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Garen LeRochefort gripped his satellite phone so hard the plastic dug into his hand. He’d been relieved when his operatives confirmed Miranda’s plane was safe in New York City, but his relief was short-lived.
“Goddammit it all to hell.” He snapped the phone shut.
People in the upscale lounge shot disapproving glances his way. Before Garen screamed that anyone who frequented a bar at six in the morning was nothing but a goddamned drunk, he beat a hasty retreat. He had no idea where Miranda was or even if she was still alive. He could call her, but her phone would likely be off. She was a good agent, and she followed protocols. One of the first was to keep communications gadgets not just off but also fully powered down since they could be used as tracking devices.
He laced his fingers together and squeezed until his hands ached. She’d been the obvious choice to send against Derek Roulan, head of the largest human trafficking ring on the globe. Roulan called his business International Success Ltd.—shortened to ISL—but the only one in the organization who succeeded was Roulan himself. Derek had an eye for ladies, and Miranda was one of the most exotic creatures Garen had ever laid eyes on. None of his male operatives would’ve stood a chance of getting close enough to Derek to handle him, and his other females weren’t nearly as seductive.
Garen debated returning to his hotel room on the thirty-fifth floor. Instead, he opted for a walk. It was cold and sleeting in early morning Boston, but he needed something to quell the concern racing through him. Water ran down his face, but he ignored it. Pavement glistened in the light of a new day.
Garen was head of the U.S. branch of Rubicon International. Years before, he and Lars worked hard to come up with an apt name for their security firm, a euphemism to describe the dirty, wet work they engaged in. He’d actually thought it the joke of the century when much more modern spy operations adopted their company name. They’d been in business, under one guise or another, since just before the American Revolution.
Operating an undercover business had proven extremely useful to mask his long life—and come up with new documentation each time he faded out of one identity into another. Many of his employees were lycans like him, but some were other types of shifters. All of them were extremely long-lived. One of the modern day problems that had cropped up was that shifters were hunted—and imprisoned or killed if discovered. It meant he couldn’t recruit outright. He and Lars operated a bit differently, but Garen had chosen to hire likely candidates and figure out along the way if they were shifters.
He’d tried to determine if Miranda fit the bill ever since she hired on, with no luck. At times, he’d been close, but she was wily, that one. She always slammed up a diversion to keep him out of her secret places. Damn, if he didn’t want into those secret places—all of them. He imagined her long legs locked around his hips, and lust licked at him, hot and urgent.
He grimaced. Fantasizing about a naked Miranda was a nowhere street. Indulging himself with one of his employees would be just plain stupid. So why couldn’t he get her out of his mind?
Garen did his damnedest to latch onto a shred of objectivity. He wouldn’t do Miranda any good if he couldn’t think straight. He sucked in a cold, soggy breath and followed it with another. It wasn’t accidental he was in Boston. He’d wanted to be located on the East Coast in case something happened in Amsterdam, and he needed to catch a plane there. Hell, he would’ve staked out a presence in Europe, but he was too well-known. He didn’t want his misplaced over-protectiveness to send up red flags that might end up killing his operative. Miranda could travel unnoticed. He couldn’t.
He shook his head. After this assignment, assuming he got Miranda back in one piece, he’d have to rethink just how invisible she was. It was apparent Roulan’s gang was after her. Deep inside, his wolf growled. It wanted to kill anything that might harm Miranda. He did what he could to calm it since shifting on the predawn streets of Boston was out of the question.
Lycans and other shifters were as close to persona non grata as criminals. If regular law enforcement got wind of them, they hunted them down and imprisoned or killed them. Garen exhaled sharply. The best part about Rubicon International was he had a trusted inner circle of operatives: fully vetted agents he trusted with his life.
In keeping with the total lack of trust shifters had in everyone, many—but certainly not all of them—showed up at a yearly gathering in their shifted form, never letting on who they were as humans. Sadness for his kind made his heart ache, but he shoved it aside. Emotions were an indulgence. He had more important places to focus his energy.
By the time he walked back through the fancy lobby of his hotel with its crystal chandeliers and plush furniture, he was wet enough other patrons gave him a wide berth. He sidled to the bank of elevators at the far side of the lobby. A lissome redhead followed him into one of the cars. Garen turned away. He knew what would come next.
“Hey there, handsome. A bit on the wet side, aren’t we?”
“Drop it. I’m not interested.”
She laughed, but it held a practiced edge. “You wouldn’t need to worry about a thing, darling. Maybe just a nice massage and a hot bath—”
He glanced at the rapidly mounting numbers above the elevator door and pressed twenty-one since they weren’t there yet. The door slid open. He grabbed the hooker’s arm and pushed her into a carpeted hallway. “I said I’m not interested. Go ply your wares elsewhere.”
He stabbed the Close Door button before she could leap back to his side with yet one more argument. Garen knew her kind. She was still attractive enough to be pushy and arrogant. He got out on the thirty-fifth floor, went to his room, and inserted his key card. His mouth twisted wryly. He wished a hooker could wipe Miranda out of his mind, but no one could. Everyone he’d fucked since he met her reminded him of her.
Garen stripped, dropping his wet clothes over a chair. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I want the one I can’t have.”
He started the water in the sunken tub and left the bathroom to check his phone. Nothing. He dialed Rubicon International’s headquarters. It didn’t take long to determine Miranda hadn’t called in. His next call was to Lars’ European branch of Rubicon, located in Heidelberg, Germany. All they could tell him—and they did it by inference—was that one of their other operatives was dead. Murdered at JFK, with his body stuffed into a parking lot dumpster.
Alarm fried Garen’s nerve endings. His wolf became damn near uncontrollable. Claws shot from his toes. Before they could take over his hands, he turned the door’s deadbolt and dropped the night-latch chain into its hasp. His body lengthened, fur sprouted, and he dropped to all fours. He loped around the generous suite until his tongue lolled. Garen loved the clean, unfettered animal energy. His wolf always knew what it wanted. Right now, it urged him to go after Miranda, but that wasn’t practical since he had no idea where she was. Hopefully, she and Lars had gone to ground somewhere. As lethal an operative as himself, Lars was more than capable of taking care of business—assuming nothing had happened to him.
The sound of the tub filling changed. It took a moment before he understood water was pouring over the sides. In a flash, he reached for his human form and sprinted for the bathroom. He turned off the taps, pulled the plug, and sopped up the mess with a couple of thick towels. Once the water level had gone down a few inches, he levered himself into the tub and sat in the steaming water. It soothed his tight muscles but didn’t relieve his worry.
He clenched a fist and banged it down on the side of the tub. Damn it! He needed a clear head, but all he could think about was Miranda—his Miranda—crouched behind a concrete wall defending herself. He should be by her side, helping her...
“No.” He spoke out loud to get hold of his emotions. “She hasn’t been through her final tests yet. Maybe once she’s tenured, and I know beyond a shadow of doubt that she’s a shifter, and I can trust her—”
Yeah, what then? Do I break every rule I ever made for Rubicon International and mate with her—make her mine?
Hold it right there, bud, a rational part of his brain horned in. She might not be lycan. It was remote, judging from her performance in the field, but still...
If she wasn’t, he could always bite her and solve that little problem, but another of his rules would shatter. He’d forbidden lycans to create more of their kind until they were truly needed. No point in making shifters only to have them gunned down or carted off to a lifetime in a cell.
“Fuck.”
A growl shook the bathroom. He got out of the tub and toweled himself off. “I made too many fucking rules, and now I’m falling over them.” As an afterthought, he bent and pulled the plug, so the tub could drain.
* * * *
“I let you sleep as long as I dared,” Lars called from the doorway.
“Crap.” Miranda rolled over and groaned. Her head pounded. Her body ached. Fear flooded her mouth with a sharp, metallic taste. “Why didn’t I hear the door open?”
He grinned at her. “I can be quiet as a cat when I need to. I ordered breakfast. It should be here by the time you have had a shower.” The door closed.
She lurched off the bed. The room spun, and she grabbed hold of a dresser until things steadied. Weak as a newborn pup, she shambled into the shower, dropping a trail of clothing as she went, and let hot jets pummel her body. Someone had outfitted the brownstone apartment since the shower was fully stocked, as was the rest of the bathroom.
Must be some kind of safe house, she surmised as she used lavender shampoo and soap. Her entire right side was one huge bruise from just below her breast all the way to her hipbone. More bruising trailed down the side of her leg. Miranda grimaced. Between being hurt and not remembering when she’d last eaten, no wonder she felt so shitty.
Lars stuck his head around the bathroom door she hadn’t bothered to shut. “I put fresh clothes on the bed, fraulein.”
Miranda glanced at him through the glass shower doors and nodded. He could see her body, but it didn’t matter. Or did it? Why wasn’t he leaving? “Don’t you have to take care of breakfast or something?” she called over the noise of the shower.
He laughed wryly. “It is here. Your side looks...serious. Would you like me to wrap it?”
“Do you have an Ace wrap that big?”
“Of course. My firm maintains this apartment.”
She pressed her tongue against her teeth. “Just leave the bandage on the bed. I’ll manage.”
“It is better if I do it, fraulein. You will not get it tight enough.”
“I’ll think about it. Now get out of here, so I can finish up.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Miranda snorted back laughter. Once he was gone, she shut off the water, swathed her long, wet hair in one towel, and used another to dry herself. A cursory examination of the medicine cabinet yielded toothpaste and half a dozen toothbrushes wrapped in plastic. She brushed her teeth. Between soap, water, and moving around, she felt a little better.
A nondescript pair of black pants along with an oversized black shirt and black jacket lay on the bed. Clean underwear—panties and a jog bra—had been placed atop them, along with an enormous Ace wrap. Miranda held the pile of clothing to her nose and breathed deep.
Clean. What a luxury. She slid into the underwear and tried wrapping the elasticized bandage around her ribs. Lars had been right. The angle was awkward.
She blew out a breath and made a decision. Pants, bra, and boots on, she put the top and jacket over one arm, grabbed the bandage, and opened her bedroom door. The smells of breakfast hit her in the face.
Famished. I’m famished.
She raced into the front room ready to inhale whatever had arrived for breakfast.
Lars got to his feet as soon as he saw her. He pried the Ace wrap out of her hands. “Stand still. Put your arms out to your sides.”
“Can’t we do this after I eat?” Saliva filled her mouth. She swallowed, or it would’ve run down her chin.
“This will only take a minute. It is best when your muscles are warm from the shower.” Expert fingers wove the bandage around her and fastened it with metal butterfly clips. “There, fraulein. Now you may eat.”
Miranda was in such a hurry to get to the food, she nearly forgot to drag the black stretchy top over her head. She plowed through toast slathered with butter and jam, bacon, ham, and eggs, not bothering with conversation. Lars kept her coffee cup filled and remained quiet. He seemed hungry too, though he’d obviously eaten while she cleaned up. Once her blood sugar was heading in the right direction—back up—she took a deep breath.
“Better. I feel lots better.” She eyed him. “Do you know anything?”
He nodded but didn’t elaborate.
Her temper, always a liability, sparked. “Well—” she slammed a fist on the table “—if you know something, goddammit, tell me.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Garen is in Boston. We will meet him in—” he glanced at his phone “—about five hours at one of the smaller airports just outside town.”
Her mouth fell open; her heart sped up. “Garen?” She shook her head. “You must be mistaken. He’s in Seattle. Why would he be here?” Miranda narrowed her eyes. “It’s a trap. Part of what happened last night. The bastards who are after me haven’t given up—”
“Stop.” His cold, gray gaze augured into her. “Give me a little credit, fraulein.” He cocked his head to one side. “My guess is he was worried about your assignment and moved closer to the East Coast in case he had to...do something.”
She slugged back more coffee. “It sounds as if you know him. Do you?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “Of course. In this business, we all know one another.”
“I didn’t mean like that.” She hesitated. “We don’t all know one another. After all, I just met you at the Amsterdam airport. It sounds like you’re well enough acquainted with Garen to second-guess his motives.”
Lars didn’t answer.
Miranda polished off the rest of the food on her plate and opened the foam boxes to make certain she hadn’t missed anything. She glanced at Lars. “How are we going to get from here to Boston?”
“We will drive. There should be a car waiting out front.”
She thought about the geography of the East Coast. “Shouldn’t we be leaving?”
He nodded. “Ja. Grab your things.”
She glanced at their mess. “Do you want me to straighten up?”
He brayed laughter. “Fraulein. Most agents are men. We are not good housekeepers. Someone will be along to take care of things.”
* * * *
Lars drove the silver Lexus RX 450 with the same easy assurance he’d flown the Gulfstream. At his insistence, she covered her hair with a black baseball cap and slumped low in the plush leather passenger seat. She tried to engage him in conversation. Instead, he turned the satellite radio to a channel that played German opera. Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde blared from the speakers.
Everything she’d eaten sat in her stomach like a brick until they cleared the outskirts of New York City. Once it appeared their car wasn’t on the bad guys’ wanted list, she relaxed enough to digest her meal. Miranda’s thoughts turned inward. It was actually a relief that Lars wasn’t hitting on her like he’d done last night. Not that he wasn’t attractive...
She glanced sidelong at him through slitted eyes and nodded to herself. She’d sell her soul if he wasn’t a shifter. What was that he’d said about being quiet as a cat? She opened her mouth to ask but then shut it. No point in making him believe she was interested. Or in bringing up shifters—a forbidden topic in polite company.
Like it usually did when she let it drift, her mind turned to Garen.
Miranda felt a funny flutter behind her breastbone. In just a little while, she’d see him in the flesh. The prospect took her breath away. She barely spent any time with him back at Rubicon International’s offices. He was usually on the top floor where his office was, and she was down in the bullpen with other agents who’d not yet been tenured.
She dragged her cell phone out of her bag. Her finger hovered over the power button.
“Do not do that.”
Her head snapped up. She’d nearly forgotten about Lars. “Not safe yet?”
“Fraulein. After what I believe you did, you will not be safe anywhere for a very long time.”
A chill ran down her back. “Okay. So I’ll get a new phone.”
“At the very least. You might want to consider plastic surgery. No way to disguise your height, but a competent surgeon could—”
“No!” The vehemence in her voice surprised her, but her wolf was in full rebellion. “No fucking way. I’ll consider colored contact lenses and maybe bleaching my hair, but that’s the end of it.”
He shrugged, a rather Gaelic gesture given his Teutonic bloodlines. “It is your funeral.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” Miranda kept her voice steady.
“Maybe. I believe in being practical. Your target concerned Garen enough, he traveled thousands of miles to be nearby if he was needed. Do not underestimate the danger.” An oblique glance from Lars’ gray eyes grazed her, sharp as shrapnel.
“Fine. So I’m fucked.” She crossed her arms over her chest. The motion made her ribs ache. “At least the bad guy’s dead.”
Savage laughter filled the car. “Good for you, fraulein. You have spirit. Hang onto it. How did you end up an operative?”
The question came out of left field. She launched into an answer before she realized what she was doing. “I was a Green Beret stationed in the Middle East. I had some, er, issues with Army policies.” She bit her lower lip, wondering how much to tell him.
“I would rather you did not feed me a carefully constructed lie, fraulein. One of two things happened. Either they kicked you out for insubordination—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand and gathered shards of dignity about herself. “When my term ended, I chose not to reenlist.”
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
He snorted. “You guessed correctly last night. I have been in a few branches of the military.” He cleared his throat. “For those of us who appreciate latitude in how we fulfill our assignments, it can be a bit confining.”
She snorted right back. “No shit.” Miranda sucked in a breath. She’d just shared more information with Lars than she’d shared with anyone in the years she’d worked for Rubicon International. Agents didn’t discuss anything personal with one another. It was as if they hadn’t had lives before becoming Rubicon employees. And agents like her—not-yet-vetted ones—knew less than nothing. All information was on a need to know basis.
She sucked in a breath, wincing as her ribcage expanded. “I told you some things. You tell me how you know Garen.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to shut her down, but then he started talking.
