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Oddly, the differences hadn’t really bothered Ethan until the day he’d heard his father tell his mother that he planned to order a paternity test. Robert hadn’t doubted her fidelity; he’d been teasing when he said it. But Ethan’s mother had laughed with him and that was when Ethan knew Valerie was in on the secret. She preferred her husband to her son; she felt as embarrassed and ashamed of Ethan as Robert did.
Wincing at that memory, he took another hit on the pipe and then another.
Soon he seemed to be floating above his own body. Then the room began to spin and he could no longer remember what upset him so much. He had nothing to worry about. Look at what he’d become. His father had told him he’d never amount to anything, but he’d been wrong. Ethan had money and power and he hadn’t had to work for any of it.
Suddenly, the silence seemed to press in on him like an invisible hand, holding him down on the bed, smothering him. Nearly dropping his pipe, he staggered to his feet, knocked over a lamp and cut his arm. He was standing in a stupor, watching the blood drip onto the carpet when Bart walked in.
“Holy One, you’ve hurt yourself,” he cried. “What happened?”
Ethan’s mouth moved and words came out, but they sounded garbled, even to his own ears. Was he making sense? Somehow that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Bart had come to take care of him.
Just like always.
The sun was up when Nate pulled into Rachel’s driveway. Her house sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean a little south of Los Angeles. With one whole side made of glass, it was different—far more modern than the home of any other woman he knew. But Rachel was different, too. She tried to be so damn tough. In ways, she was tough. She could fight. She could play whatever part she needed to play. She’d gravitated to the polar opposite of her sheltered upbringing and wielded a gun instead of the Good Book. But for all that, she didn’t have the ability to protect her heart. He’d never forget the night he’d come home to find her waiting in his bed.
Working this closely together wasn’t a smart idea. He saw how she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, could tell how she felt about him. Hell, she’d said as much when they were making love. What she wanted from him reminded him too much of Susan. He still heard from her on occasion and he knew that, in some ways, he’d never really be free of her or the memory of rushing to the hospital that cold January night….
But Milt was adamant he take this assignment, so Nate would have to protect Rachel—not only from the Covenanters but from himself.
“Just do it,” he said, and shoved the gearshift into Park.
He was getting out to ring the bell when she appeared, wearing a simple peach-colored sundress beneath a cardigan sweater and carrying a small suitcase.
“You can’t take that case to Portal,” he said without a greeting. He didn’t recognize the label, but he didn’t need to know the designer to realize it had cost a bundle. “That’s a dead giveaway. You’re the wife of a cement contractor, not Paris Hilton.”
“I’m aware of that. But I tossed my crappy luggage after the last job. It was completely shot. We’ll have to stop at a secondhand store along the way.”
“What will you do with this one?”
“Ship it home,” she said with a shrug. “The clothes I wear when I’m not working are too sophisticated, too ‘single woman supporting herself.’ The ones I wear on other jobs are too ‘I’ll do anything for my next fix.’ I need something in between if I’m going to build the illusion of a sweet wife who recently got married and is trying to eke out a productive life with her husband. So we would’ve had to do some shopping, anyway.”
Maybe she needed additional clothes, but the dress she was wearing right now worked, he admitted grudgingly. The color brought out the golden tones in her hair and skin and contrasted nicely with the ice blue of her eyes. But he didn’t tell her that. He knew better than to lead her on and still kicked himself for not sending her home when she’d let herself into his condo six months ago.
“This is all, then?” he asked.
“Except for my computer.” She reached in to get the satchel she carried almost everywhere, but he stopped her.
“Leave it behind.”
“That’s like asking me to leave my gun!”
“No, it’s not. Where we’re going, there probably won’t be Internet service. And when we need a computer, we can use mine.”
“What about other gear?”
He motioned toward the truck. “I’ve got everything we might need.”
“Fine,” she muttered, and he put her bag in the truck while she locked the house.
Rachel was seven years his junior, but today she looked even younger. With her hair pulled into a messy bun and minimal makeup, she could pass for twenty. Had he spotted her on the road, he might’ve mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.
But she wasn’t going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.
“Why do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.
She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn’t have another one.”
“I’m not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”
She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It’s a living, isn’t it?”
A good living. They’d only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel’s involvement wasn’t entirely about the money. According to what he’d read in her file, and the bit of information she’d revealed, she’d had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who’d known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be.
“The danger doesn’t bother you?”
“No more than it bothers you.”
He almost told her to get out. She didn’t need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff’s twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan’s former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might’ve been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he’d swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worse than usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss’s orders.
