from Seattle across the state to apple country, to
Orchard Bluff, a comfortable piece of country living only fifteen miles from Washington
State’s second-largest city, to escape the memories of her life with Jack and try
to move on. Paid for the lovely piece of property and the gorgeous new house with
its daylight basement that housed her commercial candy kitchen and business. Provided
her with income as she worked to launch the business.
Jack. If only I could see you again. You’d love this place. But I’d give it all up
to have you back.
* * *
The anniversary of Jack’s death was as good a day as any for him to come back from
the dead.
As Italian fashion plate Con Russo.
Why in the world was Malene, the Agency’s cover life artist, always trying to make
him over? Just because he had a new face didn’t mean he wanted a new wardrobe, too.
He liked his camo and comfortably slouchy clothes. He missed the shorts he wore in
Brazil. She was always trying to dress him up and make him into something from
GQ.
Since the plastic surgeon had prettied him up, she’d seemed even more determined.
At least this mission didn’t demand he wear a tuxedo like James Bond always seemed
to. Small mercies. He flat out refused to operate in formal wear.
As it was, the Loro Piana merino wool slacks he wore were surprisingly comfortable.
And the baby cashmere sweater as soft as duck down. And warm. Used to Brazilian weather,
Jack was freezing up here. But neither piece of clothing was particularly stealth,
especially in small-town Orchard Bluff where denim reigned.
He just hoped he could pull this mission off. Despite his months of acting lessons
during spy training, Jack wasn’t Oscar-winning material. It was always better to be
realistic about your shortcomings when embarking on a dangerous assignment. It kept
you from getting cocky and complacent. From taking unnecessary risks.
The minute Emmett had told him the Rooster was pursuing Willow, Jack had only been
more determined to do the job. Nothing could have kept him away. Now he only had to
keep his rage at the Rooster for targeting his wife under control.
He’d made a vow never to hurt Willow again, to bow out of her life and let her find
love with someone else. Someone who deserved her. Someone who wasn’t a professional
killer like he was. Someone whose sensibilities matched hers. Another vegetarian would
be good. Someone who didn’t eat anything that once had eyes. He’d eat anything, and
had.
He had another good reason to let her go—Emmett was right. She
was
Jack’s Achilles’ heel, the one way to get to him. The precise tool the enemy needed
to take him down and break him. He was a whole lot more effective when he didn’t have
to worry about her. And she was a damn sight safer without him.
The explosion, and the time when he was missing and presumed dead by the Agency and
everyone else, gave him the distance, courage, and opportunity to give her a second
chance at the life she should have.
But he’d also made another, higher vow, during his wedding ceremony. He’d vowed to
honor and protect her. And he was a man of his word. But he wished for once his wife
would develop better taste in men.
Things could be worse. If a guy
had
to be resurrected and fool his wife into believing he was still dead, October was
the perfect month to do it. The haunted vibe of the season made for good theatrics
as it thrummed through the crisp autumn air, highlighted by the rustling leaves in
the apple trees overhead and the raucous cackle of a crow in flight.
It was the perfect atmosphere for a spook of any kind, even the clandestine variety.
Jack resisted the urge to punch the apple tree next to him in the orchard where he
hid, watching Willow’s house as he scoped out his next move before he introduced himself
to his new “cousin” Aldo, who was Willow’s nearest neighbor.