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Chapter 1
FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe edged away from the encroaching sunshine and deeper into the shadowed grove. Listening intently over the thrum of the Pacific Ocean, he watched the ethereal-looking blonde tiptoe furtively down the driveway across the street.
About damned time.
Surveillance—hours of teeth-grinding monotony for a five minute payoff.
Barefoot, and dressed in a sleeveless coral tank top and ragged denim cutoffs that exposed mile-long legs, his quarry carried herself as elegantly as if she were wearing an evening gown. Tousled, shoulder-length hair shone like Kansas wheat in the summer sun as her honey-colored brows slanted into a frown.
“Aragorn!” she warned in a low, melodic voice that reminded him of Grace Kelly in the old movies his mom had loved. His gut clenched. He’d had a secret jones for cool, sophisticated Grace. “You get back in hererightnow, or I’m going to confiscate your nuts!”
Zane winced. So maybe less Grace Kelly and more Kelly Osbourne.
He stayed hidden, watching her through his portable hi-def binoculars. Over the past five months, she’d left dozens of messages demanding he get in touch ASAP. He’d been buried undercover in a desert hellhole half a world away and hadn’t received them until last night. He’d phoned her from D.C., but she’d insisted he fly to Oregon to speak to her in person. Immediately.
The lady wasverypersuasive.
“How about a little cooperation here, Aragorn? I have your favorite treat.” She fished in her pocket and pulled out a package of salted peanuts. Waving it, she crouched beside a Pepto pink older Mini Cooper convertible. The wrapper crackled enticingly in the mellow warmth of the late August afternoon. “Look, baby, peanuts.”
A huge, hairy white paw crept out and stealthily patted the asphalt.
The blonde’s husky chuckle did funky things to Zane’s blood pressure. “Oh, no you don’t. You know you have to go in the house first.”
The biggest cat Zane had ever seen skulked out from under the car.A cat that eats peanuts? Man, now I’ve seen everything.
“There’s my good boy,” the woman crooned.
The white behemoth stared snootily at his mistress before sticking his nose in the air and ambling across the lawn. Feathered tail twitching, he pranced inside the open screen door of the yellow two-story Cape Cod.
Heaving a relieved sigh, the woman followed the beast inside. Zane didnotlook at her luscious ass. Much. She closed the screen, but left the front door ajar.
Ingrained caution held Zane immobile as he scanned the perimeter for signs of an ambush. During the last two hours, a skateboarding kid cruising past, an elderly man mowing a lawn four houses down, and the blonde were the only people he’d seen.
A junior D.C. field office assistant had compiled a hasty dossier on the woman and tossed it to Zane on his way out to catch his flight. Jillian Kathleen Ramsay, age twenty-five, had grown up in the medium-sized coastal town of Cape Hope, Oregon. She was the assistant director at Hope Community Center, a facility that offered programs for disadvantaged and high-risk children from preschool through high school. Her mother had died of an aneurysm when Jillian was eleven, her father Dean was a contractor. She had three older brothers, all Navy SEALS, all shipped out on active duty. The Ramsay clan looked squeaky clean.
Zane frowned. What the hell did she want from him?
Her summons probably wasn’t a setup. But working for the FBI, he’d met his share of wackos. He hadn’t survived a brutal childhood and a decade with the Bureau making inaccurate risk assessments.
As throbbing music drifted out the screen door—seriously,disco?—he again cased the grounds. Although he’d refused to pick up his drawing pencil or paints for a decade, he’d never been able to squelch his artistic vision. An enormous pine tree guarded the grassy expanse. Rioting flowerbeds flanked both sides, and a trellis crowned with crimson roses arched across the front walk. Baskets of cheerful pink flowers dangled off the front porch railing and more tall orange blooms in pots splashed both sides of the doorway with hot color.
Zane breathed in sweet-scented air and glanced up at the cloudless cerulean sky. The weather was ideal, the small suburban neighborhood peaceful. A bright community of happy families. Something he’d always wanted, but never had.
Could never have.
His chest constricted. He knew better than anyone things weren’t what they seemed. Perfect façades often concealed ugly secrets. Nasty skeletons dangled in his own closet.
Everyonehad something to hide.
What was Jillian Ramsay hiding?
High time to find out. He pocketed his binoculars, broke cover and strode across the lawn. The sun’s heat seeped through his suit jacket, chasing away the shaded grove’s chill. His shoulders tensed. Lurking in the shadows was much more comfortable. Bright sunlight exposed every detail, left a man no privacy.
Above all else, Zane cherished his privacy.
As he approached, the music swelled in volume. By the time he hit the front porch, Donna Summer was yodeling the virtues of “Hot Stuff” so loudly, his eardrums threatened to implode. He pounded on the door frame, but Ms. Ramsay didn’t appear. No surprise. With that racket, she wouldn’t have heard an armored personnel carrier jolting through a minefield.
Zane swung the door open and hollered, “Hey! Ms. Ramsay?”
