Sixteen

Old habits died hard, Colt thought. Rain or shine, the first thing Sunday morning—before coffee or breakfast—Kate went for a long run. With her multimillion-dollar town house in McLean overlooking the Potomac, it wasn’t hard to anticipate her route.

Colt sat on a bench overlooking the river path and waited. He was tired. His red-eye flight from Los Angeles had landed at Reagan National at six, and he’d come straight here so as not to miss her. She was always out the door by eight. On the rare Sunday that he’d been around to sleep in, he’d grumbled about it.

Once or twice he’d made her late.

It was probably best not to remember how. Sex had sure as hell never been their problem.

Two or three runners went by—none younger than seventy (who else liked to be up this early?)—before he saw the familiar slender form approaching, thick blond ponytail swinging with every long stride.

Summer in the DC area was hot and humid, and she was dressed for the weather in a skimpy top and tight spandex capris that left nothing to the imagination. Although he didn’t need to imagine. He remembered.

She’d always had an incredible body—lean, athletic, and toned. It hadn’t changed, except that she was thinner than he remembered.

But still sexy as hell.

She was wearing earbuds and not paying as much attention to her surroundings as she should be. Something he’d warned her about countless times. She didn’t notice him until he stood.

She stopped so suddenly that she stumbled. Surprise didn’t give her time to completely mask her expression. He saw the flash of pain before it was carefully swept away behind the classically patrician facade.

With her blond, blue-eyed, WASPy beauty, she looked more Junior League and Hamptons than CIA.

That had always been part of her appeal. The stuck-up country club facade made him want to dirty her up a little on his side of the tracks.

But it was only a mask—one that had even fooled him at first. Unfortunately there was no hint of the quiet, kind of shy, heart-of-gold girl he’d married when she looked at him. It was all ice. Must be something they taught you at country clubs or cotillions. He’d laughed his head off when he found out she was a debutante. All that fanfare to be introduced into society and she’d ended up with him.

It was still hard to believe that someone who looked so icy on the outside could be such a wildcat in bed.

Her eyes were hard and unfriendly. He studied the flushed face and noticed a few more lines around her eyes and mouth. But she still looked more late twenties than almost thirty-five.

“How did you find me so quickly?” She stopped, answering her own question. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

He didn’t deny it. “You made it easy—habit and routine are tricks of the trade.”

She flushed angrily. “Your tricks. Not mine. I’m an analyst, remember? I leave the dirty work to the experts.”

As the jab was well earned, he didn’t object.

“I thought I made it clear when you called that I don’t want to talk to you. You and I have nothing to say to each other.”

That was true. They’d said it all. More than they should have. Things that could never be unsaid.

Water, bridge, he reminded himself. “I need your help.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Colt. Whatever it is, I can’t help you. You . . .” She stopped, and straightened, looking him right in the eye so there would be no mistaking. “It took me a long time, but I’ve moved on. I’m finally getting on with my life, and Hurricane Colt isn’t going to blow in and mess that up.”

The words she’d uttered a long time ago came back to him. “You’re like a hurricane. You destroy everything around you and leave nothing but misery in your wake.”

She’d been crying then. Bawling. As if he’d ripped her heart out when it had been the other way around. He might have pushed her away, but did it have to be with someone he considered one of his closest friends? He’d said some ugly things to her—things he’d hoped she would deny—but she never did.

Hurricane Colt. Maybe it was true. He’d destroyed their marriage long before she’d turned to Scott. He’d tried to warn her. But she thought she could change him. That her love would be enough to wash away his sins. For a while even he’d believed her. But eventually they both realized the truth.

“I heard about your engagement to ‘Her Majesty’s Ambassador to the United States.’ Congratulations.”

She ignored the well-wishes, assuming he hadn’t meant them. Had he? He might have. She wasn’t the only one to move on. Although his kind of moving on didn’t involve an engagement ring. That fucking ship had sailed once. Kind of like the Titanic. All those big hopes and dreams . . . crash and burn. Or sink.

“Leave me be, Colt. I’m happy. For the first time in a long while, I’m happy.”

She started to walk away.

“Get me in to see the general, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

She stopped. He thought the temptation would be too great. Not for the first time, he overestimated himself in her eyes. “I stopped caring what you do a long time ago. Do what you want as you always have. I pity anyone who thinks they can have a say in anything you do. But whatever it is you want with my godfather, leave me out of it.”

In other words, she didn’t care enough to get rid of him.

Had he really expected anything else?

He was nothing to her. Whatever hold on her he’d once had was long gone. She’d cut him out of her heart forever. Just as he’d wanted.

His fists clenched, anger and resentment burning hotter than they should. But he knew how to get to her—how to force her to help—and it pissed him off.

He wanted to grab her arm as she ran past him and break through that ice-princess facade. But he knew better than to touch her. Instead he said the one thing guaranteed to stop her in her tracks. “It’s about Scott.”