LITMIR.BIZ

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      “We can.”

      “Although, honestly, it doesn’t seem fair the flight attendant isn’t giving the evil eye to the handsy twosome.”

      “Maybe they’re celebrating their anniversary.”

      She snorted.

      “Cynic?”

      “And you’re trying to tell me you’re a true believer in flowery romance?” She took in his expensive suit, his dimpled smile and his easy charm. “No offense, truly, but you seem more like a player to me.”

      A second after the words left her mouth, she worried she might have been rude.

      He just laughed softly and flattened a hand to his chest.

      “You think the worst of me. I’m hurt to the core,” he said with overplayed drama.

      Her snort turned into a laugh. Shaking her head, she kept on laughing, tension uncurling inside. Her laughter faded as she felt the weight of his gaze on her.

      He pointed to the window. “We’re airborne now. You can open the shade and relax.”

      Relax? His words confused her for a second and then she remembered her excuse for nerves. And then remembered the real reason for her nerves. Her ex-boyfriend. Barry the Bastard Bum. Who she was hoping to help put in prison once she identified his accomplice in Chicago—if she didn’t get offed by the bad guy first.

      She thumbed her silver seat belt buckle. “Thank you for the help …”

      “Troy.” He extended his hand. “My name is Troy, from Virginia.”

      “I’m Hillary, from D.C.” Prepping herself for the static this time, she wrapped her fingers around his, shaking once. And, yep. Snap. Snap. Heat tingled up her arm in spite of all those good intentions to keep all guys at bay. But then what was wrong with simply being attracted to another person?

      Her ex had taken so much from her, and yes, turned a farm-fresh girl like her into a cynic, making her doubt everyone around her. Until she now questioned the motives of a guy who just wanted to indulge in a little harmless flirtation on a plane.

      Damn it, there was nothing bad about chatting with this guy during the flight. He had helped her through her nerves about identifying Barry’s accomplice at the fundraiser this weekend. A very slippery accomplice who had a way of avoiding cameras. Very few people had ever seen him. She’d only seen him twice, once by showing up at Barry’s condo unannounced and another time at Barry’s office. Would the man remember her? Her nerves doubled.

      She desperately needed to take full advantage of the distraction this man beside her offered. Talking to Troy beat the hell out of getting sloshed off the drink cart, especially since she didn’t even drink.

      “So, Troy, what’s taking you to Chicago?”

      Troy had recognized Hillary Wright the minute he’d stepped on the plane. She looked just like her Interpol file photo, right down to the freckles on her nose and the natural sun streaks through her red hair.

      The photo hadn’t, however, shown anything below the neck—a regrettable oversight because she was … hot. Leggy with curves and an unadorned innocence that normally wasn’t his type. But then when had he ever given a crap about walking the expected path?

      That’s why he’d shown up here, on her flight, rather than following the plan laid out by the CIA operatives, who were working in conjunction with the American branch of Interpol. To see what she was like in an unguarded moment.

      Lucky for him that window seat was empty so he’d been able to wrangle his way in beside her. It had been too easy, and she was totally unsuspecting. She might as well have “fresh off the farm” tattooed across her freckled nose.

      A sexy uptipped nose he wouldn’t mind kissing as he worked his way around to her ear. He’d expected pretty from her picture, but he hadn’t been prepared for the un-definable energy that radiated off her. It was as damn near tangible as her innocence.

      This plane on the way to Chicago was the last place she should be. More so, that viper’s nest gala this weekend was absolutely the last place she should be.

      Damn, damn, damn the “powers that be” for making her a part of some crazy power play. He could have accomplished the identification in Chicago without her, but they’d insisted on having her backup confirmation. It was obvious to him now that she was too naive to brush elbows with the sharks at that gala—a bunch of crooks using a fundraiser to cover up their international money laundering.

      “Troy? Hello?” Hillary waved her hand in front of his face, her nails chewed to the quick. “What takes you to Chicago?”

      “Business trip.” Truth. “I’m in computers.” More truth. Enough for now. She would see him again soon enough after they landed and when she learned who he really was … Well, she would likely change, close up or suck up. People judged him based on either his past or his money. “What takes you to Chicago?” he asked, even though he already knew.

      “A fundraiser gala. I’m an event planner and, uhm, my boss is sending me to check out a chef at this weekend retreat.”

      She was a really crummy liar. Even if he didn’t already know her real reason for going to Chicago, he would have sensed something was off in her story.

      “A chef … In Chicago … And you work in D.C. You work for lobbyists?”

      “I specialize in fundraisers for charities, not campaigns. I didn’t plan the one in Chicago. I’m just, uh, scoping out competition. It’s a pretty big deal, kicking off Friday night, running all the way to Sunday afternoon with parties and—” She paused self-consciously. “I’m babbling. You don’t need the agenda.”

      “You specialize in polishing the halos of the rich and famous.” He smiled on the outside.

      Her lips pursed tightly. “Think what you want. I don’t need your approval.”

      A sentiment he applauded. So why was he yanking her chain? Because she looked so damn pretty with righteous indignation sparking from her eyes.

      That kind of “in your face” mentality was rare. But it also could land a person in trouble.

      He knew too well. It had taken all his self-control to buckle down and meet the judge’s requirements when he’d been sentenced at fifteen. Although, he’d found more than he expected at the military school. He’d found friends and a new code to live by. He’d learned how to play by the rules. He’d slowly gotten back computer access and started a video games company that had him rolling in more money than his pedigreed, doctor old man had ever brought home—three times over.

      But the access had come with a price. His every move had been monitored by the FBI. They seemed to sense that the taste of megapower he’d felt delving into the DOD would be addictive. Irresistibly so. At twenty-one, he’d been approached with an enticing offer. If he ever wanted a chance at that high again, he would need to loan his “skills” to the American branch of Interpol on occasion.

      He’d chafed at the idea at twenty-one. By thirty-two, he’d come to begrudgingly accept that he had to play by a few of their rules, and he’d even found a rush in being a sort of “on call” guy to assist in major international sting operations. He was committed to the job, as he’d proven every time they’d tapped him for a new assignment.

      Over time, they also began utilizing him for more than computer help. His wealth gave him access to high-power circles. When Interpol needed a contact on the inside quickly, they used him—and other freelance agents like him. For the most part, he still provided behind-the-scenes computer advice. He was only called upon for something out in the open like this about once a year, so as not to overuse his cover.

      Some of that caution would have been nice now, rather than recklessly including Hillary Wright in this joint operation being run by the CIA and Interpol. She wouldn’t be able to carry off

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