So here’s the salient fact of the day: I, Denise Ellen Marshall Walker, am a horrible person.
Or at least a very screwed up one.
I must be, right? Because here I am soaking up the sunshine in one of the most posh backyards in all of California, and instead of thinking, wow, lucky me to have such amazing friends and colleagues, I’m seething with envy.
Not about the house, although no one could blame me for that. After all, this is Damien Stark’s Malibu property, and that man does nothing half-assed. I can’t prove it, but I’m ninety percent sure he imported the sunshine along with the patio’s gorgeous Italian flagstones.
But no, it’s not real estate that’s turning me the color of Elphaba. Instead, it’s my partner, Quince, and his girlfriend, Eliza, who are holding hands and looking like they could eat each other up. And why not? They’ve finally gotten back together after an interlude long enough for dinosaurs to evolve all the way to extinction. But am I happy for them?
Oh, please. Of course, I am. I’m screwed up, but I’m not a bitch.
I am happy for them.
I’m also sick with jealousy, and hating myself because of it. But the simple truth is that I don’t have the patience to wait for another era to pass. I want my husband back. I haven’t seen Mason in over two years. Not since he left on a deep-cover assignment, and I miss him so much that sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to curl up and die just from the pain of my loneliness.
I’m pushing through, though. My friends help. My work helps. And my certainty that he’s out there—that he still wants and misses me—helps, too.
But none of that helps enough to dull the knife-edge of jealousy when I witness a happy reunion.
And today, I’m pretty much drowning in a sea of happy.
If it were just Quince and Eliza, maybe I wouldn’t be such a basket case. But the point of this day is to celebrate the successful wrap-up of a Stark Security case, along with the impending reunion of a European princess with her extremely relieved royal father.
The Stark Security Agency is a relatively new division of Stark International, a huge conglomerate owned by former tennis player turned entrepreneurial billionaire Damien Stark and operated by Ryan Hunter, who used to head up Stark International’s corporate security.
Formed after Stark’s youngest daughter was kidnapped, the SSA is staffed by some serious badasses, most of whom left other law enforcement or intelligence jobs because they believe in Stark’s mandate of providing help where it’s needed, no matter how big or small the job.
I’m one of those badasses now, having left my covert government job a while back. I’m not feeling particularly tough right now, though. Instead, I’m moody and lonely and jealous. Because everyone else is celebrating, and I just feel lost.
Really not one of my finer moments, and I force myself to look away in case either Eliza or Quince notices my melancholy expression and it puts a damper on their happiness.
Frankly, it’s a good decision, because once I shift my attention to the pool, it becomes much harder to remain melancholy. Not when dark-haired little Lara Stark is splashing water on her giggling younger sister, all while the recently rescued princess tries half-heartedly to interest both Stark girls in the colorful pool noodles.
From the opposite side of the pool, Eliza’s sister, Emma, is watching the girls as well, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She’s in a tank top and shorts, her thigh tightly bandaged after yesterday’s battle.
Only yesterday.
Honestly, it already seems so far away, and the despicable truth is that I want another case. And soon. Even though that means that there’s someone in trouble. I want it, because without it, I don’t know how I can keep my thoughts from wandering back to Mason, or my heart from breaking into pieces all over again.
Damn. I wipe my damp eyes and hope no one notices. I really should have worn my sunglasses…
The thought still lingers when I realize that Quince is coming my way. I’m desperately in love with my husband, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good-looking man, and Quince definitely qualifies. He’s British, which is really neither here nor there, but that awesome accent definitely adds to the appeal of his dark, lean looks. He has an edgy, dangerous air, but at his core, he’s one of the kindest men I know. And the most loyal.
Most of all, he’s completely smitten with Eliza. Honestly, it’s kind of adorable.
As he approaches, I look past him for her, then realize that she’s disappeared. Probably inside the house where Nikki, Damien, and the rest of this morning’s crew have gone for coffee and a buffet-style breakfast.
“So, we did it,” he says as he sits on the edge of my chaise.
“You and Eliza?” I quip as I scoot over to make room for him. “I should hope so, the way you two have been making puppy dog eyes at each other for the last few days.”
“Funny girl,” he retorts, but he’s grinning so I know that he doesn’t mind me teasing him. He knows perfectly well that I adore Eliza and think they make a terrific couple. “I want to hear it straight from you.”
“Hear what?” I’m genuinely confused.
“That you and I make a great team, and you’re going to stay in the field and not decide this was a one-off and go back to riding a computer.”
I make a scoffing noise, as if he’s saying the most ridiculous thing. But he’s not. After all, that’s what I’d done right before we met. I’d been so morose at Mason’s long absence that I’d left my government assignment and taken Ryan up on his offer to recruit me over to his security team. But I’d refused field assignments.
Quince is the one who convinced me to get back in the field. We worked a bit together during the Stark kidnapping investigation and hit it off, probably because both of us were walking around under the same dark cloud. Whatever the reason, we ended up as friends, and the assignment that we just wrapped marked our first official job as partners.
“No way you’re getting rid of me now,” I tell him honestly.
His brows rise. “Now?”
“Sure.” I flash a mischievous smile. “Now that you’re with Eliza. That means I have someone I can gossip to about all your annoying habits.”
“Ah, well, then I guess it’s lucky that there’s not a single bloody thing about me that’s annoying.”
“Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Lucky.”
We share a grin, and then I reach out and put my hand over his, which is resting on the chaise cushion. “I’m so glad you two are together,” I tell him sincerely. “You were meant to be, you know.”
“I do,” he said. “And I’m determined not to blow it. We’re even doing counseling. First session next Thursday.”
“Good for you,” I say, wondering if maybe I should try that, too. Maybe I could learn how to fill this cavern that’s growing in my soul. I shake the thought away; this moment isn’t about me.
He shifts his hand so that he can close his fingers around mine and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Such a simple question, but it’s said with so much genuine concern that my eyes water, and I have to blink away tears. “Just melancholy. I love you, and you’re one of my best friends, so don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m so goddamn jealous I can’t see straight.”
“I’m sorry, Denny. I wish I could give him back to you.”
“I know,” I say with a nod, and even though Quince has always called me by the nickname that Mason tagged me with, this morning, that name makes me want to burst into tears.
Over Quince’s shoulder, I see Eliza step through the open doorway, a tray full of coffee cups in her hands. I point toward her, suddenly desperate for a few moments alone. “Looks like she brought coffee for everyone. You should give her a hand.”
“I’ll bring you a cup.”
I shake my head as he stands, and his brows rise in surprise because he knows damn well I’m addicted to the stuff. “I think I caught a bug. My stomach’s been rebelling when I have coffee on an empty stomach. I’ll grab some food soon,” I say before he can offer to bring me that as well.
“Fair enough,” he says, obviously hearing my underlying plea that he leave. Most of the time I’m doing just fine—truly. But today, with the celebration and the love and—
I sniff and blink and will myself not to cry as I watch him stride toward Eliza, and my breath hitches at the way she lights up upon seeing him.
I swallow. Must. Stop. This.
Seriously, I have got to stop feeling sorry for myself. But, dammit, I don’t know what’s happened to him. I don’t know if he’s safe. I don’t even know if he’s alive, although surely I’d feel the pain in my heart if he’d already left this world.
The only thing I know—or think I know—is that four months ago, I thought—
“Born in the USA…”
My phone’s ringtone is both loud and totally unexpected—because that particular Springsteen song is assigned to my former boss, Colonel Anderson Seagrave. I snatch my phone up eagerly, then answer with a mix of hope and trepidation. Because Seagrave is still Mason’s boss.
“Have you heard anything?” I ask without preamble. I know it’s not his assistant making the call. Anderson’s a busy man, but he wouldn’t do that to me; he knows too well that I’m desperate for news about my husband.
“Denise.” He clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
* * *
“Where is he?” I see no sign of my husband as I peer into what looks like a nice studio apartment, but is really a secure, government hospital room. The walls are painted a soothing beige, made even calmer by framed landscape paintings that are artfully arranged on the walls.
“He’ll be back soon,” Seagrave assures me, but all I can do is shake my head. Mason might come back into the room, but he won’t really be back. Not if what Seagrave told me on the phone is true.
“This will be hard for you to hear,” he’d said, and my body had turned to ice.
“He’s dead.” I was sure of it. Seagrave’s the commander of the Western Division of the ultra-secret Sensitive Operations Command. He’s a good man, but highly placed. And he doesn’t have time to call about routine matters.
“No, no,” Seagrave’s rebuttal spilled out, breaking through the rising hum in my ears. “He’s alive. But he’s lost his memory.”
I made a strangled sound, then immediately looked down at the flagstone patio, not wanting Quince or anyone else at the party to notice my expression. “His—what? What exactly do you mean?”
“He doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“And me?” My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear his response.
“I’m sorry, Agent Marshall,” he’d said, the reference to my professional title obviously intended to shore me up emotionally. “But he doesn’t know you, either.”
I don’t remember ending the call. I don’t remember talking to anyone, but I must have, because Quince and Eliza drove me into downtown Los Angeles.
I’d managed to gather myself during the drive, but I’m still in shock. Slightly queasy. Cold, despite Quince loaning me an oversized sweat jacket that he’d found in the back of his immaculate black Range Rover.
Most of all, I’m in denial.
Because despite what Seagrave told me about Mason remembering nothing about his life or me, I’m absolutely, one hundred percent certain that the moment he sees me, it will all flood back. Maybe not work. But me. Him. Us.
Considering what he and I share—the intensity of our relationship, the strength of our bond—how could any other result be possible?
And yet doubt still niggles at my soul…
Now, I draw a deep breath and focus on the room that has been my husband’s home for almost a week. I’m still angry that Seagrave didn’t contact me right away, but those emotions will get me nowhere, and I’ve pushed them out of sight, hidden them in the trash can of my mind where I store all useless facts.
Instead, I let my gaze play hopscotch around the room, wishing that he were in there at this moment. But all I see are the furnishings. A dresser, a small writing desk, a kitchenette, a bed. The IV rack and monitors mark the only clue that this room is anything out of the ordinary.
That, and this window made of one-way glass. From Mason’s perspective, it’s a full-length mirror next to the bathroom. I wonder if Mason remembers enough about his past life and career to realize that’s total bullshit.
The thought makes me frown, and I glance at Seagrave. He’s looking into the room, too, but he must feel my eyes on him because he tilts his head up, then wheels himself slightly backward so that we can face each other more directly.
He’s in his mid-forties with an easy smile and dark hair that’s already graying at the temples. I don’t know how he lost the use of his legs, but I heard through the grapevine that it wasn’t in battle, though he’s seen more than his share of action.
He’s efficient, fair, and a natural leader. I would have happily worked under him forever had it not been for Mason’s disappearance. I’d wanted to head up an extraction team. Seagrave not only flatly refused to authorize the mission, but also denied me any lead or clue as to Mason’s whereabouts. Continent. Country. City. I had no clue where to start, which meant that even a vigilante-style extraction would have been impossible.
I respected his decision—truly. But I resented it, too. And as the months dragged on, I couldn’t stay with the SOC. Not with my fears and memories beating down on me every damn day.
“How are you doing?” he asks me now.
“Stupid question,” I mutter.
“Is it?”
I shrug, wishing that Quince and Eliza were still with me. But this is an authorized personnel only situation, and they have no connection with my former government job.
“You were one of my best agents, Denise. And you handled everything I threw at you. You’ll get through this, too.”
I look away from him, because I think we may have just found my limit. Because I’m not handling this well at all. Instead of facing reality, I’m clinging to the scenario I’ve been playing out in my head. Me walking into that room. Mason standing politely, his head cocked in that way he has when he’s trying to work out a puzzle. For a terrifying moment, his expression will be blank. Then a smile will spread across his face and sunshine will fill those chestnut eyes. “Denny,” he’ll say, as I slide into his arms. “Christ, Denny, I thought I’d lost both of us.” “Never,” I’ll whisper. “I’ll always see you home.”
That’s what I want. That’s what I’m imagining.
But I know it’s not real.
I spent too many years working the tough cases. I’ve seen too many horrors, and over the years my skin has gotten too thick. The optimism I clung to as a child has been chipped away, replaced by a dark reality where every happily ever after comes with a price.
And now I’m terrified that this is the price Mason and I are paying for our years of bliss.
From the speakers mounted above us, I hear a click as the bathroom door inside the room opens. Mason steps out, absolutely and completely nude. Seagrave immediately spins his chair around, as if to give Mason privacy, but I stay as I am, looking over Seagrave’s head at my husband, a slow burn of anger rising at the unfamiliar scars that now mar his beautiful skin.
I don’t know what happened to him, but if I ever find out who did that, I’ll kill them with my bare hands, I swear to God.
“Did they break any bones?” My voice is low, but even.
“His nose. His arm. Recent, but healed by the time we acquired him.”
“Acquired,” I repeat. Not rescued. Not recovered. Not exfiltrated. In other words, Seagrave still sees Mason as a risk.
I get that. I understand his reasoning and his fear. But he’s not right. He can’t be right, because that would be the final blow that absolutely destroys me.
“No head injuries,” he continues, his voice bland. “That’s not the cause of his memory loss.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about that. I was just—”
I sigh, overwhelmed by the sight of him and the situation. But no matter how horrible everything is, that is my husband in there. Mason. The dark hair that appears so thick and coarse, but is as soft as silk to my fingers. Those deep-set eyes that can steal my breath with a single glance. His rugged face highlighted by the slight, kissable cleft in his chin.
And his body. Tall and muscular and vibrant and mine.
We’ll get past this. Somehow, I’m going to get him back.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Mason turns and walks toward the mirror. Toward me. He stops in front of it, completely naked, his head tilted slightly down so that our eyes meet, though I know he can’t see me. My pulse kicks up, and I let my gaze roam over every delicious inch of him, soaking him up like candy.
“That’s Mason,” I whisper, my attention focused especially on the tribal band tattoo on his left arm. Mason doesn’t like rings—not since he saw his cousin’s finger get ripped off after the seventeen-year-old got his hand caught in construction equipment during a summer job. Instead of a ring to symbolize our marriage, he’d chosen to get a tattoo. I’d considered doing the same, but in the end, I’d gone with my platinum band.
I press my palm against the glass and sigh. “He may not realize it, but that’s definitely Mason.”
Seagrave’s back is still to the glass, so I can easily see the way his forehead creases as he studies me. “If you’re about to give me a run down on specific physical attributes, don’t bother. I’ve gotten a full report from the med team already.”
I smirk. “I definitely recognize every inch,” I say, choosing not to comment on the spider web of scars that make me want to weep. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I’m saying that he’s Mason. With Mason’s habits. His—I don’t know—programming.”
“Programming?”
I shake my head quickly. “I don’t mean he’s gone all Manchurian Candidate on us. I just mean that people develop certain patterns over a lifetime. He hasn’t forgotten those. Even if he’s forgotten where they came from. That has to be a good sign, right?”
“He walked naked into a room that he may well believe is private. So what? Tell me what exactly that means to you.”
“Defiance,” I say, grinning at my bare-naked husband still standing in front of the mirror, looking hard at us even though I know that all he sees is himself. “We both know he understands what that mirror is—don’t try to tell me you think otherwise. So that’s one clue. Here’s another—Mason never leaves the bathroom naked. He always wears a towel or dresses in the bathroom.”
That, in fact, is a quirk that I’ve always found unfortunate since the man has an incredible body. But he shared a room with his sister until he was fourteen and now the towel habit is deeply ingrained. He’s broken pattern only twice in our marriage—our wedding night and the night before he left on this mission. Mostly because I’d cajoled him into—and out of—the shower with me.
Not that I’m going to share those details with Seagrave.
“But he’s not Mason,” Seagrave says. “That’s the point. That’s why he’s breaking pattern. No towel. No old habits.”
“Maybe. Or maybe this is his way of flipping you the bird.”
I watch as Seagrave’s mouth curves into a frown. He spins the chair, then stares at Mason, who’s still standing in front of the mirror. “He knows we’re here. And so he’s purposely acting against instinct, knowing full well I’d be watching.”
At first, I think he’s mocking my theory. Then I realize he means it. “You agree with me.”
“That he knows we’re behind the mirror and that he is, as you say, flipping us off? Yes. I do.” Seagrave’s shoulders rise and fall. “But as to whether he’s in defiance of the habit of the towel, too … well, that I can’t be sure of.”
I shrug. “Fair enough,” I say. “It’s enough that I’m certain.”
I think about what he’s just said. “Why do you say he knows about the mirror?”
“We weren’t twiddling our thumbs in the days before I called you. We’ve been doing a series of tests and interviews. He recognized his Special Forces tattoo. He admits to a level of familiarity regarding intelligence work, though no specific assignments.”
“Familiarity,” I repeat. “Like habits. Behavior.”
“Yes.”
“So he knows he’s an agent. A spy.”
“Or that he was. But what we didn’t know—and what he couldn’t tell us—was if he’d been compromised.”
I feel the blood rush to my face. “Brainwashing. Triggers.” I think about my Manchurian Candidate quip and wish I’d said nothing. The idea that some enemy of the state or vile mobster brainwashed my husband to blow a gasket when he sees a particular pattern or hears a trigger phrase or verse … well, the possibility is too horrible to even think about.
“No,” Seagrave says gently. “He’s undergone hours of testing and interviews with Dr. Tam, and we’ve reached almost one hundred percent confidence that he hasn’t been compromised that way.”
I nod slowly. I trust the SOC’s staff psychiatrist, but in the intelligence world, nothing ever reaches one hundred percent certainty.
“I want to see him now,” I say simply.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea today.”
“You’ve run your tests. You’ve run your evaluations. You’ve had him for over four days. It’s time to open a window for him to his actual life.”
“I don’t disagree.”
For a moment, I’m confused. Then I exhale loudly. “Right. This isn’t about him. You think I can’t handle it. You think it’s going to break me if I walk into that room and he doesn’t know who I am.”
“Won’t it?”
“No,” I lie, but I can see on his face that he doesn’t believe me. I can’t get angry about that, though, since I’m not sure I believe it myself.
“I told you on the phone this was an informational visit only,” he continues.
“Please, Anderson,” I say, feeling a hot tear trace a path down my cheek. “I need this. I need to go in there. I need to see my husband.”
I watch his face. The way his shoulders dip slightly. Anderson Seagrave is a good man, and I know he’s only trying to protect me. But I’m done in. At this point, every moment I’m not in that room with Mason is hell. And when I see Seagrave nod, I know he’s finally realized that, too.
“All right, Denise,” he says. “You have ten minutes.”
I start to protest, but he lifts a finger, reminding me that he’s the one calling the shots here.
“Ten minutes,” he repeats. “And there are a few conditions as well.”