"I'm not imagining missing equipment." My voice hardens. "Someone burned my safe house."
"Which you shouldn't have equipped without clearance." He stands, pacing. "The real issue is results. Weeks in position with nothing substantial to show."
I study his profile, noting how he avoids my eyes. Wrong reaction for a handler whose agent faced compromise.
"Intelligence development takes time. I can't just ask about criminal operations."
"Time we don't have. The task force wants results or reassignment." He checks his watch with sharp movements. "Get closer to the targets. Use every advantage."
"Meaning?"
"You're an attractive woman around dangerous men. Work with what you have."
The suggestion hits like a slap. "You want me to sleep with them for information?"
"I want progress. How you achieve it..." He shrugs. "Forty-eight hours, Quinn. Produce something substantial or this ends."
He walks away without backward glance, leaving me with growing suspicions about my handler's true agenda.
Finnegan's pub sits empty when I arrive two hours early. I need space to think without watchful eyes tracking every movement.
The back door opens with deliberate sound. No attempt at stealth.
Eamon Kavanagh fills the doorway, raw masculinity and barely leashed violence in perfect combination. He moves like a predator claiming territory.
Heat floods my body despite every rational thought. This man represents everything I should fear, yet my pulse quickens at his presence.
"Early today," he observes, closing the door with finality.
"I prefer being ready." I continue wiping tables, projecting calm while attraction wars with training.
He approaches with measured steps, hands visible but threat implied. "Ready for what, exactly?"
"Work."
"Work." His mouth curves without warmth. "Tell me about Montana."
Ice replaces the heat in my veins. Montana anchored my cover story—childhood in ranch country that should resist verification.
"What about it?"
"Funny thing about small towns. They remember everyone." He stops close enough that his scent invades my space—leather and danger and pure male heat. "Called every school in your county. No Sorcha Quinn in their records."
The cover cracks in real time. Professional identity work, but someone made mistakes only deep investigation would reveal.
"Records get lost?—"
"The ranch you claimed to live on?" He steps closer, crowding me against the bar. "Sold to developers before you were born."
My back hits polished wood. He braces one hand beside my head, caging me with his body. The position screams dominance while my treacherous nervous system responds to his proximity.
"Maybe I misremembered?—"
"Maybe you're lying." His voice drops low, intimate despite the accusation. "Question is why."
His free hand traces my jaw with deceptive gentleness. The touch sends electric shocks down my spine even as my mind catalogs the threat he represents.
"Careful," I warn, though my voice lacks conviction.
