Live and Let Love Read online

  Willow’s mother could never understand how her gentle, peace-loving daughter could marry a former military man. Willow had always argued back that his military service was in the past and Jack had the gentlest nature of any man she’d known.

  “Jack never visited you before he left,” her mom said. She meant this earth for spiritual realms.

  And it was true—Jack hadn’t visited Willow and said good-bye. She’d been angry at him about that at first. But Willow wasn’t the kind to hold a grudge. She imagined he had his reasons. She thought the explosion might have had something to do with it, though she couldn’t think what.

  “Our men never leave without saying good-bye. Even that old cuss your dad’s father, Grandpa Norris, woke me in the middle of the night, bounced the bed to get my attention, sat right on the edge at my feet, and glared at me as if I were the one holding him back.” Willow’s mother took a breath. When she got worked up she strung her words together. Every once in a while she had to pause to breathe.

  “If that old man, who never had a good word to say about me in life, could take the time to stop by on his way out, why didn’t Jack? I know he loved you.”

  Willow had no answer for her.

  “The Sense isn’t wrong,” Diana said. “I can’t knock this feeling that Jack is alive.”

  “I wish that were true, Mom. I really do.” Her mother had no idea how much Willow would do and what lengths she would go to to prove Jack was alive.

  * * *

  Jack spied on Kennett’s place from a hidden location just down the road. He’d barely slept all night, but the buzz from the thrill of the hunt kept him alert. He’d returned to the party and networked until two. Then watched the rooster sculpture until a RIOT courier showed up at three to pick up the drop. Jack had followed the courier to a house in the nearby city half an hour away and reported his location to the Agency.

  Then Jack had headed to Kennett’s, hoping to complete his mission. Unfortunately, the helpful neighbors spent the night. They must have subdued Kennett’s dogs somehow. He had a pair of vicious, well-trained Filas. The two men had left together, without any noticeable chunks of flesh missing, a few minutes earlier.

  Through his high-powered binoculars, Jack watched Kennett walk to his barn to open for business. Kennett moved like a man who’d been recently drugged.

  If not for Kennett’s helpful, conscientious neighbors, Jack could have taken Kennett out last night and scoured his place for intel. Followed him home and given him an IV drip of 190-proof alcohol, enough to give him alcohol poisoning resulting in death.

  Jack was damn good with a needle. Barely left a mark.

  Or he could have used a funnel and force-fed the bastard enough liquor to kill him. Jack had been tempted. It was an inventive way to kill. And a trick he might try later. Right now, he had another, cleaner plan.

  Half of Aldo’s guests had staggered home drunk last night. Buzz Foster had wrapped his Harley around a tree on his way home. And walked away. His bike hadn’t fared as well, though. Probably totaled.

  With all those drunks, the party had been the hit of the season. Aldo should thank Jack for his addition to the hot, spiced cider. It was a bigger hit than the pesto lasagna. For his part, Jack blessed Everclear for the loose lips it caused.

  With very little prying, he’d collected good intel about his nemesis, Kennett. One very useful tidbit was Kennett’s love of whiskey and his habit of tossing more than a few back at Beck’s Tavern after a long day of work. Beck’s was on the highway that ran north toward Canada.

  No doubt he also met all kinds of unsavory contacts there. People had been smuggling explosives down from British Columbia, Canada, since before the Millennium Bomber got caught in 1999. The border crossing at Cascade, B.C., was a whole lot less secure than the Peace Arch at Blaine, south of Vancouver. And conveniently located for Kennett just over two hours away.

  Jack looked at the curving, shot-oiled road that ran in front of Kennett’s house. It would be nothing, really, to hide in the orchards with a rifle and high-powered scope and wait for Kennett to come barreling home wasted one fine evening.

  Jack grinned, picturing a rainy evening. That made for nice atmosphere. And slicker roads.

  He could see it now. As Kennett came around a curve, Jack would fire a kill shot into Kennett’s skull, causing an accident that would send Kennett into the orchard and the waiting arms of an apple tree.

  Then Jack would swoop in, dig out the bullet if need be, torch the car, and be on his way. If the car exploded—bonus!

  Jack liked explosions. Turnabout was fair play. The Rooster had blown up Jack, taken away his life and the lives of his friends. Sending the Rooster to kingdom come in a thousand tiny pieces would only be poetic justice. And the whole thing would look like a tragic accident.

  Tonight? Jack wondered whether the Rooster would be foolish enough to go out drinking two nights in a row. Kennett was of Russian descent, hearty drinking stock—of course he would. As all drinkers know, one hangover cures another.

  Jack glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. Time to head to his coffee date with Willow. This was where the operation got tricky: he had to keep Willow away from the Rooster until he killed him, flirt with her enough to keep her distracted, convince her he was not Jack, and not break under the pressure.

  He hoped Bluff Country Store had stocked up on coffee. Call it a hunch, but he had a feeling there’d be a run on it this morning. And he needed his daily dose of caffeine more than ever.

  * * *

  Willow puttered around in her pink tent in the center of town amid the festivities, her mind on Jack, instead of where it should have been—on her business. Even her mother felt he was alive, and Mom was never wrong. As Willow filled tables with her candy and caramel sauce and thought about things, the more it seemed to her that both her high-speed Internet being down and her smartphone 3G being out at the same time was highly suspicious. Just the kind of trick the Agency would play to keep her from learning the truth about Con’s real identity. They had phone jammers and all kinds of devices at their disposal. All she had were her wits.

  If NCS was trying to stymie her by keeping her Internet and 3G out of service overnight, Jack’s time in Orchard Bluff was short indeed. If Con was Jack, she was going to have to smoke him out immediately. If not sooner. Which meant at coffee, when she was going to steal his cup and get his DNA.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, looked at it, and frowned. Another apologetic text from Shane. And her 3G seemed to work just fine outside of the house, which made the case for a jammer. But she had no time to surf the Internet just now. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, ignoring it along with the other three texts Shane had already sent her this morning.

  And if the man pretending to be Con really was Con?

  She kept coming back to that. Her dad had taught her to think through situations with both the best- and worst-case scenarios in mind. If you could live with each extreme, then proceed. Otherwise, walk away. She had no idea if she could live with the middle, let alone the extremes. But she couldn’t walk away; that much she was certain about. She’d always been a risk taker.

  She wondered, in a completely irrational way, if she could stand seeing Con with another woman. He was so much like Jack it would feel like a betrayal.

  And if Jack was back, what did that do to her widow’s pension and the life insurance she’d received? Would NCS confiscate her tasty caramel business?

  Finding out that Con was Jack created as many problems as it solved. More, really, when you got down to it.

  But Willow had never been one to back off from challenges. Bring it on. She’d deal. She wanted Jack.

  This was such a mess. Almost as much of a mess as her raging, twisting emotions.

  And of course, there was the obvious question, if Con was Jack, what was he doing here? Who was he watching? What great, big, horrible disaster or nasty piece of espionage was about to go down? And why woul
d anything like that happen in Orchard Bluff?

  The thought sent a shiver up her back.

  Yes, finding out Con was Jack brought up a whole host of problems and sticky situations. And not the lovely sweet and salty caramel kind of sticky, either.

  If Con was Jack, what did she do then? Announce to her friends and family that his death had all been a misunderstanding? An unfortunate miscommuniqué? What story would she tell them?

  That he’d been blown up while on a business trip? And had temporary amnesia and forgotten who he was? And thought he was Aldo’s cousin?

  That scenario sounded about as likely, and silly, as an old soap opera plot. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d seen it done a time or two too many. And he looked slightly different because he’d had reconstructive plastic surgery? Please!

  Although, come to think of it, that’s exactly what she thought. About the plastic surgery.

  Had he really been blown up and the plastic surgery was necessary to repair him? Or had his whole death been faked in the first place and the plastic surgery a way to create a new identity, like people in the witness protection program?

  So many questions. Too few answers.

  All she really wanted to know was whether Con was Jack and, if so, whether Jack still loved her and would take her with him when he left.

  She finished arranging a display of jars of caramel, surrounding them with fragrant sprays of dried lavender she’d grown herself.

  She caught her reflection in a jar lid and frowned. Not just because of the fun-house optics that made her look like a round children’s play figure. Or the dark circles under her eyes that her concealer and foundation barely disguised. She wore her pink Willow’s Caramels cotton T-shirt with cap sleeves and printed with her logo. It hugged her curves and had a delightful V-neck. But it had not been designed to catch the male eye. Over it, she wore a frilly pink and black apron, also silk-screened with the Willow’s Caramels logo. Very girlie. Too girlie, and not siren enough.

  And jeans, her comfortable faded jeans, and Converse tennis shoes in what color? Pink. Altogether she looked like a birthday cupcake ready for a nine-year-old’s party.

  She cursed the impulse she’d had a year ago to design a brand identity so very homey and sweet that it lacked any sex appeal at all. Who would have thought she’d be trying to win Jack back after he was officially dead?

  Back to Jack, after thinking about it all night, she’d come to a conclusion—if Con was Jack, he wasn’t here to win her back. If that had been the case, all he had to do was reveal his true identity, sneak into her bed, and make passionate love to her.

  She tried not to let her heart break over the thought. She had no time for pity parties. If Jack wasn’t coming back to her, he had a good reason. Which didn’t mean she couldn’t break him down and win him back all the same. Her husband may have been a master at getting intel out of foreign terrorists and corrupt officials, but she had her ways of breaking a man, too. With love.

  No, if Con was Jack, he was up to something. It could be as benign as making sure she was doing okay, surviving the new life he’d left her with. But Jack could have sent any of his old friends in to find out that intel. It would have been much safer to do so.

  No, if Con was Jack, something was up. Something sinister.

  Just then Shiloh slunk into the booth, wearing a matching costume to Willow’s. With the addition of dark sunglasses. She moved as spryly as if she were eighty rather than twenty-one.

  Willow frowned at her. “Morning, sunshine. What happened to you? Overimbibe last night?”

  “Don’t talk so loud,” Shiloh whispered. “I haven’t had a hangover this bad since my birthday. And this one isn’t even my fault.” She looked away from the sun glinting off one of the jars and scowled. “Damn the light.”

  She slumped into a folding chair behind the table. “Didn’t you hear? Some asshole spiked the apple gold punch. Aldo found the evidence—empty bottles of Everclear. In the trash. The jerk didn’t even cover his tracks.”

  Willow arched a brow. “Someone spiked the hot punch?” That sounded exactly like the kind of prank Jack would pull. After all, loose lips sink ships.

  “Oh, that’s right. You left before all the action.” Shiloh flashed a ghost of a smile and winced with the effort, looking as if her head were about to explode. “How are you feeling? How was Con?”

  “I’m just great. Never better.” Willow handed her a bottle of water, letting Shiloh think what she would. “Here. Hydrate yourself. Water cures the common hangover.”

  Shiloh took it. “Thanks. Wish I had coffee.” She unscrewed the cap from the bottle of water. “Looking back, Shane was the first casualty. Someone mentioned he had a couple of steaming mugs of it. He’s going to take some ribbing over it. A big guy should be able to hold even his Everclear better than that.”

  “Yes, poor baby,” Willow murmured. “Any suspects?”

  Shiloh shrugged. “No. Aldo thinks it’s just a prank. Maybe high school kids. Though I told him high school kids wouldn’t waste alcohol on getting adults smashed.” She laughed and immediately grabbed her head. “Shouldn’t have done that. Laughing hurts too much.”

  * * *

  Jack arrived at Bluff Country Store uncharacteristically early, and surprisingly nervous, for his coffee date with Willow. Jack was born late, which meant Con had to be perpetually early. It was in the dossier. He looked around for Willow. Not here? Must be busy times at her candy booth. Either that or she was still making battle plans to out him as himself. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

  The air smelled of fresh coffee and apple cinnamon rolls. The pastry case was full and the candy case stocked with Willow’s confections, including a hearty stash of Lucky Jacks that made his mouth water.

  Con could buy Lucky Jacks. Nothing sinister in that. But Jack decided against it. Too many coincidences in character would only make Willow more suspicious. There was a saying in the spy business—there’s no such thing as coincidence. Unfortunately, he’d told it to Willow more than a time or two.

  He picked up a newspaper and paid for it, tucking the change into a tip jar on the counter. He found a table out in the middle of the seating area that would have to suffice. Unfortunately, there were no tables next to a wall, period. Back against the wall was the most secure position, but no one here in Bluff County Store seemed to care. Jack liked to keep all potential threats in front of him. He sat, holding the paper in front of him as he tuned in to the conversations around him out of habit, and studied the store.

  A good spy always knows where the exits are. Jack did a quick scan of his surroundings. There was an exit in the front of the store and one at the side. The café area had a two-story ceiling. Stairs to the upper half story of the building were off to his right. The upper story had an open post-and-rail half wall, all the better to see the goods and entice shoppers up for a look.

  Jack had no desire to wander deeper into this little piece of country kitsch than absolutely necessary. The view of ruffly aprons, pot holders, and dishes emblazoned with roosters and chickens was plenty enough for him. The upper story was definitely not an escape route. It was hell.

  Around him, people discussed the first day of the Apple Festival. Simple stuff. People hoping to sell their crops, honey, handcrafted goods, and homemade goodies. As he sat listening to the clink of silverware and hiss of the coffee machine, he felt as if he’d stepped into a time warp. Happy Bluff, or something. A good place where people weren’t afraid and were totally oblivious to the dangers around them.

  If only they knew.

  The door to the store opened and Jack’s heart rate spiked. He resisted the urge to look up, but he felt Willow enter, caught a whiff of her perfume, and heard her call out a greeting to the girl behind the counter. He looked up from his paper just in time to catch Willow’s eye. Willow waved to him, smiled, and walked over.

  He loved to watch her walk. The way her hips swayed drove him crazy. She hadn’t forgotten
how to move. A quick memory of them in bed together popped into his mind unbidden. Okay, maybe bidden by the rhythm of her hips and the bounce of her breasts as she walked.

  Jack, Con, neither of them could go to bed with Willow. Absolutely not. He had to banish the thought. Yes, Willow was intuitive. Yes, she knew his body as well as her own, had explored every inch as he had hers. But his had been slightly rearranged since the explosion, acquired a few new scars that might fool her. Lost a few distinguishing marks.

  Jack could have fooled her. He believed as firmly in his powers of deception as she did in her intuitive sense. He could have fooled her, except for an old war wound. No, not the kind that made him impotent. The kind that gave him … an involuntary purr. Most men grunted. Thanks to a chest and throat injury that left a rattle when he became excited, Jack’s grunt had a purr in it. Willow called him her big cat, her tiger, even after he pointed out that tigers can’t purr.

  “No, but they chuff, Jack,” she’d told him. “The sound you make is really more of a big-cat chuff, much more powerful and sexy.”

  He swallowed a lump and pushed the memories away. Jack was here to make this kill and get out. No deep revelations. No reunions. He was a single spy once again. No strings, no attachments. That’s the way it had to be, for all their sakes.

  But he was walking a damn narrow tightrope just now as he balanced between keeping Willow on Con’s string away from Kennett and at arm’s length so Jack didn’t take over and give himself away.

  She stopped in front of him. “I see you found the place.” Her voice was just sultry enough to let him know she was interested.

  And send his heart pattering away into the danger zone.

  Jack took a deep breath and looked up into her eyes the bright-green shade of August’s birthstone, her birthstone. Willow stood over him, the sun from the window behind her lighting her auburn into a blaze of fire. She was summer’s child. Always would be to him.

  She wore a pink T-shirt, tight jeans, and pale-pink lipstick that emphasized her full lips and pale skin and made Jack ache to kiss her. As Con, he tried to appear neutral and only mildly charmed by her. But he had an insane desire to call her cupcake.