Charade

But he had also seen her as a liability, and now as he stared out into the night, with the haze of their kiss beginning to fade, he focused on other, less sexy parts of their incendiary encounter. In particular, he reminded himself of her accusation: that he had been conducting a vendetta against her.

Those words had shocked him, but didn’t they hold a grain of truth? He had been uncomfortable with the idea of handling her, right from the start. Not because of her social and financial advantages, real or imagined, but because of her motivation. Because to Jeff, motive was everything when it came to evaluating an asset.

He could respect straight, uncomplicated revenge as a motivator. It actually made things simple. And he also appreciated the most common incentive of the garden-variety snitch—cold, hard cash.

In contrast, he didn’t trust an asset whom the Bureau was manipulating into cooperation by threat of imprisonment. Nor was he comfortable with someone whose sole motive contained any other element of fear. It made them too emotional, which in turn led to surprises and complications.

Jeff Crossman didn’t like complications.

Because of your normalness, he reminded himself, but his goofy smile faded quickly. He needed to stop fantasizing about how sexy and vulnerable she had been at her apartment, and start remembering the reason he had gone there in the first place.

To apologize, yes, but also to have a talk—the talk they should have had that first day, when she had walked into Jeff’s downtown office, a tentative smile on her face, her hand outstretched to meet him. She had looked so pretty. So hopeful. So very, very dangerous.

Because as a professional, he had forced himself that day to look past the pretty face, the waist-long wavy hair and dynamite body—to see into her heart, her soul, her brain. And he had seen a needy daughter whose father had devastated her with betrayal and hurt so intense, she now needed to lash out at him—or more precisely, at the world that had created him. The world that had allowed Frankie Bracciali to order a hit on his own beloved wife, Sasha’s mother, because of alleged marital infidelity.

Not that Sasha had been willing to work directly against her father. She had been clear about that from the start, insisting that Frankie Bracciali and his organization were off-limits. She would, however, use her contacts and background to help bring down anyone else.

It had seemed too good to be true. And then she had looked Jeff right in the eye and told him confidently that it wouldn’t make sense to waste time on her father’s dealings in any event, because “these days, ninety-nine percent of Dad’s business is legitimate.”

Those words, more than anything, had confirmed Jeff’s belief that Sasha was a deluded, emotional girl who still loved her father as fiercely as ever. If it came to a choice between Frankie Bracciali and an investigation—and that day was bound to come—pretty little Sasha would choose her father over law and order without a moment’s hesitation.

Jeff didn’t blame her for that. Didn’t judge her for it as a daughter, or as a human being. But in her capacity as an asset, he had believed it made her worthless.

Over the ensuing months she had done a good job. A great job, in fact. But it wasn’t until the Martino wedding that she had conclusively proved Jeff wrong. She had been nothing short of brilliant at that reception, even before she got a shot of Vincent the Butcher’s renovated face with her crazy-ass bra-cam. Just the way she had handled herself—so cool, so professional—had impressed her reluctant handler beyond words.

Anyone else would have been distracted and subverted by waves of nostalgia and confusion, but not Sasha. Despite her clear affection for the bride and her warm history with the Martino family in general, she had been all business. Completely focused on the ultimate goal—finding a way to track down and apprehend Vincent “the Butcher” Martino.

And man, had she delivered.

To Jeff’s discredit, he hadn’t been willing to accept the truth right away. Instead he had struggled with it, weighing her every word, every movement, intent on finding proof that her emotional ties to Antonio Martino—the man she affectionately called “zio Antonio”—provided justification for not fully trusting her. It was only when she had walked out of the debriefing, her head held high, her long legs and pretty ass mocking him with every stride, that he had realized it was time to admit the truth.

He had been wrong. From the start. About everything.

She was an incredible find, an invaluable asset and one-effing-hell of a female.

And for reasons that had made perfect sense at the time, he had felt the need to tell her that. In person. Right away, even though the hour was late and she was probably in bed. He had convinced himself he had to go over there—to her personal residence—and apologize right away.

Now he knew better. Somewhere along the line, his body had taken over, conning his mind into thinking his purpose was to talk, when all the while, he had had a much more basic objective: to act on impulses that had been suppressed and denied for so many months, he hadn’t even remembered they were there until it was too late. Until he was drowning in her eyes. In her silk-clad curves. In her kiss.

Un-effing-believable, Crossman.

“I guess you’ve heard I’ve been working with the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit. But only as an asset, Allison, not an agent,” Sasha explained with an apologetic smile. “I’m flattered—and trust me, I’ll gladly do whatever you ask—but I’m a little confused. There are so many other alumni with more impressive qualifications and relevant experience. Really outstanding women in every sense of the word. So? Why me?”

Allison pursed her lips. “I should probably start at the beginning. But let me just say first, I disagree with your self-assessment. Your qualifications are as impressive as any Athena Academy student, past or present.”

Sasha felt her cheeks redden, and she knew it wasn’t just from embarrassment over the praise. It was also confusion, because whatAllison had just said simply wasn’t true. Athena alumni included daring pilots, skillful spies and computer geniuses. There was simply no way Sasha could compete with them, nor did she want to. She was a dress designer who moonlighted as an FBI informant, and she was perfectly content with that life.

Allison cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s what we have so far in a nutshell. The two students are Teal Arnett, age seventeen, and fifteen-year-old Lena Poole. They each have amazing abilities. Superabilities, in fact. Strength, speed, and in Teal’s case, some talent as a psychic. Coincidentally, both of the girls’mothers were treated at the same fertility clinic before they were born. Thanks to another Athena alumna we know now that their eggs—and those of many other girls—were genetically enhanced by unscrupulous scientists. Anyway—” she paused for a deep breath “—we weren’t aware of the girls’ superabilities when we invited them to attend AthenaAcademy. Believe me, they were more than qualified based on high IQs and athletic accomplishments.”

Sasha knew her eyes were wide with childlike disbelief but she didn’t care. “My God, it’s so amazing. There was nothing on the news about any enhanced abilities. But that’s why the kidnappers targeted these particular students, right? They want to study them. But to what end?”

Allison smiled. “That’s the very reason Teal refused to be rescued, to find that out.

“She managed to get a psychic message to one of our contacts, and we were able to track them from Los Angeles to Colombia.”

“Wow.”

Allison sighed. “Before we could reach them in Colombia, they were moved again. Somehow the kidnappers knew we were going to make the rescue attempt.”

“Because they intercepted Teal’s psychic message?”

“No. Her talent doesn’t work that way. We think they had someone on the inside, at the Academy or perhaps at the NSA.”

“Oh no.”

Allison nodded grimly. “In any case, we were able to get our hands on the other girl, Lena, thank God. But they took Teal to Prague. We had a nearly successful rescue there, and we found out about other girls with genetic enhancements. Unfortunately, they got away with Teal again, but we were able to apprehended a doctor named Jeremy Loschetter who was involved with the scheme. He provided some useful information about the person who organized the original abduction, a blackmailer named Arachne who has an interest in genetic research. We aren’t sure how everything ties together, or whether Arachne is also involved with the group who has Teal now, but we’re exploring all options.”

“‘We’ being the NSA?”

Allison paused again, this time for a sip of water. Then she murmured, “I belong to another, smaller group. Once you’re officially on board, I’ll share all that with you.”

“I’m on board,” Sasha assured her. “I still don’t quite get why you chose me, but it’s too late now. You’re stuck with me till Teal is safe.”

“Good.”

Seeing that Allison was uncomfortable with what had to be said next, Sasha prompted her cheerfully. “How does a Mafia princess with a vendetta against her own father fit into all this?”

Allison’s perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in gentle disapproval. “That’s an odd way to characterize yourself. But you’re correct. Your connection to your father’s organization makes you the perfect woman for this assignment.” She hesitated, then asked, “How much do you know about what’s happening in Kestonia these days?”

“Kestonia?” Sasha grimaced. “They just had a bloody coup, led by a ruthless autocrat named Vlad something-or-other. Oh no! You’re not saying Teal is in that hellhole, are you?”

“I’m afraid so. The men who thwarted our last rescue attempt were Kestonian.”

“Oh no.”

“Access to the area isn’t just restricted. It’s virtually impenetrable. Vlados Zelasko has an iron grip on the borders. On everything, in fact.”

“Why would he want Teal?” Sasha wondered aloud. “Isn’t he busy solidifying his power base? The area has to be unstable and vulnerable. Doesn’t he have enemies to contend with?”

“He killed them all, apparently. As a result, his regime is supremely secure, at least for the moment. His next step, according to his public statements, is to put Kestonia on the map. One way to do that is to involve his country in international trade. Black-market-style trading, mostly.”

“That’s where I come in?” Sasha guessed. “You think Dad might have some way of contacting this guy?”

“Almost certainly. There’s a gathering of various crime lords in Kestonia this week. From all over Europe, and from the U.S., as well. Zelasko will meet with the underworld chieftains, then cap it off with an ostentatious ball to showcase his new regime.”

“Right! I remember reading about that,” Sasha agreed, thinking back to a colorful spread in one of her design magazines. “He wants to prove that Kestonia isn’t drab and standoffish, so he’s inviting dignitaries and royalty from around the world. It should be a fashion bonanza, especially because the guy is so totally photogenic.”

“They say he’s mesmerizing in person,” Alison confirmed.