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CHAPTERONE
Joe Buchanan trudged up the last step to the front door of his childhood home. The wind howled, and the rain snuck under the covered porch to slap him in the face. Swiping a hand over his brow, he wiped away the icy water that stung his eyes. Dammit, this was why he avoided the Pacific Northwest during winter.
The porch lights flickered twice, and he frowned. A moment later, there was a flash of light, followed by a loud bang. Then, the neighborhood went dark.
On instinct, he reached for his holster. He came up empty. It took a split second to remember he was no longer a special agent.
Damn.
Glancing down the street, he guessed a transformer must have blown somewhere. He should go in, get dry, and pour himself a giant tumbler of whiskey while he waited out the storm.
Instead, he set his suitcase down by the front door.
He didn’t deserve comfort. No. Not after all the shit he’d done.
Joe would never forget that night. Her emerald eyes had been glassy with terror and tears. The silver barrel of the gun pressed to her head. Then, his heart had completely stopped when she’d crumbled. He’d never experienced such fear and helplessness as he had in those moments. Not being able to touch her for fear of injuring her further had been agony. And the pool of blood growing around her head as she’d lain there unconscious haunted him.
Yes, she’d recovered. Yes, the bastard who’d held her captive had gotten his just dues. But that image of her was never far from his mind. A constant reminder of his failure. That what he’d done for the greater good hadn’t been worth it. Not at all.
Feeling his way across the porch, he grimaced when his shin cracked against something hard.
Yeah. That’s more on par with the shit I deserve.
Another lightning strike illuminated the offending Adirondack chair, which must have been new. For as long as he could remember, two ancient rockers had sat on the porch. That’s what he got for staying away for so long.
He sank into the chair, resting his head against the high back. Exhaustion swept over him. He closed his eyes. The rain pelted his front with each gust of wind. A violent shiver tore through him, but still, he didn’t move.
Two days ago, Joe had walked into his special agent in charge’s office in Boston and handed over his resignation. His life had been a whirlwind ever since.
Two hours of his SAC trying to convince him to change his mind. Six hours of debriefing after both his SAC and assistant SAC had realized his mind was made up. Eighteen hours of travel madness, which had included a flat tire on his cab ride to the airport and then two rescheduled flights. Then, when he’d finally landed at Sea-Tac and hopped in his rental car, there had been a four-hour wait for the Hudson Island ferry.
Now he was home. Unemployed. And bone-tired. To top it all off, while waiting for the god-forsaken ferry, he’d answered his cell phone without looking at the caller ID.
Idiot.
The woman’s shrill voice echoed in his head. He knew it was supposed to be sexy, but... it wasn’t. Hell, a drill to the head would’ve been more desirable.
Candie. He shuddered. There was nothing wrong with her name. But when a grown-ass woman had introduced herself as “Candie with anie!”? He should have known she’d be more trouble than she was worth. But he was a fucking idiot. An idiot who’d been blinded by boobs. When she’d sat down next to him on the Boston-to-Seattle nonstop, her gorgeous cleavage on full display, he’d done what he did best: ignored the noise and turned on the charm.
Self-disgust rolled through him.
It was one thing to flirt with the hot woman next to you on a six-plus-hour flight. It was another thing entirely when said flirting almost led to a hand job. On a fucking plane. In coach. With another passenger in their row. What the hell was wrong with him?
Worse yet, he’d been tempted to let her go to town. He’d had a shitty week—hell, a shitty year—so what would be the harm? Two consenting adults and all that bullshit...
But that’s what his entire life had been for the past few years. Abject bullshit.
And he was tired of it.
With a sigh that was part weary, part self-hatred, he rose from the Adirondack and made his way back to the front door, pulling his keys from his pocket. Freezing drops of water slid beneath the neck of his jacket and down his spine. Goosebumps rose in their wake.
As he silently entered his childhood home, he set his suitcase just inside the entryway. The smell of new wood and paint surrounded him. His father had recently remodeled the entire lower level of the house. After the fiasco Joe had caused eight months ago—
No.
That clusterfuck hadn’t been his fault. Well, it hadn’t beenentirelyhis fault. That whole case had been fucked from the start. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. In epic fashion. But like a good little minion, he’d kept his mouth shut and followed orders. And brought pain and destruction to his hometown. To people he cared about. To his family.
Sick of his own thoughts, he focused on picking a path through the pitch-black living room, not wanting to whack into anything else. When he approached the kitchen doorway, another scent caught his nose. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was comforting and familiar.
