Sean rolled the kinks from his shoulders and stepped into the warm sunshine. “Fuuuuck,” he muttered, stopping short. Jace was leaning nonchalantly against the black Suburban, laughing at something Gretch said. When he responded with his own quip, she coyly touched her earring and shifted her weight, thrusting her hip inches closer to him.

Cue the Habanera aria from Bizet’s opera, because the maddeningly provocative Carmen had just sprung to life.

They made a great couple, damn it. Dual DNA lottery winners. Innate self-confidence. Both consuming and discarding lovers like oxygen… It made sense that they’d be drawn to each other like Bogart and Bacall. But cerebral observations did nothing to relieve the jealousy flickering through Sean like a live wire.

Moments remained before they’d notice him. He pushed aside the inner turmoil and stood motionless, hoarding images of Gretch to replay in the wee hours. Those long legs and the astounding figure poured into that obscenely short camouflage dress. The lovely way she tilted her head so it exposed the slender column of her neck. How she fluttered her fingers so gracefully while she spoke, almost like a translator for the deaf. Everything about Gretch was sexy elegance, the kind that torched a dangerous lust inside him. A lust so dark he’d fucked a stranger in an alley to slake his hunger for her. He winced as shame suppressed the inner inferno like firefighting foam.

Jace spotted him and jerked his chin in the universal get-over-here command—for a kid or a dog. Sean strolled over, peripherally engrossed with Gretch, inhaling her spicy perfume, but warily eyeing his brother. “I’ve only got an hour.”

“I’ll get you back in time, Nancy. Jump in.”

Sean flushed and reached for the door handle. He hadn’t been gifted with Jace’s quick wit or cutting comebacks; he was a declawed cat born into a family of pit bulls. Arguing would only decrease his stature in Gretch’s eyes.

“So, how ’bout I pick you up Sunday at six,” Jace said smoothly.

Sean spun around. His brother ignored him, but Gretch looked right at him, almost like she waited for his reaction. He swallowed. There was nothing to react to—this was Jace, lifelong champion, former SEAL, now part of the FBI’s International Ops Division. Even in Sean’s earliest memories, all Jace had to do was glance at a woman and her clothes fell off.

Despite his brain’s signal to get in the Suburban, Sean remained frozen at the Sunday-at-six significance. “You’re busy,” he stammered. “It’s Mom’s birthday.” The party I wanted to invite her to.

His brother grinned at Gretch the way a child would at a new Happy Meal toy. “Mom’ll love her,” he murmured, and the truth hit Sean like a freight train. Mom would. She adored spunk, sass, and socially outgoing girlfriends. The kind her four elder sons dated. In college, Sean had brought his first girlfriend, an introverted lit major, home. It’d been the most uncomfortable evening in his long and tortured history of uncomfortable family evenings. He’d vowed never to put himself or another girlfriend through that again. A vow he’d have broken in a heartbeat if only he’d had the guts to ask Gretch out yesterday.

She smiled a message he couldn’t decipher—probably pity—before shifting her gaze to Jace. “Sure.” She fingered her earring again. “Sunday at six.” Then she rattled off her phone number, and Jace was ready-Freddy with his smartphone.

Sean climbed into the back of the Suburban, his stomach in knots. If he hadn’t begged his brother to help on this case, those two would never have met.

A woman with a honey-blond ponytail and wide cornflower-blue eyes twisted around in the front passenger seat and stretched out her hand. “Good to see you again, Sean.”

“Oh hey, Margo. How’s the new anthropologist working out?”

“Joe Taylor? Pissed not to be on this case, thanks for asking.” Special Agent Margo Hathaway smiled. Planes could land in O’Hare guided only by that smile. When Sean had consulted on the occasional case, his obsessive disposition hadn’t triggered sidelong looks from her like it had with other agents. And he’d appreciated how methodical she was in gathering facts and weighing all options.

“I’m only helping out this one time.”

Her ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “And we appreciate it. We sure miss you around the office.”

Sean jerked his head toward the sidewalk. “I couldn’t stay.”

“I know. It’s a shame you two couldn’t work together. Anyway, I’m your wife.”

“Excuse me?”

Jace slid in beside him. “She’s your undercover spouse.” He shut the door and nodded to Crew Cut behind the wheel. “You remember Dirk from the airport?”

Sean managed a curt nod. As the car rolled forward, his brother handed over a credit card, business cards, and an authentic-looking Illinois license. “You’re William and Jane Bixby.”

Sean frowned between him and the smiling agent, still turned in her seat. Technically, Margo was Jace’s superior, but the dynamic wasn’t playing out here. Why would she let him assume the lead? And why this farfetched ruse? “I thought I was consulting on artifacts.”

Even the way his brother shook his head was patronizing. “You’re an interested buyer. She’s your bodyguard, should anything go wrong.”

Sean clenched his teeth. Typical Jace espionage shit. It was why Sean had resigned his infrequent consulting role a few months after they’d hired his brother. “What do you mean wrong?”

“Asuman gave up his buyer.” Jace handed over a photograph of a fierce-looking bearded man. “Mohammed El Bashtan. Rents a booth in the Broadway Antique Market.”

“I know BAM,” Sean muttered. He’d bought his vintage sofa there.

“He sells Middle Eastern antiques, but according to Asuman, many of the pieces are conflict antiquities. We’re tracking whether El Bashtan has extremist ties, but need more evidence. You’re going in as a big spender.” Jace handed over a worn wallet, ostentatiously bulging with bills. “I’ll want this back untouched, but flash it around, talk your art-speak so he knows you’re legit.”

Sean frowned. It was noon on a Monday. “And the reason Joe Taylor isn’t doing this?”

“He’s staffed on another task force now.”

Sean switched wallets, handing his to Jace. “Let’s go back to the ‘if anything goes wrong’ part.”

“Margo is just an added precaution. One of her blouse buttons is a video camera. Her job is to wander around his booth recording the inventory. No worries, baby brother, you’re safe.” Ah, there was Jace’s earnest expression… Sean had years of tortured baby brother memories that all started with that innocent look from one of his brothers. Jace gestured wildly. “And you got your black belt at—what? Nine? Made the rest of us look like chumps? You can handle him.”

The praise ratcheted up the tension in Sean’s neck. Jace wasn’t a guy to hand out compliments at his own expense. Before Sean could respond, his brother’s attention was snagged by a buzzing text. Sean glanced at Special Agent Hathaway, still shooting him that sunny smile. As far as Sean could recollect, Margo didn’t know baby brother, and any further protesting would solidify his sissy status to her too.

After a minute of silence, Jace murmured, “Besides, if anything went wrong, I’d never hear the end of it from Mom.”

Aaaand sissy status achieved, right on cue. Sean stared out his window as the car slowed for a right turn. No doubt Sunday’s party would include his older brother inadvertently outing him as even more of a social moron to Gretch, too.

And shit, it wasn’t fair Jace hooked up with her so easily. What sort of norms did the über-beautiful work off? Did they instantly size each other up and know they could chance their hearts? Or was it all a game, just wall sex with a stranger and walking away without drowning in self-disgust?

Sean tried to rest his temple against the pane, but shifting in the seat caused the new wallet to protrude into him. He shifted back. The lump remained, like a heavy appendage had grown on his ass cheek. This undercover op was so not worth interrupting his day for. And his childish need for Jace’s respect had cost him his dream girl.

“It’s up ahead,” Margo said, pointing to the vast building.

Sean straightened and wiped damp palms along his jeans. He could do this. In an hour he’d be back in the comfort of his cubicle. The only potential danger in his day was not finding the wit to out-snark Gretch. Or accidentally overhearing her infectious laugh. To get any work done, he’d long ago invested in quality earbuds and drowned himself in operas. Today was Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana. He played the calming Intermezzo in his head, but it did nothing to slow the crescendo of his heart.