After they’d ridden off, Sofia couldn’t seem to stop laughing about it.

She’d just get it under control, but it burst out each time she looked at him. It was a nervous, girly giggle that she’d only ever defeated by teaching herself not to laugh at anything. But it kept slipping out.

“If it tickles you so goddamn much, maybe we should try the same thing when I meet your grandmother.” She wasn’t sure if he was more upset by how he’d met her mother and eldest brother or by their interrupted intentions.

Personally, she was leaning toward the latter. Sofia had long ago given up caring about what her mother thought.

Camila Forteza had ridden off before Sofia could get her shirt back under control and clamber out of the helicopter. Her brother had at least stayed long enough for introductions and a knowing smirk.

“I can see how close you aren’t.” Duane helped her tie down the rotor so that it wouldn’t windmill breezes that wrapped around the tops of the Dundee Hills.

“We’ve been that way ever since…well, not birth. But not long after.”

“Why?”

“Mucho ruido y pocas nueces.”

“Lots of noise, very few nuts? What are they, squirrels?” But his smile said he knew the idiom.

Sofia sighed. “My family, other than Nana, are about the most useless lot you can imagine but, as Shakespeare says, they love making much ado about nothing. Abuelito, my grandfather, Nana says was a good man. The rest of my family. Feh!”

She leaned back against the helicopter. Off to the left were the big vintner’s sheds. It was the harvest season and the trucks where rushing great mounds of grapes from the fields, so lush and darkly purple that they seemed ready to burst forth and fill the air with their dark flavors. Straight ahead and up the hill was the Corazón de las Vides—the Heart of the Vines tasting room, restaurant, and an elite, members-only lounge that filled the entire upper floor. To the right was La Casa—the family home. A grand villa. All were done in deep yellow faux adobe with red Spanish tile roofs so that they were the colors of the Spanish flag.

“I haven’t been here in a year, but it smells like home.” She breathed in again. She could taste the richness of the soil at the back of her throat. The dry hills of early fall before the rains came in to reshape the scents.

Duane fetched their overnight bags, dropped them at her feet and leaned beside her.

“Why?” He wasn’t going to let her get out of this one.

“Mother will never forgive us, all four children, for the travesties we caused upon her body.”

She could hear Duane thinking about Camila Forteza’s looks, even if he was decent enough not to say it. Ever since she’d turned thirty, her mother had done her best to remain frozen in time—and had done a very good job of it. At sixty-one there wasn’t a sag or bulge out of place.

“The best surgeons money can buy and a ruthless commitment to her personal trainer,” Sofia answered his thought anyway. “I should say trainers, as she grows bored with their other, more personal services fairly quickly.”

“Uh-huh.” Somehow he knew it was only a half truth.

“Also, Nana made me the heir, not her. Mama has an allowance and that’s all. She has no business sense and a great desire to acquire things. She is always broke by harvest time but must wait out the rest of the year before Nana will release her next year’s quarter million of pocket money.”

“Tough life,” he sounded disgusted.

Oddly his tone said he wasn’t disgusted at the amount of money but rather the attitude with which it was handled.

“I have a cousin like that. Collects sportscars and very expensive ex-wives. Where’s your father?”

Sofia shrugged. “Mother grew bored of him, too, when I was seven or eight. She waited until he had a fresh affair—not as if it was news even then—and used it to drum him out of the family. A payoff of a few million and he was gone. We never hear from him. He never even came back to see his last child’s birth, assuming Consuela is even his.”

“How did you turn out so normal?”

“Normal?” She pushed off from the helo. To pick up her bag, she bent at the waist with her behind facing him just to torture him.

A casual glance over her shoulder showed that it worked perfectly. Duane was looking right where she wanted him to. At her— She straightened, hating herself. That was her mother’s game, not hers.

“I work for The Activity where I am appreciated for my skills and sharp brain.” Not for waving my butt at beautiful men. “I have just been on multiple missions with a Delta Force team in exotic countries—all for truth, justice, and the American way. And you call me normal?”

“Not how a little girl pictured herself growing up, huh?” Duane Jenkins backed it up with that good smile of his.

She laughed and didn’t care that it was her happy giggle sound. “Truthfully, almost exactly what I pictured.”

Duane offered one of his surprised grunts. Sofia enjoyed doing that to him, keeping him on his toes. She kissed him lightly, but didn’t lose herself in him this time though it would be so easy to do.

“Grandma filled my head with such ideas from the time I still thought Peek-a-boo was a wonderful game. I have told you she is una pistola.”

Maria Alicia Forteza y Borga de Olivella was a wizened woman who didn’t even come up to Sofia’s shoulder despite standing ramrod straight. Duane didn’t expect a “pistol” to look like she’d be blown away by the next breeze if not for her cane.

Apparently Sofia didn’t either by her hard stumble. If he hadn’t caught her arm, she might have gone down to the marble floor. They had found her grandmother—“you may call me Ms. Forteza”—in the estate office. It was a grand, wood-paneled room designed to impress visitors. He was certainly impressed. His family’s home was modern, pretentious, and custom-built—with a complete lack of personality.

Even though Sofia had said this estate was younger than the woman standing before them, it felt as if it went back forever—rooted as deeply into the soil as the vast vineyards that had lined the hillsides, curving like contour lines of a topo map. This place belonged in Architectural Digest.

And this room, with the tiny woman standing in the center of it, felt like the anchor to it all. White marble floor. An aged, oaken desk faced with a handful of wine-colored leather chairs. A small circle of couches and armchairs around a quietly crackling fireplace lit against the cool October morning. And portraits that began with what could only be a young Maria Alicia Forteza standing above the first plantings of her vineyard. No question where Sofia and her mother got their fine looks—straight down the matrilineal line.

Though the warmth had skipped a generation. No matter what Camila Forteza did to maintain her body, nothing was going to hide that her eyes had all the warmth of a Venezuelan pit viper.

But the room didn’t overpower Maria Alicia Forteza—not even standing in front of her own portrait. Instead it was the other way around despite her frailty.

Sofia hugged her very gently.

“I’m not dead yet,” the woman snapped, but returned the embrace kindly.

Sofia nodded quickly, but it was easy to see the shock in her eyes. Maria patted Sofia’s arm consolingly.

“I was thrown from Diablo, my horse,” she explained for his benefit. “I broke my hip. At eighty-seven I do not heal as quickly as I once did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have worried. I was just a sick old woman who hated giving up her morning ride. I wasn’t fit company for anyone.”

Then the woman’s black eyes, emphasized by the pure whiteness of her hair, turned to inspect him.

“So, this is your gigoló. Camila seemed quite bothered by you, young man.”

“She may not have liked that I was in the midst of manhandling your granddaughter at that moment.”

A ghost of a smile touched the woman’s lips. “Was she enjoying it?”

Sofia opened her mouth, whether to answer or protest, he wasn’t sure. Maria Alicia Forteza cut her off with little more than a raised finger. And Duane could see that smile grow ever so slightly at her granddaughter’s discomfiture.

“We both were, ma’am. Quite a bit as I recall.”

This time Sofia blushed, her golden skin deepening toward a ruddy sunset.

“Camila always was the jealous sort.”

That made Duane blink in surprise. And now Maria’s knowing smile had his own cheeks heating up.

“You, my good boy, are very handsome, yes. But you are also very real. Any fool, even my daughter, could see that at a glance. Far more interesting than the pretty young men Camila uses. Come, sit with me,” she waved toward the chairs. “Or would you rather go finish what Camila and Emilio so rudely interrupted?”

While it was tempting, Duane didn’t need to see Sofia’s near-panicked expression to know the latter wasn’t an option at the moment. She was truly thrown by the change in her grandmother.

They followed her to the seating area. Maria did not protest when he held her arm as she settled into a chair. She felt no bigger around than a toothpick. Before Sofia could start fussing, Duane took her hand and pulled her down on a couch beside him. Her clasp was strong, fiercely so, and she didn’t ease up.

Maria glanced down at their joined hands and then back at him. “I think you are an interesting man, Mr. Jenkins.”

“For what reason, Ms. Forteza?”

“You two have not slept together, but already she depends on you greatly,” she hummed to herself for a moment as she studied the painting over his head. “That is not something I can ever recall my granddaughter doing.”

“What are you talking about, Nana?”

Maria clasped both hands atop her cane. “Your mother and father taught you quite young that men were not reliable. Your grandfather died in Vietnam, long before you were born which was a great loss to me and my baby daughter, but I could have wished that he lived to meet you. You both would have benefited by it.”

“Yet you never remarried?” Duane couldn’t help asking.

“No. Some lovers…”

He could feel Sofia’s hand jolt in his. Her grandmother didn’t miss it.

“I remind you, Sofia, I am not dead. Far more discreet than your mother, which is saying very little, but still a woman.”

Duane could see where Sofia had inherited all of her spine.

Then Maria shook her head and inspected the low mahogany coffee table set with yellow roses. “You and Camila were both raised without male role models. Perhaps, by not remarrying, I also did not give you an example of what a good man could be. Perhaps,” she looked up at Duane. “Perhaps you will.”

Sofia opened the door to her bedroom, and hesitated. She had brought boys here before, even some young men. Neither of those described the man waiting close beside her no matter what Nana called him.

She wasn’t sure if she’d have survived seeing the vast change in her grandmother without his support. Once again she was reminded of Duane’s impossible solidness; rooted where he stood, with roots deeper than the oldest vine.

Giving in, she let the door swing open the rest of the way. After Duane had stepped through, she closed the door and leaned her back against it. He didn’t glance back at her for permission before prowling the room. She could feel the Unit operator assessing everything about the situation. She could feel him learning things about her so rapidly that it was spinning out of her control. She—

Remembered her training.

Managed a breath.

Another.

And then she watched him. Her first impression was wrong. He wasn’t a soldier assessing a new environment as she’d first thought. Instead, he was a man curious about a woman’s private room.

She had always liked to think it was an accurate reflection of her. Rich with warm golden colors, a dusky carpet the shade of the Colina Soleada rosé. Though she’d never noticed before quite how much the Moroccan blue duvet made the large bed stand out out, as if she’d wanted to draw special attention to it.

At the dresser, Duane paused to study the photos of her on Esperanza—her first pony. And later, Bandido with various show ribbons and trophies. The posters that now made her blush. Thankfully, the shirtless David Beckham had come down a long time ago, but the shirted one still hung next to Adam Levine—Maroon 5 had been her first concert and it was signed to her.

But was this room still her? The more she learned about Special Operations’ targets—not just since liaising with this team, but through her work at The Activity as well—the more it had changed her. There was a softness to the woman who lived in this room that she no longer recognized. She couldn’t reconcile her younger self with the one who knew as much as she now did about terrorists’ and various governments’ motivations.

Duane whispered a soft, “Damn!” He was looking out the window. It was one of those crystalline fall days. The flats of the Willamette Valley were commanded by the lone tower of Mt. Hood in the distance. The view from the family bedrooms had always been the best.

He finished his inspection then came to a stop in the middle of the bedroom, looking right at her.

“You’re not feeling self-conscious, are you?”

His amused smile had her shaking her head no just to keep him from being too smug. Besides, she’d stopped breathing again and couldn’t speak.

“I can think of a way to cure that?” Duane made it a question. No, an offer. Leaving the choice up to her. Which was decent but she already knew the answer.

She nodded yes.

He strolled up to her as casually as he walked when on a mission. Silently. No wasted motion. Not looking away from her face for an instant.

Pinned. Trapped. She couldn’t move. All she could do was lie back against her own door and wait.

He stopped inches away, reached up…and past her. He brought his hand back, and it was filled with pink silk. Her bathrobe hung on the back of the door. He let it run through his fingers.

“I can’t imagine how incredible you would look in this. Just this,” he held it out until she reached for it. He reached past her other side and locked the door with a soft click. He barely brushed his lips on hers, then he stepped back to the middle of the room and faced the view once more. Offering her privacy to change right there. As if. Yet she planned to be naked beside Duane very soon.

Sofia looked at the robe, then at Duane’s back, then back at the robe in her hands.

Well, he was welcome to his fantasies, but this was her bedroom.

She hung the robe up once more, kicked off her sneakers, then walked silently across the carpet to stand behind him. When he started to turn, she placed her hands on his shoulders to hold him in place, then ran them down his back, appreciating his muscle definition.

Skimming her hands around his waist, she slipped his black t-shirt up and over his head.

He wasn’t built like Chad, who could be used as a human tank in a pinch, but still he was powerfully built. His back was better than most of the cover models on her mother’s romances—which she’d hijacked plenty of as a teen.

And, as Nana had noted, Duane was impossibly real.

His skin was warm beneath her touch, and much more marked than she’d expected. Duane always gave the impression of being impregnable. He was just this guy showing up to do his day job—which happened to be as a Unit operator. Which meant, by definition, that he worked in the worst places in the world.

She slid a single finger down a long slice over one shoulder blade that must have taken dozens of stitches to close.

“I always was crap at climbing trees as a kid,” his voice was rough.

Sofia traced a line of three bullet wounds low on his back.

“You know what they say about playing with pointy sticks.”

She leaned against him, sliding her arms around his waist, and holding on. He stroked his hands along her arms. Duane was built of earth, of stone, of the hyper-compressed core of the planet. With her cheek against his back and her ear on his shoulder, she could hear his heartbeat. Through her arms, his breath.

She could hide here. Right here. Bury her face and forget about her mother the bitch. Her smug brother, who she’d had to teach the hard way to leave her alone in the quiet nights. And most of all forget Nana’s transformation over the last year. She seemed to have shrunk inches, bent over her cane as if she could barely stand upright.

When she sniffled too loudly, Duane turned in her arms and in moments she lay against his chest and he was the one holding her.

“Whoa!”

She turned to plant her nose directly against his breastbone and hung on tighter. Sofia didn’t need anyone, but she needed Nana. One of the pillars of her life was teetering and for the first time ever, she was truly afraid. She’d thought that Duane might teach her fear—even if she didn’t believe in it. Now, suddenly, he was the only thing holding it at bay.

Rather than pushing her away, he held her. Stroking a hand down over her hair, down her back.

She sniffled again, but it was for a different reason.

She was afraid, despite not believing in fear.

And she also felt safe, perfectly safe in Duane’s arms.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in feeling safe—it was that she’d never felt it before.

Duane knew that throwing Sofia over his shoulder and tossing her down on the bed wasn’t the right answer at the moment, but he needed to do it soon. To see what she had become from the sweet girl with her pony, her smile, and her prize ribbons was like a supercharged lightning bolt to the libido. How such a magnificent woman came from such an innocent was beyond impossible. Having that beautiful woman curled up against him despite all she’d seen and done, made her even more incredible.

He buried his face in her thick dark hair and breathed her in.

Maybe this wasn’t the time for self-restraint.

He inhaled deeply, stretching her embrace, then exhaled abruptly and squatted down before she could compensate.

Shoulder into her gut.

Arm around the backs of her knees.

Stand.

She was so damn light. Such a substantial presence as Sofia Forteza should not weigh so little.

Three steps, lean forward, and shrug.

Sofia flopped from his shoulder-carry onto the bed with a squeak of surprise.

She let out a half laugh as he finished the work he’d begun in the helicopter—with a single grab and yank, her blouse was torn open as several buttons pinged away as fast as bullets.

And he stopped. “Your skin,” he could barely speak. Her skin was the same perfect golden color all the way down to her waistband, only her bra interrupting the view—an impediment he dealt with quickly.

Then he could only stroke a hand down her in wonder. He’d had his share of hot lovers, but Sofia was something else entirely. Duane had to see more.

He began stripping off her pants.

“No, wait.”

Her fly open, his hands curled in the fabric to reveal her in one long pull, he stopped and looked her in the eyes.

Her breath heaved once, twice, a third time, her magnificent breasts riding up and down on each successive wave.

“No…” she heaved another beautiful-to-watch breath. “Don’t wait.”

He didn’t.

Nor did he waste time in getting naked himself. Holding Sofia was always incredible. Holding a naked Sofia against his own bare skin was a revelation.

There was no holding back. There was no slowing down.

Yes, it had been a while since his last port of call.

Wasn’t even a part of the equation.

Sofia lit a fuse in him that burned so brightly it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust. The body of a fighter—strong, flexible, perfect—was a hundred percent pure woman.

Ha! Used that percentage right.

They feasted on each other. Caress, taste, feet winding together testing the curve of a calf against an instep. No quiet foreplay. No gentle teasing. No male-female roles. Just two greedy needs coming together and crossing an instant ignition point.

One memory stood clear of all the others. One instant when they both hesitated, paused to appreciate the exquisite wonder of the moment. Safely sheathed, he slid inside her in a moment of utter silence. Her black eyes watching him steadily as her body arched up against his.

Their rhythm built together, their gazes locked, until her eyes finally rolled shut as her entire being strained one last time against him before exploding. She cried out as her body thrashed and her arms clung. Her legs locked so hard about his waist that his own detonation—for there was no other way to describe the power of it—somehow blew them closer together rather than farther apart.

And still she writhed, finally burying her face against his neck as the last of the roiling aftermath rattled through her.

For timeless minutes, neither of them moved.

He slowly became aware of one hand tucked under her butt. Of the other buried deep in her hair and cradling her head. Her own hands—one on his own butt and the other still locked about his neck.

“Sweet Jesus,” he managed on a gasp.

“I have never been called that before,” Sofia mumbled without unburying her face from his neck. He could feel her smile.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take more time. Later, I promise. I just…” He didn’t know what “he just.” Needed her? Wanted her? Had to be buried deep inside her? Had lost all goddamn control for the first time since Cindy Sue had introduced him to the wonders of sex as his sixteenth birthday present?

“I am filing no complaints with any persons,” the Spanish influence was richer than usual in her voice. It rose and fell like music on the morning light.

He managed to roll onto his back, keeping her tightly against him. She made no effort to move away. He slipped his hands over her, from butt to hairline she was blemishless.

“We are going to be needing to do this again.”

“Give me a couple of minutes on that. You’ve tripped all my circuit breakers, lady. Need a little time to reset them.”

“Really?” she wiggled against him like a serpent uncoiling from a nap in the sun. “That is such a pity. And I thought you were a real man.” She nipped at his shoulder.

He got his hands around her rib cage and lifted her into the air. “Behave, you.”

“Never!” Sofia cried and reached down to tickle him under the arms.

In his surprise, he dropped her and she landed squarely back on him, knocking the breath out of both of them.

But she didn’t stop. In moments his arms were full of squirming, fighting woman. Except she wasn’t fighting to get away, she was fighting to make him completely crazy.

He finally captured her wrists in one hand, but she used that as leverage to sit up over him. He used her momentum to carry her right over onto her back which had her hanging head and shoulders over the foot of the bed. By a miscalculation of center of gravity, caused by a well-placed knee to his gut worthy of a yogi contortionist turned street fighter, combined with the slickness of the duvet, they both toppled off the end and onto the carpet.

By some secret ninja method he’d never seen before, she ended up kneeling astride him as he lay on the carpet.

“Now,” she declared, leaning in as he cupped her breasts. “I think I need to go have a shower since you are no real man.”

Impossibly she managed to slip away from him and stride naked to the bathroom.

He’d had fantasies like this this one—Duane was sure he had. But if so, he knew he’d been lacking in imagination. She moved with a spring in her step and a soft swish of tangled hair that had him starting to his feet.

By the time he reached the bathroom door, she’d closed it. The click of the lock sounded clearly in the suddenly quiet bedroom. His knock went unanswered. He could hear the shower start.

He pounded again.

He was answered by the opening lyric to Paula Abdul’s Opposites Attract.

If a naked Sofia Forteza was dancing to that music in the shower and he missed it, he was going to have to kill himself.

He tried the handle again.

No joy.

It only took him a moment to locate his pants and his pick set.

Five seconds later all he could do was stare in wonder as Sofia danced within the glassed-in shower enclosure. The russet and golden tiles highlighted her as if she was the most precious thing ever, poised in a life-sized display case.

Sofia loved her control over Duane. It seemed trite, selfish, and egotistical.

But she watched him through the curtain of spray and the glass. One of the most skilled warriors anywhere stood frozen in all his naked glory in the middle of her bathroom. How was a girl not supposed to feel good about that?

Maybe it was okay to tease him with her body.

She turned a slow circle in her dance as she broke into the refrain.

Opposites attract?

But how opposite were they?

Intelligence agent versus Unit operator—both at the top level of Special Operations. Both rich. Both repulsed by their parents. Both…

All she was coming up with was similarities.

Yet by the time she’d circled around, Duane still hadn’t moved. No, at least one part of him was moving. He had delivered the most powerful sexual experience of her life, and it was clear he would soon be ready to prove that it wasn’t a fluke.

“I once dated a Greek military officer—” she called out loudly enough to be heard over the pounding spray.

“I didn’t need to hear that,” Duane’s growl carried into the shower enclosure just fine.

“He said that no day is a complete day if there isn’t dancing in it.” She kept dancing by herself—torn between embarrassment at her display and a primal joy at Duane’s on-going paralysis. “He was right! Some people sing in the shower. But I know better, I sing and dance.”

Still nothing.

“We were showering when he taugh—”

“Enough already! I surrender!”

Duane stepped in quickly to join her.

“Holy hell, woman!” He reached for the temperature controls but she slapped his hand away.

“I like my showers the way I like my men. If you are one who can not be taking the heat, you had better be getting out of my shower,” she ran a soaped hand down his chest.

“If you can take it, so can I!” He snatched the bar of soap away from her. “I need to check on some things.”

“You need to what?” But her next breath was snatched away as he brushed a soaped palm over her hip.

“I was in too much of a hurry before to notice the shape of this curve. Or this one,” he brushed a thumb along her jawline then leaned in to kiss her. Unable to do more than groan, she leaned into him.

As strong and willful as she’d felt a moment before, now she felt helpless, unable to respond, to move, without Duane’s guidance. He took control of her body until once again her voice rose to echo from the walls.

She lay against the cool tile as the heat washed over and through her.

Her grandmother was wrong—Nana had provided all the role model she would ever need. She would stand alone. In the Activity, and someday the vineyard, she was all she needed.

But this. She clung to Duane’s broad shoulders to keep her sanity—for her self-control, it was too late; it had left the shower long since—as he found yet a higher place to force her to climb. She would definitely have to make sure she always had time for this and a man to take her there.

Unable to bear the impossible tower he was making her ascend alone, she bolted from the shower.

Duane looked upset by the time she came sprinting back to the shower, still soaking wet. Her wet and soapy feet had her skating across the tile floor. She hopped through the open shower door and slammed into his arms.

Then she slapped a condom into his hand and in moments they were seeking the heights together.

They finished that dance, then Estefan’s Conga and Maroon 5’s Sugar before they were too waterlogged to move.

An hour later, the shrill scream of the phone beside the bed yanked them from a slumber that was more boneless collapse than sleep.

There wasn’t even time to dry her hair. When Nana ordered them not to be late for lunch, she didn’t dare delay.

Duane could get used to this. His parent’s place had a territorial view of the local neighborhood and the high-rises of Atlanta. Ansley Park allowed the wealthy to look at the city they ruled.

The stone-flagged patio of the Forteza estate house had a hundred-mile view of rolling vineyards, a sweeping river valley, and towering mountains. It was a humbling view, the beauty keeping even the lushness of the family mansion in perspective.

He also liked the simplicity of the meal despite the setting—a meal his mother would never deign to let out of the pantry. A generous platter of cold cuts and other sandwich fixings. Chips, beer, pickles…yes, he was indeed a happy man.

That and looking at Sofia.

The woman in the sapphire blue blouse and jeans was overlaid by his memory of the naked woman gyrating about the shower for the simple joy of it. She had unplumbed depths of joy that were so unexpected. In the field she’d been, by turns: serious, concerned, fierce, and competent. Away from all that she was playful, exotic, and the damn sexiest thing he’d ever laid eyes or hands on.

Now, seated beside her Nana, she was practically prim. A woman of dazzling contrasts.

The rest of the table was a trainwreck of spectacular proportions. There was the youngest Forteza—the silent sister. Consuela was pretty enough in a slender way, with none of the flash of her older sister or her mother. She concentrated on the meal, but Duane would bet that she didn’t miss a thing. There was a sharpness, an awareness in her eyes when they briefly met his. After that, she was careful not to look at him directly. He wasn’t sure what she was hiding from, but the other family members were fair candidates. If she didn’t want to be noticed, she did an excellent job of it throughout the meal—apparently she was wholly invisible to everyone but him.

Sibling Number Three was presently doing three-to-five for dealing coke—the other kind of coke than his own family dealt—to a couple of DEA agents.

That left Sofia’s mother—apparently between fitness trainers until her allowance was restocked at the New Year—and Sibling Number Two—the smug, handsome, snake-in-the-grass Emilio he’d met earlier at the helipad.

“You’re in the Army?” Asked with a dripping disdain—implying Duane wasn’t qualified for anything better—that tempted him to put on his good-old-boy redneck suit. He considered it, except he didn’t want to embarrass Sofia. Then he saw her roll her eyes just the way Chad would as if saying, “There’s fresh bait. Go kill it.”

“Yeah-sir!” Duane let the South roll off his tongue and go for a stroll. “Fightin’ for my country and proud” pronounced per-owd “to be doin’ it.”

“He’s good at what he does.” For a moment he thought that Sofia was trying to defend him.

Until her brother stepped on the straight line, “Oh, I’m sure he is, sister,” with far to knowing a tone.

“Yep!” Duane eased back and sipped the last of his beer before thumping the glass back on the table. Then he made a show of flexing his hands into fists for a moment as if they were a little out of practice from lack of use—like a pianist warming them up. “Why I haven’t beat the shit out of anyone since…” he looked over at Sofia.

“Thursday,” she provided. Man but she cracked him up.

“Right, Thursday. I only fractured his jaw a little.”

Emilio eyed him skeptically.

“A-’course, that old boy is now inside La Joya prison with a lot of other folks that he put there. That’s in Panama, by the way, just in case you didn’t know.” Carefully implying he was too stupid to.

The Panamanian lieutenant who had tried to sell out Operation Prime Cause’s operation to the drug dealers might well be dead already for his deeds. La Joya placed plenty high in the World’s Worst Prison contest. The lieutenant’s trip there didn’t make Duane’s heart bleed in the least. There was a phrase in country that, roughly translated, said the only way out of La Joya was feet first.

“And Duane hasn’t shot a soul for at least a week,” Sofia added helpfully. Damn, all he needed was a Chad-casual move, but he didn’t have a weapon on him to pull out and begin cleaning.

“Been a whole week?” Duane let his surprise show. And he hoped that the CIA team leader’s hand and knee were healing slowly and painfully.

Now Sofia’s grandmother was rolling her eyes. Maybe they were laying it on a little too thick.

“Who are you with?” Emilio hadn’t thrown in the towel yet. There was something odd in his dynamic that Duane couldn’t pin down. He’d have to ask Sofia later. He wasn’t gay, that was obvious from how he looked at his own sister’s breasts—Sofia had told Duane about beating the shit out of Emilio when he tried to put action behind that look. But Duane couldn’t pin down what was out of sync.

“Have you heard of the Green Berets?”

“Sure. They’re the guys who wear green berets. Like John Wayne.”

“They are,” Duane agreed amiably. He’d been 75th Rangers, but he didn’t want even the stain of this shit’s thoughts on his old unit. Chad had come to Delta out of the Green Berets. Too bad for him that he wasn’t here to defend their honor.

“How many people have you killed?” Sofia’s mother was as disdainful as her son.

Duane was so goddamn sick of that question. Civilians never understood what it took to keep them safe. It wasn’t how many he killed; it was killing the right ones that mattered. General Aguado’s guards counted as proper takedowns. The bug hunt in which his team had knocked down twenty percent of the US supply of cocaine at its source had been a righteous one as well.

A glance around the table revealed varied reactions to the question.

Maria Alicia Forteza y Borga de Olivella watched him closely. She appeared to be waiting to see how he would handle the question rather than what the answer might be.

Sofia blushed and looked down, ashamed of a family that wasn’t worthy to lick her boots.

Camila and her son, Emilio, poised in unison to label him murderer.

And the quiet Consuela looked up just enough to show her smile as she watched him. It was her amusement that gave him the right answer.

He rose slowly and put on his best mosey around to Sofia’s chair, helping her to her feet. Duane had to tip up her chin to make a slow, clear, delicious point of kissing her in public. He led her a step away then, as if reconsidering, he left her there and returned to grab Camila’s and Emilio’s shoulders.

A wink at Consuela was rewarded with a particularly nice smile—one that looked as if she wasn’t used to other people seeing it; or even noticing her existence. He turned his attention back to the pair of pit vipers.

“Y’all gotta understand something. I’m trained to protect good people, at any cost to myself.”

Then he dropped the Southern from his voice and let it go harsh.

“That doesn’t include you,” he squeezed Camila’s shoulder hard enough to ensure her undivided attention.

“Or you,” he clamped down on Emilio’s hard enough to go right through his gym-trained strength and earn a gasp—the pressure of Duane’s fingertips pressing on the Pectoralis Minor Nerve Trigger Point distracted Emilio too thoroughly to permit anything as trivial as speech.

He held the pressure for a count of five then eased just enough that Emilio would be able to hear him. Duane let his voice go back to good-old-boy.

“As to how many people I’ve killed up until today? Well, hell, ya’ll. The day ain’t over yet. I’ll jes’ have to keep ya posted.”

Emilio let out a whimper when Duane let him go abruptly. The sudden release would be nearly as painful as the pressure itself. His arm wouldn’t work right for a day or two.

Camila moved in fast to console her son the moment Duane let her go.

Consuela was hiding her face behind her napkin, but her eyes gave away the look she was hiding.

Nana’s infinitesimal nod accepted his solution to the problem without condoning or condemning.

He strolled past Sofia, taking her hand, and led her off the porch and out into the fields.

“Was he always that awful?”

Sofia could only shake her head. Emilio had never been friendly—perhaps due to being the oldest male in a matriarchy—but he’d never been so thoroughly pugnacious either.

“Your mother’s influence.”

Sofia guided him around the side of the house to get out of view as quickly as possible. She could feel the pressure ease the moment they were out of sight. A shaky breath was incredibly cleansing—the crisp fall air purging the worst of the experience.

Ahead lay the Corazón de las Vides tasting rooms and the wine lounge. Open to the general public, for a fee, it was focused on cultivating the big spenders. It had been built farther around the hilltop than the house, commanding an equally impressive view to the south and west. The Coast Range, while far lower than the Cascade Mountains to the east, was also much closer. Starting less than five miles away, its conifer-shrouded shoulders rose to impressive heights above the last of the Willamette Valley patchwork that surrounded the Dundee Hills.

It was a masterpiece of yellow faux adobe, heavy stone, and wooden beams, capped with red Spanish tile. Inside it offered seating for cozy groups by warm fires, and a luxurious old-world dining room where, for special events, a hundred could dine, and wine, behind the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. World-class chefs had created feasts here, all paired with the estate wines of course. On summer days, the glass walls could be folded aside. No expense had been spared and buyers would be able to feel it just by entering the building.

Colina Soleada wines started at seventy a bottle and went up rapidly, so they’d expect no less. More affordable vintages were grown and bottled at other vineyards quietly owned by the Forteza empire, but here at the main estate only the best, showpiece wines were served and sold.

Her entry caused a familiar flurry among the staff and guests—familiar and, now, strangely foreign.

The appearance of a family member in the wine lounge was always an occasion. Isabel, the Corazón de las Vides manager, appeared moments after their arrival with her unvarying air of having been waiting specifically for the most honored guest. She offered the same to everyone from the beginner, who’d invested fifty dollars for a thirty-minute tasting, to the owner of a restaurant chain that placed a hundred thousand dollar order over a complimentary glass of the three hundred dollar a bottle Soleada Signature Reserve.

It was a standard practice that she’d learned at Nana’s knee, for the family to visit any groups that happened to be there. It was a practice she knew well and had always enjoyed. A friendly handshake and a few words with a family member served to confirm to buyers that they mattered; that they were actually seen.

That was the wholly unexpected thing that Duane had done over lunch.

Certainly they’d had amazing sex, but she didn’t need to be told that’s all it was. He’d taken one look at her, ripped off her clothes, and they’d had a wonderful time. Startling, breathtaking, mind-bending sex, but she knew better than to think there was any real relationship behind it. Her family exemplified that there was no such thing.

She’d seen actual relationships, appropriate for the rare few like Carla and Melissa, but she and Duane knew better.

Yet if ever there was a man she would choose… Throughout the whole meal, Duane had remained pleasant and easygoing, leading conversation when it lagged—even teasing Nana about falling off a horse.

“You let your horse throw you? I don’t believe it. I bet you were just testing our your flying skills,” said with such charm that even Mother couldn’t find an offense in it—something she’d striven to do at every turn.

Duane’s background, which neither of them mentioned to anyone, showed in his every word and gesture—Southern gentleman to the very core. A Southern gentleman well trained in how to host a party and be the perfect guest—at least until Emilio went so far out of his way to be insufferable.

Unit operator Duane Jenkins had seen her family, with uncomfortable clarity. He’d made her feel seen as well. Despite her first expectation in the Venezuelan jungle, Duane hadn’t been trying to charm her simply because she was a woman. When he spoke, which she now understood was less rather than more often, he worked to charm everyone. He saw them and let them know that.

Isabel acted as genteel escort, making it even more clear to guests that this was an occasion and just how lucky and special each of them were. Each time, she found a new way to slip into the conversation that Sofia was only here for one day after a year abroad—so they should feel even more privileged—and implied that she had been doing wonderful, wine-related things during that time.

In one of the more private rooms, Sofia greeted a buyer from Wolfgang Puck’s restaurants who she remembered from when he’d started out as a wine buyer for Palace Station casino in Vegas.

She traded air kisses with Phoebe, a Michelin-starred French chef down from Portland. She was a slender woman who preferred to serve Colina Soleada wines over her native country’s. When Sofia found out she was planning a second restaurant, this time in San Francisco, she introduced Phoebe to Wolfgang’s buyer. Before she was gone, it was clear that the two were hitting it off on many levels—talking about wine, but thinking many other things as well.

A group of Japanese tourists had all sprung for the full tasting, tour, and tray of traditional tapas finger food created by the onsite chef. They traded low bows and then took dozens of selfies with her despite the mess her hair must still be from drying in the sun. At least it was back in a ponytail.

Through it all, Duane followed close beside her. Silent, powerful, she supposed that he appeared to be her bodyguard, as if she needed one. Or the perfectly solicitous assistant, holding Phoebe’s chair, taking the group photo for the Japanese, and a dozen other small niceties.

Duane moved through it all with an ease and familiarity that belied his rough appearance and callused hands. Money didn’t daunt him…or impress him. The more people they did a meet-and-greet with, the more she found herself watching him than the patrons. He was proving that he was magnificent out of the bedroom as well.

They finally made it through to her favorite place, the second floor balcony. She often sat here in any weather. A table umbrella against summer sun or spring rains and a standup heater close by the outdoor hearth against fall and winter chills. This had been her escape from the rest of the family. Always by herself. Now she took her favorite table by the railing and Duane sat with her.

Isabel provided them with two glasses of the estate reserve before tactfully disappearing. Sofia knew that there would be a waiter on alert watching for so much as a raised finger, but out of eyesight.

“You do that very well,” Duane toasted her.

“It might be my very first memory, walking among strangers, reaching up to hold Nana’s hand, and welcoming them here.”

“Bet you were charming as hell as a kid. Cute too.”

“It felt strange this time.”

“Me or you?” Duane’s perceptions were as clear as ever.

“I…don’t know.”

Duane sipped the wine and relished it with an unexpected practice. “Wow, that’s a good year.”

“The 2012, our best in over twenty years.” She was halfway to tasting her own glass when the implications sunk in. “Colina Soleada. You said you’d never heard of it.”

Duane shrugged easily. “I didn’t want to make you self-conscious about telling me who you were.”

“You lying son of a bitch. You took advantage of me. I thought that for once I found someone who might like me for me not for my heritage. You—”

“I only implied I didn’t. Half truth,” and the twitch of his shoulders said he regretted it. “We were already in the air on the way here before you told me. Besides, my interest is in the brilliant and beautiful intelligence analyst who kissed me on the balcony of a Portobelo casa, not in some wine heiress.”

Sofia rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms. “Oh, as if I’m supposed to trust that.”

Duane shrugged again, even less comfortably. He studied the dark red wine as he slowly twirled the stem in his battle-callused fingers.

Yet with him, perhaps she could trust it. He too came from wealth, true wealth. Her fortune would have less impact on him. “Most men I meet are more like Emilio, always hungry for more.”

“If you are the ‘more,’ then yes, I seem to have an insatiable appetite. If your money is, I don’t give a damn. The Army more than covers my expenses never mind Mother and Father.”

“Are they still together? Your parents?”

Now it was Duane’s turn to wish for a subject change. He wanted to shrug the question away, would have with anyone else. But he’d seen the disaster that had somehow created the wonder of Sofia Forteza and he could hear the pleading and hope in her voice, even if she probably couldn’t.

“Yes, but not in the way you mean. Not ‘The Real Thing’.” It was the best answer he had. “I don’t know that they were ever ‘together.’ Well, except for the fact that I was conceived in there somewhere, maybe once was enough as I’m an only kid. They are the perfect host and hostess for each other’s careers though: the Coca-Cola exec and one of the most powerful lawyers in Atlanta. They make an exquisite couple at parties. A couple who live in opposite wings of a seven-bedroom mansion with their mostly unnoted son living somewhere in the middle. Mother lost all interest when it became clear I was following in Father’s footsteps rather than hers. He lost all interest when I followed in the Army’s instead of his.”

Sofia didn’t look up at him.

“At least you have your grandmother. She’s wonderful.” Wrong thing to say, as the fear was once again back in Sofia’s eyes. He wanted to reassure her, but couldn’t think how. For all of her spine of steel, Maria Alicia Forteza was a frail woman who had barely touched her meal.

“I can’t imagine how she fell,” Sofia still didn’t look up. “She and Diablo finished second in a major eventing seniors’ competition just three years ago.”

“Eventing?”

“Dressage, cross-country, and show jumping. It’s a combined event that challenges all aspects of horsemanship. Think the decathlon for horse and rider, and Nana is an expert. There is an entire room in the house just for her awards.”

“Oh.”

Sofia was eyeing him carefully. “You do ride, don’t you?”

“Some.” Every Unit operator had at least basic horsemanship training. Ever since the very first troops into Afghanistan after 9/11 ended up deploying on horseback and mules to mix in with the hill tribes, Delta had added a one-week riding course. But other than that… “Not a lot of horses in downtown Atlanta.”

“This,” Sofia declared, “we must fix soon.”

“Sooner than we go back to bed?”

Sofia’s smile gave him some hope, but her response dashed that. “Absolutely!”

“This should be fun.” Not!

Sofia sudden scowl told him that he needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

He went for a subject change. “So how long have your mother and brother been lovers?”

Sofia’s wine glass flipped out of her hand and shattered on the flagstone at her feet. “They what?”

Duane really needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.