Standing in Grier's kitchen, Isaac totally approved of the way she took care of business. In the midst of the chaos, she was calm as she worked the phone and the security system: A quick one, two, three, and she had cut off the fire alarm, called in a false report, and reset the system. And she did it all crouched behind the counters, protected and hidden.

Definitely his kind of woman.

With her on top of things, he was free to try to figure out what the hell was doing in her backyard. Twisting around so that his body remained tucked away, he searched through the glass . . . but all he got was just the wind and a whole lot of shadows.

Yet his instincts were screaming.

What was Jimmy doing back there with his buddies? Who had shown up? Matthias's crew usually rolled up in unlicensed unmarkeds. They didn't hop on broomsticks and pe-bomb from out of a stormy sky. Besides, there was no one out there anymore that he could see.

As time dragged and a whole lot of nothing-but-wind went on, he thought maybe he'd lost his mind altogether.

"You okay?" he whispered without turning around.

There was a rustling and then Grier was shoulder-to-shoulder beside him on the floor. "What's going on? Can you see anything?"

He noted she didn't answer the question--but come on, like she had to? "It's nothing we need to be a part of."

Nothing, period, it seemed. Although . . . well, actually, if he squinted, the shadows did seem to form patterns consistent with fighters engaging in hand- to-hand combat. Except, of course, there was nobody out there--and he was seeing logic to the way things moved. To get the effect he was seeing, a legion of lights would have had to be shining in from all different directions to get even close to the optics.

"This doesn't feel right to me," Grier said.

"I agree." He looked over at her. "But I'm going to take care of you."

"I thought you were going to leave."

"I didn't." The couldn't part was something he kept to himself. "I'm not going to let anything hurt you."

Her head tilted to the side as she stared at him. "You know . . . I believe you."

"You can bet your life on it."

In a quick move, he put his mouth to hers on a hard kiss to seal the deal. And then just as he was pulling back, the wind stopped--sure as if the industrial fan causing all the blowing had been unplugged: In the back forty, there was nothing but utter silence.

What the hell was going on?

"Stay here," he said as he stood up.

Naturally, she didn't take the order, but rose to her feet, her hands resting on his shoulder as if she were prepared to tail him. He didn't like it, but he knew arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere--the best he could do was keep his chest and shoulders front and center to block any shot at her.

He inched forward until he could see outside better. The shadows had disappeared and the tree limbs and bushes were still. Distant sounds of traffic and the far-off wail of an ambulance were once again an ambient city song playing like Muzak all around the neighborhood.

He glanced over at her. "I'm going out there. Can you handle a firearm?" When she nodded, he took out one of his two guns. "Have this."

She didn't hesitate, but man, he hated the sight of her pale, elegant hands on his weapon.

He nodded down at the thing. "Point and shoot using both palms. Safety's off. We clear?"

When she nodded, he kissed her again because he just had to; then he moved her back into position in the shelter of the floor cabinets. From that vantage point, she could see anyone coming in from the front or the rear, but also cover the interior door that he had a feeling led to the basement stairs.

Palming his other gun, he exited in a quick shift--

His first breath brought an unholy stench into his sinuses and down the back of his throat. What the . . . ? It was like a chemical spill--

From out of nowhere, one of the pair who'd been with Jim appeared. It was the guy with the braid and he looked like he'd been spray-painted with WD- 40--and had dry ice shoved in all his pockets: Tendrils of smoke were steaming up from his leather jacket, and shit . . . the smell.

Before Isaac could what-the-fuck him, Jim's boy cut the question off. "Do us a favor and stay put. Coast is clear for now, though. If you understand what I'm saying."

As Isaac met the man's eyes, there was no question that even though they were strangers, they spoke the same language: The guy was a soldier.

"You want to tell me what the hell just happened out here?"

"Nope. But I wouldn't mind some white vinegar if she has it?"

Isaac frowned. "No offense, but I think making salad dressing is the least of your concerns, buddy. Your jacket needs a hose-down."

"I've got burns to take care of."

Sure enough, on the side of his neck and on his hands there were raw, red patches on his skin. As if he'd been hit with some kind of acid.

Hard to argue with the steaming bastard, considering he was injured. "Give me a sec."

Ducking back in the house, Isaac cleared his throat. "Ah . . . do you have any white vinegar?"

Grier blinked and then pointed with the gun muzzle to the sink. "I use it to clean the hardwood. But why?"

"Damned if I know." He headed for the sink and found a huge jug with a Heinz label on it. "But they want some."

"Who's they?"

"Friends of a friend."

"Are they okay?"

"Yeah." Assuming the definition of okay included a section for roasty-toasted.

Outside, he handed over the stuff, which was promptly thrown around like cool water on a sweaty football player. It did kill the smoking and the stench, though, on both Braid Guy and the pincushion.

"What about the neighbors," Isaac said, glancing around. The brick-to-window ratio on the backs of the buildings worked in their favor, but the noise . . . the smell.

"We'll take care of them," Braid Guy answered. Like it was no biggie and something they'd done before.

What kind of war were they fighting? Isaac thought. Was there another organization past XOps? He'd always assumed Matthias was the shadiest of the shady. But maybe here was another level. Maybe that was how Jim had gotten out.

"Where's Heron?" he asked them.

"He'll be back." The one with the piercings returned the vinegar. "You just stay where you are and take care of her. We got you."

Isaac waved his gun back and forth. "Who the hell are you?"

Mr. Braid, who seemed the leveler of the pair, said, "Just part of Jim's little group."

At least that made some sense. Even though they'd clearly been in a rough-and-tumble, neither seemed bothered at all. No wonder Jim worked with them.

And Isaac had a feeling he knew what they were doing--Jim might just be after Matthias. Which would certainly explain the guy's desire to get involved and play Orbitz with the plane tickets. "You need another soldier?" Isaac asked, only half-joking.

The two glanced at each other and then back to him. "Not our call," they said in unison.

"Jim's?"

"Mostly," Mr. Braid replied. "And you've got to be dying to get in--"

"Isaac? Who are you talking to?"

As Grier walked out of the kitchen, he wished like hell she'd stay inside. "No one. Let's head back into the house."

Turning to good-bye Jim's boys, he froze. Nobody was around. Heron's wingmen were gone.

Yup, whoever and whatever they were, they were definitely his kind of soldiers.

Isaac went up to Grier and walked them both back inside. As he threw the lock and turned on one track of lighting waaaaaay across the room, he grimaced. Man, the kitchen didn't smell much better than those two out back had: burned egg, charred bacon, and blackened butter were not a party for the ol' sniffer.

"Are you all right?" he asked, even though once again the answer was self-evident.

"Are you?"

He ran his eyes down her from head to foot. She was alive and he was with her and they were safe in this fortress of a house. "I'm better."

"What's in the backyard."

"Friends." He took his gun back. "Who want both of us to be safe."

To keep himself from dragging her into his arms, he sheathed both guns in his windbreaker and picked the pan off the stove. Dumping the remains of her almost-dinner in the sink, he washed the thing out.

"Before you ask," he murmured, "I don't know anything more than you do."

Which was essentially true. Sure, he had a leg up on her when it came to certain things--but as for the shit in the backyard? Fucking. Clueless.

He popped a dish towel off a hook and . . . realized she hadn't said anything for a while.

Pivoting around, he saw that she had taken a seat on one of the stools and wrapped her arms around herself. She was utterly self-contained, having retreated into her skin and turned to stone.

"I'm trying . . ." She cleared her throat. "I'm really trying to understand all this."

He brought the pan back over to the stove and braced himself on his arms, thinking here it was again, the great pide between the civilian and the soldier. This chaos and scramble and deadly danger? To him, it was business as usual.

Except it was killing her.

Like a complete lame-ass, he said, "You want to give dinner another shot?"

Grier shook her head. "Being in a parallel universe where everything looks like your life, but is actually something else entirely is an appetite killer."

"Been there." He nodded. "Done that."

"Made it your profession, matter of fact. Didn't you."

He frowned and left that one right where it had landed on the counter between them. "Listen, are you sure I can't make you--"

"I went back to your apartment. This afternoon."

"Why." Fuck.

"It was after I dropped your money off at the police department and gave a statement. Guess who was at your place."

"Who."

"It was someone my father knew."

Isaac's shoulders tightened up so hard, he found it difficult to breathe. Or maybe his lungs had frozen solid. Oh, Jesus Christ, no . . . not--

She pushed something across the granite at him. A business card. "I'm supposed to call this number if you show up here."

As Isaac read the digits, she laughed with a sharp edge. "My father had the same expression on his face when he read what was on it. And let me guess, you're not going to tell me who'd answer the ring, either."

"The man at my apartment. Describe him." Even though Isaac knew.

"He had an eye patch."

Isaac swallowed hard, thinking that whatever he'd assumed she'd had in that tissue when she'd gotten out of her car . . . he'd never considered that it would have been given to her by Matthias himself.

"Who is he?" she asked.

Isaac's reply was just a shake of the head. As it was, she was already standing at the precipice of the rat hole he and her father were sucked into. Any explaining would be the size-thirteen boot in the ass that sent her over the edge and into a free fall--

With a sudden surge, she burst up from the stool and grabbed the glass of wine she'd been nursing. "I am so goddamn tired of all this silence!"

She pitched the chardonnay across the room, and when the glass hit the wall, it shattered, leaving a bomb burst of wet stain on the plaster and shards all around on the floor.

As she wheeled toward him, she was breathing hard and her eyes were on fire.

There was a beat of raw silence. And then Isaac came around the island toward her.

He kept his voice low as he approached. "When you were in the police station today, did they ask you about me?"

She seemed momentarily nonplussed. "Of course they did."

"And what did you tell them?"

"Nothing--because short of your name, I don't know a goddamn thing."

He nodded, bringing his body even closer to hers. "That man at my apartment. Did he ask about me?"

She threw her hands up. "Everyone wants to know about you--"

"And what did you tell him?"

"Nothing," she hissed.

"If someone from the CIA or the NSA comes to your door and asks about me--"

"I can't tell them anything!"

He stopped so close, he could see each inpidual lash around her stunning blue eyes. "That's right. And that's what is going to keep you alive." As she cursed and went to turn away, he grabbed her arm and snapped her back around. "That man at my apartment is a cold-blooded killer and he let you go only because he wants to send a message to me. The reason I'm not telling you anything--"

"I can lie! Damn it--why do you assume I'm naive?" She glared up at him. "You have no idea what it's been like my whole life, seeing all these shadows and never having them explained. I can lie--"

"They'll torture you. To make you talk."

That shut her up.

And he kept going. "Your father knows this. So do I--and believe me, during training I got put through an interrogation session, so I know precisely what they'll do to you. The only way I can be sure you don't get that is if you really don't have anything to say. Frankly, you're too close to this anyway--through no fault of your own."

"God . . . I hate this." The trembling in her body wasn't about fear. It was rage, pure and simple. "I just want to hit something."

"Okay." He tightened her fist and drew her arm back over her shoulder. "Take it out on me." "What--"

"Hit me. Tear my eyes out. Do anything you have to."

"Are you mad?"

"Yes. Insane." He dropped his hold on her and braced his weight, staying close . . . close enough so she could cork him a good one if she wanted to. "I'll be your punching bag, your Kevlar vest, your bodyguard . . . I'll do anything to help you get through this."

"You're crazy," she breathed.

As she stared up at him all flushed and alive, the heat in his blood surged--and took them into even more dangerous territory. For fuck's sake, like he needed to get sexed up? Now, yet again, was not the time or the place.

So naturally, he asked, "What's it going to be . . . Do you want to hit me or kiss me?"

In the wake of the demand, Grier ran her tongue over her lips and Isaac tracked the movement like a predator. Yet it was clear as he stayed where he was that what happened next was up to her.

Which proved what kind of man he was in spite of the profession he'd fallen into.

On her side, she wasn't thinking anything remotely professional. She was confused and off-kilter--this was last night all over again with the reckless buzzing. But that wasn't what compelled her now.

This could be the only time she had with him. Ever. She'd spent all afternoon wondering where he was, if he was okay . . . if she would see him again. If he was still alive. He was a stranger who had somehow become very important to her. And though the timing was horrible, you couldn't schedule the opportunities you had.

Dropping her arm, she uncoiled the fist he'd made for her, and as it came down, she wished she could keep it to herself because that was a more responsible choice. Instead, she leaned into him and put her palm between his legs. On a growl low in his throat, his hips thrust forward.

He was hard and thick.

And had to hold himself up as he swayed.

"I won't stop this time," he growled.

She tightened her grip on him. "I just want to be with you. Once."

"That can be arranged."

They met in the middle in a blaze, lips crushing, arms winding around, bodies coming together. In the dim kitchen, he picked her up and took her down onto the floor between the island and counter, rolling over at the last moment so he was the bed she lay upon. As her legs settled between his, the hard ridge of his erection dug into her and his tongue entered her mouth, taking, owning. As they kissed in desperation, his body undulated beneath her, rolling and receding, the powerful contours of him achingly familiar in spite of how little time she'd spent against him.

God, she needed more of him.

In a fumbling move, she yanked up her shirt and he was right on it, pulling down the lacy cups, freeing her nipples, and then moving her up so that his lips latched onto one, sucking, pulling, licking. His hair was thick against her fingers as she held him to her, his mouth wet and hot, his hands grabbing her hips and digging in.

"Isaac . . ." The groan was strangled and then cut off altogether by a gasp as his palm swept between her legs and cupped her sex.

He rubbed her in tight circles as he flicked his tongue, and only the raging need to have him inside gave her the focus she needed to go for his nylon sweatpants. Shoving the waistband down, she kicked off her loafers, hooked a toe, and peeled them all the way off.

No boxers. No briefs. Nothing in the way.

Wrapping her palm around his thick shaft, she stroked him and he moved with her, counterthrusting to increase the friction. And the sound he made . . . holy heavens, the sound he made: that growl was all animal as he inhaled against her breast.

Grier sat up, his lips popping off her breast, and with a curse, she all but ripped her yoga pants and her panties off. As he gripped himself and stood his erection up, she restraddled him and sat down, lowering herself onto him, joining them together, moving his windbreaker up so she could get to more skin. The feel of him kicked her head back, but she watched his reaction, hungry to see what he looked like--and he didn't disappoint. With a great hiss, his teeth clenched and he sucked in air through them, the cords in his neck straining, his pecs popping up into tight pads.

As she took over and set the pace, it was as if she were owning him in some primal way, marking him with the sex.

"God . . . you're beautiful," he panted as his hot eyes watched her from lowered lids, tracking the movement of her breasts as they peeked out from between the shirt and the crammed-down bra cups.

He didn't stay down for long, though. He was fast and strong and sure as he sat up and kissed her hard, pushing in even deeper and holding her to him. At first she panicked that he was stopping again, but then he burrowed into her neck and spoke to her.

"You feel so good." His Southern drawl was low and husky and it went straight into her sex, heating her even further. "You feel . . ."

He didn't finish the sentence, but slipped his big palms under her to lift her up and down, his massive biceps handling her weight as if she were nothing but a toy--

She came so hard she saw stars, a bright galaxy exploding where they were joined and sending a shower of sparkling light throughout her body. And just as he'd promised, he didn't stop this time. He went rigid and jerked against her, his arms shooting around her waist and tightening until she couldn't breathe--not that she cared about oxygen. As he twitched inside of her and shuddered against her, she sank her nails into his black windbreaker and held him.

And then it was all over.

As their breathing slowed, the stillness afterward was much the same as the departure of that great, sourceless wind: oddly traumatic.

Silence. God . . . the silence. But she couldn't think of anything to say.

"I'm sorry," he bit out roughly. "I thought this would help you."

"Oh, no . . . I--"

He shook his head, and with his tremendous strength lifted her off his body, separating them easily. In a quick move, he set her aside, yanked his waistband back up, and reached for a clean towel. After he gave the thing to her, he settled with his back against the cupboards and put his knees up, arms balanced on the tops of them, hands hanging loose.

It was then that she noticed the gun on the floor beside where they had been. And he must have seen it at the same moment she did because he grabbed the weapon and disappeared it into the windbreaker.

Squeezing her eyes shut briefly, she cleaned up quick and redressed. Then she settled in an identical pose next to him. Unlike Isaac, however, she didn't stare straight ahead; she looked at his profile. He was so beautiful in that male way, his face all angles and bone--but the weariness in him bothered her.

He'd lived on the edge for too long.

"How old are you really?" she asked eventually.

"Twenty-six."

She recoiled. So that was the truth? "You seem older."

"I feel like it."

"I'm thirty-two." Still more silence. "Why won't you look at me."

"You've never had a one-night stand. Until now." Like he'd cursed her in some way. "Well, technically, it's been two nights with you." As his jaw clenched, she knew that wasn't a help. "Isaac, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I." He cleared his throat.

"I wanted you."

Now he looked at her. "And you had me. God . . . you had me." For a brief second, his eyes flared with heat again, and then he refocused on the cabinet in front of him. "But that's it. It's over and done with."

Okay . . . ouch. And for a guy who seemed bitched that he'd indoctrinated her into the one-night club, you'd think his conscience would feel better if they did it a few more times.

As her sex heated again, she thought . . . they'd just see about the "over and done with" part.

"Why did you come back?" she asked.

"I never left." As she felt her brows flare, he shrugged. "I spent all day in hiding across the street from you--and before you think I'm a stalker, I was watching the people who were--and are--watching you."

As she blanched, she was glad for the darkness in this valley of cabinets and cupboards. Much better for him to think she was holding it together. "The white strips were put there by you, weren't they. Your muscle shirt."

"It was supposed to be a signal to them that I'd taken off."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Why haven't you married?" he asked abruptly.And then he laughed in a hard burst. "Sorry if that's too personal."

"No. It isn't." All things considered, nothing seemed out-of-bounds anymore. "I never fell in love. Never had time to, really. Between chasing after Daniel and my work . . . no time. Plus . . ." It seemed at once perfectly normal and completely foreign to speak so candidly. "To be honest, I don't think I ever wanted anyone that close to me. There were things I didn't want to share."

And it wasn't like she was hoarding her family's name or position or wealth. It was the bad things that she kept to herself--her brother . . . and her mother, too, if she was honest. Just as she and her father were both lawyers and very focused, the other two in the family had suffered from similar demons. After all, just because alcohol was legal, didn't mean it couldn't destroy a life as much as heroin did.

Her mother had been an elegant drunk for all of Grier's life and it was hard to know what had put her there: biological predisposition; a husband who disappeared regularly; or a son who at an early age started to walk the path she did.

The loss of her had been just as horrible as Daniel's death.

"Who's Daniel?"

"My brother."

"Whose pj's I borrowed."

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "He died about two years ago."

"God . . . I'm sorry."

Grier glanced around, wondering if the man--er, ghost--in question would choose now to show up. "I'm sorry, too. I really thought I could save him . . . or help him save himself. It didn't work out that way, though. He, ah, he had a drug problem."

She hated the apologetic tone she always assumed when talking about what had killed Daniel--and yet it crept into her voice every time.

"I'm really sorry," Isaac repeated.

"Thank you." Abruptly, she shook her head as if it were a saltshaker that had caked up. Maybe this was why her brother refused to talk about the past --it was a terrible downer.

Switching gears, she said, "That man? Back at your apartment--he gave me something." She leaned up and patted around for the Life Alert, finding it under the sweater she'd taken off after the first fight with her father. "He left it in my trunk."

Although she handled it with the tissue, Isaac took the thing with his bare hands. Guess fingerprints were a nonissue to him.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something for me."

"Wait--"

As he shoved it into his pocket, he talked over her objection. "If I want to turn myself in, all I have to do is hit the button and tell them where to find me. It's got nothing to do with you."

Give himself over to that man? "What happens then?" she asked tightly. "What happens if you . . ."

She couldn't finish. And he didn't answer.

Which told her everything she needed to know, didn't it--

At that moment, the front door unlocked and opened, the sounds of keys and footsteps echoing down the hall as the security alarm was turned off by someone else.

"My father!" she hissed.

Jumping up, she tried to straighten her clothes--oh, God, her hair was a wreck.

The wineglass. Shit.

"Grier?" came that familiar voice from the front of the house.

Oh, damn, Isaac really didn't need to meet what was left of her family right now.

"Quick, you have to--" When she looked back, he was gone.

Okay, usually, she was frustrated by his ghost routine. At the moment, it was a godsend.

Moving fast, she flipped on the lights, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and headed for the mess on the floor and wall.

"In here!" she replied.

As her father came into the room, she noticed he'd changed into his casual uniform of a cashmere sweater and pressed slacks. His face, however, was anything but easygoing: Stark and cold, he looked as he did when he faced an opponent in court.

"I received notification that the fire alarm went off," he said.

Undoubtedly he had, but he'd probably been on his way over here anyway: His house was out in Lincoln--no way he could get to Beacon Hill this fast.

Thank God he hadn't gotten here ten minutes earlier, she thought.

To keep her blush out of the sight, she concentrated on picking up the sharp shards. "I burned an omelet."

When her father didn't say anything else, she stared over at him. "What."

"Where is he, Grier. Tell me where Isaac Rothe is."

A sliver of fear trickled down her spine and landed in her gut like a rock. His expression was so ruthless, she was willing to bet her life on the fact that the pair of them were on opposite sides of the table when it came to her client.

Houseguest.

Lover.

Whatever Isaac was to her.

"Ouch!" She brought up her hand. A piece of glass was sticking straight out of the pad of her forefinger, her blood bright red as it pooled into a fat, welling drop.

As she headed over to the sink, she felt the presence of her father across the kitchen like a gun pointed at her back.

He didn't even ask how badly she'd hurt herself. All he did was say once again: "Tell me where Isaac Rothe is."