“Nice.” Tara clinked her wineglass to Jessica’s. “Okay, I have to mentally reset here, because all I’ve ever heard about this guy has been negative. So we don’t hate John Shepherd anymore?”
“We don’t hate John Shepherd anymore,” Jessica confirmed.
“And . . . you like John Shepherd now?” Tara gave her a pointed look. “Putting aside the beach and moonlight and the really, really good sex.”
Jessica immediately opened her mouth to say something quippy, but then she stopped herself.
So much had changed with John these last few weeks, it was hard for her, even, to wrap her mind around it. That first meeting in the SAC’s office, there’d been so much anger between them, to the point where she’d had serious misgivings about their ability to work together.
But now, well . . . John was the guy who put a Band-Aid on her finger after she cut it on a broken wineglass. (Albeit, while being bossy, but still.) He was the guy who unwound her hair when it was caught on her necklace, being careful not to damage even a strand. The guy she talked to about her failed marriage after seeing a picture of her ex-husband on a magazine cover. The guy she shared funny work stories with over a brownie sundae; the guy who understood the pressures—and the rewards—of her job; the guy she trusted implicitly as her partner to have her back; and the guy who somehow had the ability to make her smile even when he was annoying the heck out of her.
And . . . you like John Shepherd now?
Her lips curved, thinking about how far they’d come since their days at Quantico. “Yes. I do.”
Tara blinked, as if she’d expected a different answer. Then, slowly, she smiled. “Well, if you like the man, that’s all I need to know.” She leaned in, speaking excitedly. “So what does this mean? Are you guys, like, dating now? Could it turn into something serious?”
“No.”
The word came out a little too quick, so Jessica regrouped and slowed down. “You know I’m not looking for anything serious right now. This is my rebound. My fun, hot, postdivorce fling. And even if, hypothetically speaking, I were looking for something serious, this wouldn’t be it.”
Tara frowned. “Why would you say that? You just told me you like the guy.”
“Because he’s leaving.”
As the words fell between them, Jessica shrugged, matter-of-fact.
“Leaving? Where’s he going?” Tara asked.
“Virginia. He made the Hostage Rescue Team and has to relocate to Quantico.” She saw Tara’s blank look and explained. “It’s this elite counterterrorism unit. Basically, these are the guys the FBI sends in to handle major U.S. crisis situations: hostage and terrorist incidents, significant criminal threats, that kind of thing. They get deployed for overseas missions, too—a lot of times, HRT operators are embedded with Navy SEAL or Delta Force commandos. And when they’re not on a mission, they train. Constantly. I can’t even imagine the amount of testosterone flowing through that little corner of Quantico. Picture ninety super-alpha males running around with the coolest toys, guns, ammunition, and vehicles the U.S. government can buy.”
“Wow.” Tara took all that in. “So he’s leaving for good, then.”
Jessica swirled her wineglass. Technically, John wouldn’t be an HRT operator for the rest of his career—most of those guys burned out after five or six years on the job. But it was unlikely he would ever be in her neck of the woods again. After HRT, there would be tons of options open to him, like leading a field office SWAT team, being an instructor at the Academy, or working at FBI headquarters. But instead of getting into that, she simply said, “Yes. For good.”
She took a long sip of her wine, then noticed that Tara was watching her. “What? Oh, come on. Stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to burst into tears or something. First off, I’m happy for John. Truly. Second, this is what I want, remember? To use your words, ‘dirty, no-strings-attached rebound sex’ with a hot Mr. Wrong that I will shamelessly use until our time together has run its course.”
“I did say that. But when you told me you liked John a few moments ago, you had a look on your face that I haven’t seen in a while.”
“What kind of look?”
Tara’s eyes met hers. “Happy.”
Jessica blinked, caught off guard by the words. But the undercover agent in her quickly recovered. “I guess that’s what good sex after a six-month hiatus will do to you,” she quipped.
“Hmm.” Tara studied her for a long moment. “Let’s go back to the hypothetically speaking part.”
Jessica sighed. “Here we go.”
Tara ignored her. “Let’s say you were looking for something more than a rebound. There’s always long-distance dating, you know. In the age of texting, FaceTime, and phone sex, it’s actually quite possible.”
Jessica humored her, just for a bit. “Okay, and then what? Hypothetically speaking, let’s say that works for a few months. In between John’s incredibly intense training schedule and my less-than-predictable work schedule, we manage to find a few stolen moments for FaceTime chats and steamy phone sex. How long until that gets old?”
“I don’t know. I think the relationship would either fizzle out or it would grow stronger, and then . . . you’d have to make a decision about following him to Virginia, I guess.”
And therein lay the rub. “There’s no decision—moving isn’t an option for me. I just transferred to Chicago. Under FBI policy, I’m not eligible for another transfer for two years.” Jessica watched as Tara’s expression lost its hopeful glow. Her voice softened, adding, “And that’s just being eligible. Realistically, it would probably take at least three years.”
“Oh. That is a problem.” Tara fell momentarily quiet. Then she met Jessica’s gaze and smiled gently. “I guess it’s a good thing we were just speaking hypothetically, then.”
Jessica returned the look. “Yes, it is.”
The last thing she wanted was for anyone to start getting ideas that this interlude between her and John had legs. That line of thinking would almost certainly lead to disappointment and, quite possibly, heartbreak.
And she, for one, already had been through enough of that this year.
22
The following evening, John approached the target’s house armed with two of the most lethal weapons at his disposal.
Cheeseburgers and French fries from Five Guys.
For extra ammunition, he’d also brought along a couple of chocolate shakes. Operation Butter Up Dad Before Breaking the News was officially under way.
Another working title.
His father opened the front door, his eyes lighting up when he saw the red-and-white checkered logo on the shakes. “This is a surprise. I figured you were just bringing pizza. Is there bacon on those cheeseburgers?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
Thirty seconds later, they were seated at the kitchen table, cartons and paper wrappers spread out before them. As they chewed in silence, John surreptitiously studied his father, trying to get a read on his mood.
“You still working on that undercover assignment?” his dad asked. “The one with the public corruption squad?”
John wiped his mouth with the napkin. “It’s almost wrapped up. We have one more meeting left, and then the case agents should have everything they need to make the arrest.”
“How big’s the target?”
“Big enough.” With the investigation still ongoing, John couldn’t say much more.
His dad raised an eyebrow. “Big enough that I’ll be reading about the investigation in the papers?”
“Possibly.” John pictured the look on Blair’s face when Agents Leavitt and Todd showed up at his front door to make the arrest. Actually, it would be Leavitt and Todd and a backup squad. The FBI never took chances, and guys like Blair were highly unpredictable during arrests. The esteemed mayor of A
merica’s thirteenth-largest city was no hardened street criminal for whom prison was practically a rite of passage—for him, being arrested by the FBI was essentially the end of the world. When faced with the sudden knowledge that his career and once-bright political aspirations were over, and that, instead, he’d be spending the next fifteen to twenty behind bars, there was no telling what he might do.
Unfortunately, John and Jessica wouldn’t be there for the party—as the undercover agents in the investigation, they would take no part in the arrest and receive none of the proverbial glory. Once the two of them wrapped up the sting op, they wouldn’t see Blair again until they testified in closed court. And to protect their anonymity, their names would never be associated with the case in press releases and court documents. To the outside world, he and Jessica would be simply known as “UC1” and “UC2.”
His dad reached for his shake and took a sip. “Nate mentioned that your partner on the case—this Jessica Harlow person—was in your class at the Academy.”
Nate had talked to his Dad about Jessica? John had a bad feeling he knew where this conversation was headed. “Did he, now?”
“He also said you get ‘tense and shifty’ every time her name comes up.”
Bingo.
John threw out his hands in exasperation. “Why is Nate so focused on this? Doesn’t he have other things to worry about, like . . . whether to add a Buffalo chicken sandwich to the bar’s brunch menu?”
His dad studied him. “Huh. You do seem a little tense.”
Shutting up now.
John took a bite of his burger and chewed more forcefully than usual. After he swallowed, he saw that his dad seemed to be watching him with amusement.
He went for a more diplomatic answer this time. “Yes, there was some friction between Jessica and me at the Academy. But we’re fine now.” In his mind’s eye, he saw her stretched across his hotel room bed, naked except for her high-heeled sandals.
Oh yeah. Just fine, indeed.
His dad nodded. “It was the same way with me and your uncle Don.”
John fought back a grin. Well . . . probably not exactly the same. Either that, or his dad and Uncle Don had been a helluva lot closer than he’d realized.
“I couldn’t stand the guy the first time I met him,” his dad continued. “Thought he was a cocky SOB. But when you’re partners, you find a way to work it out.”
“That’s true.” John was still stuck on the vision of naked Jessica in his bed. Blond hair tousled, her gorgeous legs straddling his hips as they’d—
“What’s with all the goofy smiles?” his dad asked, cutting into his thoughts.
Busted.
“This cheeseburger’s just so good,” John said, covering with another bite.
“Hmm.” His dad eyed him suspiciously, then reached for a French fry. His tone turned more casual. “Anyway, it’s good that you worked things out with your partner. It’d be a shame to end your career as an investigator on a bad note before heading off to HRT.”
John froze at the words.
Fucking Nate.
His dad read the look on his face. “Don’t go blaming your brother—he didn’t say a word. You and I haven’t done dinner on a weekday since your mom got sick, and then you suddenly show up with Five Guys. I was a detective for twenty-five years, John. I think I can figure it out.”
John sighed. So much for gradually easing into the subject. “I got the call two days ago, when I was out of town.”
“When do you leave for Quantico?”
“The weekend before Labor Day.” John sat forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Look, I know you’re not thrilled about this. But it’s a good opportunity for me and—
His dad held up a hand. “I know perfectly well what it means to make the Hostage Rescue Team.” He looked John in the eyes. “And if this is what you want, then I’m happy for you, son. And I’m also incredibly proud.”
John blinked, having been braced for a much tougher conversation. “Oh. Well . . . thank you.” He sat back in his chair, exhaling in relief. “Okay, then.”
“I know I was hard on you the last time we talked about HRT. I was just being . . . well, selfish.” His dad shifted in his chair, his tone gruff yet slightly sheepish. “When you transferred back from Detroit, I guess I figured you were here for the long haul. It’s been nice having you around these last couple of years. I probably don’t tell you and your brother this stuff often enough, but our Sunday dinners are the thing I look forward to most all week.”
A dagger of guilt pierced John through the chest. “Dad—”
His father stopped him again. “I’m just explaining why I reacted the way I did last time. Look, I get that this is your life, not mine. You have to do what’s best for you. Just because your mother and I chose to make Chicago our home doesn’t mean you’re bound to this city, too.”
“It won’t be forever. Who knows, in five or six years I could end up back here again.” John tried to look at the bright side. “Plus, Virginia’s only an hour-and-a-half flight away. I still get vacation time, and then there’s the holidays . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to make too many promises. When on a mission, HRT operators worked until the job was done—there were no holiday breaks.
“You’ll come home when you can. I know that.” His dad paused, his eyes looking shiny. Then he cleared his throat, sounding gruff once again. “So, you got an address where I can come visit you in Virginia, or do I have to figure that out for myself, too?”
While finishing their burgers, they talked about the logistics of John’s move. He’d spent the bulk of his day working on that: calling moving companies for estimates, finding a decent extended-stay hotel that was in his budget, and renting a storage unit outside Quantico where he could temporarily stash his furniture until he found a place to live.
“Sounds like you’re moving full steam ahead,” his dad said, as they cleared off the kitchen table.
John shrugged. “Not much choice. Labor Day weekend will be here before I know it.” He immediately regretted his choice of words. Way to be sensitive, asshole.
His dad nodded, his voice subdued. “Yep, it will.”
A silence fell between them.
His dad looked at him a moment, then walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out two beers.
He held one out to John. “Cubs game starts in a few minutes. Lester’s pitching. Should be a good one, if you want to stay and watch.”
With a slight smile, John took one of the bottles. “I’d like that.” Shepherd men might have been good at a lot of things, but overtly expressing feelings wasn’t one of them.
A couple of beers on a warm summer night, and baseball.
That was how they said good-bye.
• • •
Friday afternoon, Jessica wrapped up her second day of interviews in the county clerk bribery case and managed to beat the bulk of rush-hour traffic into the city. Once back at the FBI office, she saw that someone had left a message on Ashley’s cell phone.
Judging from the 904 area code, the caller was from the Jacksonville area.
“Ashley, it’s Patrick Blair. I’ve got an update for you—call me back.”
The message caught Jessica somewhat by surprise. This was the first time the mayor had contacted either her or John directly. Prior to this, Morano had always acted as an intermediary between them.
Wanting to find a quiet space before calling Blair back, she headed to an empty conference room at the end of the hallway and shut the door. Instead of dialing up his office directly, she called an internal Bureau number that was answered by a computer. Using the keypad on her phone, she entered the code set up for the case, Blair’s phone number, and the phone number she wanted to show up on Blair’s caller ID—in this case, Ashley’s cell phone number. Then she took a seat in one of the conference room cha
irs as the computer dialed Blair’s phone number and began recording the call.
“Mayor Blair’s office,” his assistant answered.
“Hi, this is Ashley Evers, returning the mayor’s call.”
“One moment, Ms. Evers. I’ll see if he’s available.”
A satellite radio station cut in as Jessica was put on hold, and the song “Take My Breath Away” began to play.
Oh man . . . she loved this song.
She hummed along, as images of hot men in aviator sunglasses and flight suits ran through her head. All too soon, the music cut out as Blair’s assistant came back on the line. “The mayor will be right with you, Ms. Evers.”
“Thank you.”
Seconds later, Blair picked up on the other end of the line. “Ms. Evers. You caught me just before I left the office,” he drawled.
“Glad I did—your message left me curious, Mr. Mayor. I hope this update means there’s good news.”
“Sure does. Tell your assistant to book you a flight down here for Thursday.”
Jessica felt a rush of excitement. They were so close to wrapping up this case; she could practically taste it. “Why? What’s happening Thursday?” She had a pretty good idea, but she wanted Blair to spell it out for the recording.
He chuckled, sounding smug. “The question you should be asking is: What’s happening on Wednesday?”
When he fell silent, she realized he was actually waiting for her to ask.
Of course he was.
“All right . . . what’s happening on Wednesday?” she said, playing along like a good little undercover agent.
“The Land Use Committee meets that afternoon. I played golf this morning with Paul Ryu, the director, and he says there won’t be any problems getting your variances pushed through. Naturally, I played up my excitement for your project and reminded him how eager I am to create investment opportunities for out-of-state businesses. After hearing that, Paul was all in.”
“That is good news.”