LITMIR.BIZ

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Sophisticated.

      And sexy as hell.

      The hum of awareness shifted points of contact, hitting him just south of his waist.

      He reminded himself that in his line of business, sexy was a commodity, not a comfort.

      “Julia.” Cal thumbed the safety, then slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. After buttoning his suit jacket, he turned fully and faced her. While her appearance was not unexpected, Cal’s irritation poked at him. “The President’s private secretary should know better than to sneak around in the dark.”

      “Sneak? Not likely,” Julia Cutting responded with just enough disdain to tighten her prim little mouth. “I’m here on business.”

      “At midnight?” He leaned a hip against the side of his car. The chill of the metal matched the chill in his voice. “Isn’t it a bit late to be running President Mercer’s errands?”

      “No. Mercer never worries about working outside civilized hours. You know that as well as I do.”

      Cal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Waiting sometimes worked better than words.

      It had been a year since he’d last seen her. Her eyes vivid with rage, her skin flushed from her temper when she’d slapped his face and stormed out his door.

      “This would be a hell of a lot easier if it was official business,” she commented dryly. “But it’s not. I need your help, Cal. On a personal matter.”

      Julia wasn’t exactly the type to need anyone, so the admission, he was sure, came at a high price.

      “My help.” He understood what was coming and the dangerous game he was about to play. Half truths, full deception. Take no prisoners. For the good of king and bloody country. To hell with integrity and compassion.

      To hell with love.

      The muscles constricted between his shoulder blades, forcing Cal to shift them under his suit jacket. “And why would you need a British attaché in the middle of the night?”

      “We both know you’re more than a British attaché.” Julia crossed her arms. For warmth, defensiveness or plain frustration—he wasn’t sure.

      But the need to find out nudged him.

      “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Jason has disappeared.” Her voice was low, her words smoothed into rounded syllables with a clipped, no-nonsense rhythm—the kind that only old money and blue-blooded, east coast schools cultivated.

      But there were times, in the past, when he had stroked her soft skin and her voice hitched and sighed into a sexy, offbeat tempo that had hummed through Cal’s blood—arched and bumped against his libido.

      “Not unusual, considering his choice of career.” Fighting back his train of thought, Cal straightened from the car and shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets.

      Jason Marsh had been classified as missing in action for a week. Cal found out the day before and caught the first available plane out of London.

      “They told me he died in the line of duty.”

      “Who are they?” he asked with just enough disdain to indicate vague politeness. Not serious interest.

      “Jon Mercer and Ernest Becenti.”

      “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Julia. But if the President of the United States and the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Chief Administrator told me someone was dead, I would tend to believe them,” Cal commented, adding just enough harshness to discourage argument. “Now if that’s all, I’ve had a long day.”

      The slight intake of breath, the darker flush of pink in her cheeks told him he scored a hit. Still, her feet stayed planted firmly in front of him.

      “Too bad, Cal.”

      Stubborn woman. Silently, he swore. “Go home, Julia.” Because he was tired, and understood the dangers of her involvement, his tone turned from harsh to ugly in the space of a heartbeat. “Let the government do what it does best. They’ll make sure your husband’s body gets a proper burial.”

      “Ex-husband,” she corrected, her chin set, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still having a problem differentiating between the two.”

      “Maybe,” he agreed, the word silky, its edge razor sharp. “Yet, you’re out here in the cold on Jason’s behalf.”

      “I’m the only family he has,” she defended. “Just because the President has given up on Jason, it doesn’t mean I will.”

      Both President Jonathon Mercer and First Lady Shantelle Mercer considered Julia Cutting more like a surrogate daughter than as Jon’s private secretary.

      It was rare for a president to choose someone barely in their thirties for such a high post. Some rumors suggested a more intimate relationship existed between Mercer and the young woman, but Cal didn’t believe it. He’d spent enough time mucking around with human slime to recognize integrity when he saw it. Julia Cutting wore hers like a shiny suit of armor.

      While his own had tarnished many years before.

      “Jason is alive, Cal.”

      “You sound very sure. Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?” He hit the button on his keys and popped open the trunk of his car. His hand hesitated over the large pink teddy bear stuffed beside his suitcase. Its white bow tie and the girly black eyes, framed with long, sewn lashes, stared back at him.

      With a muttered curse, he grabbed both the bear and the suitcase.

      Her eyebrow rose in a delicate sweep when she spotted the teddy bear. “Yours?”

      “A present for Jordan Beck and his wife, Regina. She’s pregnant. I just found out the baby is a girl,” he explained, not quite understanding his sudden need to. “I’ve been out of the country.”

      Jordan Beck was one of Cal’s closest friends, and at one time, an operative with Labyrinth—a black ops division of the CIA.

      Jordan had recently been elected to the British Parliament, and possibly, was on the fast track to being Prime Minister of England.

      If the political rumors were correct.

      “You must have been out of the country for quite a while then.” When Cal glanced up at her, she shrugged, then took the bear from him. “They found out the sex a long time back. Regina’s due in a month.”

      Car tires screeched, vibrating the steel beams and concrete of the upper parking levels.

      Cal frowned; their position in the garage left them too exposed. “We’ll finish this conversation in private.” He grabbed his suitcase and shut the trunk. “Where’s your car?”

      “I took a cab here, then came up through the back stairs.” When he took her elbow, she fell into step beside him. Just three inches short of six feet, her long legs kept stride easily with his. “I still have the stair key you gave me.”

      “Why didn’t you wait for me in the apartment then? I gave you that key also.”

      “Actually, it’s sitting at the bottom of the Potomac. Where I threw it.”

      Cal glanced up, but let the comment pass. “Any reason why you’re using the back door?”

      “Seemed to fit with the cloak-and-dagger theme you’ve managed to surround yourself with lately,” Julia commented. “Besides, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen going or coming from your apartment.”

      “I remember a time when it didn’t bother you.”

      “There was a time it didn’t,” she responded quietly. “But things change.”

      “Julia,” he said slowly, not liking how easily the name rolled off his tongue. Too intimate. Too many memories.

      Ones

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