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The sun beat down on her face as she watched the waves crash along the shore. The veranda was cool in the afternoons and fans whirred lazily above her. She lounged back, unselfconscious in nothing but bikini bottoms. Her scars were on full display, but they were just part of who she was. And there was no one to see them but Nate, and he’d kissed every single one of them until she’d no longer cared they were there.
After Alaska, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be warm again. But Nate had managed to find a way.
He’d been good to his word. It turned out Joe was a licensed minister and the county clerk, so he’d issued their license and married them as soon as they’d made it back to Nome. Then Nate had called in every favor he was owed, told Atticus they could be debriefed after their honeymoon, and then he’d whisked her away to Costa Rica.
It had been two months of paradise, but she knew they couldn’t hold off the rest of the world for much longer. The CIA was getting impatient to debrief her, and she couldn’t keep imposing on Atticus to keep them at bay.
Nate had chosen a beautiful place—the roof was orange tile and the walls a pale stucco. It was open and airy with lots of windows to enjoy the view, and it was hidden behind an iron gate and lush trees that hid parrots and the occasional monkey. It was an oasis of complete privacy and seclusion, and the ocean was so close she only had to walk out the back door and down the short flight of stairs to be on the beach and in the water.
As soon as she’d walked inside, she’d been home. And she felt like she had a purpose again—one that she could be proud of—and a partner who would stand beside her always. Nate stimulated her mind and her body in equal measure.
As if he’d known she’d been thinking of him, Nate came out on the veranda, wearing his swim trunks and an old tattered T-shirt.
“I feel overdressed,” he said, removing his shirt.
She grinned, enjoying the sight of his body. And it was all hers. “I was just thinking about taking a swim.”
“Great minds,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up from the lounger. He held her close for a few seconds before kissing her softly, and then he led her by the hand down the steps toward the water.
“I just got off the phone with Atticus,” he said, his tone easy and conversational.
She arched a brow and couldn’t help but smile. She knew Nate was starting to feel restless too.
“And what did Atticus have to say?” she asked.
Nate shrugged. “He’s having some trouble at the embassy in South America. He needs a couple of agents to go in and pose as husband and wife so they can figure out who’s selling out dignitaries from the inside.”
“Hmm,” she said. The cool waves lapped at her feet. “It just so happens I know a couple of agents who would do a great job at posing as a married couple.”
“We must know the same people,” Nate said wryly.
“We can’t stay here forever,” she said. “This time has been amazing. It was exactly what we needed. But we need the other too. We’re not ready for retirement yet.”
“I’d go crazy,” he said, the relief obvious in his voice. “But I want you to take as much time as you want. You only get one honeymoon.”
“Really?” she asked, brow arched teasingly. “Because I was thinking every time we come home from a job we could come back here. It’s not like I can just be naked anywhere.” She pushed down her bottoms and tossed them to the sand, and then she ran into the water.
She laughed as he did the same and came after her.
“You’ve got a deal, Agent Kane,” he said, lifting her in his arms before the wave overtook her. “Have I told you how much I love my new partner?”
“No, but she sounds amazing,” she said. “Maybe you could tell me now.”
Midnight Clear
Coming Christmas 2023
Hank O’Hara stared out of the window in his father’s office, fascinated by the bony branches of the sycamore trees that surrounded his parent’s farm. Twin Peaks jutted from behind the trees—snow covered and majestic—and pregnant gray clouds frothed low and ominous, seeping into the valleys. More snow would come before morning.
It had been a wicked winter, the temperatures below freezing and the wind whipping from down the mountain and into Laurel Valley. Even the die hard skiers were giving the mountains a hard pass this winter.
He took a drink of the hot tea he’d made as he passed through the kitchen and winced when he found it cold. He had no idea how long he’d been standing at the window, thinking of the projects he had piling up or how he’d rather be outdoors than cooped up inside—even with a snowstorm coming.
“You can’t hide in here forever, you know,” his father said.
Hank turned from the window to see his father grinning at him from behind his massive walnut desk. His feet were propped on the edge as he leaned back in his chair, very much lord of the castle. He was a handsome man—an older version of the five sons he’d sired—with silver hair that had once been black as coal and the blue eyes of the Irish gypsies he was descended from. His body was disciplined and in excellent shape for a man in his early sixties. Farm life wasn’t for the weak.
Mick O’Hara was a man’s man and had managed to raise five rambunctious—and sometimes mischievous—sons to adulthood with only a handful of trips to the ER over the years. A success in Hank’s opinion.
