Ten

Kootenai Canyon, Montana

“Again.”

Sabrina blew out an exaggerated sigh as she came out of the closet with an armload of clothes. “I don’t want to go over it again,” she said, aiming a sullen look in his direction. He was sitting on the edge of their bed, next to the carry-on suitcase she’d found in the ridiculously overprepared closet. Forty-eight hours ago she’d been sure she’d never wear or use any of this stuff. Now she was juggling sensible flats and trying to decide which of the two dozen pantsuits she should pack.

“Give it a rest, O’Shea.” She half wadded, half folded a pair of navy dress pants and stuffed them in her suitcase. “You act like I’ve never faked my own death before.”

“You’re not funny.”

She could hear the frustration creeping into his voice again. Now that it was settled that she’d leave, it was killing him to let her go. “I don’t think you married me for my sense of humor,” she gave him a cheeky wink, trying to keep the mood light, but it didn’t work.

Michael retrieved the pair of pants from the bottom of the case and shook them out. “Humor me, Sabrina,” he said, refolding the pants into a perfectly formed rectangle before holding them out to her. “Again, please.”

She took the pants from him and tossed them over her shoulder. Turning toward him, she pulled her knees onto the bed to straddle his hips. “I’d rather do something else to you,” she said, pressing him back onto the bed. He let her have her way for a few minutes. Let her distract them both from the reality of the situation.

She was leaving.

“Okay,” he said pulling his mouth from under hers, groaning when she traced her tongue along the rigid line of his jaw. “Sabrina …” The groan deepened into a growl but he wasn’t giving up. “I need you to go over it again. And after that, I need you to go over it again. Over and over until I’m convinced you’ve got it down.”

She sat up. “Married less than thirty-six hours and you’ve lost all interest in me.”

Yesterday morning, they’d sat the kids down after breakfast and told them a sanitized version of the truth. That she was leaving for a few weeks to take care of something that’d come up but that she was coming back.

“I need your help, Christina,” she’d said to the girl, watching her trace her finger along the wood grains in the kitchen table. As soon as she said it, her hands went still but she didn’t look up. Interested but still angry.

“Michael and I are getting married and I was wondering if you’d be my maid of honor.”

That was all it took. Christina was out of her chair in a flash, dragging her back into her bedroom and into the closet where she’d wrangled her into a sundress and talked her into taking her boots off. She’d even let the girl braid flowers into her hair.

By lunchtime, Alex was walking her down the porch steps to where Michael waited for her under a tree by the river. It wasn’t official—couldn’t be—but they’d promised to love and protect each other for the rest of their lives.

As far as she was concerned, that was enough.

Now, Michael glowered at her, digging his fingers into her hips in an effort to keep her still. “Right now, I’m more interested in keeping you alive than getting you under me.”

“No fun.” She blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine … my name is Sinclaire Vance, but you can call me Claire. I’m thirty-six years old. I’m a Libra. I love long walks in the rain and horseback rides on the beach—”

“Sabrina.”

“I’m originally from Portland, Maine, but I grew up in Battle Creek, Michigan. I attended UNLV on a track scholarship, where I double majored in criminal justice and communications. From there I earned my master’s in forensic psychology, after which I applied for and was accepted into the FBI training program.” She smiled down at him. “Anything else I should know about myself?”

“Where were you stationed after graduating from Quantico?”

“Phoenix. I worked their field office for nearly seven years, and I aided in the apprehension of not one, but three serial murderers within a six-month period by providing psychological profiles of the suspects. I was offered a spot in the FBI’s BAU task force in DC after all three arrests led to convictions.” She gave him an exasperated smile and flopped on to the bed next to him. “Satisfied?”

He lifted the hand that rested in the narrow space between them, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Not even close,” he whispered against her hand before he closed his fingers around the thin platinum band he’d put there the day before. He started to pull it off and she stopped him by clenched her hand into a fist.

“Leave it,” she said, shaking her head, pulling her hand from his. Claire Vance was married to her job. Her personal ties were limited. Sabrina knew she’d have to take the ring off sooner rather than later, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He didn’t argue with her or tell her she was being unreasonable. He just threaded his fingers between her own and held on to her for a little while longer.

“I want you to call Phillip.”

It came out of nowhere and it took her a few moments to realize who he was talking about. Phillip Song. Leader of Seven Dragons, the most powerful arm of San Francisco’s Korean mob. The younger brother of David Song, the man who mutilated and murdered several young women in order to feed his own twisted delusion that her fate and his were intertwined.

“I can’t just call Phillip Song. I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”

She could hear Christina and Alex in the bathroom they shared, brushing their teeth. Getting ready for bed. She glanced at the wind-up clock on her nightstand. It was after nine. Dinner had been grilled steaks and sautéed asparagus that grew wild in the sandy soil along the riverbank. Afterward, they’d played Uno and ate homemade brownies.

As far as last days go, it’d been perfect.

“Yes, you can,” he said stubbornly. “He made his cousin help you once. He can make her help you again.”

It had been Phillip’s cousin Eun who’d told her that Wade’s presence in her subconscious was more spiritual than psychological. Trained in Korea as a shaman, she’d called him a Gae Dokkaebi—an evil spirit—and given her a special tea that helped keep him at bay. Sabrina hadn’t believed it at the time—she still didn’t—but when she drank the tea Phillip’s cousin made for her, Wade was quiet. Not gone, but silent. It had been the only thing that kept her sane before Michael came back into her life.

“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Phillip helped me because he felt like he owed me and because it amused him. I’m sure both feelings have passed.”

He laughed at her. “You’re adorably clueless, you know that?”

“Adorable?” she said, glowering as she pulled her hand loose and attempted to sit up. “That’s it, I want a divorce.”

He kept laughing and rolled on to his side, anchoring her beneath him with an arm snaked around her waist. “If you think the only reason Phillip Song helped you is because he owed you”—he leaned down and dropped a kiss on the hard line of her mouth—“then you know nothing about men and their motivations.”

“Phillip was a friend.” Her breath caught at the feel of his fingers trailing across her belly, skimming along the waistband of her cargos. “Nothing more than that.”

Michael pressed his lips to her collarbone. “Phillip was your friend,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck. “What you were to him was much more than that.”

“If that’s true”—she arched up against the hand he slipped under her tank, pushing it up her rib cage—“why would you want me to call him?”

The mouth against her throat curved into a smile as his hand closed over her breast. “Because,” he said, brushing his thumb across her nipple, teeth grazing along her jawline, “I’m not above exploiting some poor sap’s feelings for you if it means keeping you sane and safe.”

She laughed, even as her breath caught again. “Phillip Song is hardly a sap.”

“Trust me,” he said, angling himself up so he could press a kiss to her jawline before looking her in the eye, “for you, he is.”