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Garen paced up and down his opulent office at Rubicon International’s headquarters. Carved wainscoting ran up the walls, depicting medieval scenes featuring famous spies. Thick, imported Oriental rugs cushioned his steps. Usually the combination of rich wood, Eastern art, and huge windows that looked out on Seattle’s waterfront quieted his nerves, but not today.
The San Ysidro team had been distressingly enthusiastic about Miranda’s plan to go undercover as a call girl. She was certain she could entice ISL’s operatives to scoop her into the cadre of women they sold on the open market. Between her short hair and colored contacts to turn her eyes brown, she’d exuded confidence no one would recognize her.
“Shit,” he muttered. “She’s probably right. It’s unlikely anyone who saw her in Amsterdam would be in San Ysidro.” Regardless, he couldn’t send her off without fully vetting her as an RI agent. Not now, when she’d become the center of his universe.
Tenured status would give her the right to know all the rest of them were shifters too. She’d have the best equipment and be bound to Rubicon International by her blood, which would give Garen—and the other tenured operatives—access to her mind. The blood bond would also allow her to communicate with the rest of the team telepathically over distances—a critical element if someone in San Ysidro recognized her.
He shook his head. He didn’t particularly want to see inside her mind. He loved her. Forcing himself to stand by the words he’d spoken driving back from the restaurant two nights before was tearing his heart into bitter, pointed shards.
He glanced at a grandfather clock. In just a few minutes, he’d escort Miranda to her final test. They’d conferred privately after the San Ysidro team meeting, and he’d made noises about dispensing with the last hurdle standing between her and full standing as an agent at Rubicon International. She’d been horrified by the prospect of him bending even so much as one rule on her behalf. He’d been proud of her.
Rubicon International vetted its operatives through a number of increasingly difficult assignments. Only about half the recruits made it through. Most firms that provided murder-for-hire personnel engaged criminals or sociopaths. Garen couldn’t stand to be around them. Their energy made his skin crawl. He preferred his method: find people with aptitude, train them right, and hope for the best. Assassination was an art. Just like any trade, it could be taught, and Rubicon International had an excellent track record.
His teeth gritted against one another. Garen made an effort to relax his jaws. He wanted to shift. His wolf always calmed him, but there wasn’t time. He felt claws close to the surface. They pressed against the ends of his fingertips and toes. One emerged from a finger, black and gleaming. He stared at it in disbelief. Could his control be getting away from him?
Surely I’m not that upset.
He stomped to a corner of the room where a gouge in the wood wouldn’t be as noticeable and growled before running his claw down the groove between the walls so hard it practically left sparks. Because he couldn’t help himself, he did it again. A fine mist of wood chips fell to the carpet. He shoved them deep into the corner with the tip of one impeccably polished loafer.
“Damn it.”
The claw retracted, and he slammed a fist into the wood. He’d broken one of his own cardinal rules. Never get emotionally involved with the help. What if things went badly today and Miranda was killed? What then?
What if things turn to shit in San Ysidro? No matter how this ends up, I’ve fucked myself. I’ll never be able to send her out on an assignment again and not either follow her or worry myself sick the entire time she’s gone.
He bashed the wall again with his fist. Pain had a steadying effect. For the briefest of moments, he thought about calling the whole thing off. He’d just tell Miranda she had tenure regardless of her feelings about being treated like any other agent and fulfilling each and every requirement.
He wasn’t certain what he’d do about today’s other agent, Ted Adamson, waiting in the field for Miranda. Garen slammed his forehead against the palm of one hand. Ted was Miranda’s test, but part of her task was figuring that out.
He wasn’t certain about Ted. The man claimed to be a shifter—and he’d passed all his tests—but Garen had his doubts. Ted always came up with one excuse or another when it was time to shift. Even with the blood bond, Garen had trouble truly seeing behind the man’s carefully constructed defenses. No, if Garen called off Miranda’s test, he’d have to do something drastic, or the other agent would tell everyone Miranda didn’t deserve to be part of Rubicon International, that the boss pulled the plug on her final assignment.
“What the fuck?” He reproached himself. “Am I really going to put the whole company at risk just because she has the hottest little ass I’ve seen in a couple hundred years, and I’d kill to fuck her again?”
Call a spade a spade, his inner voice answered. I’m focusing on sex because acknowledging how much I care about her rips me to shreds.
His cock swelled. So hard it was almost painful, it pressed against the front panel of his suit trousers. He rubbed it, and it jerked against his hand. His gaze strayed to the clock. Reality intruded. He needed to leave now. No time to bring himself off while he fantasized about Miranda’s blonde-streaked hair, saucy blue eyes, and acres of curves. Never mind her long, shapely legs and six-foot frame.
“Think about something else, goddammit,” he muttered. “I can’t go out there with the front of my pants belled out like a balloon.”
He sucked a deep breath, followed it with another, and forced his thoughts to Rubicon International. He cared about it like the children he’d never had.
Maybe if I followed my heart, I could have some real children.
Oh, shut up.
He rolled his eyes, shrugged into his suit coat, and did the best he could to hide his erection. Miranda would be waiting. No matter how ambivalent he was, he had to let this gambit play itself out. His wolf side howled in protest. He wanted Miranda up front and personal, running by his side in a wooded glade. Usually his wolf was right on, but he’d made the mistake of screwing a vampire once, egged on by his randy wolf, who’d fallen hard for her lush red curls. That was the closest he’d ever come to dying. Well, not dying exactly, but he had no desire to join the ranks of the undead with their taste for human blood.
“Back off,” he told the wolf. “I want her too, but the time’s not right. No more mate bond talk. She has to decide to come to us.”
And I have to decide just how much of my dual life I’m willing to disclose.
* * * *
Miranda flicked a spot of lint off the hem of her black suit and fidgeted in a straight-backed chair. Her eyes darted longingly at the more comfortable chairs scattered about the plush office, but they weren’t a match for her mood. Exactly where she’d placed herself had a better shot at neutralizing edgy and tense than an overstuffed chair.
A corner of her mouth twitched into a frown. Today would decide...everything. She was about to find out what would happen next in her life. For the briefest of moments, she opened her mouth, panting in nervous anticipation. Then she pulled her tongue back in and got a grip on the lycan side of her nature. Outside of Garen, no one at Rubicon International knew her secret, and she aimed to keep it that way.
A shudder coursed through her. Depending on today’s outcome, either she’d be elevated to the inner circle running Rubicon International—and be allowed to carry out her San Ysidro plan, or... Or what? What happened to the ones who failed? Were they disposed of in some neat but nameless way? The way she’d dispatched others on company orders.
Garen never told her exactly how to carry out her assignments, only that someone had become extraneous. That was the word he used. Extraneous. Would some agent she’d never seen before lie in wait to do her in if she botched today’s assignment? A thin string of saliva materialized out of nowhere. She balled her hands into tight fists. Her wolf was so close to the surface, it was disturbing. She hastily wiped her chin, taking care not to smear her lipstick.
Miranda exhaled raggedly, not sure which was more important: her job or Garen.
Oh, please, her inner voice snarked. Let’s get real here.
With her heart a lead weight in her chest, she understood in a gut-wrenching flash of realization that Garen meant everything. If something went horribly wrong today and he booted her out of Company ranks, she’d never see him again.
Can’t have that. Failure is not an option.
A familiar sensation nagged near the small of her back. Her tail was trying its damndest to swish back and forth. Because sitting wasn’t working, she rose to her feet and swiveled her head to relax the metal bar of tension that had settled between her shoulder blades. Most of the time her human form was comfortable, but not today. Stress sometimes had that effect, though. It brought her closer to the primal parts of herself, the parts that could morph into fur and claws at a moment’s notice.
Her lips curved into a predatory smile until she caught a glimpse of herself in an ornate mirror. The lupine cast to her features was disturbing enough, she took a couple of uneven breaths and forced the more rounded planes of her Miranda face back into place. Patting her cheekbones to try to ensure her face stayed that way, she wondered again just what Garen had in mind for her today. In her secret places, she couldn’t believe he’d be the author of her destruction if she turned in a less-than-stellar performance.
No, he’ll just tell me to clear out my desk and have a nice life. What kind of life can I have without him, though?
She caught the sound of distant footsteps. Miranda recognized the pattern and cadence of those steps and folded back into her seat. Garen was coming. Because being around him was excruciating—particularly after their last bout of sex—she’d adopted her Army persona and was doing her damndest to be a good soldier and follow orders. Besides, if she stayed on her feet, there was a chance she’d throw herself into his arms and latch her mouth onto his. Seconds later the door opened with a metallic, whooshing sound as the electronics activated.
“Right on time as always, Miss Miller.” Garen cut an impressive figure as he fixed his steely gaze on her. He was impeccably dressed in his usual dark suit, white shirt, and blue tie. The planes of his face were finely chiseled, but today he looked tired. Lines creased his forehead, and day-old stubble peppered his cheeks. She wanted to gather him into her arms and smooth away the worry lines with kisses.
I’ve got to bury that part of myself and damned fast.
The worst part was she thought she saw longing akin to her own in the depths of his blue eyes.
“Yes, sir.” Miranda rose gracefully to her feet, prepared to receive her orders.
Instead of handing her a sheaf of destroy-these-once-you’ve-read-them instructions, he turned and headed for the outer doors to the building. Looking back over one shoulder, he quirked an eyebrow. “Coming?” he inquired.
Momentarily nonplussed, she started after him, and then returned for her forgotten briefcase. As she moved, her shoulder harness dug into her, and the cold metal of the gun she carried scraped against her skin. She felt fur sprout as a protection and shook herself to stop the transformation.
“Not now. Not needed.”
By the time she caught up with him, Garen stood on the sidewalk in front of the vintage waterfront building that housed Rubicon International. A white Lexus SUV, one of a fleet of company cars, stood at the curb. He held the door open and gestured eloquently. She didn’t need words to understand he expected her to get inside. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Garen’s actions were so out of character she had no idea what would come next. Normally, he gave her written instructions, added a few verbal ones on top of them, and sent her on her way.
What the fuck? I didn’t prepare for this.
A different inner voice snorted. Yeah, preparation’s my middle name. Not much to do but get in the car.
A brisk wind blew strands of hair into her face. She peeked inside the car. No driver. The implication hit her, and she had to force herself to pretend nothing was wrong. Garen obviously planned to take her somewhere, and it was just the two of them. Had he forgotten his promise to treat her like any other agent?
“Miranda.” Garen looked oddly at her. “For chrissake, get in the car. I don’t have all day.”
She hesitated. “Where are we going? Usually, you give me—”
“I’ll discuss your assignment once we’re moving.”
Her wolf didn’t like any of this. Garen sounded cold, distant. Only his eyes looked familiar, and they were glazed with pain. Her wolf urged her to take off running. She shushed it.
“Are you going to get in?” Irritation and something else she couldn’t quite name underscored his words.
“Of course. Sorry.” Miranda shot him a sunny smile and slid into the passenger seat, taking care to flash as much thigh as she could manage. Maybe, if he was ambivalent about dragging her off to a private rendezvous before her final assignment, she could up the ante a bit.
What the hell am I doing? Every time I fuck him, all I do is want him more. What am I, a masochist?
Yeah, a regular glutton for punishment, she thought glumly.
Garen laughed and ran an index finger up her exposed thigh. “That’s the spirit, Miss Miller.” Shoving her door shut, he came around to the driver’s side and got in.
