Willow stepped back. “Better give Duke and Bud a little affection. I think they’re jealous, and that’s the last thing I need.”
A look of anger flashed across Shane’s face. He covered it, but not quickly enough. He laughed, but it felt forced, and released Willow to play with the dogs. He seemed just a little too steady on his feet all of a sudden.
Shane roughhoused with them a minute, then looked up at her, a frown on his face. “Do Duke and Bud seem different to you?”
“No, why?” Willow tried not to panic, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake by not taking the dogs to the vet. “What do you mean?”
“They seem … subdued.”
She laughed. “You call this subdued? They nearly knocked us over.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. They should have bowled us onto our butts.”
“They look fine to me.”
“They must be hungry. I didn’t get a chance to feed them yesterday.” He scratched Duke’s ears.
Shane looked over at their dog dishes. She followed his gaze. Both of them were licked clean, just as they’d been when she’d arrived with Con last night. They dogs had eaten every last crumb she’d given them, thank goodness!
She breathed an inward sigh of relief. There was no reason to tell Shane she’d fed them and they’d been drunk and sluggish. Because he hadn’t left them enough water and they’d gotten desperate.
She grabbed Shane’s elbow. “Let’s get you settled in and then I’ll come back and feed them.” The dogs were really going to love her once she gave them an actual morning meal. “Where would you rather be—upstairs in your bed—”
“I’d love you to put me to bed.”
She ignored his innuendo. “Or down here on the sofa? I say sofa—it’ll be more convenient once your admirers start arriving. You’re going to have a stream of visitors once the festival closes up for the day. I hope you have plenty of room in your freezer for all the casseroles coming your way.
“Ada told me she sold out of your favorite apple fritters nearly the minute she opened. Be prepared to put on a few pounds.” She paused. “So what will it be?”
“You’ve convinced me; the sofa it is.”
“Good.” She helped him into the living room.
He stopped suddenly just inside the door and frowned. “Someone’s been in here.” He turned to look at her. A subtle shade of anger and fear colored his tone.
She froze and her heart raced. She’d been in here with Con, but they hadn’t touched a thing. Shane was beginning to look like a paranoid nutcase.
“What? What’s wrong? How can you tell? Is something missing?” She pointedly looked around the room, which was, frankly, a mess, the same as it was the night before. “It looks to me like Old Man Terrence’s ghost escaped from the bomb shelter and played poltergeist.” She laughed.
“Yeah, I need to pick up. Never mind,” Shane said, shaking his head. “You’re right. Must be the drugs and the concussion messing with my head.”
She relaxed.
He studied her. “On second thought, I think I’d like to lie down in my bed and sleep awhile. Help me up to my room?” Anxiety had crept into his voice.
He did look suddenly pale. Something was off with Shane.
“Sure,” she said. “Do you think you can make it?”
“With your help.”
She helped him up the stairs. He paused at the entrance to his bedroom and studied it.
“Are you okay?” she asked him again. Because it looked to her as if he suspected someone had been in his room, too.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure? You look as if you expect to see Old Man Terrence’s ghost in here now.”
He laughed. “Spooks don’t scare me.”
He sounded almost as if he was trying to convince himself. Spooks scared her, but not the kind he was thinking of.
“Well then, let me just fluff your pillow and pull back the covers.” She led him to the bed.
He wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, he scanned the room as she opened the bed for him. He walked to the window, which was closed and latched. A small wad of paper lay on the floor beneath it, a smashed wad of paper.
Shane picked it up, smoothed it out, and glanced at it while she pretended to be busy.
She caught only a glimpse of it. It was a geometrical design of overlapping circles. She’d seen the pattern before in an art book—the pattern was called the Flower of Life.
Shane crumpled it and, in a flash of anger, hurled it against the wall.
She looked at him, startled. “Something wrong?”
He turned and looked at her. “No, just a note to myself that I misplaced and ended up on the floor. Something I was supposed to do and forgot. Too late now.” He smiled, but it looked forced. “No big deal.”
She patted the bed. “Come. Lie down.”
He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. He winced as she helped him into a reclining position.
He took her arms in his hands before she could straighten and pull away. “Come back later? Stay with me awhile and keep this invalid company?”
She smiled back at him. “That’s a tempting offer. I’d like to, but I have too much to do. I’ve got so much caramel to make, I can’t even tell you. I completely sold out yesterday. But don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. Your neighbors, the Buckleys, will be stopping by later to see if you need anything.
“I’ll make you a tray with your medicine and some snacks before I go.”
She did have too much to do, but it wasn’t making candy. She had to find out whether Con was her husband or not. Much too much to do.
* * *
Jack’s newspaper crossbow was a thing of beauty. And had proved absolutely worthless to him since he’d constructed it. In fact, he’d almost crumpled it up in a fit of anger as he watched that bastard the Rooster act an invalid and lean on Willow for help into the house. Watching a terrorist make a pass at his wife was really more torture than a dead man should have to endure.
He flashed to a memory of the Rooster in Ciudad, and the elated look on his face as he detonated the charge that blew Jack through the second-story window of the building. Of landing on his face, smashing it to hell, and passing out in the street below. Of his last conscious thought for nearly a month—I’m a dead man. Willow, forgive me for leaving you.
As Jack watched the house, Kennett finally appeared in his bedroom window, holding a piece of paper and looking scared and angry. Jack got out his high-powered military-grade spy binoculars and took a look. He wanted to know what was on that paper. No good. The light shone through it and he couldn’t get a read. He whipped out his superzoom spy camera and snapped a shot, hoping for better luck reading it later.
Willow left ten minutes later. Jack stayed and watched Kennett’s house for several more hours, but the bastard refused to step outside for even a split second all day. Jack couldn’t get a shot off at him. Worse, a fellow farmer came over to help sell apples for Kennett and people were trooping through without end.
Jack went back to the guesthouse disgusted and tried to read that note that had upset Kennett. No luck. He would have to question Willow about it, subtly of course. Jack hadn’t seen her. And happily, she didn’t return to Kennett’s.
Yeah, he checked the tracking on her car. After leaving Kennett’s, she’d gone directly into the city while Jack had gotten a sample of hair and replaced it for his in Willow’s memory box. If the address recorded on the GPS tracking device was any indication, she was no doubt buying that DNA collection kit Drew recommended.
Monday was even worse. Every woman from Orchard Bluff over the age of twelve showed up bearing a casserole, a pie, or a thermos of soup for the poor, unfortunate accident victim.
It was hard to stage an archery accident with so many women fluttering around.
Jack retired to the guesthouse, frustrated. He checked it for guns in the oven, aerosol cans on the heater, and any other hazards he could think of,
even though Kennett wasn’t likely to have been out of sight of one woman or another longer enough to do any damage. Jack even unscrewed the showerhead and checked it for poisonous powder before he jumped in and cleaned up for his dinner with Willow.
He’d meant to have killed Kennett and been gone by now. But since that hadn’t gone according to plan, he may as well have dinner with his wife. Though he was walking on dangerous ground and he knew it.
He showered with a different soap than he’d used when he was with Willow, used a different shampoo, shaved with a different brand of shaving cream, and splashed on a brand of cologne he knew she detested to throw her off and act as a kind of Willow repellent.
As he combed his hair on the opposite side, he caught a glimpse of the temporary tattoo, eamus catuli, Go Cubs, painted on his left arm to throw Willow off. He’d always loved baseball. But being from Seattle, he preferred the Mariners. He donned the slacks from another of the stupid sissy outfits Malene had sent for him to wear—a sweater, slacks, leather jacket, and, mercifully this time, Italian leather boots.
One of the hazards of going on a date undercover was risking having his gun discovered. As Con, he wouldn’t be carrying. As Jack, he never left the house without protection.
Conversely, conceal his gun too well and there’d be no way to reach it in an emergency. He could wear one under a sports coat. Maybe. But he’d look damn odd never taking the coat off once during the evening. Especially if things got hot at Willow’s. Which he had to make sure they didn’t.
He had a tiny microrevolver that fit into a belt buckle. But that only worked if he was dressing like a cowboy.
Good job, Malene. He strapped on an ankle holster with his NAA Black Widow mini-revolver in it and put on black dress socks and the metro boots. The boots covered his little piece nicely.
He studied his shirtless self in the mirror.
Not bad.
Even his scars looked better. He used to have a hairy chest. But the explosion did a number on him and left him with too much scarring. Now he was the hairless wonder. It had also done a good job of obscuring any scars Willow would recognize with the ravages of burns and skin grafts. The plastic surgeons had done a fantastic job on his face, which had been smashed to bits but remarkably unburned.
He’d regained his muscle tone and fitness. He’d worked like a demon to rebuild his frame and strength, but his chest would never be real pretty to look at again.
He flexed his biceps and grinned at his own folly.
Good thing he’d never gotten a real tattoo. Willow Forever tattooed in a heart on his biceps would have been hard to explain. Which was exactly why tattoos were against Agency policy.
He didn’t expect Willow to ever see him shirtless. But again, Jack prepared for every contingency. She’d be suspicious about the burn scars, but he had a story for that.
He put on his shirt and sweater. The sweater would hide a holster and a bigger gun than the one strapped on his ankle. But unless he missed his guess, Willow would hug him and feel him up for weapons.
Instead, he packed the drinking glass he’d stolen earlier and gotten Aldo to drink from and a bigger gun, a compact service pistol, in the man bag Malene had sent. He just had to make sure Willow never dug through it.
He ran through the sleight-of-hand procedures and tricks agent Lani Silkwater had taught him during the past year. In case he needed them to switch the glasses after dinner.
Lani had worked undercover as an assistant to the famous magician Rock Powers for several months. Much to the chief’s chagrin, Lani had married the great illusionist against orders, run off on him, and begged Emmett to keep her deep undercover and out of Powers’ sight. Marital regret is such an ugly thing.
Being the gracious, sympathetic guy the chief was, not, he assigned Lani the onerous and, some would say, boring duty of building Jack’s spy skills back up, including teaching him a little magic. A few parlor tricks.
Emmett rightly believed working magic tricks would help Jack rebuild his muscle dexterity so he could regain his shooting skills. It had done more than help him regain muscle movement. It had helped build his confidence. And it was fun as hell.
Lani was a great teacher. Very patient and the one person who sympathized with Jack’s desire to allow Willow to think he was dead. At times, Lani said she wished she could accomplish the same, because rumor had it that Rock wouldn’t rest until he’d reappeared her. That’s what she got for skipping out in the middle of the act. Rock wasn’t going to rest until he got his rightful prestige—Lani reappearing in the box he’d put her in—and wiped the egg off his face. If she could fake her death …
Jack had reassured her, death had its own set of problems.
Jack took a deep breath. Spookie could be a problem this evening, but he’d worked out a plan. He was bringing her a special dog treat to woo her. He’d play nice to her and wave it in front of his little dog when he first got there. Then he’d claim the treat had won her over. Problem solved.
Jack grabbed the wine he’d bought from Aldo, his wallet, the man bag, the Halloween wrapped doggie delectable, and his keys. Jack would have brought Willow flowers. It was too soon and too dangerous for Con to show that kind of romantic interest. Con had to be aloof, a slightly flirtatious but generally let’s just be friends type of guy.
* * *
Willow glanced at the clock. Con would be arriving any minute. The house was clean, of electronic bugs and hidden cameras as well as of dust and dirt. She’d set the table with her best glasses, dishes, and flatware and the silver candlesticks she and Jack had received as a wedding present from his friend Kyle. She’d made a centerpiece of gourds, Indian corn, and leaves around the candles, creating a homey, romantic fall look.
She’d turned down the lights and judiciously lit candles around the room to create an intimate atmosphere. Candles that smelled of vanilla and pumpkin spice to offset the smells of eggplant Parmesan wafting out of the kitchen. She wanted to spring the meal on Con so she could gauge his initial, surprised reaction.
Dinner simmered in the oven. Apple dumplings ready to be covered with hard sauce sat on the counter. A fire of seasoned fir crackled in the living room fireplace, perfuming the room. And Spookie was corralled back in the bedroom by a child safety gate.
Willow had debated and debated what to wear to this DNA-snatching evening. She wanted to look hot, delectable, and totally casual. As if the evening were no big deal. Even though she meant to seduce Con.
She knew a thing or two about what men found sexy, Jack in particular. She put on the outfit of universal appeal—tight jeans that showed off her butt, tall black pumps, and a formfitting, scoop-neck white T-shirt. So easy, but so effective.
The doorbell rang. Let the games begin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Willow met Jack at the door wearing the sexiest outfit he could imagine—a white T-shirt with no bra. It took every ounce of determination he had to look her in the eyes, not her beautiful, bouncing cleavage. Not to stare at the dark buds of her nipples poking through sheer white fabric, not to imagine that T-shirt wet and clinging to her skin—
Stop it, Jack. Control, man. Control.
“Con, you’re right on time.” She took the bottle of Zinfandel he held from him and hugged him. He got a deep breath of the perfume she wore—there it was again, his favorite. The one she wore to let him know she was in the mood.
Damn, why did he have to be wearing a leather jacket? He couldn’t feel the brush of her breasts through it. He just wanted a tiny feel. Just one.
Willow stepped aside to let him in.
He looked around the room and tried to clear his head from thoughts of her. “Where’s the little dog? I brought her something.” Jack pulled a dog treat from his pocket. A preemptive strike was best. And he was looking forward to seeing the little mutt.
“Oh, I gated her in the back. No sense scaring her.” Willow winked.
He raised a brow. “I’m that frightening?”
> “You’re not frightening at all,” Willow practically purred, and gave him a salacious smile.
He swallowed hard.
She set the wine down on the entry table. “Let me take your coat.” She paused and looked at the leather man bag slung over his shoulder. “And bag.”
Damn that Malene for making him carry a man bag. At least it was a place to carry a weapon and was totally unlike anything he’d wear on his own. But it was not alpha-male behavior. He set the dog treat on the entry table and handed her the bag.
“I’ll just set the bag here in the entry if you don’t mind.”
Fine with him. He wanted it within easy access. He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her.
At first whiff, the house smelled heavenly of burning wood and spice. On second breath, he detected the stink of eggplant Parmesan.
So that’s the way she was going to play things, was it? She was going to try to smoke him out by going for the gag response. Feed him foods he hated and watch to see if he slipped up.
He hadn’t thought Willow could be so cruel. He had a sudden vision of the dinner ahead and food after food he despised. Crafty little minx.
She could try, but he’d eaten worse. Far worse. He’d survived on grubs and bugs in the wilderness for an entire week, consumed parts of a cow, bull, pig, horse, chicken, kangaroo, octopus, squirrel, and rat no person should ever eat. Hell, no one should ever eat rat, period.
If he could manage all that, he could chow down eggplant without blanching. He wouldn’t enjoy it, but he’d eat it.
“Something smells delicious,” he said, partly to goad her and partly to throw her off track.
“Eggplant Parmesan. I thought since you’re Italian, and I don’t eat meat…” She hung up his coat in a closet nearby and picked up the wine and dog biscuit.
“Good thought.” He followed her into the living room, walking past the dining room, where the table was set for two. The living room glowed with candlelight. And was suddenly filled with mementos from their life together that hadn’t been there on his previous nefarious visits. “You have a beautiful place.”