When I answered the call from Sinclair, my stomach instantly clenched, dreading what he was going to demand from me now. The conversation was brief, and he did all the talking, telling me that the death of Rust Markov caused considerable challenges in this case but we still managed to get some impressive results. That line sounded like a formal statement to quash internal politics. Then he announced that my role in this case was finished and that I would be going home to resume my previous job on the MCU, but that I should fill out another application to join the FBI.
Apparently Sinclair is impressed by my tenacity, my intelligence, and most of all, my resourcefulness. He will make sure that my name rises to the top of the list.
I should be ecstatic. This is everything I wanted. And this could have—and by all rights should have—gone an entirely different way, ending with me working as a rent-a-cop, chasing twelve-year-old shoplifters at the local mall.
But the entire time he was talking, all I was thinking about was Luke. About how I went to sleep after our midnight run thinking that maybe there was a chance to salvage something here. That if I was going to lose my job anyway, then maybe we could make this work.
My career hasn’t ended. I’m getting what I’ve worked so hard for.
Which means that I can’t carry on a real relationship with my former target. I wouldn’t get past the first levels of applicant vetting without raising major flags.
So this, right here, is everything I’m ever going to have with Luke.
He kicks the door shut before the dogs have a chance to join us, and then he doesn’t waste a second, pulling me into a long kiss that has me finally breaking for air.
We become a tangled mess of limbs as our clothes fall to the floor, until there’s nothing between us but skin and this mass of emotions that have somehow survived such a violent storm.
“Hold on a sec.” He leaves me stretched out onto the bed to fish something from his duffel bag. I assume it’s a condom, so when the first sparkles of diamonds catch my eye, I frown.
“I know you can’t keep this,” he starts, kneeling on the bed, his perfect naked form almost as overwhelming as the necklace in his hands. “But can you please just wear it for tonight?” He clasps it behind my neck and then straightens all the long strands, his fingers skating all over my breasts as he positions the diamond raindrops. “When I saw it, I knew it would be perfect for you.”
I simply lie there, letting his eyes roam over me, letting my eyes roam over him. Drinking him up for the last time.
Until it’s just too much to bear.
I wrap my legs around his hips, knowing he’ll get the message.
His Adam’s apple bobs with his hard swallow. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
So are you. That mess of wavy brown hair that somehow looks perfect, even though I know he didn’t do anything to it today. That jawline that I remember staring up at the night I threw a drink at him. It feels like an eternity ago. Those full lips that are almost too pretty to be on a man.
Those sincere blue eyes that have never lied to me.
I give his hips a gentle tug toward me with my legs but he resists. “Is something wrong?”
He blinks several times, as if fighting tears. “You’re never coming back, are you?”
I grit my teeth to fight my own tears as I climb to my knees, until my chest is pressed against his and my arms coil around his head.
Holding him tight to me.
I can feel his heart hammering against my chest. I wonder if it’s hurting as much as mine is. I coax his lips with my own. And then he’s stealing the air in my lungs with his mouth, consuming my body with such palpable emotion, it’s almost suffocating.
I absorb all of it.
Reveling in the feel of being with Luke one last time.
No guilt.
No lies.
Telling myself that I can never forget what this feels like.
Tangled with Luke’s body, I’m so comfortable that Stanley and Licks’ howls don’t register immediately. It’s not until I feel Luke’s body stiffen, and I know he’s awake too, that it clicks.
I’m on my feet in seconds and peering around the door frame to see the dogs standing in front of the door, growling.
Luke’s up and pulling on track pants. I run into my room to throw on the first pair of pants and T-shirt that I can find. And then my fingers make fast work of the safe so I can get to my gun. I check my phone for any calls from Warner, wondering if it could be him.
No missed calls.
This isn’t him.
A knock sounds.
I punch Warner’s number in and toss the phone to Luke. “Tell him what’s going on.” Right about now, I’m really wishing I didn’t demand that they shut off the cameras. Tiptoeing toward the door, I flick the safety off my gun. I shoo the dogs away with a gentle nudge of my foot, and then call out, “Who is it?”
“Delivery.” A deep, male voice. Not Russian, but still . . .
“At three a.m.?”
“It’s special.”
“Special my ass. The cops are on their way.”
There’s a long pause, and I hold my breath, listening for the cock of a gun. When he speaks again, it’s with less confidence. “I was told that you needed to receive this now, or it will be too late.”
“What will be too late?” Dammit. How do I ignore that?
“I don’t know, Miss. It’s . . . help.”
For all I know, the guy could have a gun aimed at the door, waiting for a shadow to pass over the peephole. I wave my hand several times, holding my breath. No shots fired.
I know what the protocol is here: wait for backup.
As quietly as possible, I unlatch the locks.
And then I throw open the door, gun aimed and ready.
A middle-aged man in a baseball cap that hides half of his face lets out a yelp of surprise, holding the flimsy white envelope tight against his chest as if it can somehow protect him from a bullet.
“Who sent you?” I demand to know.
He swallows and, instead of answering, he slowly extends his arms.
I’m torn between refusing it and grabbing it. Until I see the small emblem in the top right-hand corner of the envelope.
A black orchid.
I snatch it out of his hand. “You need to stay—”
The deliveryman turns and bolts, leaving me with no option but to either shoot him or let him go.
“Yeah . . . An envelope . . . He’s gone . . .” Luke is telling Warner. I didn’t notice he had stepped up beside me. To me he says, “Warner says not to open it until he gets here.”
I tear the seal open and pull several slips of paper out.
“Tell him he’s going to have to reschedule my flight.”
“Ready?” Warner calls from the black agency sedan he’s using to get me to the airport. My things—a suitcase stuffed with clothes I accumulated while undercover that they can’t possibly use on another case, and Stanley—are already packed in the backseat.
“Yeah, give me a minute?”
“We’ve already rescheduled the flight once . . .”
“And remind me why again?”
Warner slides his aviator glasses on and smirks at me. “Because you’re a superstar, Bertelli.” He rolls the window up, giving Luke and me some privacy as we say our goodbyes outside my building.
Except it’s not my building anymore.
I’m going home today.
Luke peers down at me with big blue eyes. “You seriously don’t know who sent you that envelope?”
To everyone else, including Sinclair and Warner, my official answer all morning has been “I have no clue.”
To Luke, I smile. “Do you want me to lie to you or just not answer?”
I can’t tell anyone that Elmira’s the one who sent me detailed instructions on where to find the stolen black SUVs, heading for Durban—on the coast of South Africa—at first light this morning, right down to the name and location of the ship in the Seattle port. Or that it was her prompting that led us to set up surveillance on Gold Bond to watch Vlad stroll in a few hours later, at exactly nine a.m., only to walk back out after fifteen minutes with a duffel bag full of cash. Or that it was Elmira who told us which port official would be receiving a call from Jerry Rosenthal, to confirm that the cargo was loaded and that he should release the money to Vlad.
The port official answered the phone with a shaky “yes,” while Warner breathed down his neck. By that point, a fleet of customs officers had already been sifting through containers for hours. Thirty-six black SUVs were discovered. It’ll take time to confirm that they’re all stolen.
I can’t tell any of them because I don’t know why she’d sabotage her own husband’s deal.
It’ll take time to build a solid case. We already have Jerry Rosenthal on handling the payment of the stolen Porsche, so we’ll have to see how cooperative he’ll be. It helps that Vlad pulled a gun when he saw the two cops approaching him outside Gold Bond. That gave us the excuse we needed to ask him what he did to deserve so much cash. With all the road blocks and dead ends we’ve dealt with on this case, it was almost a miracle that Vlad would be that stupid.
Luke shakes his head, but then smirks.
“So? What are you going to do now?”
He peers upward, squinting against the sun, as if the answer is up there. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll be figuring out life.”
“That’s my excuse.”
He leans down to press his forehead against mine. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Where I’m going. But I’m going to miss you so much.”
The lump that’s been sitting in my throat grows, pulling tears from my eyes. “I’m going to miss you, too. And Rain.”
But Clara needs to move on with her life.
“Stanley!” I holler, dragging myself from my bedroom to brew a cup of coffee, my giant furry slippers sliding along the worn parquet floor.
He turns to glare at me from his perch on the windowsill, before continuing his incessant barking. I peer out at the window next door, perpendicular to us thanks to the L-shaped apartment building. Sure enough, the fat white cat is sitting there, glaring at Stanley, not amused. With the morning sun beaming down to warm its perch, I know it’s not moving anywhere for hours. Which means Stanley will be barking for hours. I’ve had plenty of noise complaints since I came back from Portland.
“It’s good we’re leaving soon or else we’d be getting evicted.” I shoo him off the windowsill with a pillow and then finish making my coffee and flop down onto the couch, eyeing all the boxes.
The moving truck will be here in a few hours to put my things into storage.
Stanley hops onto the couch and begins pawing at my chest. I know he needs to go for a run. “I’m going to miss you, buddy. You’ll be good for my parents, right? It’s only for five months.”
He snorts in response.
“Well, I’m sorry, but they’d probably use you as target practice.” I don’t know that pets are allowed at the FBI Academy anyway.
After seven months of interviews and tests and more tests and more tests, I’m starting the next chapter of my life. I feel like I should be more excited. I am excited. It’s just . . .
I grab my iPad and begin flipping through the pictures I loaded on there. My life on the West Coast. The case that taught me so much about myself—my strengths, my weaknesses—and about the good in people. I run my fingers along my greatest weakness, tracing the lines of Luke Boone’s handsome face.
I dove headfirst back into local police work when I returned to D.C., allowing my mind to be consumed, the ache in my chest dulled. But I still miss him terribly. I still think about him strolling around his condo when my eyes first crack open at dawn. I still picture his perfect body as his feet pound against the pavement, a drooling bulldog trying to keep up behind him. I still smile when I think of his cocky smirk and his self-assurance. I’ve found myself recording hours of stupid reality TV, just so I can mock it with Stanley. I still close my eyes at night and imagine the smell, and taste, and feel of him in bed beside me.
My heart still clenches when I think of how badly his life could have ended up. I could arrest a hundred dirty criminals and it won’t ever give me as much satisfaction as helping one genuinely good Luke.
A few months ago, the same day I received my conditional offer of employment from the FBI, after a few too many glasses of wine, I actually dialed his number. It’s out of service.
I cried myself to sleep that night.
Then I woke up the next morning and reminded myself that I’m doing something important. Something for me. And I can’t throw that away for anyone.
My phone starts ringing. I almost don’t get it, figuring it’s my parents asking for the sixth time when I’m bringing Stanley over. They seem to have taken a liking to him. I may have a hard time getting him back.
“Bertelli!” booms the loud Boston-accented voice.
“Why are you calling me this early?”
“I never sleep. You know that. So, are you ready for school?”
“You know, you’re so excited for me, I think you should just go.”
He chuckles. “No, thanks. I’m just here to laugh at you. Hope you survive.” Warner and I have kept in touch since the case so he could fill me in on the latest news, but also because we’ve become good friends. Much better than I ever expected.
“So, what’s new?”
“We nailed another low-level fence from the ring.”
“Is that all?” Between all the information we gathered, plus additional surveillance and Rix’s undercover work, they’re slowly picking away at the ranks, issuing arrest warrants. They’ve seen a significant decline in car thefts over the last six months, proving that we’ve made a big difference.
But Warner’s calls usually come when there are bigger breaks. Like, a few months ago, when they handed a search warrant to Vlad Bragin’s wife and she in turn handed them a pair of Vlad’s pants and black gloves that, upon testing, revealed gun residue and Rust’s blood. When asked why she was willing to cooperate, she told us it was because she married an asshole.
Sometimes all it takes is a bitter wife.
While it’s not a smoking gun, it’s another piece of the puzzle. Several others have fallen into place, including GPS tracking on Vlad’s Suburban that proves where he was and when, such as at the location where Rust’s body was found on the night of the murder, as well as street camera surveillance that captures him driving that night.
They’re closing in on him for the murder. As for the stolen cars, the corrupt jeweler documented and recorded much more than he likely was supposed to. Perhaps for the day he got caught and needed big-ticket leverage.
Warner snorts. “Actually, no, smart-ass. Have you looked at the news today?”
“No . . .?”
“Check out CNN. International news.” He goes quiet, and I know he’s waiting for me to tune in.
I open the browser on my iPad, following his instructions. “Holy shit!”
I quickly read the news article, with the picture of the wealthy, attractive man in the inset, my eyes zeroing in on the scar bisecting his lip that I’ve seen in person before. “Human trafficking?”
“It’s disgusting. Do you know how many children they found in one of those ships?”
Though there’s not a lot of information, and I always question the accuracy of anything I read produced by a reporter, according to the article, a complex investigation has been running for seven years, with evidence of human trafficking surfacing from many countries. Aref Hamidi was arrested and charged while visiting China.
“This is going to create a huge, international mess. China will give him the death penalty.”
Which is exactly what he would deserve. It almost seems too good to be true. Like perhaps it was orchestrated. Otherwise how would Aref be stupid enough to get caught?
There’s only one person I can think of capable of coordinating such a takedown.
“Makes you not so bitter about the asshole getting away on our case, right? I mean, it would have been a slap on the wrist compared to what’s coming his way.”
“It does,” I murmur softly, my mind spinning with absurd, improbable speculation. “I wish there was more information. Can you find anything out?”
“I’ll just wave my magic wand . . .”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Warner, don’t we have any pull on getting dirt?”
“ ‘We.’ You’re cute. You know as well as I do that there’s shit going on over on that side of the world that the FBI will never catch wind of.”
“Is his wife involved?”
“I don’t see her mentioned, and they would have mentioned something like that. She has ties to Iranian royalty, after all. I hope she kept some money, because I’ll bet everything gets seized.” An entire empire . . . lost, for no reason other than greed.
Thoughts of the mysterious Elmira Zamani fade to the background as someone more important to me comes to mind with Warner’s words. “Speaking of seizing assets . . .” I pause, waiting for Warner to fill in the blanks. He knows who I’m asking about. He’s just been reluctant to tell me anything about Luke.
“Everything’s been released. The kid hired good lawyers and, since we have no proof beyond hearsay that 24 was involved, we couldn’t hold his assets anymore.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not sure if I’m happy about this or not. That means Luke has a ton of money at his disposal now. All money earned through dirty dealings. And he fought the Feds to get it. What does that mean? Seven months later, where is his head at?
“Anything else . . . interesting?”
There’s a long silence. “Yes.” Warner hesitates. “Betty-Jo Billings received a check made out to cash by an anonymous donor last week. She called the police, because it was a lot of money, and she thought it was fraudulent.”
“How much money?”
“Like, if you were to sell a million-dollar condo and your Porsche 911 . . . that much money.”
My heart skips a few beats. “He . . .”
“He’s renting a small place downtown. He’s in the garage, from morning until night. Goes home, jogs with his dog. Spends a lot of time at the Japanese Gardens. At first I thought he was getting into something again, but he just goes to sit on a bench. Alone.”
“You’re still doing surveillance on him?” God, please tell me they don’t suspect him of something else. “Did Sinclair tell you to do that?”
“Nope. It’s unofficial.”
I swallow. “Then why?”
Warner sighs. “Because I know you too well.”
I smile. “Thanks, Warner.”
I stare at the picture of Aref on my iPad long after I hang up the phone, rereading the article several times, Googling Elmira’s name, looking for more news on her, finding only socialite-type posts and pictures about the beautiful wife of the heir to Hamidi Enterprises.
My gut tells me that Elmira suspected what I really was—the stunt involving Luke’s car had to be her way of outing me. The hows and whys have remained a mystery to me.
But now . . . I frown, staring at her face, remembering her ageless beauty, her cool disposition, her shrewd gaze. She knew just what to say, what to do . . .
They always say a good undercover can spot another.
I’d like to say that I’ll track her down one day and ask her who she really is, but my guess is that I will not cross paths with Elmira—or whatever her name is—ever again.
So instead, I’ll have to thank her silently. That’s fairly easy; all I have to do it is think of Luke Boone.
