Live and Let Love (12 page)

Then Jack would swoop in, dig out the bullet if need be, torch the car, and be on
his way. If the car exploded—bonus!

Jack liked explosions. Turnabout was fair play. The Rooster had blown up Jack, taken
away his life and the lives of his friends. Sending the Rooster to kingdom come in
a thousand tiny pieces would only be poetic justice. And the whole thing would look
like a tragic accident.

Tonight? Jack wondered whether the Rooster would be foolish enough to go out drinking
two nights in a row. Kennett was of Russian descent, hearty drinking stock—of course
he would. As all drinkers know, one hangover cures another.

Jack glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. Time to head to his coffee date with Willow.
This was where the operation got tricky: he had to keep Willow away from the Rooster
until he killed him, flirt with her enough to keep her distracted, convince her he
was not Jack, and not break under the pressure.

He hoped Bluff Country Store had stocked up on coffee. Call it a hunch, but he had
a feeling there’d be a run on it this morning. And he needed his daily dose of caffeine
more than ever.

*   *   *

Willow puttered around in her pink tent in the center of town amid the festivities,
her mind on Jack, instead of where it should have been—on her business. Even her mother
felt he was alive, and Mom was never wrong. As Willow filled tables with her candy
and caramel sauce and thought about things, the more it seemed to her that both her
high-speed Internet being down and her smartphone 3G being out at the same time was
highly suspicious. Just the kind of trick the Agency would play to keep her from learning
the truth about Con’s real identity. They had phone jammers and all kinds of devices
at their disposal. All she had were her wits.

If NCS was trying to stymie her by keeping her Internet and 3G out of service overnight,
Jack’s time in Orchard Bluff was short indeed. If Con was Jack, she was going to have
to smoke him out immediately. If not sooner. Which meant at coffee, when she was going
to steal his cup and get his DNA.

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, looked at it, and frowned.
Another apologetic text from Shane. And her 3G seemed to work just fine outside of
the house, which made the case for a jammer. But she had no time to surf the Internet
just now. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, ignoring it along with the other
three texts Shane had already sent her this morning.

And if the man pretending to be Con really was Con?

She kept coming back to that. Her dad had taught her to think through situations with
both the best- and worst-case scenarios in mind. If you could live with each extreme,
then proceed. Otherwise, walk away. She had no idea if she could live with the middle,
let alone the extremes. But she couldn’t walk away; that much she was certain about.
She’d always been a risk taker.

She wondered, in a completely irrational way, if she could stand seeing Con with another
woman. He was so much like Jack it would feel like a betrayal.

And if Jack was back, what did that do to her widow’s pension and the life insurance
she’d received? Would NCS confiscate her tasty caramel business?

Finding out that Con was Jack created as many problems as it solved. More, really,
when you got down to it.

But Willow had never been one to back off from challenges. Bring it on. She’d deal.
She wanted Jack.

This was such a mess. Almost as much of a mess as her raging, twisting emotions.

And of course, there was the obvious question, if Con was Jack, what was he doing
here? Who was he watching? What great, big, horrible disaster or nasty piece of espionage
was about to go down? And why would anything like that happen in Orchard Bluff?

The thought sent a shiver up her back.

Yes, finding out Con was Jack brought up a whole host of problems and sticky situations.
And not the lovely sweet and salty caramel kind of sticky, either.

If Con was Jack, what did she do then? Announce to her friends and family that his
death had all been a misunderstanding? An unfortunate miscommuniqué? What story would
she tell them?

That he’d been blown up while on a business trip? And had temporary amnesia and forgotten
who he was? And thought he was Aldo’s cousin?

That scenario sounded about as likely, and silly, as an old soap opera plot. In fact,
she was pretty sure she’d seen it done a time or two too many. And he looked slightly
different because he’d had reconstructive plastic surgery? Please!

Although, come to think of it, that’s exactly what she thought. About the plastic
surgery.

Had he really been blown up and the plastic surgery was necessary to repair him? Or
had his whole death been faked in the first place and the plastic surgery a way to
create a new identity, like people in the witness protection program?

So many questions. Too few answers.

All she really wanted to know was whether Con was Jack and, if so, whether Jack still
loved her and would take her with him when he left.

She finished arranging a display of jars of caramel, surrounding them with fragrant
sprays of dried lavender she’d grown herself.

She caught her reflection in a jar lid and frowned. Not just because of the fun-house
optics that made her look like a round children’s play figure. Or the dark circles
under her eyes that her concealer and foundation barely disguised. She wore her pink
Willow’s Caramels cotton T-shirt with cap sleeves and printed with her logo. It hugged
her curves and had a delightful V-neck. But it had not been designed to catch the
male eye. Over it, she wore a frilly pink and black apron, also silk-screened with
the Willow’s Caramels logo. Very girlie. Too girlie, and not siren enough.

And jeans, her comfortable faded jeans, and Converse tennis shoes in what color? Pink.
Altogether she looked like a birthday cupcake ready for a nine-year-old’s party.

She cursed the impulse she’d had a year ago to design a brand identity so very homey
and sweet that it lacked any sex appeal at all. Who would have thought she’d be trying
to win Jack back after he was officially dead?

Back to Jack, after thinking about it all night, she’d come to a conclusion—if Con
was Jack, he wasn’t here to win her back. If that had been the case, all he had to
do was reveal his true identity, sneak into her bed, and make passionate love to her.

She tried not to let her heart break over the thought. She had no time for pity parties.
If Jack wasn’t coming back to her, he had a good reason. Which didn’t mean she couldn’t
break him down and win him back all the same. Her husband may have been a master at
getting intel out of foreign terrorists and corrupt officials, but she had her ways
of breaking a man, too. With love.

No, if Con was Jack, he was up to something. It could be as benign as making sure
she was doing okay, surviving the new life he’d left her with. But Jack could have
sent any of his old friends in to find out that intel. It would have been much safer
to do so.

No, if Con was Jack, something was up. Something sinister.

Just then Shiloh slunk into the booth, wearing a matching costume to Willow’s. With
the addition of dark sunglasses. She moved as spryly as if she were eighty rather
than twenty-one.

Willow frowned at her. “Morning, sunshine. What happened to you? Overimbibe last night?”

“Don’t talk so loud,” Shiloh whispered. “I haven’t had a hangover this bad since my
birthday. And this one isn’t even my fault.” She looked away from the sun glinting
off one of the jars and scowled. “Damn the light.”

She slumped into a folding chair behind the table. “Didn’t you hear? Some asshole
spiked the apple gold punch. Aldo found the evidence—empty bottles of Everclear. In
the trash. The jerk didn’t even cover his tracks.”

Willow arched a brow. “Someone spiked the hot punch?” That sounded exactly like the
kind of prank Jack would pull. After all,
loose lips sink ships.

“Oh, that’s right. You left before all the action.” Shiloh flashed a ghost of a smile
and winced with the effort, looking as if her head were about to explode. “How are
you feeling? How was Con?”

“I’m just great. Never better.” Willow handed her a bottle of water, letting Shiloh
think what she would. “Here. Hydrate yourself. Water cures the common hangover.”

Shiloh took it. “Thanks. Wish I had coffee.” She unscrewed the cap from the bottle
of water. “Looking back, Shane was the first casualty. Someone mentioned he had a
couple of steaming mugs of it. He’s going to take some ribbing over it. A big guy
should be able to hold even his Everclear better than that.”

“Yes, poor baby,” Willow murmured. “Any suspects?”

Shiloh shrugged. “No. Aldo thinks it’s just a prank. Maybe high school kids. Though
I told him high school kids wouldn’t waste alcohol on getting adults smashed.” She
laughed and immediately grabbed her head. “Shouldn’t have done that. Laughing hurts
too much.”

*   *   *

Jack arrived at Bluff Country Store uncharacteristically early, and surprisingly nervous,
for his coffee date with Willow. Jack was born late, which meant Con had to be perpetually
early. It was in the dossier. He looked around for Willow. Not here? Must be busy
times at her candy booth. Either that or she was still making battle plans to out
him as himself. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

The air smelled of fresh coffee and apple cinnamon rolls. The pastry case was full
and the candy case stocked with Willow’s confections, including a hearty stash of
Lucky Jacks that made his mouth water.

Con could buy Lucky Jacks. Nothing sinister in that. But Jack decided against it.
Too many coincidences in character would only make Willow more suspicious. There was
a saying in the spy business—
there’s no such thing as coincidence.
Unfortunately, he’d told it to Willow more than a time or two.

He picked up a newspaper and paid for it, tucking the change into a tip jar on the
counter. He found a table out in the middle of the seating area that would have to
suffice. Unfortunately, there were no tables next to a wall, period. Back against
the wall was the most secure position, but no one here in Bluff County Store seemed
to care. Jack liked to keep all potential threats in front of him. He sat, holding
the paper in front of him as he tuned in to the conversations around him out of habit,
and studied the store.

A good spy always knows where the exits are. Jack did a quick scan of his surroundings.
There was an exit in the front of the store and one at the side. The café area had
a two-story ceiling. Stairs to the upper half story of the building were off to his
right. The upper story had an open post-and-rail half wall, all the better to see
the goods and entice shoppers up for a look.

Jack had no desire to wander deeper into this little piece of country kitsch than
absolutely necessary. The view of ruffly aprons, pot holders, and dishes emblazoned
with roosters and chickens was plenty enough for him. The upper story was definitely
not an escape route. It was hell.

Around him, people discussed the first day of the Apple Festival. Simple stuff. People
hoping to sell their crops, honey, handcrafted goods, and homemade goodies. As he
sat listening to the clink of silverware and hiss of the coffee machine, he felt as
if he’d stepped into a time warp. Happy Bluff, or something. A good place where people
weren’t afraid and were totally oblivious to the dangers around them.

If only they knew.

The door to the store opened and Jack’s heart rate spiked. He resisted the urge to
look up, but he felt Willow enter, caught a whiff of her perfume, and heard her call
out a greeting to the girl behind the counter. He looked up from his paper just in
time to catch Willow’s eye. Willow waved to him, smiled, and walked over.

He loved to watch her walk. The way her hips swayed drove him crazy. She hadn’t forgotten
how to move. A quick memory of them in bed together popped into his mind unbidden.
Okay, maybe bidden by the rhythm of her hips and the bounce of her breasts as she
walked.

Jack, Con, neither of them could go to bed with Willow. Absolutely not. He had to
banish the thought. Yes, Willow was intuitive. Yes, she knew his body as well as her
own, had explored every inch as he had hers. But his had been slightly rearranged
since the explosion, acquired a few new scars that might fool her. Lost a few distinguishing
marks.

Jack could have fooled her. He believed as firmly in his powers of deception as she
did in her intuitive sense. He could have fooled her, except for an old war wound.
No, not the kind that made him impotent. The kind that gave him … an involuntary purr.
Most men grunted. Thanks to a chest and throat injury that left a rattle when he became
excited, Jack’s grunt had a purr in it. Willow called him her big cat, her tiger,
even after he pointed out that tigers can’t purr.

“No, but they chuff, Jack,” she’d told him. “The sound you make is really more of
a big-cat chuff, much more powerful and sexy.”

He swallowed a lump and pushed the memories away. Jack was here to make this kill
and get out. No deep revelations. No reunions. He was a single spy once again. No
strings, no attachments. That’s the way it had to be, for all their sakes.

But he was walking a damn narrow tightrope just now as he balanced between keeping
Willow on Con’s string away from Kennett and at arm’s length so Jack didn’t take over
and give himself away.

She stopped in front of him. “I see you found the place.” Her voice was just sultry
enough to let him know she was interested.

And send his heart pattering away into the danger zone.

Jack took a deep breath and looked up into her eyes the bright-green shade of August’s
birthstone, her birthstone. Willow stood over him, the sun from the window behind
her lighting her auburn into a blaze of fire. She was summer’s child. Always would
be to him.