EDNESDAY

Decker hadn’t showered or even changed his clothes, and he was hyper-aware of his high scruff factor as he held open the door to the Starbucks so Tracy could go in first.

Then again, he almost always felt scruffy and vaguely underdressed when he encountered the Troubleshooters receptionist.

This morning, she both looked and smelled dangerously good—which, again, was nothing new. Her long auburn hair shone as it bounced around her shoulders like a living shampoo commercial.

She was wearing a sleeveless top, a pair of those ridiculous pants that ended mid-calf, and sandals. It was meant to be casual-wear, but on her it seemed elegant. Classy. The pants were khaki and had pockets everywhere, none of which looked as if they could hold anything useful, since they, like the pants, hugged her curves. They weren’t too tight, but they were very nicely fitting. Very.

Ditto for the shirt, which was a shimmering shade of blue. Probably silk—although he hadn’t let himself touch her. Despite that, he knew it certainly wasn’t cotton like the one he was wearing beneath his overshirt.

And her sandals? Heels, of course. With the exception of last night, when she’d been in white and pink sneakers, Decker couldn’t remember ever seeing Tracy in anything but heels. High ones, that brought her closer to his not-particularly-impressive height.

Not that he was exceedingly short.

But he’d made note last night—and this morning, as she’d emerged from her bathroom, wrapped in a towel and barefoot—that without the heels, Tracy was. Or at least she was significantly shorter than he’d thought.

Which was probably why she nearly always wore heels.

And yeah, he’d absolutely been thinking only about her diminutive height as she’d come out of the bathroom wearing a towel. Kind of like the way he’d only been thinking about the best mall to hit on their way to the safe house this morning, as he’d sat outside her bathroom, listening to her take a shower.

Right.

She’d accepted the fact that she was going to have to be contained at the safe house, and had made the call to Tom from her cell phone, negotiating a week of paid vacation, with two more at lost time. Lost time was exactly that—lost. Which meant she wouldn’t be paid for those weeks, so Decker would absolutely be paying her rent next month.

That was going to suck, but then again, there were worse ways for him to spend his money. Like buying funeral wreaths to lay on a good friend’s grave.

Last night, Tracy hadn’t blinked when Deck had told her they’d leave for the safe house in the morning, and that until then they’d stay in her apartment, with him sleeping on her couch. But his rule about her leaving the bathroom door slightly open whenever she used the facilities had gotten him a disbelieving stare.

“What exactly do you think I’m going to do while I’m in there?” she’d asked.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, which was the refrain of the day, “but—”

“Just... whatever,” she’d cut him off. “You’re worried about Jimmy, you don’t trust anybody, including me. I get it.”

She’d been uncharacteristically silent out in the hall and on the stairs, unlocking the door to her apartment and gesturing him inside.

And still she didn’t speak, having correctly deduced that he’d need to sweep the place for surveillance devices. She was right—he’d unzipped the duffel and gotten to work.

Her place was smaller than Tess and Nash’s, but had the same light, airy feeling, with big windows overlooking the street.

It was messier than he’d imagined, with books overflowing the one enormous bookshelf in her living room, stacked in towering piles nearby, and scattered across her coffee table. Catalogs were everywhere, too. Unlike him, she apparently didn’t immediately throw them away when they came with the mail. She actually looked through hers—some were open, with pages marked by bent corners and Post-it notes.

Her bathroom was cluttered, too—the sink counter filled with bottles and jars. The room itself was thick with recently hang-dried nylons and lingerie in a rainbow of colors and styles, which, as far as décor went, absolutely worked for him.

But Tracy brushed past him and quickly gathered it all up as he went over the area thoroughly with the bug sweeper. A bathroom—particularly that of a beautiful woman—was a favorite place to hide a mini-cam.

“Please don’t tell me if you find anything in here,” she said as he pushed back the shower curtain and encountered the equivalent of a drugstore’s inventory of shampoos and conditioners—and, whoops—a neon green dildo balanced artfully on the handle atop the in-the-wall soap dish. It had an on-off switch at its base, which, probably, technically made it a vibrator.

It was a disconcerting discovery, but only because it was so absolutely in the shape of an enormous penis, as if someone had taken a knife to the Jolly Green Giant. For Deck, as for most men, knife and penis didn’t work well together in a single sentence. On the other hand, the thought of Tracy in the shower, using that thing, was a gleaming, golden, five-star, confetti-and balloon-falling winner.

“Oh, shoot,” she winced, her arms full of silk and lace panties and bras. It was clear that, were he not standing between it and her, she would have grabbed the thing and run. Instead she just laughed her dismay. “I’m going to pretend you don’t see that, okay?”

“See what?”

It wasn’t the first time Decker had seen her green... friend. It had once fallen out of one of her bags, back when the entire office had gone on a winter training exercise in New Hampshire. He’d ignored it then, too.

But he couldn’t hide his smile as he moved on down the hall to her bedroom, where he stopped short in the doorway. “Whoa.” Clothing was everywhere—on the floor and covering the unmade bed. It looked as if the room had been tossed—possibly by the extremely un-jolly giant, searching for his missing dick.

Tracy, however, didn’t indicate that anything was out of the ordinary. She kicked aside several pairs of jeans and a random shoe or two as she brought her underwear to a dresser and dumped it into the top drawer. “Sometimes I have a problem deciding what to wear.”

No kidding. Decker dodged the larger piles and began to sweep the room, as she folded and put away her clothes with the speed and skill of a lifetime Gap employee. She quickly threw the bed together, too, moving her laptop case onto the floor in order to pull a colorful quilt up over an array of comfortable-looking pillows.

Her bedside tables contained more books, along with candles of all shapes and sizes, their wicks black from use. And yes, Tracy in candlelight would be something to behold, and that was a fact, not any kind of wishful thinking.

More nylon stockings hung from a ceiling fan, and as she stood on her toes and reached to pull them down, her T-shirt separated from those low-riding jeans. And Decker had to be honest because okay, yes, maybe there was a little wishful thinking going on right then, inside of his head.

“I’ve really got to get one of those drying racks,” she told him, as if he gave a flying shit where she hung her underwear.

“This is your place,” he pointed out. “You’re allowed to live your life the way you want.”

“As long as I leave the bathroom door open at all times,” she reminded him.

“That’s just for tonight. When we get... where we’re going,” he said, being vague because he hadn’t swept the entire place yet, “you’ll have your privacy back.”

Her privacy, but not her freedom. She was silent as she led the way into the eat-in kitchen, as he tried to convince himself that he had to look at her—she was in front of him—but that that didn’t mean he was watching her ass. But Jesus, the attitude in the way she walked was outrageously attractive, and the fact was, he liked the woman. He had right from the start.

Tracy had grown into her job as Troubleshooters receptionist, although truth be told, she was really functioning now as office manager. She was also the face of the company. She was the first person clients saw when they walked into their San Diego office—similar to the way Sophia Ghaffari was the face of the company with clients out in the field.

In the United States, that is.

The international “field” was another story—one that required a completely different kind of face. Something a little less lipsticked and a little more cammie-painted, equipped with the latest weaponry and technology—and the skill to use it. For years, that had been what Decker—and Nash—had provided.

Decker, for one, itched to get back out there. And the sooner Nash rehabbed and was on his feet again, the sooner they would find the men who wanted him dead—which would get them back to work, hunting down terrorist leaders and making dangerous places a little bit safer for the diplomats and the humanitarians, who were essential participants in the Western World’s ongoing war against terror.

And okay, there. He’d made it all the way into the kitchen without thinking solely about sex or Tracy or sex with Tracy.

Except, great—she’d just asked him something, and was waiting for him to respond.

“Sorry,” he said, “what?”

“I have some fish I was going to grill for dinner. Have you eaten?” she asked. “Would you like some?”

Dinner. Jesus. The reminder made his stomach rumble, and she smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He forced a smile, too. “Thanks. That would be great.”

Her kitchen was cluttered, too—the counters crowded with more books and unopened junk mail and a couple of bags of groceries that she hadn’t yet put away—but it was squeaky clean, the sink shiny and white, no dishes piled up.

Like the rest of the place, it was also free of surveillance devices. But Deck reset the bug sweeper and went through the apartment again, as Tracy cooked the meal.

“Can we talk freely now?” she asked as he came back into the kitchen, as she set two salads topped with grilled fish on the table, as they both sat to eat.

It was delicious—Alaskan halibut over locally grown greens—but seriously lacking in heft. Decker resigned himself to going hungry—it wouldn’t be the first time and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

“Let’s not,” he answered her as he tried not to wolf down the food. “I know you have a lot of questions, but there are such things as long-range listening devices. And yeah, I seriously doubt anyone’s tuning in, but I’d still rather wait until we get to the safe house.”

She nodded as she ate slowly, delicately wiping her mouth with her napkin. “We could duct-tape George to the window pane and turn him on.” She laughed at his confusion. “George. Green. Large? In the bathroom?”

He was surprised—and not just because she named her dildo George, but because taping a vibrator to the window absolutely disrupted that kind of surveillance. “How do you know to do that?”

“I don’t watch much TV these days,” she told him, which seemed a complete non sequitur until she added, “but I do TiVo this one really good show about this really hot former spy who practices something he calls grunge tradecraft. He did the personal-massager-taped-to-the-window trick in one of the episodes.”

Personal massager. Was that really what she called it? When she wasn’t calling it George...?

A picture of Tracy in her shower sprang to mind and he knocked it aside, but not quickly enough.

Because as she leaned forward, curiosity lighting her face, to ask, “Does it really work?” he had to take a moment to remember that she was talking about duct-taping George to the window. As opposed to its more traditional function.

Decker nodded as he used his tongue to fish a piece of lettuce from between his teeth. “Yes, it does.”

“Good to know,” she said with a nod. “I’ll make sure I pack it. You know, just in case.”

She was trying not to smile, but one slipped out, making her eyes sparkle, and he laughed. “I thought we were pretending I didn’t see...”

“We both know exactly what you saw,” she countered, pointing at him with her fork. “And it was the elephant in the room. Or one of them, anyway. I think there might be a full, bright green herd in here with us.”

Deck laughed again, even as he agreed. “There have been a lot of secrets these past few months.”

“Like the whole budding romance thing with you and Tess,” she said. “How’s Jimmy feeling about that?”

He shook his head again. “Don’t use his name.”

“Sorry.” His reprimand shut Tracy up for about ten seconds, but then she spoke again. “It must have been weird,” she noted. “But you did it really right. I honestly believed you were... You know. Conflicted. It felt vaguely like shoplifting because it was so soon, and yet... It was very well done.”

Shoplifting. Damn. Decker wondered what Tom, his boss, thought of him, seemingly going after Tess mere days after Nash’s death, but then pushed that far away. It didn’t matter what Tom or the rest of the world thought. The only thing that mattered was Nash—alive in that safe house, in Tess’s arms, healing and getting stronger every hour, every day.

“And yet you had doubts,” Decker pointed out. He still couldn’t quite believe that, out of everyone, Tracy had figured it out.

“Hope,” she corrected him. “I had hope and—”

He stopped her. “I definitely want to talk about this more—tomorrow.”

Tracy nodded. And ate in silence for another ten-second stretch. Which apparently was as long as she could go without talking.

“Since you don’t want to talk about... the thing you don’t want to talk about,” she said, “then maybe we should discuss George.”

He laughed his surprise, because, Jesus. “Is there really anything left to say?”

“Aren’t you surprised?” she asked. “Or even just curious? About why my longest-term relationship is with a sex toy named after George Clooney?”

She completely cracked him up. “Clooney, huh?”

Tracy nodded. She was trying her best to treat this seriously, but another smile slipped free. Goddamn, she was a beautiful woman.

“Well,” he said, slowly, choosing his words carefully, because he suspected that this sex-toy talk was her testing the water, so to speak.

They’d start with a discussion of her dildo and then move on to cock rings and genital piercings, and then over to hard-core bondage. And he’d end up spread-eagle and tied with scarves to her bed, a hood over his face as she first whipped him and then rode him hard, and yeah, as appealing as that was, thinking about it was not a particularly good idea. At least not right now, while trying to eat dinner without spilling it down his shirt.

“It’s been my experience that romantic relationships,” Decker continued, “especially sexual ones, are complicated. Too much so. And as far as sex for the sake of sex goes? The guilt can be a bitch, because even if she says she’s on the same page, she’s either lying to herself, or you are. Lying to yourself, I mean. So... There’s just too much room for misunderstanding.”

She was nodding, in complete agreement.

“I think you’re smart,” he told her, “for sticking with George. For right now, anyway. Until you meet someone who’s... a good fit, for more than... generating heat.” He forced another smile. “Me too, you know? I have my own... handy solution.”

She smiled her understanding of his wordplay but then looked away, maybe because she was embarrassed for him. Or maybe she was disappointed because she’d understood his subtext: Honey, despite the weird spark between us, we are absolutely not going to spend tonight or any other night having screaming-hot, bag-over-the-head, tied-to-the-bed sex-for-the-sake-of-sex.

Although—and this didn’t happen often, because he had better control than that—he’d once again given himself the solid beginnings of a hard-on, just by thinking about it, about her. He shut himself down, willed it away. He’d lived without sex for a long time. There was no reason on earth his physical needs should interfere now.

Except shutting it down wasn’t working for him tonight.

Tracy was sitting there, across the table from him, quietly finishing her salad, taking a sip of water. She met his eyes as she set her glass down. “I’m sorry about Sophia.”

Jesus Christ, this woman had no fear. Either that, or no idea of personal boundaries. “I don’t know what to say to that,” he admitted.

“You can say whatever you want,” she told him evenly. “And it won’t leave this room. You can pretend otherwise, but I know that you cared about her. And I’m pretty sure that she’s with Dave because of... your pretending you’re with Tess.”

Decker stood up. Took his plate to the sink. “Now, see, you’re oversimplifying what is—was—a complicated... thing.”

Thing? It was never a thing, not in the way most people would use the word, but it wasn’t a relationship, either. It had been a non-relationship. A relationship version of a demilitarized zone.

“I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know,” Tracy agreed, clearing her dishes, too. “But I think you should consider bringing both Sophia and Dave into the loop, before this thing between them goes too far.”

Before? “Word is, he’s moved in with her.”

“That’s just sex,” Tracy scoffed. “He hasn’t moved in moved in. He’s just getting his happy on every chance he can get, and—Look at you. Don’t get all uncomfortable, like you’re living in some G-rated world where all they’re doing is holding hands and chastely kissing good night. That could’ve been you, twirling her around her bedroom every night—and you know it. She gave you the green light for years.”

“You better go pack,” he said, because this conversation had gotten completely out of hand. Plus, he was still slightly aroused, which was freaking him out, because in the past all it took was the thought of Sophia and the horror that she’d been through—the murder of her husband, her captivity in Kazabek, her abuse at Decker’s own ignorant hand—to exorcise any errant, inappropriate sexual cravings.

Tracy didn’t leave the kitchen. Instead she walked over to the wall phone, heavy on the attitude, which, again, really worked with those jeans. She picked it up, and when he moved to stop her, she shot him a get real look. “I’m just ordering you a pizza,” she told him, “so you don’t fade away from lack of carbs.” She squinted her eyes at him, as if trying to read his mind. Or to remember the type of pizza he always asked for whenever the crew at TS Inc. put in a late night. “What are you, pepperoni, with black olives and...?”

“Mushrooms.” Decker nodded. “Thank you.”

She placed the order, hung up the phone. “It’ll be here in ten minutes. They always say twenty, but they’re right up the street.”

She vanished down the hall to the bathroom, but was back in a flash, waving giant green George at him, which was an image he really didn’t want lingering in his brain, thanks—a dick of any kind or color in those smooth, well-manicured hands.

“Don’t want to forget my boyfriend,” she announced, and went into her room to pack.

As he’d eaten that pizza, she’d filled two very large suitcases. But Decker had bitten his tongue rather than chastise her or even mock her, because really? Traveling light wasn’t a priority here. They would be driving the six hours to the safe house. Let her take as much as she wanted.

She’d left her door ajar as she went to bed, as he’d stared at the ceiling from his vantage point on the couch. He’d slept only lightly, with one eye open, listening for any sound or movement from Tracy. The fact of the matter was that he did trust her. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have slept at all.

What he didn’t trust was that she wouldn’t make a mistake and inadvertently blow Nash’s cover.

So this morning, he’d lugged her luggage out to the back of his truck, locked the cargo cover down, and—without any additional talk of green dildos, thank you, Jesus—they were finally on their way.

They’d stopped, briefly, at his apartment, to pick up his bag—one and small—because his intention was to spend a few days at the safe house, goading Nash into starting his physical therapy.

Decker and Tracy were just a few blocks from his place, heading for the 5, when she spotted the Starbucks.

“Ooh. Ooh, ooh,” she’d said. “Last chance at civilization.”

“We’re not going to the moon.” But he’d pulled into the lot, because why the hell not. Because the truth here was that she was going to jail. And yes, the safe house was luxurious and spacious with its swimming pool and gorgeous views. But once there, Tracy wouldn’t be able to leave.

It wasn’t going to be as bad as getting locked in a basement by a psychopath, which was something that had happened to Tracy a few years back, right after she’d started working for TS Inc. Decker knew that after that experience, the idea of being locked anywhere had to be difficult. And yet, here she was.

Trusting him completely.

He followed her now to the counter, where she ordered for both of them. Which made sense, just like with last night’s pizza. As Troubleshooters receptionist, Tracy had been called on often to pick up a Starbucks order, on those days when regular coffee just wouldn’t cut it. Still, she must’ve noticed his surprise, because she glanced at him. And then smiled.

“You have no clue that you order the exact same thing every time, do you?” she said.

What? “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. And it’s pretty boring, too. Medium roast, grande, black.”

“Sometimes,” Decker said, a tad defensively, “I have a scone.”

Tracy laughed as she held up a little bag that the barista had handed her. “Honey,” she said, using the not-very-PC nickname that slipped out of him from time to time when he spoke to women, especially those whom he found appealing, “you always have a scone.”

Jesus, she was nicely put together, and as Decker laughed his acknowledgment of his own mundane-ness, their gazes held and sparked, and there it was again, that fricking heat that, for years, he’d worked overtime to ignore. Not just with Tracy, but with everyone. He’d met quite a few attractive women since Khobar, since his fiancée Emily had become his ex-fiancée. But after learning his lesson the hard way, he’d always backed away.

Maybe he was tired from that night of little-to-no sleep, tossing on her freaking uncomfortable sofa, worried about the way that, despite his best efforts, the number of people who knew about Nash was growing. And he knew it was a mistake, but this time, here in the safety of Starbucks, when that connection sparked between them, he didn’t immediately look away.

Instead, he let himself take the briefest of moments—three short seconds of fantasy—to pretend that he actually had a real life, and that those suitcases in the back of his truck were there for a different reason. Such as he and this gorgeous young woman were going to spend a few days at a rustic B&B, where they wouldn’t get out of bed until it was time to come back home.

Which was pretty much the way his relationship with Em had started. With nonstop sex. Next thing he knew, they were visiting an animal shelter and adopting a dog.

And then she was moving out, taking Ranger with her.

Here and now, Tracy looked away first, flustered, and Decker knew with a flash of insight that he was playing with fire. She was his for the taking, which, okay, was an extremely egotistical thought, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Like him, she was starved for contact with someone—anyone. Old George just wasn’t getting the job done. But if Decker thought his breakup with Emily had been messy, anything he started here and now would surely end in a bloodbath.

So he looked away, shifted his position, and shut down any body-language Yes, ma’am, I would absolutely love to fuck you’s he might’ve been sending her.

But Tracy apparently didn’t get that memo. “One of these days,” she told him, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes, “you’re going to have to take a chance and try one of their blueberry muffins.”

And yeah, he wasn’t just playing with fire here, he was playing with a live nuke.

When they got back into his truck, he was going to have to go pointblank. I have to be honest here, honey, because I find you incredibly attractive, and every now and then I slip and it leaks out, but you need to know that I will never, ever act upon it. Even if I didn’t have a multitude of other women on my mind—for a variety of reasons—I would never fraternize. I would never have a relationship with someone I work with, let alone someone like you, who might be perceived to be a subordinate. “It’s not my thing,” he told her now.

“And a scone is?” she countered. “You know, I tried one once? And it was kind of like eating a spoonful of flour. Except maybe not as flavorful.”

The barista interrupted them by handing them their coffees, and Decker dug into his pocket for his wallet.

Tracy stopped him, a cool hand on his arm. A hand she let linger there, sweet Jesus save him. “I paid when I ordered.”

How the hell had he missed that? He stepped back, which shook her hand free, and took his wallet out anyway. “Let me pay you back.”

“Not necessary,” Tracy said. “You are, after all, paying my rent.”

“Lawrence Decker, what a surprise.”

Deck recognized the voice and turned, and sure enough—holy fuck—it was Jo Heissman standing there. And the world went into high definition as he slammed to full alert, Defcon Two—launch codes out and ready.

Dr. Josephine Heissman. Shrinker of heads. A specialist in PTSD, she’d worked with counterterrorism operatives throughout her extensive career—a career that included an extended stint working for the Agency.

The very same Agency which may or may not have been behind the attempts to erase Jim Nash from the face of this planet.

The doctor was looking from him to Tracy, speculation on her far-too-intelligent face. “And... Tracy Shapiro, right?” She held out her hand for Tracy to shake.

Tracy did just that, a smile of real pleasure lighting her face. “How are you, Dr. Heissman?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” the older woman said. “I have an appointment down the street, and...” She gestured to the room around them. “Gotta have that morning java jolt.”

This was not a coincidence.

It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t.

Jo Heissman had worked as psychological support at Troubleshooters Incorporated for a very brief time, right before Nash had “died.” Upon news of his death, she’d immediately resigned.

Decker had been nearly certain that the doctor had maintained her Agency ties. He’d suspected, but had never proven, that she’d taken the job with TS Inc. in order to spy on Nash for her real bosses—the Agency masters to whom Deck was sure she was still a minion.

When he’d confronted her, she’d claimed she’d taken the TS Inc. position, with its significantly lower salary, because she was doing a study and writing some paper dealing with the mental health of counterterrorism operatives.

But the bottom line was this: Nash had “died,” and she’d left.

Decker didn’t think that was a coincidence, either.

His mind raced as he played back his conversation with Tracy. What had the doctor overheard? What had she seen?

As a psychologist—and not just any psychologist, but his psychologist, who’d crawled around inside of his remarkably fucked-up and noisy head for a number of intense sessions—she could surely read his body language. And for a few seconds there, he’d put his attraction to Tracy on a platter for the entire world to see.

But he was both human and male. It could be argued that any hetero man—even those in committed relationships with their dead best friends’ fiancées—would have to be both blind and three years without a pulse not to find Tracy steaming hot.

It was the words the receptionist had said that were going to be the problem. You are, after all, paying my rent.

Deck had to assume Dr. Heissman had heard that. And he also had to assume that the doctor had followed them here—from his apartment.

She’d no doubt been waiting there, staking the place out.

What he didn’t know was why.

Not why she would follow him—he was pretty certain it was to see if she could find out any information that would convince her masters that Nash truly was dead.

He couldn’t figure out, though, why she would follow him only to reveal that she was doing so, here in this Starbucks.

“Things have been really slow at the office,” Tracy told Jo, in that easy way some women had of instantly reviving lapsed friendships, as if it had been days rather than months since she’d last seen the older woman. “It’s been quiet and... well, ever since Jimmy passed, it’s...” She made a face as if shaking off her maudlin emotions. “Everyone’s taking vacations and even lost time, to, you know, deal with the loss.”

“It’s natural to want to step back a bit,” Dr. Heissman agreed, glancing at Decker. She was wearing her hair down around her shoulders—hippie hair, Dave Malkoff had called it. It was long and thick and obviously its natural color, with streaks of unhidden gray among the rich darkness. She dressed to match it, in loose, colorful, flowing clothes. A gauzy tunic with dark, wide-legged pants, flat sandals on her feet, a small leather backpack over her shoulder in place of a handbag.

She looked a little pale, a little gaunt, and she glanced over her shoulder when the door to the coffee shop opened, which was a classic signal that she was afraid someone had followed her. Which didn’t make sense.

Of course, the fact that she herself had followed Decker here didn’t make any sense, either. She was truly skilled as a head-shrinker, but as a covert operative sent to tail a professional...? She was seriously lacking.

Not that he’d spotted her car following his truck before he’d pulled into the Starbucks lot. But he would have, given enough time. Certainly before he’d gotten onto the 5. Thirty seconds of mildly evasive driving, and he would’ve been able to shake her, no question.

“I hope you’re doing the same,” the doc was saying to him. “Taking some time...?”

But he didn’t have to answer, because Tracy was there, ready to intercept the conversational ball. “Everyone’s bringing it down a notch,” she told the doctor. “I’m taking a full month, myself. I have a friend who just had a baby—her second—and she could really use help with Mikey; he’s barely two. So I’m going to her place—to celebrate new life, you know? It seems, like, perfect. I mean, considering.”

The doctor nodded, but Tracy didn’t let her speak.

“Chica, my friend, well, that’s her nickname from high school—her high school; I didn’t meet her until college—she’s got limited parking at her townhouse, so Deck’s giving me a ride over there. He’s also helping me out by subletting my apartment.” She turned to look at him, with such an expression of concerned appreciation that he nearly smiled. She lowered her voice slightly as she turned back to Dr. Heissman, as if conveying a secret. “He’s going to clear all of Jimmy’s clothes and things out of their place—we were neighbors, you know, same apartment building—and then Tess is going to move back in. On her own timetable, of course. We just thought”—she looked at Decker again, including him in that we—“it would be easier for her, if Decker were living upstairs, in my place. He didn’t want to just, you know, move in with her. Too many ghosts. Plus, it’s too soon—at least some people think so. And you know the way everyone talks. Tess doesn’t need that. Neither of them do.”

She was brilliant. She’d explained the words Dr. Heissman had overheard, and she’d given the two of them a reason to be here, in this Starbucks together.

“How is Tess?” the doc asked, addressing Decker.

He gave her his stock answer. “She’s hanging in.”

Again Tracy took the ball and hit a perfect, clean serve. “So what are you up to these days, Jo?”

What was she up to, indeed?

Decker got another glance from behind the doctor’s trendy, rectangular-shaped glasses before she turned her attention back to Tracy.

“I’ve been establishing a solo practice,” she answered. “And doing a lot of volunteer work at the VA downtown. I’ll be over there for most of the day. I probably won’t get to my own office until, oh, three thirty or four.”

And wasn’t she the angel of all that was good?

“I have a patient who was recently released, whose parents live a few blocks from here,” she continued, apparently determined to tell them her entire schedule for the day. “I’ll be working with him for a couple of hours this morning, before I hit the hospital.”

“A house call,” Decker commented. “That seems... unusual.”

She smiled, albeit sadly. “Unusual measures for unusual times. This patient is a triple amputee. Iraq War vet. PTSD.” She looked at Decker, her gaze almost palpable. “A high suicide risk.”

“I once told Dr. H. that I was thinking about killing myself,” Decker told Tracy. “In case you were wondering about that loaded look she just shot me.”

He’d rendered them both speechless, which was quite the trick considering they were both conversational black belts.

“Why are you here, Doctor?” he asked her quietly, taking care not to draw attention with either his voice or his body language. He kept his shoulders loose, his arms held non-threateningly, a pleasant smile pasted on his face. His words, however, were anything but. “What the fuck do you want?”

He’d caught her off-guard, the muscles in her throat working as she nervously swallowed, as she took several steps back from him. Although it was entirely possible that all of it—including her peaked look and the way she’d glanced over her shoulder at the door—was just one big act.

“Nothing,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, but he could tell she was lying. “I just saw you come in as I was driving by and... I thought I’d stop and say hello.”

“Well, you said it,” Decker said. He looked at Tracy, who was clinging, wide-eyed, to her Venti Latte as if it were a life preserver. Enough of this bullshit. “We don’t want to keep Chica, Mikey, and the new baby waiting.”

Tracy didn’t move, so he reached to push her slightly, to steer her toward the door, and yeah, both her skin and her shirt were decadently soft to the touch.

They’d barely even turned when Dr. Heissman stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” she told him. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“We really have to go.” He looked pointedly down at her hand and she quickly pulled it back.

But apparently she still had more to say. “Wait, I want to give you one of my new business cards.” She pulled one out of thin air—she must’ve had it in her pocket—and held it out to him. “In case you ever need to, you know, reach me?”

There was no way he was taking that. There was not and would never be a single reason he would need to “reach” her.

But before he could tell her to go fuck herself, Tracy played intermediary. She snatched the card from the doctor, and cheerily called, “Nice seeing you, Jo,” as she grabbed Decker by the elbow and all but pulled him out the door.

She was silent as she climbed back into his truck, focusing on settling in for the long ride. She put her coffee into the cup-holder, tossed the doctor’s card into the well between the two seats, and fastened the belt across her chest, as Decker jammed the transmission into reverse and got them the hell out of there.

They rode in silence for several miles, his fingers tight on the steering wheel, before Deck even allowed himself to glance at her.

Tracy took it, of course, as an invitation to speak. “So, have you, like, slept with every woman that you’ve ever met?”

Decker laughed aloud at the irony of that.

But she wasn’t kidding.

“Believe me, I didn’t sleep with Jo Heissman,” he told her.

“Then why is she stalking you?” She took a sip of her coffee. “That was both pathetic and creepy. I mean, yeah, beneath your bad haircut, you’re smokin’, but someone needs to tell her Learn to accept no, batch, and move it along.”

“That wasn’t...,” he started. “It’s not...” Tracy thought he was smokin’. Again, he couldn’t keep his laughter from escaping. Thank God they were going straight to the safe house. If they weren’t, he would be so fucked.

“I’m pretty sure she works for the people who tried to kill Nash,” he told Tracy.

She sat forward at that, turning fully to face him, reaching down to pick up the business card she’d taken from the doctor. “Are you serious?”

Decker nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God. Decker, stop, stop—you’ve got to stop and look at this.”

She was holding out the business card, but waving it so he couldn’t possibly read it while he was driving.

So he pulled into a gas station, squealing to a stop as he took the card from Tracy’s elegant fingers.

The thing was pretty standard-looking—one of those self-printed jobs with a blue and green design. The doctor’s name was in a clear, black font, followed by a variety of letters—her degrees—and then her office address, her e-mail address, and her phone number.

But Jo Heissman had also handwritten a message for him, in her neatly perfect cursive.

Please help me.