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  Coop sat in the same cab as the night before. I climbed in and looked down.

  He spoke as he backed up, not making eye contact with me, “He's going to talk to you and ask you questions, and you have to seem like a devastated widow who knows shit all.”

  “That won’t be hard.”

  We didn't talk, maybe because I was obviously nervous and he was scared I’d get more nervous.

  He drove like a maniac and dropped me off at the lobby. “Be safe. I'm nearby, okay?”

  “No last advice?” I gulped.

  “No.” He paused. “Say yes to everything.”

  “What does that mean?” I scowled at him as he reached back and closed the door.

  What was the everything?

  “Good evening, ma'am,” the bellhop said and opened the door. I gazed up and walked across the lobby, wondering how many hotels I’d be entering if this continued. They’d start thinking I was a nearly middle-aged hooker if I kept coming back and visiting hotel rooms. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I passed and felt a little better. At least I didn’t look like any hooker I'd seen. Whose fantasy was to have their mom show up at their hotel? Maybe I could nag them to pick up their clothes and wash their faces.

  The bellboy was a young man with an infectious smile. He nodded at me as the elevator opened. “What floor?”

  I smiled back, ignoring the fire in my stomach and stepped inside. “The Presidential Suite, please.”

  He gave me the up-down which was followed by a playful grin. “Yes, ma’am.” I could’ve pulled off my sports bra and choked his little ass.

  I sighed, partly because everyone had been calling me ma’am lately, and partly because I would never get my sports bra off fast enough. The thing was a death trap.

  The elevator stopped on the top floor.

  As I stepped off, he said, “Have a nice night, ma'am,” and pressed a button. I glimpsed back at the shit-eating grin on his face.

  Was that a mocking tone?

  Was he laughing because the guy opening the door was getting a mom hooker? He was probably used to seeing three girls in miniskirts with red lips and syphilis entering the Presidential Suite.

  There was one white door in the hall, suggesting the suite was almost the entire floor. I pushed down my fears and stepped to the door. Since I'd already done this routine, it was less scary, as though I’d wasted the real fear on the practice run when I met Coop. I wasn’t as scared as I should’ve been. Servario was a man I didn't fear. I didn't know him anymore. In my mind he was a boy too eager to fill his father’s shoes. That also stifled any urges I had to run the other way. I thought I could handle Servario. Well, maybe not handle.

  My hands didn’t shake. My stomach burned but never cramped.

  I placed my fist up to knock but the door opened.

  “You're late.” The man, Gustavo Servario, in the flesh, scowled at me. He was so much better in person. The young man was gone and in his stead was something else.

  My jaw dropped as I winced while trying to smile. “Sorry. The taxi was late.”

  “I gave you valet money for a reason.”

  “Right.” I stammered, “Uh—I was too tired to drive.”

  He watched me for a second before letting me in. His short dark hair was thick and styled nicely. He looked his age—our age—though far more tanned than he had been the last time I saw him, which had aged him but only slightly and in that unfair way that made men distinguished and not haggard. His hazel eyes had a greenish tint to them but were mostly brown. I could imagine them getting quite dark if he were angry and furrowing his heavy brow. He was tall, much taller than me in all my five-foot-four glory. He had to be at least six foot three.

  He smiled bringing out the slight dimples in his cheeks. “Please, come in. My name is Gustavo Servario.” His voice was hypnotic and calming.

  He was sophisticated, smooth, and handsome beyond what I had expected. I’d only seen surveillance video of him. Up close, he made me breathe irregularly. I regretted my choice of casual slacks, a three-quarter-sleeve sweater, and loafers.

  I entered the suite, nearly jumping when he placed his hand on the small of my back. He chuckled. “You'll need to get used to my touch, my dear.”

  Shit! What did that mean?

  My stomach dropped and every emotion hit me at once like I’d run into a wall. Even the charming dimply smile couldn’t rescue me from the panic of my nerves showing up all at once.

  I would need to get used to that touch?

  He was planning on touching me? What did that mean?

  My breath came out in spurts and my heart raced as he guided me into the living room and put a hand out. “Sit.”

  Gripping my leather wristlet clutch, I sat in one of the fancy cream-and-yellow chairs. The room was lovely.

  He picked up two champagne flutes and brought one to me. Were we celebrating my husband’s fake death or his taking over of my life and forcing me to hide my children?

  Without bringing any of that up, I took the delicate stemware in my suddenly shaking hand and forced my nerves down.

  “What do you know of your husband’s dealings with me?” he asked as he sat.

  I frowned, forgetting my lines already. “Nothing.” Dear God, what should I know?

  I noticed everything about him. I couldn’t help it. He was big, over two hundred pounds, but at the same time, graceful. His greenish-gray slacks fit him perfectly. His cream-colored dress shirt was open, giving the impression he’d just taken off his tie and was about to relax for the evening. He was thick and fit for our age. The closer men got to forty, the less likely they were able to tie their own shoes. But not him, he was strong. It made the fear and panic worse; there would be no escaping him. He could snap my neck in a heartbeat. The flute looked ridiculous in his huge hands.

  After taking a sip, he smiled. “You seem afraid of me, Ms. Evans.”

  I tried to nod but it was more of a twitch. I steadied my hands and brought the flute to my lips. The champagne was perfection.

  “Is it all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I eyed the flute. “It is. Thank you.” The awkwardness of it all was bizarre. I was sipping champagne as if it didn’t matter my children were being flown into hiding because of this very man. Fear and a small dose of hatred trickled down my throat with the next nervous sip.

  “Excellent.” He licked his lips and wore a faint smile. “I'm sorry if I seem distracted. You’ve become a stunning woman.”

  “You murdered my husband.” The words came out before I could stop them. He was making me uncomfortable, and acting the part of a grieving widow was harder than it looked. I wanted the truth about James so I didn't have to pretend anymore.

  He laughed. “Did I?” He all but confirmed my suspicions with his statement and his amused sparkly eyes.

  “I don’t know. Didn’t you?”

  “No.” He said it plainly but his eyes narrowed as he brought the drink to his lips. He chuckled, clearly laughing at something I was unaware of. Like there were jokes in the air that I couldn't see. Well, at least he thought I couldn’t.

  My hands trembled harder. I gripped the flute firmly enough that I figured it would shatter. I drank the champagne in one long gulp.

  His eyes widened.

  He stood and returned to the bar in the far corner. He grabbed the bottle from the ice bucket and brought it to me. He took my hand in his and lifted the flute with my hand. The warm strength of his grip was burning mine.

  “Your hands are cold. You need to calm down. Stress is very hard on women. It ages you.” He poured the glass but paused before letting go of my hand. He ran his fingers up my empty ring finger. “Over the marriage so quickly?”

  “No. I get dry skin.” It wasn’t a lie but my voice broke slightly under his scrutinizing stare that burned like a hot lamp.

  “Really?” His eyes flashed. “I think it’s because you know about his infidelity, don't you?” He sat down.

  J
esus, did everyone know? Was I honestly the last person to know?

  Taking a breath, I spoke in a low tone, “I know. I found out the other day. A friend was in town and thought I deserved to know after all these years.” I was panicking. If he’d been watching me, he’d know it was lies.

  “You have good friends.” He filled his own glass and put the bottle back. He sat again, watching me.

  I sipped the champagne.

  “Do you know anything else?” His eyes were akin to lie detectors.

  I focused on not giving anything away.

  “You seem edgy.” His eyes narrowed.

  “I am. You're scaring the shit out of me. I’m not completely sure that James was ever my husband, for real. He was fucking everything he could get on top of, except me. Which now I'm sort of grateful for. I don’t know you and we're having quite the private conversation. Not to mention, you killed James and Mel and sent a lawyer to my house to tell me you've taken everything from me.” My voice wavered. The champagne was doing all the talking.

  He put a hand out. “Don’t cry. He isn’t worth a single tear.” When he said the word “tear,” I caught the slight accent he hid. He continued quickly, “James was a bad man. He doesn't deserve a single tear from your beautiful eyes. You deserve someone who would cherish you and respect you, and make you more important than everything in the world.” He paused and drank. As if to rescue himself from the awkward moment or to move further into it. We were both just saying random things.

  I pulled at my sweater and gazed around. Was it getting hotter?

  “Evie,” he whispered, “you deserve a love like no other person has experienced.”

  It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. An arms dealer who was ruining my life had given me the best compliment I had ever had. Just great.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. I was becoming confused as to why I was there or why he was so familiar with me. He and Coop both were. It was unnerving.

  “Don't thank me.” He shook his head. “It is the truth. You're a special woman. You deserve a special man.”

  His words were making me uncomfortable. I glimpsed the bottle we were drinking from to see how much was missing, and realized there was an empty bottle next to it. He had gotten drunk before meeting me and was hitting on me.

  That was special. He was probably using his best lines on me and I was so desperate for attention I was falling for them.

  I wondered if all the spies had experiences like that or if I was just that lucky. The word “spy” made my palms sweat.

  “Getting back to the reasons you are anxious. I haven’t taken anything from you, Ms. Evans.” He sipped from the flute.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Call me Evie please, and yes, you have. You have everything of mine frozen.”

  He pointed at me with the hand holding the drink. “Ah, but that’s not the same thing, is it? You have something of mine, and I will have everything of yours until I get it.” His accent emphasized “everything” as he lifted one corner of his mouth, all of it forcing my discomfort.

  My chest rose and fell faster as I processed his words and the ease with which he spoke them. Could he force me to give him everything? Maybe the more important question was, would he have to force me? Something about the way he stared and spoke made me wonder how hard he would have to work to get everything from me. I need to stop drinking.

  He put a hand out and waved me off. “We can negotiate details later. For now, I want to give you your first assignment.”

  I swallowed the champagne in my mouth. It seemed to spoil in my throat.

  He grinned and leaned forward to slide a white envelope across the table. “I will let you peruse this whilst I attend to something in the other room.” He said “whilst” like a foreigner and left the room.

  “Shit.” I gulped back my drink and placed the flute down. The white envelope felt weird when I picked it up.

  I opened it and peeked inside—a room key for the Bellagio Hotel and a picture of a man with a chubby face and huge lips. He was in his sixties maybe and greasy looking. He wore a white suit in the picture.

  “Ew,” I whispered as I examined the white suit. Beyond Don Johnson and Elvis, no one ever rocked that bad boy.

  There was nothing else in the envelope. I tapped my fingers against it and processed the whole thing.

  It could be a hit—please God, no.

  It could be a trace—please God, yes.

  It could be stealing something—please God, let it be the trace.

  Not sure what he meant, I stood up, placing the envelope down, and went to the other room where the lights were off and the curtains drawn.

  “Mr. Servario?” I spoke softly. My mommy-spy-widow senses told me to run. When I turned to, it was too late. He had been behind the door and closed it as I spun around.

  In the dim light coming from the alarm clock the seriousness of his face frightened me.

  “I understand you were once in Intelligence.” His voice was low as he took a step toward me.

  “Oh uh”—I swallowed and backed up one—“I barely finished training,” I lied.

  “Let’s not lie to each other, Ms. Evans.”

  My fingers balled into fists as I whispered, “I told you, call me Evie,” and took another step back.

  He reached for my hand. “I think you were good at your job. You were good at it and your quitting to be a mother was a tragedy.”

  Ouch.

  Maybe he too would throw up the maternity-leave quotation marks and my week would be complete.

  My legs backed into something. I hadn’t checked around the room. I didn’t know where I was. Rookie mistake.

  He stepped too close, pressing our chests together and towering over me. “I need you to do something for me, Evie,” he whispered my name. It sounded deliciously frightening on his lips. He bent his face close to mine. So close I smelled the champagne coming off his breath as he whispered again, “I need you to kill the man in that picture.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “I've never had to kill anyone. That wasn't my job.”

  He was so close, we were nearly kissing. He ran his finger down my cheek and mouthed, “But you will kill him”—he didn’t have to threaten, that was implied—“for me.”

  I parted my lips to speak again, but he delicately brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “It's nonnegotiable. It's that or we have no deal.” He closed the tiny distance between our faces and replaced his thumb with his mouth, gently kissing me. My breath left my mouth in spurts when he pulled away. “The flight to Las Vegas leaves in four hours.” He turned and left the room. “You will be outfitted on the plane.”

  I followed him back into the light, completely stunned that he’d made me want the kiss. I was losing my mind. I needed to switch back to red wine.

  He strolled to the front door and opened it but stood in the way with his back to me. “If you do this, I will give you back your life.”

  “So I do that and I’m free?” I was confused. I thought he too wanted the Burrow thing. I was clearly in over my head, as Coop had said.

  He stared back wickedly. “You'll never be free of me. You will do those things for me, and I will own you without needing anything else.”

  “You’ve preyed upon my circumstances. You already do own me.” The sickening truth of it all was killing me inside. He owned me. He had kissed me. I had wanted it. He had uttered the threat with such confidence it was disturbing, and yet I had wanted it.

  He smiled but it was bitter and harsh. “Then I guess we won't have any issues.” He stepped out of the doorway and let me by. As I strode past, he grabbed my arm and held me to the side of him. The heat of his body was intense. I hated myself for the thoughts I had about him as they ran through my brain.

  His breath was irregular, suggesting he wanted to say something or do something but he didn’t. He left it as another awkward moment between us—us perfect strangers. Perfect strangers who acted like old lovers,
but without reason.

  He released me and went back inside. As I walked to the elevator I noticed the men standing in the long hallway. Had they been there when I arrived? My skills needed honing.

  I was obviously out of my league.

  My heart raced as I pressed the elevator button and waited.

  The door behind me opened once more. Panic filled me when I heard him cross the hallway, coming my way. I didn’t look back, I just waited for whatever thing he would do next. He grabbed my arm, spinning me around. He passed me the white envelope but continued to grip my arm for a moment. His eyes sparkled with something, possibly trouble and temptation.

  It lasted a second and then he half smiled, letting me go. He paced back to the room and closed the door as the elevator arrived.

  “Ma'am.”

  I turned to see the bellhop and stepped inside. Sighing, I pressed my back against the wall of the elevator and waited for him to call me ma'am once more. I would clip him in the ear with the envelope.

  It was a struggle to breathe until the elevator stopped on the main floor. I crossed the lobby and tried not to have a panic attack.

  Coop was sitting outside in the valet parking with the cab. I climbed in and noticed it wasn’t him as I closed the door. It was a lady. I’d gotten in the wrong cab.

  She was young, not quite thirty, and maybe a little bit butch. She grinned back at me asking, “Hey, where to?” and winked.

  “What? Uhm, Jericho Drive in Weston.”

  I didn’t know what to think or do. I didn’t have the money to pay for the cab. I’d have to get the Visa from the other envelope and pay with that.

  She drove for a block and pulled into a car wash. “Mind if I wash the car quick? Hit a bird.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She winked again. “Supa.” It was super but she said it like a true Bostonian. Was she a real cabbie? I was about to relax when she held up a piece of paper as we entered the car wash. She knew Coop and she wanted my envelope.

  Blinking at the absurdity of it all, I pulled out the white envelope and passed it to her.

  She fished through it and held up a small round battery-looking object. She opened the window a bit and tossed it into the water. She paused a second and then fired the white envelope out the window too.