Ready, Aim...I Do!

There was never a good time for an agent to go off the deep end, but in light of the recent scandal of false allegations and rumors against the director himself, this was the last thing Mission Recovery needed.

Specialists recruited to their covert agency were above reproach, but it looked for all the world like Grant was about to become the exception. That possibility didn’t sit well with Holt. There was only one conclusion in light of this damning data: Grant, or someone who wanted them to believe it was Grant, was waging some sort of vendetta in Las Vegas.

If it was Grant, Holt wondered how he had secured the rifle. To date, their normal contacts in the area denied seeing Grant. Holt knew someone was lying, but that in and of itself didn’t put Grant in the clear. All Specialists were well-trained in where and how to connect with a helpful associate when they were in the field. He may have purposely gone outside their usual suppliers.

But why? Had he lost it? Or had someone on the other side made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?

In the past forty-eight hours the sniper—whoever the hell he was—had picked off a couple of irrelevant targets, caused one serious traffic accident and winged a major player in the drug trade. All of which had been kept out of the media. Considering the damper that kind of publicity could put on tourism, the local authorities had been only too happy to cooperate. The shootings looked perfectly random, but anyone with access to his personnel jacket would put Grant at the top of the suspect list.

The grim accomplishment was more impressive considering the Specialist hadn’t missed a single status check-in call since his arrival. Holt suppressed his instincts on the matter. What he believed on a personal level was irrelevant. He had a job to do and no one could ever accuse him of failing to get the job done. He liked Grant as well as he did any of the others but that, too, was irrelevant at the moment.

“Shall I add this to the agenda for the next briefing, sir?” His assistant, Nadine, sat on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the conservative suit she wore, her posture was particularly rigid as she asked the question. No one wanted to believe the worst. Not even the young assistant he had hired who willingly worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days in an attempt to keep him happy. He vaguely wondered if that was why she kept her hair in a sleek ponytail all the time. He didn’t give her time to patronize salons.

He also wondered if she hated him as much as most who had the displeasure of working for him did.

He blinked away the concept. “No. I’ll handle it privately.” The less anyone knew about this situation the better. If he put it on the agenda for team discussion, Grant might hear about it. And if he knew they were on to him, he’d bolt before they could get a net around him. And if this was Grant, Holt needed to get a net around him as soon as possible.

“Any word from the agent Grant was sent to Las Vegas to support?”

“No, sir.”

No surprise there. Everyone knew Vegas remained one of the easiest cities to disappear in. “Maybe the agent managed to get out without Grant’s help.” Holt said what his assistant expected to hear while his mind worked through the latest developments and numerous other scenarios.

“I’ll keep monitoring the news out there,” Nadine suggested.

Holt nodded. They both understood the harsh reality and the constricting time frame. He wasn’t going to be able to keep the sniper issue quiet much longer. If and when the local police force connected the incidents to a single shooter, they would be obligated to call in federal assistance and warn the public about the threat.

Which meant Holt would be obligated to tell someone in another government agency there was an operative in the area with sharp-shooter expertise, and that would break Grant’s cover.

If Jason Grant remained in Las Vegas, with his stellar career as a sniper, he would become a person of interest within the next twenty-four hours. By hour forty-eight, if he couldn’t offer a valid alibi for the shootings, he’d be in custody or a wanted suspect. A pawn effectively removed from the dangerous game Holt was playing. No one, particularly his superiors, would be happy with his methods. But that had never stopped him before. It wouldn’t now. And that was precisely why they had hired him. He would get the job done, one way or another.

The stakes were high and the risk-to-reward ratio bordered on irrational. But it had to be done, and he was the only one in Mission Recovery who could manage it. On days like this, the baggage of responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.

His assistant stood. “Shall I attempt to contact Grant?”

Holt leaned back from his desk and turned a pencil end over end on the arm of his chair. “No need. Until we know more, Specialist Grant’s orders don’t change. Get me the director as soon as it’s morning wherever he is.”

“But, sir, he’s on his honeymoon.”

That was right. The director of Mission Recovery had gotten married last month, but work had prevented an immediate honeymoon. “The world doesn’t stop spinning because he fell in love, Nadine,” he grumbled. “As much as Thomas Casey would like to think so.”

“Of course, sir.”

His assistant left the office to carry his reports and orders to the Specialists currently on assignment and those preparing for assignments. Alone, he stared at the pencil in his hand.

He silently assured himself things were going according to the plan and it would all be over soon. Eager as he was to be done with it, he knew rushing the process now would bring the whole damn mess crashing down. On him.

He was the only one who could do this. Likewise, he was the one who would pay in spades if anything went wrong.

“Won’t let that happen,” he muttered. He’d come too far to bail out now.

Setting the pencil aside, he turned toward his computer and drafted the email his counterpart was expecting. He read it through twice more and then, taking a deep breath, he finally hit Send.

Chapter Three

Caesar’s Palace,

Friday, November 21, 8:17 a.m.

Jason rolled to his back and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding into the room. His head felt stuffed with cotton, which, in any logical universe, should have dulled the incessant ringing in his ears.

“That’s your phone, sweetheart. You should answer.”

He knew that voice. What the hell was Ginger Olin doing in his hotel room? And why would she be aiming any endearments his way? He flung a hand out in the general direction of the ringing only to have the move stopped short by a warm, soft touch. He dared to open his eyes a crack.

“Careful. I’ve left you a glass of water.” Ginger smiled down at him with a bit too much sympathy as he curled his fingers around the cell phone. “Take the call. I’ll be in the shower.”

Through slitted eyelids, he watched her saunter away, her body swathed in a hotel robe. He propped himself up on an elbow, struggling to clear the fog from his brain. What was going on here? What the hell was wrong with him?

The phone started ringing again, and he saw the number and stern face of Deputy Director Holt on his screen. Damn. This was one call he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah.” He cleared the rough edge from his throat, wondering how Ginger had managed to get him so drunk he couldn’t remember squat. He never drank on duty. “Grant here.”

“Where were you last night? You missed the scheduled check-in.”

He opened his mouth to answer and snapped it closed again. He didn’t know. Based on his nudity, the state of the bed and the woman in the shower, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out what had happened. That still didn’t explain this nasty hangover.

“I tried to contact you all night, but your phone was off. I learned this morning that you missed the recovery. If you have any sense of self-preservation, get your ass on the next available flight out of there or consider yourself relieved of duty.”

“Sir?” How could he have missed the recovery? Agent Olin was safe, right here in the room with him. She’d been in trouble and he’d gotten her out of it. At least he thought that’s how it had gone down. “Sir, I made the recovery,” he insisted.

“You’ve dropped the ball somewhere, Grant, because the package is missing and Agent Conklin never encountered you or your support.”

“Give me a second chance. I can meet with security and—”

“I can’t. It’s too late. Be on the next flight. We will debrief when you arrive.”

The line went dead and for a long moment, Jason stared at the screen, utterly dumbfounded. If Olin wasn’t the recovery, how had she known the code phrase?

She had given him the code phrase, hadn’t she? She must have. He wouldn’t have taken action unless he’d been sure. Although right now, he couldn’t recall exactly what they’d done before coming to the room. It was pretty damn clear what they’d done after they got here.

He rolled to his feet, lost his balance when his vision wavered and landed back on the edge of the bed. He clutched at the mattress until the room stopped spinning. He’d been hung over a few times. Enough to know this wasn’t the same thing at all. He’d been drugged. But why? And who would do that?

Carefully he looked around, taking in the view of his hotel room. Or at least a room that was identical. He spotted his luggage and wished like hell they hadn’t upgraded him to a suite. The suitcase across the room might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Desperate, he entertained the idea of crawling over for fresh clothes when he heard the water stop running. He would not let her find him weak as a kitten on his hands and knees in addition to the troubling disorientation plaguing him.

Slowly he turned his head from side to side, then up and down until his dizziness eased off.

The shirt and slacks he’d worn last night were scattered across the floor along with a lace-topped stocking and garter. He half expected to see a bra draped over a lampshade. A memory teased him and he twisted toward the door. Yup. There was the blond wig he’d tugged from her head, eager to get his hands in her glossy red mane.

Something had gone down in this room, or at least she’d made it look that way. He wasn’t sure which explanation he wanted to hear most: that it happened, or that he only thought it happened.

He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and stopped dead. The wide gold band on the ring finger of his left hand glinted in the sunlight. He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t go away. He was married?

His head and stomach protested as he took in the strewn clothing along with this new information. It certainly looked as if they’d started married life with a bang.

No. Impossible. No way in hell he’d forget his own wedding or the inevitable events leading up to it. No way in hell he’d marry a stranger—and Ginger Olin, CIA operative, fit that description. This had to be some ruse she invented to preserve her cover. Except Holt just said he should have rescued an agent named Conklin.

“Damn it all.” He couldn’t make sense of the vague scenes flitting through his mind. She owed him some answers. This time when he pushed to his feet, he kept moving forward despite the sudden tilt of the room. He was grateful when the wall kept him from hitting the floor. He pounded a fist on the bathroom door. “Get out here.”

She opened the door and a steamy cloud of spicy vanilla scent washed over him. It was so her: lush and tempting. He fought the urge to lean in and inhale deeply.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a sly smile as her gaze slid over his body like a touch. He reacted as any man might when faced with the beauty of a gorgeous woman fresh from a shower. Whether his memory ever correctly filled in the details of last night, his body seemed convinced about what they’d done and there was no hiding the part of him demanding an encore performance.

Damn. In his determination to stay on his feet he’d forgotten to cover himself.

One long fingertip trailed across his jaw. “You’re looking rough.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in. A shower will fix you right up.”

Was that a bit of Irish in her voice this morning? If so, was it real? He’d done a little investigating after their last meeting and knew she had a talent for accents. “What did you give me?” He looked past her, ashamed that he wanted to ask for her support to get him across the expanse of the luxurious bathroom.

“The time of your life. Or so you said.”

Looking at the woman who’d starred in his fantasies since their one brief conversation last month, it probably had been the time of his life. How unfair that he didn’t have full recall. “Not what I meant.”

She tucked herself under his arm, keeping him steady as she walked him past the long vanity. “This way, big guy.”

Something about the gesture felt familiar. “Did you do this last night?”

“We can talk about last night when your head’s clear.” She eased back but didn’t quite let go. “Steady?”

Barely. “Yes.”

“Cold or hot?”

“Pardon?”

“The shower,” she clarified, her eyes quickly darting down to his groin and back up again.

“Cold.”

“All righty.” She reached past him and he saw the glint of gold on her left hand. What did it mean that she apparently had all her faculties and still wore a wedding band as new and shiny as his? Nothing good, he decided when she gave him a little encouraging nudge into the shower.

The cold spray against his scalp and rushing down and over his skin was a brutal shock, but it cleared his head faster than a pot of coffee and restored some measure of control over his lusty hormones.

When he decided he’d tortured himself long enough, he climbed out and reached for a towel on the warmer. The bathroom was empty. Her courtesy and thoughtfulness surprised him—and actually had him a little worried. What the hell was going on? For now he was grateful to find his shaving kit still near the sink closest to the shower. The other sink, which had gone unused since he’d checked in, was surrounded by feminine details, including a flowered bag, a pink toothbrush and a contact lens case pushed to the back of the counter.

Huh? When had that stuff gotten there? Was it his imagination, or was she planning to stay awhile?

Knowing it was risky, he decided to live dangerously and shave anyway. Surviving the experience with only a couple of small nicks, he evaluated his reflection and thought he looked almost normal.

He opened the door to go find some clothes and nearly got rapped on the nose as her hand was raised to knock.

“Whoops,” she said, her vivid green gaze direct and clear. “Looks like I’m late.” She held out a stack of clothing from his suitcase.

“That was fast.”

A small frown drew her brows together. “What do you mean?”

“Married less than twenty-four hours and my wife’s already picking out my clothing.”

She gave a little huff and shoved the clothing at him, but he saw the blush turning her cheeks a rosy pink. A small victory, but he liked knowing he had some effect on her. Being the one doing all the reacting was no fun.

“Get dressed. Room service should be here soon. Then we can discuss last night in a civilized manner.”

“Yes, dear,” he said irreverently, closing the door on her frown.

* * *

GIN PACED THE room while he dressed. Damn the man for being too handsome for his own good. Or hers. They were in the middle of a serious crisis. Attraction would have to wait. It had proved a serious challenge to ignore his impressive body and the instinctive way he responded to her, both last night and again this morning.

For a hefty tip, the limousine driver had extended the tour when Jason dozed off, then he’d been kind enough to find a drive-through for coffee. The caffeine perked up Jason enough that she could get him into his room. She hadn’t counted on it being enough of a stimulant to have him put the moves on her.

The poor man had been so abused by the drug, and still he’d kissed her like it had mattered at the altar, but more specifically when they’d arrived right here. She brought her hands to her lips, remembering. She’d never expected his response to wedded bliss to be so enthusiastic, even if it had been his idea—albeit while under the influence of whatever drug someone had obviously slipped him. He was a test to her self-control, but she’d gotten him safely to the bed before he passed out again.

Once she was sure he would stay unconscious she’d dashed back to her own room and gathered what she needed to set the stage here in his suite. Then she’d returned to his room and searched it, looking for any clue as to why he’d been in Vegas, particularly in the same hotel where a deadly virus was about to change hands. She’d found nothing to point to his purpose or even a possible cover story. The easy explanation was this was just a quick getaway for him, but she didn’t believe in coincidence.

Now, while he showered off the last effects of the drug, she cleaned up the mess she’d deliberately made and indulged in what was surely the most girlish moment of her life. She buried her nose in his shirt, remembering his hands in her hair and cruising over her body. The woman who married him for real would be one lucky, well-loved woman.

She shivered, squashing the reaction when the door opened and Jason joined her. His step was steady now, his gaze clear despite the dark circles under his eyes. His thick, sable hair glistened, and even from across the room, she caught the fresh scent of him under the zippy mint of the hotel-brand body wash.

After sleeping next to him all night, making sure he didn’t suffer nightmares or worse from the drug, she’d probably be able to pick him out of a lineup with only her nose. Good grief, what was wrong with her?

She twisted the gold band on her finger and searched for the right place to begin. “Could we, umm, talk out there?” Away from the tangled sheets of the bed. “I’ve brewed a pot of coffee, and breakfast will be here any minute.”

He agreed with a subtle dip of his chin, and she knew he was evaluating her every move for a motive or a clue.

“Where’s my gun?”

“In the closet safe. The code is your birthday.”

His eyebrows lifted at that revelation. “Did we, ahh—” He finished with a tilt of his head toward the bed.

“You really don’t remember?”

He looked away. “Just bits and pieces.”

“Hmm. I should probably be offended,” she teased. In reality, she was relieved. His lack of knowledge could work to her advantage. “It was a night I’ll never forget.”

When they were out of the danger zone most people called a bedroom, she poured him a cup of coffee, then slid onto the counter stool. She didn’t want to do anything as intimate as sit across from him at the table as if they really were newlyweds. The thought made her chuckle. It didn’t get much more intimate than tucking a naked, amorous husband into bed.

When he’d tossed her wig to the floor and pulled the pins from her hair so he could run his hands through it, it had been all she could do not to cave to the temptation he presented. He was handsome and quite striking when dressed. Nude? Well, artists would kill to paint him if they knew what treasures his clothing hid. His body, strong and sculpted, showed the results of his dedication to fitness and preparation. She had relished taking in every single detail.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She sat up straighter. “Thank you. Maybe this would go faster if you just ask whatever is on your mind.”

“Are we married?”

“Yes.” She handed him the documentation from the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel. The paperwork was real and almost complete. The marriage license wasn’t official, but he didn’t seem to notice that. There was the added complication that the marriage wouldn’t be considered valid if Jason Grant wasn’t his real name. Her sources said it was, but mistakes happened. She still wasn’t sure why she’d used her real name rather than the alias she’d prepared for this mission.

He tossed the certificate and marriage license to the table and the scowl on his face was enough to have her second-guessing going along with his convenient, drug-induced idea.

He crossed his arms and stared at her. “Why?”

The flippant remark on the tip of her tongue just wouldn’t fall. Neither would the truth. Fortunately, she got a momentary reprieve with the arrival of breakfast.

He stalked over to the door, gave a belated glance through the security peephole and yanked the door open. The waiter was all smiles, going on about the pitcher of mimosas and sharing the congratulations for the “happy couple” from the staff. To her shock Jason took it all with a smile worthy of any happy groom, even tipping the man on his way out, but as soon as they were alone, the scowl returned.

“It won’t be that bad,” she said as he lifted the cover from each plate. She’d placed the order last night when they’d returned to the hotel, but she hadn’t expected the elaborate presentation or the mouth-watering aromas. Las Vegas might just become her favorite city, and she’d been all over the world—a few times.

A massive omelet, a plate of bacon and sausage, a stack of pancakes, two flavors of syrup, fresh berries and cream, along with all the other condiments and accompaniments, made for a remarkable display.

“Wow. This smells divine.”

He replaced the cover over the omelet she was staring at. “Tell me why you did it and I’ll let you eat.”

“You don’t want to go that route with me,” she warned. “I’m hungry.” Violence wasn’t the way she preferred to have her hands on him, but she’d put up a fight if it was the only way to earn his respect. “You have reach and strength on me, but I have guile, training and a clear head.”

“Fair point.” He held out a plate. “Start there.”

“Where?” She sliced off a portion of the omelet, added a strip of crisp bacon to her plate and returned to the counter and her coffee. As much as she wanted a mimosa, she knew the clear head was a necessity.

“Start with your ‘clear head’ advantage. Why did you drug me?”

“I didn’t.” She’d merely stepped in and likely saved his life and possibly her own by capitalizing on the moment. “You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth.”

His gaze locked with hers, then with an arch of eyebrows, he turned his focus to drizzling syrup over a pancake.

“Is your stomach bothering you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” And inexplicably she felt obligated to keep him that way.

Although she didn’t believe he was the trouble in question, she didn’t think it was coincidence that her morning email alert included a caution about a sniper in Las Vegas. From the little she’d been able to dig up on him, Jason had the background and qualifications, but even when he’d been drugged, his sense of right and wrong remained intact.

She’d searched his luggage and found nothing that indicated he had a weapon other than his handgun.

She knew he doubted her about the drugs, and she didn’t hold it against him. People didn’t join covert agencies for the transparency factor. They chose it for a myriad of other reasons usually starting with some noble concept of honor and duty. Suddenly she wanted to know his motive for joining, wanted to know how it might have morphed or changed since getting into the field, but this wasn’t the time.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked instead.

“A shot of tequila.” He closed his eyes. “I barely remember biting the lime. If you don’t want to talk about that, tell me why you did this to us,” he said, wiggling his ring finger.

“We’ll get there. I promise.” She swiped her finger in an X over her heart.

“Not funny.”

She laughed. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

He grunted.

“Come on, Jason. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The wig. You were wearing a wig and I made you take it off when we got here.”