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Staying focused on a computer screen wasn’t Mike’s forte. Put him in the field and give him a target and his focus would hone like a leopard tracking its prey. But right now, Mike wiped his fingers across his eyes and blinked at the hooked-nosed image of his boss staring at him on the screen. Garth Moore was a battle-worn ex-Marine. An American with an impressive dossier, the boss didn’t take shit, but sure as hell knew how to dish it out.

“I knew sending you out there was going to be a waste of time, but Lindgren was adamant.” Garth chuckled with an arrogant grin that said, “I told you so”.

Mike cracked open a pistachio nut and popped it into his mouth. “I didn’t say I was giving up. I just said she was tough.”

“Well, buck up and pay up. Face it. I won the bet. Lindgren has a line on a guy who won’t be such a pain in the ass.”

Mike arched his back against a jabbing pain. He’d never met an operative who wasn’t a handful in one way or another, especially a woman. But he knew as much as Garth that ICE needed female operatives. They brought an entirely different dynamic to the world of espionage. Some were worth the headaches, like Olivia Hamilton who just brought down an ISIS harem in Syria filled with European kidnap victims. She and her partner, Logan Rodgers, were now in Pakistan chasing a lead on Fahd al-Umari, the elusive, radical leader of the Islamic State. Mike should be there now. But he didn’t lose wagers. He’d find a way to convince Anderson to become a spy if it killed him.

“No bloody way,” Mike said. “You gave me a fortnight. That was the deal. If you turn yellow and back out now, you owe me a hundred quid, asshole.”

“Hey, watch who you’re talking to.”

Mike used the touchpad to move the pointer to the “end call” button. “Pardon me, sir.” He sniggered. “Same time tomorrow?”

“You’d better have something to report, smartass.”

Chuckling, Mike clicked off and headed for the shower. As he turned on the hot water, he was already planning his next attack on the Anderson mine. Nothing like fielding sass from Garth to make him want to win all the more.

He stripped off his shirt and examined the foot-sized bruise over his ribs. It was tender, but he didn’t think Henri had broken anything with the vicious side kick she’d planted during yesterday’s impromptu sparring round. He pulled back the shower curtain. The lass had some moves, he’d give her that.

Bloody oath, Mike had never seen anyone with her talent, either. She shot perfect holes through four slender leaves as if she could create art with her rifle. Hell, if she didn’t make it at the mine, she could start a new art genre—go on the road and give demos at county fairs.

But complimenting the woman on her talent with a rifle wasn’t the way to get through to her. Nope. Spending a bit of time in her place had given Mike a few ideas, though. Make no bones about it, he wasn’t about to lose his goddamned bet.

It took him less than five minutes to lather up and rinse off. But he didn’t expect to hear a knock at the door when he reached for a towel. His heart skipped a beat. Damn, his Glock was beside the bed. Who knew he was in Utah? Mike had a gazillion enemies, but he doubted anyone would have followed him to the ends of the earth, especially since his passport read Michael MacLeod—an American.

He wiped his face and tucked the towel around his waist. Looking through the peephole was a sure-fire way to get his brains blown out. He cracked the loo door open. “Yeah?” he asked with a growl in his voice.

“It’s Henri.”

His stomach pulled a handstand then back flipped off the high dive. There was a God after all. In two strides, he opened the door. “Hiya—”

Something made him stop talking. Not that he was planning to pull the lass into his arms and plant a kiss on those delightfully pursed lips but, nonetheless, Mike suddenly was at a loss for words. Henri looked much the same as she did the day before, sans the red dust. Scratch that, she looked a gazillion times hotter than the day before. Her lips were shiny, her eyelashes feathery and long and, good God, she had a mane of gorgeous black hair that spilled over her shoulders and down to her waist. Goddess wasn’t the right descriptor, though. Boots, jeans, flannel shirt unsnapped low enough to catch a peek of cleavage made her look more like a country western goddess.

She stared at him expectantly. It might have been the light in the corridor, but her eyes were incredibly expressive. And those precisely arched eyebrows slanted over deep pools of liquid chocolate—not milk chocolate—this woman’s eyes had the depth of intense, dark, smooth, delicious...

Her lips parted and a sexy tongue tapped the corner of her mouth. “Ah...” Her gaze trailed down to Mike’s abdomen as those eyebrows arched higher. Then she stared at his bruise. “Did I do that?”

He glanced down. “Nah...well, aye.”

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat and started backing away. “It looks like I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

Mike raised his palms and shook them. “No, no, no. I was just about to head to the mine for a friendly visit.”

She pointed to the bruise. “You mean I haven’t scared you off?”

He chuckled. “If anything, you’ve made me more determined.”

“That makes about as much sense as a bee sucking nectar from a plastic daisy.”

“I ken, but you’re going to give me an opportunity to explain.”

She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. “I figured I owed you that.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I need a new truck and the mine caved in on me yesterday.”

“The red dust?”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms. “But this doesn’t mean I’m joining you. I’m just considering my options.”

Mike glanced to his towel. “I’ll be in the lobby in five. Can you wait that long?”

“Five’s stretching it.”

“Three.”

Heading for the lifts, she threw a smirk over her shoulder. “I’m timing you.”

***

Henri’s fingers were still shaking when she hit the lobby. Why hadn’t she just picked up a phone and called his room? I spend three months alone and suddenly I go brain dead?

She coughed out a groan. Who showers at eleven a.m.? Jeez, it was as if Rose had been sitting around in a towel all morning waiting for her to stop by. Except his hair was wet. Maybe he just kept wetting it?

Not.

By the time she sat down and opened a complimentary newspaper, the big Scot slid in beside her on the couch and held up his watch. “Under two minutes.”

He could stop with the grin. Now.

She gave him a pointed stare. How men could look like a million bucks by combing their hair, she had no idea. Her gaze trailed down from his jeans to his sneakers. “No socks?”

“Hey, when a woman says she’s timing me, I cut every corner possible.”

Henri folded the paper and set it on the side table. “I want a steak.”

“The Chop House okay, or do you ken of another place in town?”

“The Chop House is fine.” At least it was adjacent to the Hilton Garden Inn and they could walk.

She kept him at arm’s length as they strode across the parking lot to the restaurant.

“Hey, Anderson,” he said like they’d been teammates in boot camp.

“Yeah?”

“Your hair is...ah...”

She brushed it back. “Too long?” She’d never worn it down in the army—against regs.

“No.” He shook his head. “Cutting that mane would be a sacrilege.”

She pursed her lips to avoid smiling. She might be able to get along with Rose.

After they stepped inside the Chop House, they followed the host to a table in the bar at Mike’s request. It was Thursday and there weren’t any people in there. As soon as Henri put down her menu, Mike signaled the waiter, they ordered a couple ribeyes and then Mike told the man to leave them alone until the food was ready. As soon as he disappeared, Mike looked across the table. “What do you remember of your meeting with Anders Lindgren?”

“Was that his name?” Henri asked, thinking back. “To be honest, as soon as he told me Omar Fadli had killed the Iranian Ambassador and I was a free woman, I tuned him out.”

“Understandable. I probably would have done the same.” Mike sipped his glass of water. “Lindgren never has much to say. And he does things bass-ackwards of you ask me.”

“He was pretty brief. Wanted a commitment I wasn’t half-ready to give.” She chuckled. “Was the letter from the President authentic?”

Mike glanced behind him before he answered. “Aye. That’s the tool Lindgren uses to get his man—or woman. Truth be told, verra few people ever have the opportunity to meet the Icelander, let alone receive a letter from the leader of their country.”

“How were you recruited?”

“Much the same. I was in the SAS. Twenty-second regiment. Did a fair bit of time in Iraq. Flew home from a tour and happened to be sitting beside Lindgren on the flight.”

“Was that a coincidence?”

“Oh, no. Nothing is a coincidence when it comes to ice—ah—I mean Lindgren’s operation.”

“So, what’s the job?”

Mike scratched his neck and twisted his mouth. “Mostly classified. I canna tell you much.”

“You’ve seen my place. I don’t even have a dog to tell secrets to.”

“What about your auntie?”

“I talk to her as infrequently as possible.” Henri huffed. “Look, I’m not signing on for something I know nothing about, otherwise you’ll be blowing as much smoke as your Icelandic boss.”

The big Scot leaned in, his blue eyes honed like crystal lasers. “Headquarters is not in the US. The ops facility is in a cold and out-of-the-way place.”

“Like the North Pole?”

“Close.” He gestured with a karate chop. “Only heads of state are aware of our existence, though we’re unofficially beneath the NATO umbrella. Because we’re an unknown entity, we operate under the radar, so to speak.”

“Do operatives have diplomatic immunity?”

“Aye. When they can. And I’m no’ going to tell you the work isna dangerous. There aren’t many jobs more dangerous, in fact.”

“What about money?”

“About three times your service pay for starters. Bonuses for achievement.”

“What kind of bonuses?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Bigger than your salary, but that depends on who you bring in and how many toes you step on whilst doing it.”

Lord knew she needed the cash. “And you said two months off a year.”

“Aye. More if you need it, or less if you’re in the thick of a shite storm. Our goal is to have people in the field who are focused on one thing.”

“The job?” Henri asked.

“Aye, the job.”

Two ribeyes with loaded baked potatoes arrived.

Licking her lips, Henri picked up her steak knife. “What if I don’t like it?”

“It’s a Viking burial, complete with a burning ship. Death is painless and quick.” Mike’s eyes shifted as he took a sip of water.

If Henri hadn’t been trained in Special Ops, she might have bought his line of tripe. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed out loud. “Are you entirely full of crap?”

“Nah.” He grinned. Again. God, he could stop doing that. “I couldna help the last line—had to see the look on your face.”

“Did I disappoint you?”

“Nope.”

She gave him a pointed frown. “Well?”

He shoved a bite of steak in his mouth. “There’s an exit plan for retiring operatives, but it does include signing a gazillion nondisclosures on penalty of death.”

“Committing treason to...?”

“The world.”

“What about training?”

“It’s like the military. It’s extensive and never ends. But you’ll initially receive the spy stuff.” Wincing, he rubbed his side—the one with the enormous bruise. “You’ve got combat maneuvers down pat.”

She snorted. Had the little sparring session at the mine been some sort of test? “So, Rose, where do you fit in to all this?”

“I’m a field operative. I go where I’m told...mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“We’re all big lads and lassies. When I’m in the field, I run my op. There isna much need for orders, except the general ones...‘this is the goal, now go achieve it’.”

She cut her meat and popped a bite in her mouth. “Why did you come to Utah and not someone else?”

“I’m a closer. Garth figured if anyone could recruit you it would be me.”

“Because you’re a smooth talker or a smooth looker?”

“Neither.” He shrugged as if he didn’t realize he was hotter than hell on wheels—not just a good-looking dude with muscles, but a jaw-dropping stud with brains, even with the auburn hair. “I just get the job done and I dunna like to lose.”

Henri had to admit she was similarly minded. And she wasn’t giving up on Grandfather’s mine. She was just rearranging her priorities so she could afford the place. She took another bite and her eyes rolled back. “Umm.” But she didn’t revel in the deliciousness of the meal for long. “If I join you, I want a shot at Fadli. Guaranteed.”

“Garth decides where operatives are placed. I canna promise—”

“Whoa.” She sliced her hand through the air and stared him down. “You’re a closer, but you can’t influence this Garth person?”

The corner of Mike’s mouth twitched. “Verra well, I might no’ be able to make broad-brush promises, but I can tell you this: If you stay at the mine, you’ll never get your chance at Fadli or any of the other scum responsible for the death of your mates in Afghanistan. If you go with me, I’ll do my best to make a pitch on your behalf. Besides, ice—ah—I mean this branch of NATO always takes advantage of an asset’s talents.” He thrust out his palms. “Good God, Anderson, you can pierce the leaves on a Joshua tree from four hundred meters and make it look artful. I have no doubt that’s why Lindgren wants you.”

“Not good enough.” She pointed at him with her knife. Negotiations needed to take place before she signed on the dotted line. “So, we go after Fadli, right?”

“Ah—”

“Don’t bullshit me. You will make sure I get a crack at him?”

He gave her a point-blank stare. “Yeah. I will after you’re trained.”

“That’s fair.” Henri was liking the odds better all the time. “If I agree, then what?”

“I take you to headquarters. You’ll have training on gadgetry and spy techniques.”

“How long until I’m in the field?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Will we be training together?”

“Probably no’.” Rose shook his head. “You’re a rookie and I’ve been an operative for eight years. Besides, I’m a lone wolf and dunna hang around headquarters much. None of us do ’cause there’re too many bloody terrorists and government crooks out there.” He scooped a heap of baked potato with his fork. Then his face took on the hard stare of a field general not about to take no for an answer. It was a look that shouted: tell me what I need to hear or I’ll kick your sorry ass all the way to hell and leave you there to burn. “What do you say, lass?”

Henri’s jaw twitched. Not about to be intimidated because she could kick some ass of her own, she met his stare with one equally as intense. She let the silence hover. It was a good thing there wasn’t a candle on the table. It would explode form the tension sparking between them. “I need an open-ended roundtrip ticket.”

“That can be arranged.”