Another bad night. Another strange feeling. Almost like I’m being watched. But something’s different this time. It’s closer. Scarier.

I brew a second cup of coffee and tell myself to shake it off when Miranda, the receptionist, walks into the break room.

“Morning, Eve.” She pushes the button on the coffee machine and studies me as black liquid fills her cup. Her head is cocked to the side. “Didn’t sleep again, huh?”

I’ve known Miranda for a little over a year and I’m still not sure I like her. Or trust her. But maybe the latter’s my own fault. My own nature. Maybe it’s the fact I can’t be trusted that I’m unable to trust anyone else.

“It’s too hot,” I lie.

“Mm-hmm,” she says and gives me a wink.

I walk past her and check my watch. “I’ve got to go. New client Devon wants me to meet.”

“I saw him.” Miranda waggles her eyebrows. “You always get the hot ones.”

I give her a half smile. “You think every man who walks in here is hot.”

She turns her attention to her cup of coffee, pouring milk and sugar into it. “True.”

I walk to my office, which is beside Devon’s. Devon is my boss. He owns Alderson Realty. It’s a small, family-run business that goes back almost a hundred years. It was started by his great-great-grandfather, Marty Alderson, and has been passed down through the generations. I’ve been working here since I got to Denver, which was about six months after arriving in the country. Here, I’m Eve Adams. And to hear me speak, anyone would think I was a native-born American. My looks give away my roots, but apart from one or two questions on background—which I lie about—most people assume I’m second-or third-generation and leave it at that.

My name change, it wasn’t my decision. I wanted to keep El-Amin, but couldn’t. I needed to become a different person after that night for so many reasons. And I’m trying hard to be Eve Adams. But there’s that old saying: wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am.

No matter how much time goes by, it’s like the past is still right here—my constant companion—always reminding me.

At my desk, I set my coffee down and take a deep breath before gathering my folders. The new client Devon wants me to meet is looking for a large property with lots of acreage. I heard the numbers and if we can get this job, it’ll be a big deal for us. I know the firm needs the money. Alderson Realty has held its own for a while, but with increased competition from larger realtors and the market being what it is, the future doesn’t look very promising.

My cell phone buzzes with a text message. I don’t need to read the display to know Devon’s waiting for me with the client. I’m running late, and he showed up early. I type a quick reply telling him I’m on my way, gather the things I need and head to the conference room. Miranda gives me a wink when I pass her desk and I roll my eyes. Once I get to the conference room door, I double check my appearance in the full-length mirror on the wall, adjust the skirt of my suit, then push the door open.

“Ah, there she is,” Devon says.

He’s facing me, sitting at the head of the table that seats twelve. He rises and touches the chair to his right. My usual seat. The client’s sitting at the other end of the table with his back to me, but he’s so close I catch a whiff of his aftershave, which seems familiar for some strange reason. He doesn’t stand or turn to greet me as I enter.

“Good morning,” I start, closing the door. I can only see the back of the client’s head. He has short, neatly trimmed dark hair, big, really broad shoulders and thick arms. It’s almost as though the chair isn’t quite wide enough for his muscular build. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, my brain trying to process the memory of the aftershave he’s wearing and the odd feeling that accompanies it. I walk around the table, eyes on my folders and the too-full cup of coffee I should have drunk before coming in here.

“No problem,” the client says.

I stop. My heart stumbles over a beat as my breath catches in my throat and that feeling of something being wrong, that I’m being watched, suddenly grips me.

“I’m early,” he adds.

In my periphery, I see he’s rising to his feet and something about that moment—his words, his voice, him—and…oh my God.

I remember why the aftershave is familiar.

A brick lands in my belly, and I stumble backward.

“Eve?” It’s Devon, he’s taken a step toward me.

I clear my throat and feel the blood drain from my face as I look up. I don’t look at the client. Not yet. I smile weakly at Devon instead.

“Are you all right? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I manage, but don’t recognize my voice. I hear the old accent creeping back into my words. I turn slowly to face the man now standing beside Devon, watching me intently.

And I feel sick.

He’s smiling. I recognize that smile.

It’s not the nice one.

His eyes have gone dark, darker than I remember, and I notice scars that weren’t there before that night. He looks out of place, too big, too wild, too savage to be wearing a suit that barely contains him. He’s huge. Much bigger than before. Is that possible, or is that just my memory playing with me? Guilt fucking with my mind?

Devon comes around the table to take the folders and coffee cup out of my hands.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asks with an embarrassed smile.

“I…” I can’t take my eyes off him. But it can’t be. He’s dead. He died two years ago. He died in the explosion along with everyone else.

“Maybe you should open a window,” he says to Devon, nonchalantly. “She looks like she needs some air.”

“I’m fine.” It takes all I have to speak like I’ve trained myself to. Like an American. My voice trembles, and I lower myself into the chair Devon’s pulled out for me. I still can’t drag my eyes away from him, though.

“I’ll get you some water,” Devon says.

“No!” The water station is out in the hallway and I don’t want to be alone with him. I can’t be.

“All right then. Eve, this is the client I told you about, Michael Beckham. Michael, my top agent, Eve Adams.”

Michael Beckham?

No. Not Michael Beckham.

His eyes narrow a little as one corner of his mouth curls upward. I see menace on his face, in his eyes. I see his scrutiny. It’s him. I have no doubt. Master Sergeant Zach Amado come back to life.

“Eve, are you sure—” Devon starts.

“I’m fine. Truly.” I pick up my coffee cup and bring it to my lips. My hands tremble so much it’s a wonder I don’t spill the contents onto my lap, but I manage the smallest of sips and it calms me a little. I set the cup down and steel myself. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Beckham,” I hear myself say with a voice that sounds slightly more like that of Eve Adams.

He extends his hand to me. I’d hoped the table between us might save me from having to shake it. I look at it for a moment, then place mine inside his.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Adams, was it?”

He squeezes.

I flinch.

“Eve is fine.”

“Eve,” he says with a nod, still holding my hand. His eyes are intent on me and I remember how once, one of his men tried to call me baby in Arabic and he’d slammed his fist down on the table. He hadn’t even needed to reprimand the soldier verbally. I was to be treated respectfully. I was, after all, risking my life helping the American soldiers.

But it turned out I didn’t help them at all.

Michael—Master Sergeant Zach Amado—releases my hand.

“Eve pulled some properties for you,” Devon starts.

I’m not paying attention to Devon though. I don’t know if Zach is either. He won’t stop staring at me, and I can’t look away. Not until he releases me from his gaze a full minute later. He and Devon begin going over the properties while I open my notebook and pretend to take notes.

I don’t understand what’s happening. He’s supposed to be dead. I don’t know how I feel about him not being dead. Good, I think. Relieved? It’s one less life on my conscience.

Like that will make any difference.

I sneak a glance. He’s facing Devon. God, I remember him so freaking well. Everything about him. Things you never think about, like the cowlick at his hairline. The dimple on his right cheek when he smiles. How thick his dark hair was—is—and how tanned his skin would get in the Mediterranean sun. Darker than the others. But he’s half-Italian, half-Portuguese. Born in America and raised in Italy. He has two brothers. That was all I knew about him. All anyone knew, as far as I could tell. He didn’t talk about his family or his past. And for a man in his early twenties, he seemed like he had a lot of past.

“Eve, you won’t mind doing that, will you?” Devon asks.

“W-what? Sorry,” I shake my head. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Taking Michael to the first two appointments. There’s some personal business at my daughter’s school I have to handle,” he explains to Michael.

“Oh, me?” I do this all the time. I always take clients to view houses. I love that part of the job most of all, actually.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Devon asks again.

“Uh, I know Miranda—”

The look I get from Devon cuts me off. We both know Miranda.

“If Eve is uncomfortable…” Zach starts.

I wonder if Devon hears the dare in his tone.

“She isn’t uncomfortable, are you, Eve?” Devon asks.

“No. Not at all,” I reply.

“Good.” Devon rises. “That’s settled then.” Zach stands too, and he towers over Devon. “It’s good to meet you, Michael. I have every confidence we’ll be able to find you a beautiful new home.” They shake hands.

“I have no doubt,” Zach says.

They both turn to me and I realize I’m still sitting down. I nod my head and collect the folders while I rise to my feet. “If you’re ready then, um, Michael,” I say and the name he’s using catches in my throat.

“We’ll take my truck,” he says.

“But it’s—”

He stops me with a look. “We’ll take my truck.”

“Yes, si—” I catch myself before calling him sir, like I used to.

My faltering makes him smile a little and if Devon notices how weird that was, he doesn’t let on. A moment later, Devon is gone and we’re alone in the room. Devon’s left the door open though. Thank goodness.

I turn my attention to Zach. My throat is as dry as the desert as I look at him, really look at him. He always had tattoos but I see now he has more. Something—a snake, maybe two—winding up along his throat. But that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the other side of his neck. The scarring there. Burns. From that night.

“Ever feel fire lick your skin, Eve?” he asks.

I realize I’ve been staring too long. And he’s been watching me all that time. I drag my eyes to his. Force myself to look at him.

“Ever smell human flesh burn?” he adds.

I’m sweating, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“It’s like a fucking barbecue.” He laughs, but it’s not funny. Not even to him. “Seared hamburger.”

What does he know? How much can he know? He’s using an alias, as am I, but mine was given to me by the US government. Mine is stamped inside a passport. He’s supposed to be dead. They said he was a casualty of the failed mission.

He sighs deeply. “Let’s go.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” I ask stupidly.

He’s already taken a step toward the door, but he stops and turns to me. “In the flesh. Albeit slightly charred flesh. We need to go.”

“Where?”

He walks back to the table, then comes around it to stand a foot from me. The only thing between us is the stack of folders I’m holding with a death grip. My heart is racing and I feel a droplet of sweat slide down my temple. His gaze travels over my face, moving down to my exposed neck, pausing at my throat, the pulse there, then drifts to where my breasts heave with every labored breath. He drags his eyes slowly back up to mine, and gives me a smirk. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. How he’s making me feel. How nervous I am.

And he likes it.

When his hand moves, I gasp. He freezes for a moment—we both do, then he touches a folder.

What the hell did I expect he’d do?

“To the first house, of course,” he says.

“What do you want?”

He leans in close to me. Close enough I can feel his breath on my face. “Careful,” he starts in a whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “Your accent’s creeping in. You’ll give yourself away.”

“Oh, good, you’re still here.” It’s Miranda at the door. She stops short when she sees us. Can she feel the tension in the air? This weighted, heavy, almost palpable thing between us? It takes her a moment but she shoots a flirtatious look at Zach, drags it over his thick chest before holding a piece of paper out to me. “Lockbox code for the McKinney property changed. Break-in.”

“Oh,” I say. But I’m still standing there like an idiot.

“Thank you,” Zach says, taking the slip of paper from her.

I look at him, then at her.

“It’s no trouble,” Miranda starts. “In fact, if you need anything, Mr. Beckham—”

“Michael, please,” he says, his tone different.

She smiles like a teenage girl.

“I’m sure Eve here will be happy to help me with anything I may need,” Zach says, not missing a beat, his expression still flirtatious though, at least when he’s talking to her.

“Oh, yeah, okay.” Miranda shrugs. “I’m just right out there, in case.” She stands there another minute twirling her hair.

She’s so obvious it’s embarrassing to watch. And it animates me.

“We should go,” I say, wanting to get whatever is coming over with. I know he’s not going to hurt me. If that was his plan, he’d have come to my house. Not here. Not where people would see him.

“Okay then,” Miranda says. “Bye.” Obviously disappointed, she walks out of the conference room.

He shifts his gaze and our eyes meet.

“It’s you, isn’t it? Moving things around, in my house.”

“You really should get better locks, habibi.”

Baby. That’s the word that had pissed him off when one of his soldiers had used it. It’s a term of endearment in Arabic. But he’s not using it that way.

No.

He’s making sure I know I’ve lost his protection.

In fact, he’s the one I’ll need protecting from.