The last time Natalia had broken into a man’s house, she’d murdered him. She couldn’t guarantee tonight wouldn’t end the same way.
But she couldn’t pull the trigger. Not yet. Not until she knew why.
Not until she knew if Ethan, friend or foe or something else entirely, posed a threat to Ana Maria. Then, and only then, could she forge a path forward.
The idea of killing him, of holding his hand as he died, chilled her. But if push came to shove, she would.
She prayed Ethan would give her a reason to look the other way. Stupid and dangerous and so unacceptably naive of her, but Natalia believed the man she’d spent the day uncovering, researching, and piecing together was a good man.
Smart. Kind. Compassionate.
The yearbooks—five of them in total, because of course he’d been a fifth-year MBA—had painted a picture of someone driven but also down-to-earth. Someone who tutored high school students and ran 10Ks for cancer research. Someone who’d likely had six-figure job offers but, according to a profile in the University of Pennsylvania paper, had chosen the military instead. None of it made sense, and until it did, until he explained himself, Ethan Somerton lived.
“Doorman let you in?” Ethan asked. He’d crossed half the distance between them but stopped there. Wary. Careful. “Can’t decide if I should file a complaint or slip him a tip.”
“I took the stairs.” She rose from the chair but lingered near the gun. She had her knife—she always had her knife—but against a man like Ethan, she’d need surprise to get close enough to use it. “Then picked the lock.”
“Handy,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a grin. “And made yourself at home. Pity you didn’t make one for me.” He tipped his head toward the empty glass by her side. “Mind if I do?”
“It’s your house.” Though it didn’t suit him. It was too . . . pulled together. Too “designed.” As if he’d rented it fully furnished or turned over the decorating to some top-end designer who equated taste with expensive things.
“And my whiskey,” he agreed, turning his back on her and heading to the kitchen. Bold. Confidence . . . or stupidity?
Natalia took the gun, held it loosely by her side, and followed him when he rounded the L-shaped bar, but she kept the wide expanse of grainy gray granite between them.
“I figure,” he said, pulling a glass from the cabinet where she’d found them, then unscrewing the lid on the Jack Daniel’s, “you aren’t going to shoot me in the back if you went to all the trouble of breaking in, tipping me off to your presence, and waiting where you could be certain I’d see you.”
He lifted the glass to his mouth, took a sip, and swallowed. When he set it down, he placed it atop the University of Pennsylvania yearbook she’d lifted from the library. She’d left it open for him, turned to the page with the photo of him, ten years younger but just as potent, just as compelling, just as intriguing. Determined but not dangerous. Not yet. The Ethan who’d attended one of the nation’s best schools lacked the edge, the experience, that, once gained, was worn forever.
“Can’t account for hard copies,” he said, running a finger across the page. He looked up at her, took another sip of his drink. “So you know who I am.”
“I know who you were,” Natalia corrected, the taste of his real name still fresh on her tongue. “You’re going to tell me who you are.”
“Am I?” he asked, his mouth unfurling in a wide, pleasured grin. Like a cat that had woken from a sun-warmed nap, only to spot an overly ambitious mouse. “And if I don’t?”
He didn’t think she’d pull the trigger, she realized. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. He wasn’t afraid of her. Wary, yes. Uncertain, absolutely. Curious, definitely.
But not afraid.
What a fucking idiot. She only wished it made him less attractive.
The suit he’d chosen for today, neatly tailored and pressed, was a deep blue and skimmed his body as if it had been cut for him specifically. It may well have been. She knew by the way he moved, the way he turned, the way his muscles and tendons flexed beneath the skin she could see, that he was built. Not in a gym. Oh no. He was too compact for that. Too well proportioned. Nothing excessive or obvious. Just stone-cold competence wrapped up in winter-blue eyes; thick, dark hair; and smooth, fair skin. The man certainly left an impression.
“If I leave here with questions, I’ll be voicing them with my uncle over breakfast.” Natalia drew back and raised her gun as Ethan pulled his from his shoulder holster, checked the chamber, and ejected the magazine. He set the bullets on the counter and slid the gun into a kitchen drawer.
“I can well imagine how your uncle asks questions.” Ethan drained his glass, set it in the sink, then came around the bar, his hands up and palms out. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
He stalked toward her, his gaze alive and vibrant, dancing over her with the spark and fluidity of a blue-toned flame along a power line. Mesmerizing, but guaranteed trouble all the same. She matched each forward step of his with a backward step of her own.
“That’s far enough,” she warned, her voice steady but her palms slick with sweat. Why was he challenging her? He had to know that if he forced the issue, she’d shoot him. She’d aim for muscle, something fleshy and painful—his ego presented a large enough target. She stopped, planted her feet, and told him again. “Stop. Now.”
Finally, he did as she ordered, drawing up just feet away. Too close. Far too close. But she couldn’t continue to retreat; he’d only follow her. It was time to stand her ground and see what happened. It was why she’d let herself into his home and into his life.
She so desperately wanted to be right about him.
“That’s not your weapon,” he said.
“Yes”—she thumbed off the safety—“it is.”
“Your gun,” Ethan agreed, “but not your weapon. It feels wrong in your hand. Too heavy, off-balance. Blunt and unnecessary.” He watched her, his stance loose, his hands still open and up where she could see them. “Put it down, Natalia. I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine. But not with a gun in my face.”
Make me. She didn’t say it, though she knew the second Ethan moved, he’d heard it loud and clear anyway. In the span of a breath, he was on her. Striking out with his open palm, he grabbed her wrist at the same time his other hand grasped the barrel. Natalia stumbled forward as Ethan plucked the gun from her nerveless fingers, then used her own momentum against her to jerk her closer, sidestepping at the last second so he could insert himself behind her and pull her in tight, her back to his front.
Hot breath slid across the shell of her ear. “Like I said,” he whispered, the release and clatter of the magazine against the floor mocking her, “not your weapon.” He held her close, the weight of his arm, corded with heavy muscle, tight across her chest. His fingers still gripped her wrist, her own arm trapped and useless over her breasts. “Empty.” He chuckled after he’d checked the chamber. “Thought so.” He nudged her forward, his hips grinding into her ass, his steps carrying them both a few feet toward the kitchen. He set the pistol on the bar. “The gun doesn’t suit you, sweetheart,” he taunted, tilting his head against hers and breathing deep: a lover’s hello. “My guess?” he said, his breath drawing goose bumps from the skin along her neck. “You’re a decent shot—necessity would demand it in the cartel—but your strengths lie in close-quarter combat. Give you a knife and a man dumb enough to underestimate you . . . and I’d give you the edge every single time.”
“Keep your edge. I don’t need it.” If he thought he’d surprised her for more than a split second, that she hadn’t let him grasp her wrist and pull her close, then he was as egotistical as he was beautiful. Because no, the gun didn’t suit her. It wasn’t natural, though she practiced with it as often as she could.
But up close and personal? That she could do.
She took a breath, let her body go limp, and stepped to the side, ducking her head beneath the elbow he’d used to block her in. He’d kept his grip loose, could have gone for a rear choke but hadn’t. Arrogant and stupid. He’d thought to toy with her.
She intended to make him pay for it.
The moment her head slipped free of the crook of his arm, she could have stepped aside, pushed away, and gone for distance. Instead, she moved in closer, slid her leg behind his, locked her arms around the back of his knee, and lifted him straight up off the floor. He was heavy, but she leveraged his shock and used her firmly planted foot to tip him over her leg; the moment his feet left the ground, he went down.
Hard.
His breath left him in a rush, and he blinked up at her from hand-scraped wood floors. Stunned but still smiling.
“Stick to accounting, sweetheart. Though the position suits you.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Like me on my back, do you?”
She stared down at him, unwilling to admit that, yeah, she did. That she liked the way he looked up at her from hooded, almost sleepy, eyes. Liked the way he watched her, a pleasured touch to his mouth. Not a smile or a grin, something lazier, something indulgent and satisfied. Liked the way his gaze slid up and over her legs, around her hips, along the curve of her breasts, mapping each and every turn as if charting a course—the long way around, judging by his hungry expression. Under his hands, his mouth, his control, it would be all scenic detours and exhausting rest stops.
She hated that she wanted to take that journey with him. That even now, standing over him, she could all too easily imagine his hands on her, in her, pulling her hair and parting her thighs.
Attraction, as natural as it was foreign, thrummed between them.
He sat up, curled in a leg, and planted a foot on the floor. Instead of pushing to his feet, he stared up at her and extended a hand. “A little help?”
Natalia rolled her eyes and stepped to the side. “You can’t be serious.” The second she had her hand in his, she’d be on the floor, and they both knew it.
“Didn’t think so,” he agreed, then struck, his leg darting out to catch the back of her calves. Natalia went down hard, braced for the hit, prepared to twist away, but Ethan was there, absorbing the impact by pulling her over him and then rolling until she was laid out on her back, his smug face smiling down as he straddled her hips.
She planted both feet, rocked from side to side, brought her hands up, only for him to catch her wrists against the floor. Pinned and breathing hard, she stared up at him. “You’re toying with me.” He’d gentled her fall, and they both knew it.
“You’re testing me,” he replied with a shrug. “Truce?”
And let him go out on top? Not in this lifetime. She slid one arm over her head, moving the hand pinning her to the floor within grasping distance of her other one. The moment she had her fingers around his wrist, she planted a foot and pushed. She used the hold she had on his arm and the torque of her hips to flip their positions.
He wheezed out a laugh. “If you wanted to ride me, all you had to do was ask.” He went loose and relaxed beneath her. Well, most of him did. Still panting, he pulled his wrists free and slid his hands up the back of her legs, his fingers spreading wide to cup her thighs and pull her in, settling her more firmly against him. “Loved the cocktail dress,” he said, trailing a finger up the inside seam of her pants. “But activewear suits you.”
He drew one large, heavy palm up her leg and over her ass, fingers tracing the seam up the middle, thumb brushing over the curve of her hip, then traveling along her spine and finally coming to rest at the back of her head, spearing into the hair she’d pulled back in a ponytail.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and goose bumps rose along her nape as his grip tightened. He pulled her head down and close to his face. Their noses brushed, the first slide of skin against skin little more than a tease whispered in the dark. “Natalia.” Warm breath, spiced with the bold aroma of whiskey, spilled across her face, tickled the wisps of hair by her ears. Ethan pushed up, chasing her mouth as she pulled away, maintaining only the razor’s edge of indecision between them. One moment, the smallest weakness, the briefest indulgence—that was all it would take.
Utter surrender. She’d never been so tempted.
Natalia drew back as Ethan sat up, pulling her hips in until she straddled him, her knees against the floor, her legs curled beneath her and flush against his thighs. There was no mistaking the hard length of his cock for anything other than what it was.
Attraction. Lust. Desire.
For her.
Would his reaction have been the same if she’d let him win? If she’d allowed him to back her into the wall, into a corner?
She didn’t think so.
The interest had been there. Of that she was certain. The chemistry between them surging and sparking from the moment she’d met him at the bar. Even then, she’d seen beyond the flirt, the ego, the persona he’d crafted for one reason or another. She’d claimed she didn’t like a challenge, that she wouldn’t play his games.
“You’re still teasing me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Dangerous thing to do to a man.”
“You’ve no idea what I can do to a man,” she said, then grabbed the back of his neck and brought her mouth to his, stealing his moment and taking what they both wanted.
He didn’t waste time with shock or surprise. Didn’t bother with slow and easy. This wasn’t an introduction or a cautious, gentle hello. This was shots fired—the opening salvo and the final battle all wrapped up into one bruising, biting kiss.
With a pull of her hair, he tipped her neck back, scraped his teeth and tongue up the long column of her throat. With his hand still tangled in her ponytail, he brought her mouth to his, pried her lips open with his tongue, and conquered.
She may have stolen his moment, but it was the only victory he seemed inclined to allow her. He kissed the way he moved. Deliberate. Precise. As if he’d considered every possible option, cataloged every potential outcome, and simply decided to hell with planning and gone straight for the plundering.
All in, and 100 percent certain of not only his welcome but his right to stay, to explore, to linger.
Passionate.
Devastating.
Relentless.
It wasn’t until Natalia pushed forward, pulled his lower lip between her teeth, held her open palm to the column of his throat, let her nails bite the soft skin of his neck, that he pulled away.
Smiling up at her, his Adam’s apple working beneath her palm, he said, “I’m at your mercy, Miss Vega. What do you intend to do with me?”
Such a small thing. Two syllables. Innocuous to most. A welcome respite to some. But to her? To Natalia, mercy was just a reminder of everything she was—and everything she could never be. On a heavy sigh, she pulled away.
His eyes creased at the corners, and recognition dawned that he’d said or done something to kill the moment. He pressed his mouth, still red and wet and inviting, closed. A little line appeared between his brows—a tiny expression, a ripple of sadness soon lost to the still planes of his face. Something most would miss. But this close to him, his heat still soaking her shirt, his breath still caressing her face, she saw it for what it was.
Regret.
She smoothed her thumb along the line, brushing it away with a gentle touch.
“You pulled your punches,” he said, his voice raw and strained.
“You let me win,” she accused, tracing her fingers across his brow, then down along the darkened stubble of his cheeks. It suited him, the barely there beard, the dark hair—as close to black as she’d ever seen—coupled with the electric blue of his eyes. It set him apart as striking. Clean shaven, he was beautiful. A high-end cologne ad come to life. But with day-old growth covering his cheeks, with his clothes rumpled from where she’d fisted the fabric, his chest still heaving as if he’d just stepped off the treadmill, Ethan held an allure no advertiser could hope to capture. Like a tiger stalking his prey—powerful, intent, wild. Utterly captivating in the way unique to only the most skilled hunters.
Beneath his gaze, Natalia shivered.
“Sweetheart, if this is what losing feels like, I’m prepared to let you win every single time.” As if it took effort, he pulled his hand from her hair, brushed the line of her jaw with his thumb, then let her slide away and stand up.
“We need to talk.” She turned her back to him and walked toward the kitchen. She picked up her gun off the floor, but only to set it on the counter next to the rounds. Whatever else he was, whatever else he might prove to be, for now, Ethan was no threat to her.
“Yes,” he agreed, coming to stand beside her, “we do.”
She could smell him—something clean and sharp, buried under the scent of a long day and little sleep. Not cologne or aftershave or even soap. Just life and the imprint living had left on him. Because it made her throb, made her fingertips twitch and her nipples harden, she walked away.
Much as Ethan invited Natalia to do something selfish, she had to put Ana Maria first. Funny, how after all these years, all the orders and the sacrifices, after all her uncle’s rages and her sister’s sweet requests, Natalia had never, not once, resented Ana Maria for any of it.
Until now.
For the first time, Natalia wanted to know what it would feel like to take something of her own. To indulge, just once, without thought or care for how her actions would spiral out to touch the only person in this world she cared about, which was why she forced herself to forge ahead. “Who are you, Mr. Somerton?”
“It seems you already know the answer to that, Miss Vega.” He chuckled, though his voice remained low and rough. Good. She didn’t want to be the only one struggling to put distance between them and passion out of reach. Didn’t want to be the only one affected. The only one left wanting.
“A neat trick, by the way. Care to tell me how you pulled it off?”
She closed her eyes and drew a deep, steadying breath through her nose. She had a decision to make. From this moment forward, everything would be a balance. A careful dance of revelation, deception, and distraction. But which would serve her best? Both now and also in the long run?
She sighed and crossed the room to let the cold of the window soak her back. “I learned a long time ago—the best way to lie? Tell the truth. Except for the parts that really matter.”
“Devil’s in the details,” he agreed with a nod. “The less you lie, the less you have to keep straight.” He pinned her with a look. “And usually, the less likely you’ll be caught.”
“I knew the moment I met you that you weren’t who you claimed to be.”
“Really?” Ethan asked, smug condescension dripping from his tongue. Easy enough to recognize, as she’d tasted it on his mouth only moments ago—because, oh yes, he had been smug, had been sure of himself and his kiss. Rightfully so, it turned out, though she did her best to put it from her mind. “From the first moment?” he teased.
“Close enough. You were too practiced. You were looking for something. Reaction. Information.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure then, and I’m not sure now. But I knew you were more than some arrogant douche flirting for sport.”
“Ouch.” He grinned. “Some first impression I made.”
“On my sister, yes.” Natalia unsheathed her smile and delivered it like a cut against exposed skin. Just a taste, just a little sting. She had a thousand more to kill him with. “She thought your cocktail game quite charming.”
“But not you.”
“Not me.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, it was clever, I’ll give you that. But it wasn’t thoughtless. You weren’t flirting—you were profiling. Her and then me. What I want to know is why.”
“A man who doesn’t take the time to understand a beautiful woman doesn’t deserve her.”
“You didn’t pursue a job within the cartel to get laid, Mr. Somerton. And from what I’ve read, it wasn’t for money—your family has plenty.” He drew back, just slightly, and she noted the vulnerability, tucking it away for the day it was useful. “It’s not for power, not the sort that comes from big decisions or dangerous games.” She tilted her chin and caught his gaze. “You want something—desperately, I imagine, or you wouldn’t be here. I want to know what it is.”
He poured another measure of whiskey, then brought the bottle to where she’d left her empty glass. Topping it off, he said, “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“And satisfaction brought her back.” She accepted the glass he held out to her, then followed him into the living room where he switched on a gas-burning fireplace and settled into a worn leather chesterfield. She perched on the arm of a matching chair but didn’t allow herself the luxury of sinking into the deep cushions.
“I know damn well that every possible Internet reference you found online—at Penn or otherwise—would have told you my name was Ethan Sullivan—”
“A very neat trick, by the way.” She repeated his earlier declaration, mocking him. She still hadn’t figured out how he’d managed it, but it had confirmed what she’d long suspected. He wasn’t working alone. Someone had backed his play, and judging by the lengths they’d gone to build him a cover, they had both money and resources. The move was too refined for a rival—cartels were more blunt-force trauma than laser-cut precision. And this had been precise. Calculated. Much like the man before her. Nothing had been left to chance, not if he could help it.
Government? Or something darker, something without rules or restraint. Private sector?
“But you went the extra mile, showed up in person. Why?” he asked.
She glanced at the flames, took another sip of whiskey, and, for the first time, allowed herself to truly consider just why she’d dipped into her emergency fund and purchased a last-minute ticket to Philadelphia. “I had to be sure.” It was the thought that had driven her from bed in the early hours of the morning, followed her to Pennsylvania, all the way back to DC, and, eventually, into Ethan’s condo to wait.
“Your gut called me a liar, but your heart couldn’t condemn me for it?” he asked, watching her from his seat on the couch as if she were the mystery in the room.
“My conscience, maybe.” She stood, strode into the kitchen, and retrieved the yearbook she’d stolen earlier that day. “I went looking for answers. For motivations. I wanted to understand who you were and what you wanted before I decided what to do with you.”
“I have a handful of suggestions on that front,” he said, dropping his head back against the sofa so he could grin at her. “But give me time and I’ll come up with dozens more.”
She scowled at him. “You’re charming when you want to be. But there’s something practiced about it, something almost impatient in the delivery. Like you can’t quite believe you’ve got to bother in the first place.” She strode back to the side chair but remained standing, crossing her arms over her chest and cupping her whiskey at her elbow. “I know when men are lying to me.”
“Handy skill in a cartel, I’d imagine.”
“There’s no middle ground in this life. No compromise. No friends or allies or trust. Just enemies and the things they’re willing to kill for.” She stared down at him, unflinching, and tipped back the rest of her whiskey, letting the heat bite its way down her throat and remind her that where she came from, only two things defined a man: what he was after and what he was willing to do to get it.
“I want to know what made the man in this book”—she threw the yearbook at him like a Frisbee, biting back her grin as he startled to snatch it—“the man who graduated summa cum laude—”
“Fucking statistics courses,” he grumbled, which only made her fight back a grin.
“You graduated from one of the best schools in the nation only to then join the navy as an officer. Why?”
“Would you believe as a ‘fuck you’ to the parents?” he quipped.
“Yeah. I would. If that were the only thing I’d read about you, I might even believe the experience turned you into something harsh and unforgiving. That you’d left that time in your life a mercenary looking to make a little money and burn a little adrenaline.” She shook her head on a rough sigh. “You wouldn’t be the first soldier of fortune to throw his lot in with a cartel.”
“But you don’t buy it?”
“No.” She shook her head, trying to lay out everything he kept trying to sell her next to everything she’d read about him. None of it matched. None of it made sense. And one thing in particular stood out to her. “You pledged a fraternity your freshman year. But by your sophomore year, you’d walked away, joined a service-based organization on campus instead. Why?”
He shrugged and flicked his thumb along the rim of his glass. “Sold me a brotherhood but delivered bland parties, beer-pong tournaments, and nameless, faceless women. Wasn’t for me.”
“Uh-huh.” She strode forward, jerked the yearbook from his hands, turned to the page she’d stumbled across detailing the 10K run he’d organized for charity. “Tell me about this,” she said, slapping the book down into his open palms. “Because this, more than anything, I can’t reconcile.”
He glanced down. Ran a finger along a black-and-white photo of a younger, sweaty version of himself handing over a huge cardboard check to a cancer-research charity.
“Make me understand how a man like that, a brilliant, civic-minded veteran, goes from raising money for sick children to laundering money for one of the worst organizations on the planet.”
He studied the picture she’d thrown at him, traced the edge of the check he’d stood behind all those years ago. He remained quiet so long that for an agonizing moment, Natalia wondered what she’d do if he refused to answer.
“Ethan, please . . .”
He glanced up, his gaze focusing on her face and pulling away from the memory she only now realized had captured him.
“I was eight when my brother died of a rare form of cancer,” he admitted quietly, his voice a rough, broken thing. He watched her as she sank to the coffee table in front of him, tucking her legs between his open knees.
Natalia squeezed her eyes shut, her heart aching for the boy he’d been. “You were close.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “We were brothers; we found trouble or trouble found us, but we were together. We had each other’s backs, best friends as our parents dragged us from one diplomatic posting to another.” He shook his head, pain and sadness twisting his expression into something Natalia recognized but prayed she would never intimately know.
“Younger?” she asked.
Ethan barked out a laugh. “God no. Older by four years and never, ever let me forget it. Protective, annoyingly so. But my best friend, too.” He glanced up, touched her with a look more intimate and knowing than his hands on her skin or in her hair. More familiar than his mouth on hers. “A role I think you’re acquainted with.”
The longing in his voice explained the fraternity and the military—special ops, she’d lay odds on it; Ethan wouldn’t do anything by halves or settle for anything but the most difficult, challenging role—and raised so many more questions.
“The cancer ate at him. It was . . .” He glanced down between his knees, as if the area rug had suddenly become fascinating. “It was slow,” he admitted. “A quick diagnosis but a long fight. And while my parents used it as a talking point, as a fund-raising effort, as a way to fill ten-thousand-dollar tables with wealthy donors, my brother slowly gave up. Slowly died,” he said, his voice raw with decades-old guilt he should never have had to carry.
Natalia could imagine few things worse than losing Ana Maria. But being forced to watch as her vibrant, beautiful, headstrong baby sister died a slow, agonizing death, all the while knowing there would be no relief, no last-minute miracle? The horror kept her up at night.
Natalia laid her hand along Ethan’s wrist; she needed to touch him as much as she needed him to believe her when she said, “You couldn’t save him.”
“No,” he agreed, pinning her with that electric-blue stare. “My brother fought for a long time—held out longer than he should have, for me—but in the end, no, I couldn’t save him.” The admission left him in an angry rush, as if she’d wrenched it from him with cruelty rather than camaraderie. “But I can save another. A man no less deserving, a brother in name if not in blood. Will Bennett is suffering, Natalia. Every day is another step closer to the end, to the moment where dying feels like defiance. Like victory.”
He turned his wrist free of her grasp, then grabbed her fingers, lacing them with his. “But this time I can save him,” he said, the truth shining from his expression as pure and fierce and real as his kiss had been. “But I need your help to do it.”