“WHAT?” Jake snarled into the phone.

“Hey, man. What’s got up your nose?” Carl boomed, way too cheerful for a Monday morning.

Cynthia Baxter, that’s what. “Nothing. I’m pulling the plug on the Oceanic investigation. Adam wants me back on regular staff, and he’s right. Oceanic’s clean. There’s nothing there.” Certainly nothing left between him and one sexy accountant with a wandering eye. When was he going to stop letting himself get fooled like this? First Ashley, now Cyn. Jake was beginning to believe that whole innocent act of hers had been just that—an act designed to drive a normal red-blooded man insane.

What they’d shared had seemed so real. But it had turned out to be about as real as his suspicions about Oceanic.

“You think there’s nothing there, huh?”

“Quit rubbing it in. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“Might want to hear what I have to say.” Only now did the suppressed excitement in Carl’s voice register.

“Why?” Or it could be a practical joke, and he wasn’t in the mood.

“Lab results came back this morning on the chopstick.”

“What showed up?”

“Mostly tree wood.”

“Amazing.” In spite of this unhelpful beginning, Jake sensed this wasn’t a practical joke. Excitement pulled his belly muscles taut. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. There was a residue on the sticks. They’d come in contact with cocaine.”

“I’m listening.”

There was a pause on the other end; Jake knew Carl was building up for a payoff. “Then the lab tested the packaging it was wrapped in and hit the freakin’ jackpot.”

“The packaging?”

“Yep. It’s a pretty new process, but the lab guys have seen it before. Coke converted into bricks, acetate sheets, and now packaging material. Dogs can’t sniff it out, it fools the naked eye, it can easily go undetected. Unless a certain stubborn FBI wiseass just won’t give up. I’m mentioning no names here, but you might get an inkling of who I’m talking about.”

“Sneaky bastards.” Jake took a moment to savor the knowledge that Hank’s death would finally be vindicated. And if they were very careful, and very lucky, they’d get the network, not just one company—and maybe catch Hank’s murderer.

“Adam’s called a meeting this afternoon. He’s bringing in DEA, customs and the local cops.” Jake didn’t care. They could call in the Girl Scouts if it would help bust the network. “I’m on my way in. I don’t want just Oceanic, I want the whole damn network.”

“Want me to start the paperwork for wiretaps?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Hey, don’t you know somebody inside?”

“Not anymore. I gotta go.”

Jake didn’t waste time on the phone, but sprinted to Cynthia’s front door and started banging. She was just stubborn enough to go to work in spite of his orders. He had to stop her.

“Looking for Cynthia?”

No, the tooth fairy. “Yes,” he answered Mr. Edgar, the old guy who lived across the street. He was just straightening with his morning paper in hand.

“She left about half an hour ago. Earlier than usual.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t important.” Jake raised a hand in a casual salute, then sauntered back to his place, while inside his gut twisted. He was going to wring her goddamn neck.

If he was worried sick about her safety, he refused to acknowledge it.

IN A DEFIANT MOOD on Monday, Cynthia wore extra makeup and her red dress. As she walked slowly past reception, she realized her wardrobe choice was a bad idea. She couldn’t wear this suit without remembering that she’d worn it the first evening she and Jake had made love.

“Morning, Marilyn.”

Cyn had done her best to find out what was going on at Oceanic when Jake had given her no support, nothing to help her in her quest. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d given her grief for trying to investigate what was in those boxes, and he’d yanked her off her date with Neville before she had a chance to get any information out of him.

He’d also broken her heart and stomped all over it, but she wasn’t going there. Not this morning. She decided she’d cried all the tears she was ever going to cry over Jake Wheeler.

At the thought of never seeing him again, of the unfairness of his accusations, her lids started to prickle and she blinked hard. No tears. No. No. No!

As she headed toward her office with misery on her mind, she stopped dead in her tracks. The staid accounting department looked like a bridal bower. Dozens and dozens of roses…hundreds, possibly thousands of roses surrounded the place. Red ones, pink ones, yellow, white—in vases, bouquets and scattered on the floor and desk.

The perfume was dizzying.

And in the midst of it all was Agnes, looking harassed but ecstatic as she crammed roses into a coffee mug. Plan A from Saturday night may have been a total disaster, but Plan B, by all indications, had been an outrageous success.

“From George?” Cynthia asked.

A blushing Agnes just nodded her head. With her glow of happiness, she looked even better than she had right after the makeover. Surrounded by hothouse blooms, Agnes reminded Cynthia of a rose herself—a neglected back-garden rose bush that had been watered, fertilized and tended to bring it back to its full beauty. “We haven’t been apart since Saturday night,” she whispered, and blushed some more.

Cynthia gazed around at all the roses and a slow smile formed. “I’m guessing you both had a good time.”

Agnes giggled. It was a sound Cyn had never heard her make. “This one’s my favorite,” she said, pointing to a Chintzware teapot that was the base for a florist’s arrangement of roses and baby’s breath. There was a card attached.

“Forgive me, my darling,” it said.

“You’ve got to give the man credit,” Cynthia said, gazing around her. “When he apologizes, he apologizes.” A thought crossed her mind. “What about the, um…”

“Hotties?” Agnes asked with a slow smile. “They’re history. We talked for hours yesterday and he finally admitted he was tired of dating all those silly girls.” She sighed blissfully.

“That’s great, Agnes.”

The older woman held a pink rosebud to her cheek. “He asked me to marry him.”

Tears pricked Cynthia’s eyes. “Oh, Agnes. I’m so happy for you.” She crossed the room and hugged her.

“I don’t know how to thank you. I think deep down he always cared for me. We’ve been good friends for years, but until I took charge of my life and showed a little backbone, he could keep me as his friend and still see those much younger women.”

Cynthia nodded. She understood better than anybody how that could happen. “It wasn’t the hair dye, or the new clothes, it was the attitude behind them. The one that said ‘Look at me, look at who I really am.’ Those young women flattered his ego, but they didn’t challenge him, the way you do. They didn’t share a history, the way you do.”

“Yes.” Agnes leaned forward and buried her nose in the roses stuffed into the coffee mug, and Cynthia would have bet money she was reminiscing about some particularly juicy moment from the weekend. “I’m sorry I abandoned you the other night. How did the rest of your date go?”

“Dismally. My house alarm went off so I had to go home.” Cynthia shrugged. “Then Neville left.”

Impulsively, Agnes touched her arm, “Don’t look so downcast, dear. Things will work out.”

“No. It’s too late.” She sighed sadly, then raised her head to stare at her coworker. How could Agnes possibly know about Jake? Then she realized Agnes must think she was breaking her heart over the creepy Neville.

How could she possibly explain? It wasn’t Neville she’d cried over. It wasn’t Neville she yearned for, body and soul. It wasn’t Neville she loved so much her teeth ached when she thought about him.

And it wasn’t Neville who’d dumped her on her butt.

She forced a cheery smile and congratulated Agnes again. “I’d better get some work done.”

WITH A SIGH, she pulled up her month-end files. She started with the pension files. As she was scanning the monthly payouts, she gasped as a very familiar name caught her eye.

Dominic Torreo. That was the name of one of the pensioners. It was also the name of the murdered drug dealer she’d read about in the newspaper.

While her heart pounded and excitement flooded her brain, Cynthia forced herself not to jump to any conclusions. There could be more than one Dominic Torreo, after all. The retired Oceanic employee could be one hundred and five and living in a Florida trailer park for all she knew.

She clicked on the pension file titled Service Record and a prickle skipped down her spine. The file was password protected. She thought she’d opened all the files, but she must have missed this one. It was the first she’d come across that required a password. It was a sizable file, too. She’d assumed it held nothing more interesting than vital stats on the company’s retired employees. But perhaps the title was just camouflage.

Was this the hidden stash of secrets?

Or was the file password-protected simply because it contained sensitive information? But she had lots of sensitive information on her computer, none of which was elaborately secured. Why add an extra layer of security to just one file?

“Take some flowers.” Agnes entered her office and broke into Cynthia’s reverie. “I need to make some room on my desk.”

Cyn chuckled, accepting the vase of yellow roses. She buried her nose in the butter-colored blooms. “Mmm. They smell wonderful.”

“That foolish man. This must have cost him a small fortune.” Agnes tut-tutted, but she couldn’t keep the delighted grin off her face.

“And you are worth every petal,” Cynthia reminded her sternly. “Don’t forget it.” She placed the roses on her desk and then said, “Um, Agnes, I’m trying to get some information on a retired employee, but my file seems to be corrupted. You have a duplicate set, don’t you?”

“Yes. On my computer. Shall I—”

“That’s all right. I’ll come and have a look.”

“Who is it?” Agnes asked as she pulled up the pension files.

“His name is Dominic Torreo.”

Agnes shook her head. “I don’t recognize the name, but Neville bought out a company a few years ago and, good-hearted man that he is, provided full pensions for all their retirees.”

Good-hearted wasn’t the epithet that was springing to Cynthia’s mind at the moment. Still, she wouldn’t jump to conclusions. “That’s the one.” Cynthia pointed to Service Record. “I think it’s possible Mr. Torreo’s being overcompensated. I want to check his record. Don’t mention anything to George or Neville, will you? I wouldn’t want to make trouble for anyone until I’m certain of my facts.”

“Of course not. I’m just glad you’re so diligent. In my opinion you’re a much better accountant than your predecessor.”

“Thanks.” Cyn printed off the entire file, noting as she did so that it was much smaller than the file with the same name on her own computer. And it wasn’t password-protected.

Back in her office, she read through the file. Dominic Torreo was listed as sixty-seven years old. His pension checks were deposited directly into a bank account here in Seattle. Scanning through the files, Cynthia was amazed at the number of pensioners who also had their monthly checks deposited automatically to accounts in the same bank. Delighted with her own cleverness, she spun in her chair. Things were looking up in the spy business.

Until she tried getting into Harrison’s secret file. Then her espionage skills began to seem as feeble as ever. But she was determined to crack the code, today.

She’d evaded Jake this morning, leaving super early with some vague idea of taking one final inspection of Oceanic, as though there was some vital clue she’d overlooked. She had, too. She’d overlooked the secrets in the pension files. Now at least she had something to give Jake—evidence that might just help track down the drug network that had been responsible for his friend’s death.

If she could crack Harrison’s password and unearth the second set of books, she’d know she’d struck her own blow against the illegal drug trade.

If it did nothing else for her, trying to crack Harrison’s password took her mind off the utter wreck that was her love life. After grabbing a gigantic cup of coffee, Cyn sat at her desk, pulled the keyboard toward her and got to work. All her skills and training came into play as she attempted to outsmart another accountant. It was like being inside a giant sneaky, snaky maze. Dead end after dead end slapped her in the face as she tried to find the entrance to Harrison’s secret file.

Of course, the file might turn out to be nothing more interesting than a backup of his home accounts. That was the sort of prudent thing any accountant might do, and it would be perfectly understandable that Harrison would hide the files. But somehow, she didn’t think this file was innocent.

She pulled out a notebook and recorded every password combination she tried. She pulled up old payroll records and gleaned his birth date, middle name, address and phone number. Nothing. She let her mind drift. If she were Harrison, what would she do?

She stared at the colorful blooms on her desk, a faint replica of Agnes’s smile on her own lips. Whatever happened, she knew she’d carry away the knowledge that she’d helped two people find love. It wasn’t the job she’d been sent to Oceanic to do, but at least it was something good.

She sighed, and went back to code cracking. The FBI must have programs that could work on breaking codes. She could simply turn the whole problem over to them.

She glanced at her watch. It was four o’clock. She’d give herself an hour more to work on it, then she’d report her findings to Jake and her mission would be—not accomplished, but over. Oh, but if she could crack the code herself!

Once the investigation was complete, no doubt Jake would move out of Mrs. Jorgensen’s house and back to wherever he came from.

If he didn’t move, she would. His accusations on Saturday night, his belief that she was “easy with her favors” as her mother might have put it—well, if he believed that was possible, he couldn’t love her as she loved him. And the new Cyn the Bold wouldn’t accept less than complete love and trust. Somewhere was a man who would love her as she deserved to be loved.

Who knew where she might find him? Once she’d finished up here, she’d follow Harrison’s example and hop a plane somewhere exotic for a well-earned vacation. She was absolutely not going to hang around Seattle moping.

She had her pride.

It was pride that made her redouble her efforts to crack Harrison’s code before the end of the day.

“Think, think,” she chastised herself.

She refused to be daunted by the endless possibilities. She got up and began to pace the small office. She knew herself that passwords were difficult to remember. That’s why so many people made themselves vulnerable choosing their middle names or wedding anniversaries, and used the same password for everything.

A combination of numbers, letters, upper and lowercase, and symbols were the hardest to crack, and the toughest to remember. At home she’d taped a note to the underside of her keyboard reminding herself that her banking password was her high school locker combination and the initials of her grades one and three teachers. Who but an accountant would remember such things years later?

Might Harrison have had his own little reminder system somewhere handy to his computer?

She felt like slapping herself upside the head. She’d never thought of the obvious.

In a flash she crossed back to the computer and flipped up the keyboard. Nothing but the manufacturer’s name and a serial number appeared there. With a mental shrug, Cynthia tried several combinations of the letters and numerals, but got nothing.

She tapped her fingers on the desktop. Think. She flipped the monitor around, checked underneath and then began searching desk drawers for clues.

Nothing.

She turned her chair this way and that, then got on her hands and knees and checked the undersides of the armrests and seat. While she was on all fours she crawled under the desk.

“Cynthia?” At the sound of Neville Percivald’s puzzled voice, her head flew up and with a loud thwack banged the underside of the desk.

“Ow,” she cried, and with tears of pain blurring her vision, she emerged. She could just imagine how she must look, her red clad derriere twitching as she crawled backward. That’s if the tight skirt hadn’t hiked up so high—

A gentleman would turn his back. Unfortunately, she could feel Neville’s ungentlemanly gaze glued to her backside like a branding iron. She gave an extra wiggle to her hips to camouflage her actions as she fumbled one of her red beaded earrings out of her ear.

By the time she’d dragged herself to her feet, rubbing the bump on her head, she was able to display the jewelry in her other palm. “Dropped an earring,” she said breezily.

He nodded. His eyes looked dazed and he was breathing a bit rapidly. It made her feel like the star attraction in some cheesy peep show.

“It appears Father’s date was more successful than ours the other night,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the floral boutique that used to be front-office accounting.

“Yes. Your stepfather and Agnes seem well suited.”

“I was hoping to find out how well suited we might be, the other night.” The door of her office clicked shut behind him, and instinctively she moved closer to her phone. If he tried anything, she could call security, or failing that, bash him with the handset. Her ick antenna was on full alert. It was amazing that he could look so very upright and newsanchorish and be such a perv.

“Yes, well. Some other time.” Like when they were hosting skating parties in hell.

He moved a step closer and her fingers inched nearer the phone. “How about tonight?”

“Sorry, I already have plans.” Plans that did not include whips, chains, leather or private rooms in a BDSM club. She suppressed a shudder at the thought.

“Tomorrow night?”

If she hadn’t already planned to blow this joint, she’d be planning it right this second. She debated going with the I’m-not-sure-it’s-a-good-idea-to-date-people-at-work routine, but she’d already accepted a date with him once, so that was out.

She could claim she was planning on entering a nunnery, which, given her recent experiences with men, wasn’t such a bad idea. But she wasn’t Catholic, which made the whole thing sound fishy even to her own ears.

There was always the lesbian angle, but Neville seemed the type who might want to watch—as in the “Ladies Choice” fantasy in the “Erotically Advanced” section of Raunch.

Double ick to that.

Instead she sighed and said, “Can I let you know tomorrow?”

His lips pursed in annoyance. “I suppose so,” he answered stiffly.

Darn. She should have gone with the nunnery. Now he probably thought she was playing hard to get, when in fact, she planned to be impossible to get. She didn’t plan on working here tomorrow—or any other day.

She was itching to get back to sleuthing. This was her last chance to crack Harrison’s code and prove to…herself that she had what it took to be a great undercover agent.

Marching to the door, she held it open. “Well, thanks for dropping by. I do need to get those month-end reports finished up.”

Petulantly, he snapped, “Till tomorrow, then.”

Apart from a grade A extra-large egg on her head, she had nothing to show for her attempts to guess Harrison’s password. There’d been nothing under the desktop but a couple of rocklike lumps of ancient chewing gum.

Hopelessly, she punched in every flavor and brand of chewing gum she could think of and got the same response to each. Invalid Password.

If she were a woman of violence, she’d throw the computer out the window. The words Invalid Password seemed to have burned into her retina. She had a feeling she’d see them for the rest of her life, every time she closed her eyes.

Time was running out. She knew she could outsmart Harrison, if she could just think!

The answer was probably sitting right in front of her nose, and she couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

She gazed ahead, a vague imprint of Invalid Password stamped across her vision like a neon aura. She blinked a few times, focusing on the Daytona 500 poster on the wall in front of her. Funny, of all the things people had mentioned about her predecessor, nobody had commented on his passion for racing. If she were staying here she’d replace the framed poster with something more to her taste.

She stared at it for a moment. Had Harrison attended the Daytona 500 in 2015? If he wanted the souvenir, why didn’t he take it with him when he left? Her eyes widened and she gasped. Large letters, small letters, numbers. It was so obvious, it couldn’t be.

Could it?

Had the code been literally staring her in the face all these weeks?

Taking a shaky breath, she typed in “Daytona5002015.”

Invalid Password.

“2015Daytona500.”

Invalid Password.

As a last resort, she typed the whole thing backward:

“5102005anotyaD” and hit Enter.

Like a key turning in a well-oiled lock, the password opened Harrison’s secret file.

Her cry of delight could have been heard at the German deli two blocks away. She wanted to jump up and down and shout her success to anyone who’d listen. Then she clamped her lips shut, remembering this was top-secret stuff. Quickly, she opened one of her month-end statements on screen, covering over the telltale file. After five minutes, when her scream had drawn no curious visitors, she dared to take a peek at Harrison’s secret file.

Her stomach had tied itself into knots of excitement and her fingers trembled slightly on the keyboard as she studied the columns of numbers on her screen. It was a set of books, all right, but she knew immediately they weren’t for Harrison’s home accounts. They were for the company.

It didn’t take her five minutes to realize that this was Aladdin’s cave, the treasure trove of secret evidence she’d been looking for. These books contained categories not listed in the “cover books” she’d been working on.

Harrison had been clever, she had to give him that. Her accountant’s mind appreciated the subtleties that had allowed him to create a set of phony books that probably would have passed muster during an IRS audit.

She lost herself in the document, the way a mystery fan gets lost in a thriller. Grabbing her notebook, she made notes as she went. When she reached the bottom of the document, her eyes bugged out. She couldn’t believe it!

A list of names and addresses in the U.S. And in Colombia.

“Good night, Cynthia. Don’t work too late,” Agnes said, popping her head in the open office door, the Chintzware pot of roses in her hand.

“Hmm?” Cynthia glanced up, stunned. It couldn’t be the end of the day—could it? “Oh, good night, Agnes.”

“I’d stay late to help you with the month end, but I’ve got a date tonight,” the older woman said with shy pride.

Cyn grinned at her. “Month end? Oh, don’t worry about it. Have a great time.”

Once Agnes left, Cynthia’s face sobered suddenly. There was a good chance that George’s stepson was up to his bland eyeballs in crime.

Doug Ormond and Lester Dart were clearly part of it.

Harrison had used an abbreviated code, kind of a personal shorthand, but D.O. and L.D. seemed clear enough.

Not wanting to call any suspicion to herself by working too late, she crossed to the supply cupboard for a thumb drive so she could transfer a copy of the suspicious files. Then her job would be done and Jake and the FBI could take over.

She wouldn’t gloat, she decided, as she began copying files. The words I told you so would not pass her lips. Instead, she’d be coolly professional. Cyn the Bold reporting in—mission accomplished. Well, maybe she’d polish up her mother’s sterling tray so she could literally deliver the goods on a silver platter.

She copied files as quickly as she could. The outer offices were hushed, and now that she was filling her bag full of incriminating evidence, she wanted to get the hell out of Dodge as fast as possible.

“Come on, come on,” she encouraged the computer, as though she could make it copy the files faster.

She glanced at her watch. Almost six. It would look strange if she didn’t leave soon. Almost there. She was almost there…

Done. She dropped the thumb drive in her bag and sighed with relief.

A knock sounded on her open door and she jerked her head up to see Neville, a bland smile on his face.

“Hi, Neville,” she said brightly, while panic seized her chest. With a jerky mouse click, she pulled up her month-end file to cover the incriminating evidence of her snooping.

“You’re working late, my dear.” He stated the obvious, moving closer.

“Just finishing up a few things for month end,” she chirped, standing and turning to face him so her body shielded the screen.

He came even closer and toyed with a pencil on the corner of her desk. “Agnes had a word with me before she left.”

“Agnes?”

“Yes.” His face flushed slightly. “She said you’d been crying.”

“Of course I haven’t been crying.” Not for hours, anyway; she’d been too caught up spying to even think about Jake’s defection.

“Your eyes are rather puffy, and a bit red,” he pointed out.

“That’s just, uh, allergies,” she managed to murmur.

He dropped his gaze. “Agnes was under the impression that I hurt your feelings by leaving the other night.”

Oh, Agnes, you didn’t. “No. No, of course not. Agnes must have made a mistake.”

There was a pause. And when he spoke again his tone had changed so completely, he didn’t even sound like the same man. “She wasn’t the only one who made a mistake.” Neville’s voice was cold as lead.

She turned to him in surprise and found him staring at the notepad on her desk—the one she’d used to jot down the most incriminating pieces of information from Harrison’s file.

“Neville, that’s not—” She reached for the pad of paper, but his hand slapped down on it so hard she felt the impact quiver through her palm.

“I think you’ve made a very big mistake, my dear.”

She heard voices from the hall, voices she recognized. Eddie from shipping, and Doug Ormond. Maybe they could help her? Even as she thought it, Neville strode to the door to call them in.

While his back was turned, she grabbed the phone and frantically punched in Jake’s emergency number, her fingertips slipping with sweat.

“Put down the phone, Cynthia,” Neville said in that same cold, inhuman tone.

She glanced over her shoulder. The man she’d once thought so harmless and pleasant had a gun trained on her back. He was flanked on either side by Eddie and Doug Ormond, all three looking grim and murderous.

She put down the phone.