“Yeah, I know. But they’re still nice to hear.” Willow pictured her mom shaking her head in amusement. “Be careful today all the same, Mom. Take your meds. Postpone any skydiving lessons until further notice.”
“As if that will be a problem!”
Willow teased her mom. She was afraid of heights. The last thing she’d ever do was skydive.
“And I’ll do my part; I won’t step on any cracks that will break your back.” Willow would have winked at her mom if they’d been using Skype.
“My back and I appreciate that. You be cautious, too.” Her mother sounded amused. “Drive safely. Don’t run with scissors. No bungee jumping. Lock your doors. And be careful in that candy kitchen of yours.”
Willow shook her head. “What could possibly go wrong in my state-of-the-art, highly efficient, beautiful candy kitchen?”
“Oh, I don’t know, you could drop a vat of caramel on your foot. Slip with a knife. Or leave a batch of sugar syrup on the stove and forget about it like that time you were in the ninth grade and nearly burned the house to the ground.”
“Who knew sugar was so highly flammable?” Willow teased her mom. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“No, never. Sorry.” Her mom paused and turned serious. “Treat yourself nicely today. I mean that, kiddo. Don’t beat yourself up. Cry if you want to.”
“I don’t want to cry. Jack wouldn’t want me to.” She bit her lip again, puzzled. The Sense wasn’t going away. The foreboding remained just as strong as ever. “At least we’re both feeling it. Maybe we’ll go together.” Willow put a tease in her voice for her mom’s benefit.
“Yeah, see you in heaven, baby. But not yet.”
Willow smiled. “Not yet. I’ve got to go, Mom. Shiloh will be in any minute. We have a ton to do for the festival tomorrow—caramel apples to dip, chocolate salted caramels to coat, and white chocolate apple pie fudge to make.”
“The candy show must go on.” Her mom chuckled, still sounding relieved. “Be careful working over the flame. Handle the hot sugar with care. And throw some salt over your shoulder for luck.”
Willow laughed. “I will. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.” Her mom sounded reluctant to hang up. Willow heard her sigh and then the line went dead.
Willow disconnected and poured herself a cup of coffee, catching a glimpse of the apple country calendar on the wall. She took a deep breath, swallowing a lump along with a sip of hot coffee, trying not to burn her mouth. Death by scalding coffee. The Sense was making her jumpy. Maybe Mom was wrong; maybe it was just …
Jack.
Two Octobers ago, to the day, National Clandestine Service chief Emmett Nelson appeared at her former home in Seattle, all but carrying a folded flag and playing “Taps.” He told her, in the gentlest terms she’d ever heard him use, that Jack was dead. Dead.
Given the sense of dread she’d had, she hadn’t been terribly surprised. Two years later, though, it was still hard to even think the words.
Blown up by drug lords in Ciudad del Este. There was nothing left of him but a few bits and pieces. Barely enough to bury. Certainly not enough for an open-casket funeral.
The loss of his body didn’t upset Willow the way people had feared it would. It was the loss of his essence, his spirit, his soul. His love and laughter. She missed him.
“Don’t worry,” Emmett had said. “We’ll take care of you. Jack left you a nice widow’s pension and a generous life-insurance policy.” Emmett hugged her in the fatherly way he could put on like a second skin when the occasion deemed it necessary. “You’ll always be a part of our clandestine family.”
Now that’s reassuring. You can’t divorce family, and evidently, you can’t divorce the CIA, either. Or be widowed out of it. No matter how much you’d like to be.
Emmett had made good on his promise to take care of her, though. She used Jack’s life insurance and pension to pursue her dreams. She trained under Seattle’s premier candy chef, the salted-caramel queen. Moved from Seattle across the state to apple country, to Orchard Bluff, a comfortable piece of country living only fifteen miles from Washington State’s second-largest city, to escape the memories of her life with Jack and try to move on. Paid for the lovely piece of property and the gorgeous new house with its daylight basement that housed her commercial candy kitchen and business. Provided her with income as she worked to launch the business.
Jack. If only I could see you again. You’d love this place. But I’d give it all up to have you back.
* * *
The anniversary of Jack’s death was as good a day as any for him to come back from the dead. As Italian fashion plate Con Russo.
Why in the world was Malene, the Agency’s cover life artist, always trying to make him over? Just because he had a new face didn’t mean he wanted a new wardrobe, too. He liked his camo and comfortably slouchy clothes. He missed the shorts he wore in Brazil. She was always trying to dress him up and make him into something from GQ. Since the plastic surgeon had prettied him up, she’d seemed even more determined.
At least this mission didn’t demand he wear a tuxedo like James Bond always seemed to. Small mercies. He flat out refused to operate in formal wear.
As it was, the Loro Piana merino wool slacks he wore were surprisingly comfortable. And the baby cashmere sweater as soft as duck down. And warm. Used to Brazilian weather, Jack was freezing up here. But neither piece of clothing was particularly stealth, especially in small-town Orchard Bluff where denim reigned.
He just hoped he could pull this mission off. Despite his months of acting lessons during spy training, Jack wasn’t Oscar-winning material. It was always better to be realistic about your shortcomings when embarking on a dangerous assignment. It kept you from getting cocky and complacent. From taking unnecessary risks.
The minute Emmett had told him the Rooster was pursuing Willow, Jack had only been more determined to do the job. Nothing could have kept him away. Now he only had to keep his rage at the Rooster for targeting his wife under control.
He’d made a vow never to hurt Willow again, to bow out of her life and let her find love with someone else. Someone who deserved her. Someone who wasn’t a professional killer like he was. Someone whose sensibilities matched hers. Another vegetarian would be good. Someone who didn’t eat anything that once had eyes. He’d eat anything, and had.
He had another good reason to let her go—Emmett was right. She was Jack’s Achilles’ heel, the one way to get to him. The precise tool the enemy needed to take him down and break him. He was a whole lot more effective when he didn’t have to worry about her. And she was a damn sight safer without him.
The explosion, and the time when he was missing and presumed dead by the Agency and everyone else, gave him the distance, courage, and opportunity to give her a second chance at the life she should have.
But he’d also made another, higher vow, during his wedding ceremony. He’d vowed to honor and protect her. And he was a man of his word. But he wished for once his wife would develop better taste in men.
Things could be worse. If a guy had to be resurrected and fool his wife into believing he was still dead, October was the perfect month to do it. The haunted vibe of the season made for good theatrics as it thrummed through the crisp autumn air, highlighted by the rustling leaves in the apple trees overhead and the raucous cackle of a crow in flight.
It was the perfect atmosphere for a spook of any kind, even the clandestine variety.
Jack resisted the urge to punch the apple tree next to him in the orchard where he hid, watching Willow’s house as he scoped out his next move before he introduced himself to his new “cousin” Aldo, who was Willow’s nearest neighbor.
Malene sure knew how to pick his covers. Did she have to make things nearly impossible for him? How could he stay just down the street from Willow and keep the hell away from her?
Contrary to popular belief, his heart wasn’t made of ice and buckshot.
It had taken
NCS two years to find the Rooster. NCS and the U.S. government were nothing if not tenacious and patient. Like RIOT’s deadly SMASH assassins, NCS didn’t give up until they got their man. They may still not have found him if the Rooster hadn’t taken an audacious risk and come after Willow to draw Jack out.
Courtesy of that little explosion in Ciudad del Este, and a skilled plastic surgeon, Jack didn’t even need to dab on face paint or don a mask to be undercover. But were his new face and altered accent good enough to fool Willow, with her intuition and the Sense? Did she feel his presence already?
The doctors had dubbed his new accent part of Foreign Accent Syndrome. He was one of only a hundred people worldwide with this particular syndrome.
Syndrome. He shook his head.
Okay, if that’s what they want to call it.
He thought of it more as a condition. Or maybe a pattern. At least the doctors hadn’t labeled it a disorder. That would have gotten him kicked out of the Agency on disability. The CIA couldn’t have assassins running around suffering from disorders, no matter how benign.
The nurses in Ciudad found it sexy as hell. He wondered what Willow would think of this new accent of his. If she’d find it sexy, too.
Hell, he wondered a lot of things, like whether she still loved him. And whether it was fair to even hope she did. It was better for his widow to move on.
He wasn’t here to reconcile with his wife or disrupt her life and the peace she’d reportedly found. He might be hard, but he wasn’t cruel. When he was finished here, he’d slip back into the shadowy world of espionage and Willow would still be a widow.
If the mission to kill the Rooster, who was going by the name Shane Kennett, went as Jack planned, Willow would never even realize he was alive and had been in town. And everyone would believe Kennett’s death was accidental.
Jack was the one with the problem—jealousy. The irrational feeling she was cheating on him. Technically, a widow can’t cheat on her dead husband. It was only when the dead husband was still alive that things got complicated.
Compartmentalize. That’s how he dealt with his job. That’s what he’d do now. Set his emotions aside. Focus on the goal. He had agreed to take this mission. He owed Willow for all the heartache he’d given her.
He simply had to make sure she didn’t catch him in the act. He had no intention of upsetting her applecart. Jeez, that was awful humor.
No, no damn way Willow would find out. She believed he was dead. Why would she think otherwise now?
He felt like a piece of crap for hurting her. It hadn’t been intentional. After the explosion, even NCS thought he was dead. The situation simply evolved from there. He was glad he hadn’t been around to see Willow cry over him. He didn’t deserve her tears.
Hidden in a commercial apple orchard across the street from Willow’s rural home, Jack studied her large, custom-built ranch-style house. A daylight basement faced the road and contained her candy kitchen and retail shop. At least he had the satisfaction of having left her a hefty life-insurance policy. It looked as if she’d made good use of it, too. No regrets on his part there.
Damn his weak soul, he wanted to see her before he went to Aldo’s. Get a good look at her so he could gauge her effect on him without an entire party full of people as witnesses. He had to know how he’d react to her in person. So he could steel himself and prepare for the evening ahead and the big apple growers’ dinner he was expected to attend as Aldo’s guest.
Just one quick look, one glimpse of her long, silky auburn hair as he imagined what it felt like in his fingers. One look into her laughing, peridot-green eyes. One more peek at the spray of freckles across her nose and the way her lips curved as she smiled. That’s all he needed.
He’d have to use extra caution. Willow had always been intuitive, had the Sense, as her grandma called it. The years of living with him had honed it and trained Willow well in the art of realizing she was being watched, of the dangers of being loved by a spy.
And then there was their dog, Spookie, a shelter rescue. She’d be sure to recognize Jack and try to lick him to death. In general, Spookie was leery of strangers. So if she came charging out to him, wagging her tail, it’d be a dead giveaway. He missed that little mutt. Fortunately, he didn’t see her around.
He mapped his covert path to a view of his girl. Willow’s home sat on a rolling hill and a gravel drive wound up to it. He hated gravel. It crunched—a built-in alarm system. A nuisance.
An aggregate patio sat just outside the shop’s door. Three small, round tables topped with pink-and-white-striped umbrellas and flanked by delicate wirework chairs for her guests dotted the patio. She’d placed a wrought-iron bench, surrounded by cornstalks and pumpkins, by the door in the shade of a maple tree. Flower beds skirted the patio and punctuated the rolling yard.
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
The orchard smelled like ripe apples and leaves moist with frosty dew. Anyone looking would have noticed the mist his breath made. Another giveaway he couldn’t afford.
A gentle westerly breeze rattled the trees. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he swore he smelled the warm scent of caramel wafting out from Willow’s kitchen. Caramel apples, now there was something to make him feel like home.
There were parking spots for three or four, maybe five, cars in front of Willow’s basement, with a garage and spots for her own car on the level above, attached to the main level of the house.
A silhouette of a slim, curvy woman moved past the windows. His heart raced. He took another deep breath. The daylight basement faced east. With the morning sun bearing down on the windows, it was impossible to make her out for sure. But by the way his body was reacting he was certain the vague silhouette was Willow.
He stared, mesmerized. He’d always loved the way she moved—confidently, totally unaware of how sexy she was. He’d have to push in closer to get a real look at her. He’d give anything to hear her laugh and see her smile, to make her happy.
Jack pounded his fist against the Northern Spy apple tree he lurked behind, cursing beneath his misty breath and wishing he were a different kind of man.
* * *
On this second anniversary of his death, Willow remembered Jack in her own way. Sent flowers to the military cemetery three hundred miles away where his remains were buried. Had the cemetery staff place them. Jack wouldn’t want her wrapped in grief. Stifled and stuck in the past. He’d always lived life in the minute. His job and personality demanded it.
She hated violence, didn’t believe in killing, and preferred not to think about what Jack may, or may not, have done while living his moments in the name of national security.
Of course, some people would probably say going on a date to the growers’ dinner on this particular day wasn’t the most respectful way to remember Jack. And maybe they were right.
But they hadn’t come up against Shane. He was persistence personified. He simply wouldn’t take no for an answer when she tried to decline his offer to take her to the dinner. He claimed it would be good for her to be out among her friends on this difficult day, rather than feeling the pain alone. It was hard to argue with his logic. And his kindness and concern would have been flattering and endearing if she could just shake the feeling that taking her out was somehow self-serving.
She shivered, suddenly cold. That vague feeling of premonition that people say is like someone walking over your grave washed over her again. She shook her head to clear it. She was letting the day and the spooky time of year get to her.
Shane had never been anything but charming around her. Physically, he was a dream—well built and powerfully strong. But the Sense reacted as badly around him as if he were a serial killer. Crazy!
Just because he didn’t make her heart trill didn’t mean he’d committed multiple sins against humanity.
But it was puzzling. What did the hot, sexy organic apple farmer see in her? He could have had almost any of the single women on the bluff, and half
the married ones made eyes at him. Why chase her?
She mentally shrugged. Probably the thrill of the chase. A man like Shane was a hunter at heart. Having been married to Jack, she recognized the type.
She scraped the bowl of caramel sauce in front of her with a spatula, drizzled the caramel into her coffee, and took a sip. She’d give the jars another few minutes to cool, label them, and load them up to take to Bluff Country Store. Ada would be waiting. Willow paused to admire the view out of her daylight basement windows.
Breathtaking. On this clear autumn day the mountain sparkled with a fresh crest of snow against a deep-blue sky in the distance past her neighbors’ apple orchards. A gentle breeze stirred the dry leaves and bundles of cornstalks on her patio, which rattled against her window creepily. She loved fall and the childlike sense of imagination and fright, but she couldn’t shake her very real sensation of foreboding.
* * *
Jack hid behind an overgrown arborvitae on the edge of Willow’s property nearest her driveway, waiting for his chance to dart to her window for a quick peek or a long look, whichever he damn well had time for. He felt like a stinking Peeping Tom, and it didn’t sit well with him. As Willow’s husband he shouldn’t have had to lurk and leer like a pervert.
Willow.
Her propensity for helping wounded animals got her into trouble time after time. After living with Jack, she should have known better than to go after a stray. You can’t cure a broken human being, even if you smother him with love and gentleness.
At least Jack would have the pleasure of taking out his wife’s unsuitable date. For love of wife and country. How many men were officially sanctioned and paid to take out the competition? Sometimes a license to kill was a very good thing.
A car turned up Willow’s driveway and parked off to the side. The crunching gravel gave it away. A young woman, no older than twenty-one or -two, jumped out. She wore black jeans, a white blouse, and carried what looked like a long pink apron. The help had arrived.
Jack trained his binoculars and watched as she opened the door. He heard the tinkle of the bell before it closed behind her.