Amanda does not outwardly react to the accusation of espionage. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t look away. In fact, she holds my stare. “I would never betray my country,” she says, her voice steady, calm. “That I’m accused of such an atrocity, though, isn’t a surprise. A kill order was issued with my name on it. That had to be justified with a serious claim.”

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, the space between us small and somehow miles wide. “Your parents were accused of the same thing.”

“Of course they were. Their kill orders were issued at the same time.”

“They’d been flagged by the agency for two years.”

This time she blanches. “What?” She recovers and shakes her head. “No. That’s not possible.”

“And yet, it’s a fact. Two years, Amanda.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable before she leans back in her seat, withdrawal in the action. “Why?”

I study her, looking for some tell sign that spells guilt, but her expression remains unreadable. But I’ve lived and worked with this woman. I’ve seen her in a broad spectrum of situations, and I know her energy, and right now, it’s shock and fear.

“Why?” she presses when I haven’t answered quickly enough to suit her. “Why were my parents being monitored?”

“You tell me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Not specifics. Just that they were flagged and being monitored.”

“Which means I was as well,” she assumes, anger and accusation lacing those words. “And that you were, in fact, investigating me.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I was not.”

“How long have you known this about my parents?” she asks, clearly trying to find my lie that I’m not telling.

“Since right after you left,” I say.

“I need more than you’re giving me. I need details.”

“My information came from a source who had a source, who couldn’t get me specifics.”

“What source?”

“No one you know and no one I plan to expose.”

“And the details of my supposed espionage?”

“None given.”

“Then no.”

I arch a brow. “No?”

“I reject the accusation against my parents. They are the ones who created my devotion to my job and country. They would not betray their country. I’m not guilty and neither are they.”

“There was a reason they were being watched.”

She leans forward again. “While you were not investigating me, and just fucking me, did you ever find one piece of evidence against them or me?”

I lean forward again as well. “I was never ‘just fucking you’ beyond that first night, and no. I never saw any evidence that you were dirty. I was never in a position to evaluate your parents.” I narrow my eyes on her, and ask the question I’ve asked myself for three years, “Are you, were you, covering something up for your parents?”

“There’s nothing to cover up,” she snaps.

“You have to consider the possibility that somehow, some way, your parents got pulled into murky water that spiraled into quicksand.”

“You’re asking me to believe that my parents, the only people I have in this world, are dirty. I reject that premise.”

“That’s an emotional response that you don’t normally allow yourself.”

“It’s an educated response,” she corrects. “I lived with my parents and I worked with them all of my life.”

“Until five years ago, and a lot can change in five years.”

“They aren’t guilty,” she insists dogmatically. “I’m not guilty. And the one mistake I made in all of this was to hide and not fight. I should have gone after answers and justice.”

“The one mistake you made was forgetting that you didn’t just have your parents three years ago. You had me.”

“This coming from the man who swore he’d kill me just hours ago.”

“Change my mind.”

Her expression darkens. “You shouldn’t need your mind changed,” she says. “You should know that I’m innocent. You, of all people, should have—and still should—believe in me.”

“I did believe in you,” I say, my voice hardening. “Before you ran.”

“Left. I left. And the bottom line here is that I will always wonder if you really set me up. And while I’m going to prove my innocence along with that of my parents, you will always be the man who didn’t believe in me. And to you, I will still be the person who is unforgivably responsible for Danny’s death.”

“You say I should believe in you. You should have believed in me. That you say now that you never will, tells me that Danny is ultimately on me. Because either I misjudged your character or I misjudged the trust between us.”

Her expression tightens. “I did trust you,” she says. “But you were right when you said that I didn’t trust my own judgment about you.” She sinks back into her seat and looks skyward before back at me. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. You can just use it against me, but that night—hearing your name on my mother’s lips—for a solid five minutes, it paralyzed me. And then I hyperventilated like I did the first ten times I killed someone.” She leans forward again, obviously in a push and pull of emotions. “It affected me in ways I don’t ever plan to be affected again. I will not let myself trust you again. And in your own way, you feel something similar about me. I see that in your actions. I see it when you look at me.”

“If that’s what you see when you look in my eyes, sweetheart, you aren’t really looking.”

“I see what is there to see, not what you want me to see. You say that you’re a good friend to have and bad enemy to make. Without trust, there are just enemies. So, we have a truce while we deal with Franklin. We’ll protect each other. We might even fuck again and again, even though I’d like to tell myself we won’t. But when this ends, one of us will die.”

Twenty-four hours ago, I would have agreed with her, and in fact, assured her it would be her that would soon be dead, not me. Now, I’ve kissed her and fucked her and touched her. I’ve looked into her eyes, heard her story, and nothing is quite that cut and dry anymore. “When you said that I know you,” I say, “you were right. I do. And if your instincts told you that I betrayed you, we wouldn’t fuck again.”

“If only it were that simple with you,” she says. “But it never was and it never is.” She settles deeper into her chair, and with her shoes still off, pulls her legs up onto the cushion to her side. “I’m going to sleep the rest of the way.” She rotates and faces the cat’s carrier and sticks her hand inside, stroking Julie and talking to her. I think about her barren apartment, and the seclusion of the past three years she’s lived inside, and I understand the cat more than I had before now. Loving that animal didn’t create a weakness in her, which I’d first perceived. It helped her control any urge she had for human contact with anyone, including me.

I recline my seat and stare at the ceiling, my mind chasing the trust issue. Even if she reacted to her mother’s call out of caution, or even confusion, space and time didn’t convince her to trust me and make contact. And she knew how to safely reach me. We long ago came up with a plan, should we ever be separated, to make contact. Yet, if I believe her to be innocent, and my gut says that she is, I have to have read her wrong. I have to have read us wrong. And if I could love this woman the way I loved her—still love her—and be this wrong, what else did I miss?

I shut my eyes and think back to the past, trying to see where I went wrong, back to the first night we worked together as Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Beyond the actual mission, to our rapid departure to safety on a plane identical to this one, her still in a formal dress. Me in a tuxedo. I’d fucked Amanda at thirty-thousand feet, and by the time we’d landed in New York, we’d discovered we were re-assigned together and would remain Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Details for the time were limited, but everything about our new mission had been set up for us in advance to include a change of clothes on the plane: A light gray suit for me. A light blue dress for Amanda.

We arrive in a hired car near midnight at our new luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, playing our roles as the wealthy diamond moguls, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, as we greet the staff and made our way to the elevator. While touching Amanda is part of that role, it’s one I find myself more than willing to engage. There is something about her that I find rather addictive, and I don’t do addictive. Something human and real that may well be part of why the agency clearly wants me paired with her, watching her, that hits some chord in me I don’t quite understand.

Once we’re in the elevator, cameras no doubt watching us, I punch in the twenty-fifth floor, lean on the wall, and immediately pull Amanda to me. “Mrs. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“It’s late,” I say. “You must be tired. I know I, for one, am looking forward to testing out our new bed.”

“Are you now?”

“Yes. I am.”

“And here I thought you got all the ‘rest’ you could possibly want or need, on the plane.”

“Not even close,” I assure her. “I’d equate the plane to a nap that readied me for all night long.”

“All night? Really. That’s an impressive premise. Are you sure you’re ‘up’ to it?”

I laugh. Damn, this woman amuses me when little else does. The elevator dings, and I cup her head and give her a quick kiss before the doors open. “Let’s go find out,” I say, closing her hand in mine and leading her out of the car.

We cut down a hallway to the right and into a private entryway that leads to our apartment. Releasing Amanda, I unlock the door, aware that she is unzipping her purse, her hand sliding inside, and around the weapon I already know she carries there, surprisingly cautious considering the agency placed us here. But I like caution. Caution is how you stay alive. I push open the door and I don’t get the chance to enter first. She’s immediately stepping forward, inside the hallway door, no damsel waiting to be saved. She might blink when she kills, but she’s fearless.

I’m immediately on her heels, following her down the short, narrow hallway, the floor beneath our feet a shiny pale wood. Rounding the corner, we enter the living area, a box-like room with high ceilings, gray walls, and windows lining the front and side walls, giving the space a private, secluded feeling. A bar, also gray, divides us from the kitchen, with halls to our left and right. Amanda and I share a look, and she heads down one hallway, and me the other. I search an office and two bedrooms before I meet her back in the living room at the stainless steel and gray steps. “This place must run five million dollars,” she murmurs as, side by side, we start up the steps.

“You don’t know Manhattan if you think this place is that cheap. Try ten million.”

“This is familiar territory for you?” she asks as we cut left to climb another flight of stairs.

“Familiar enough,” I say, noncommittally, which is about as committed as I ever get about anything but my job.

We step into a small foyer with a fancy light overhead, and then directly into the master, a uniquely oval-shaped room wrapped in windows, with a gray high-posted bed in the center. And while my mind could conjure about ten ways to fuck Amanda right here and now, this isn’t the time. Amanda heads into the bathroom, and I walk to the doorway to my right, entering to find a sitting room that has been converted into an office for our use. A round gray table is in the center, a file and two MacBooks on top. A huge bulletin board is to the right. A white board to the left. Two large chests in the corner. A tech center on the wall with several monitors, which I assume will display this building as well as other key locations we don’t know as of yet. Whatever this job is, it’s big, and it’s important.

I walk to the chests and open one of them up to find an arsenal of weapons. Amanda appears by my side and inspects the selection. “Impressive,” she says, stepping to the second chest and opening it.

I glance over to find test tubes, bottles, and syringes, as she glances over at me. “This is a much more elaborate lab than I’m normally given. They must be planning on us staying a while.”

“And you poisoning a whole lot of people?”

There is a flicker of something in her eye, there and gone, before she says, “Believe it or not, my lab can be a resource outside of killing someone,” and turns away, walking toward the table.

Intrigued by this woman, I pursue her. “Such as?”

She sits down at the table and opens one of the MacBooks. “I’d tell you but I’d have to poison you afterwards.”

Non-committal as well, another good quality in an agent and partner, but rather inconvenient at the moment. I sit down next to her and pull the folder between us, flipping it open. “Target,” I say, staring down at a photo with a name at the bottom. “Fai Ming,” I read, sliding the photo to her and picking up a sheet of paper to read through Ming’s list of sins, which includes money laundering for a known terrorist operation. I bypass the data collection on him and I hand Amanda what I’ve already reviewed, giving her time to read through it and make her own assessments.

I reach for documents detailing our mission and start to read, and after a good two minutes, Amanda says, “Ming appears to be somewhat of a ghost. He lives in China. Any idea why we’re in New York instead of there? Because I’m not seeing it.”

“Apparently,” I say, summarizing what I’ve read. “Brad and Laura Davenport, a married couple, head up what is called ‘The Circle’ for Ming, here in New York.”

“I’ll bite. What’s The Circle?”

“A group of wealthy investors who are then allowed to invest in Ming’s packaged deals.”

“Hedge funds?”

“Exactly,” I say, moving on. “Once you’re inside The Circle, which apparently is nearly impossible to enter, you have a link to Ming. He has to personally approve you to officially become a Circle member.”

“And we have the impossible task of convincing the Davenport couple that we’re the next ‘it’ Circle couple.”

“Exactly again.” I tap the document in front of me. “They visit an elite private club and spa every Saturday and Wednesday. We’ve been made members.”

“Where we’ll run into them and bond,” she supplies, scanning the Davenport profiles. “Real estate developers and equity investors.” She glances up at me. “Funny how there are no mentions of international terror suspects,” she adds dryly. “This sounds like a long, tedious process, in which Ming could fund many terrorist activities.”

I slide another piece of paper to her. “They have a warehouse in Brooklyn and a house in the Hamptons. If we find a link to Ming at either of those places, we speed things up and go to him directly.”

“We can’t make the Hamptons tonight and get back here for Saturday morning spa time fun,” she says. “And we don’t want to have to wait until Wednesday.”

“But we can make the warehouse and still have our morning visit with the Davenports,” I say, thumbing through documents until I find what I’m looking for. “We have the warehouse schematics.” I grab an envelope and dump it, to find a collection of banded credit cards, IDs, and separately, two sets of car keys. “And it appears,” I add, glancing at the custom key chains, “a Porsche and a BMW.”

“And two closets overflowing with clothes, with an emphasis on black and covert. But what we don’t have are my potions, as I call them.” She lifts her finger to show me the film she keeps there to distribute her poisons. “This is the application with no chemical compound. Until I have some lab time, I’m without my magic.”

“You have me instead, sweetheart, and you don’t know it yet, but I’m a good friend to make and a bad enemy to have. And right now, I’m the closest thing to a friend you have.”

“I don’t have friends,” she says.

So, she’ll fuck me but not friend me, I think. Smart girl. Because friends make easy enemies and an orgasm isn’t worth dying for.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we’re both in black jeans and T-shirts, with black leather jackets, allowing us to be discreetly well-armed. We opt for the stairs to avoid cameras catching our departure, exit the stairwell at the rear of the lobby, and make our way to a side door to avoid the staff. Exiting the building, we step onto the now sparsely populated Manhattan sidewalk, which would be considered busy in any other city. “A cab driver means a witness,” I say, motioning down a side street. “There’s a parking lot this way. We’ll grab a car there.”

“There are cameras at that lot,” she says. “Two streets down, to the right, there’s another option. We’ll find a car in that lot without a camera capturing us.”

I glance over at her. “You know the city, too.”

Her lips hint at a smile as she says, “Well enough,” in a reply that gives me no more than I’d given her with the same question, proving she gives back as good as she gets.

“Well enough indeed,” I say, finding this woman more interesting by the moment.

I motion us forward and we have a natural chemistry, falling into even steps together as we cross the street and make our way to the location she’s indicated, to find the street light above the lot burned out. “We couldn’t have planned that better,” I murmur as I scan the cars and choose one.

Ten minutes later, we’re out of the lot and on the road in a gray Ford Focus, only twenty minutes from the warehouse.

I exit to the highway, and cut Amanda a look. “How many times have you been married?” I ask, still sizing up the woman that is now my partner, for an indefinite period of time.

“In the real world,” she says. “Never even close and I have no interest. This life we live just isn’t a life that supports marriage. In a fictional world, a half-dozen times.”

“Of those, how many of those did you fuck?”

She laughs, not even slightly offended. “Wondering how you stack up?”

“Assessing how you operate.”

“A girl doesn’t kiss and tell,” she says, “only sadly, since a girl does have needs, there’s nothing to tell. I scare everyone off, except apparently, you.”

“Considering you tried to scare me off with all your poison talk, I think you like it that way.”

“I do, actually,” she says, offering nothing more.

“Why?” I ask, wondering if there is something other than that blink when she kills that she’s hiding.

“Alone is safer,” she says without hesitation, “and for the most part, beyond my first year in the field, that’s how I work. The agency picks and chooses where my skills will come in handy, then drops me in and pulls me out.” She shifts the topic to me. “What about you? How many marriages?”

“I’m not the commitment kind of guy, either.” I glance over at her and then back at the road. “On or off the job. Most of the time, there’s a specific need, or needs, that I can satisfy, and like you, I’m dropped in and pulled out.”

“And what exactly are the needs they call you for?”

I could tell her that I’m really damn good at killing people, but that would invite questions that I’m simply not willing to answer. “I don’t blink,” I say. “I’ll do what other people won’t.”

“Translation,” she replies, “I’m not getting a real answer. I can accept that, but on a side note, it’s interesting to me that two people who work alone, and on short term jobs, are now paired together for what seems like a job that won’t be fast.”

Yes it is, I think, as she adds, “They’re sacrificing the two of us in the field, doing what we do, for this. It feels like there is something we don’t know.”

She’s right. It does, but I’m not sure if it’s about Ming or her. For now, I’m focused on Ming. “Let’s talk about the building setup.” I reach in my pocket and hand her a map of the property I printed before we left the apartment. “There’s no alarm system, which leads me to believe there’s nothing to find.”

“Sometimes people leave evidence they don’t even realize they’re leaving,” she says. “And let’s hope that’s the case.”

We spend the next ten minutes talking through the floor plan and possible challenges before we reach our exit, but I take a necessary detour before heading to the warehouse. I cut us to the side road, and turn into a burger joint. “We’re a mile from the warehouse and I don’t know about you, but I need food.”

“Oh God, yes,” she says. “I don’t even remember the last time I ate.”

I pull us to the drive-thru and roll down the window. “Any idea what you want?”

“A number one with a diet whatever they have.”

I lean out of the window. “Hello?”

“Can I take your order?”

“A number one with a diet whatever you have, a number two with a coke, two cheeseburgers, and a side of fries.” I wait for the total and roll us forward.

“Are we feeding an army or what?” Amanda asks.

“I once survived on Tic Tacs and water for five straight days. I eat when I can eat.”

“If you eat all of that, you’re not going to be able to move, and I’ll have to save you if anything goes wrong at the warehouse.”

I laugh. “Sweetheart, I haven’t needed saving since I was thirteen and Betty Jo Miller broke my heart by kissing Tommy Arnold.” I stop at the pick-up window and pull out that black AmEx I’ve just acquired, handing it to the attendant. Bags of burgers and fries quickly follow, and it’s not long before we’re parked and eating.

Amanda sighs with bliss. “God, I love fries,” she says. “They aren’t good for me, which is why I don’t eat them often, but they sure are good.”

“Nothing good is good for you,” I say, finishing off burger number two as she sets her empty bag in the back seat.

“Does that include you?” she asks.

I toss a wrapper into my bag and turn to face her. “For the record, Mrs. Jones,” I say, “good is not the description a man wants used about him after being naked with a woman. It’s only slightly better than fine, which is the ultimate punch in the balls. And I am never just good or just fine and you didn’t moan like you were feeling just good or just fine.”

Her lips curve. “Because you have a comparison to how I’ve moaned when it’s great?”

“Not yet. But every husband should know how, when, and what, makes his wife moan, so I will. And as for me being bad for you. I am. Consider this your one and only warning.”

“I didn’t need a warning. I know you’re dangerous.”

I narrow my eyes on her. “And you like that.”

“I understand it and therefore it’s comfortable.”

“Let’s see how comfortable you are when you get to know me.”

“I don’t scare off any easier than you do.”

I study her a moment, and find that some part of me hopes that’s true, but there are few who could stomach just who and what I am, including a Poison Princess. I turn away and put us in gear, before glancing over at her. “There’s nothing easy about me, Mrs. Jones,” I assure her before backing us up and driving to the main street, and the instant I turn us onto the road, the mood in the car shifts. Personal is gone, my mind shifting to the mission.

The streets are dark and empty as we enter the warehouse district, industrial buildings stretching left and right, the parking areas for each operation we pass, empty. I slow our speed as we close in on the Davenports’ warehouse, giving Amanda and I both time to scout for trouble. “It looks quiet,” she murmurs. “But looks can be deceiving.”

Another smartly spoken statement that lends to a slow build of confidence in her as a partner. I drive us around to the side of the building, and continue on to the rear, parking us between two of six Dumpsters lining the building. Killing the engine, I pull on a black beanie low onto my brow, disguising my short, blond hair, should we be spotted. Amanda ties her hair back and then does the same. We look at each other and nod our readiness and I resist the urge to instruct her to watch for cameras, that our recon says aren’t present. Any agent worth their keep knows what is supposed to be rarely is the case.

In unison, we reach for our doors, popping them open, and exit the car. Both of us quietly re-sealing our doors, before we make our way to a fire escape directly in front of us. In all of sixty seconds we’re inside the warehouse, in a storage room the size of a small bedroom. As planned before we left the apartment, Amanda and I share a look, and then set the timer on our watches for seven minutes, our intent to divide and conquer. Do what we do: get in and get out. If either of us is not back here on time, we know there’s trouble.

We cross to the doorway, pausing side by side just inside the warehouse, as we scan rows and rows of crates, stacked several feet above our heads and leaving plenty of places for someone to hide. I glance at Amanda and motion to the rear of the warehouse. She nods and impressively begins traveling a path next to the wall that allows her to eye the walkaways between the aisles. Taking a similar strategy, bypassing my need to search the crates, I make my way to the two offices at the back of the building. Wasting no time entering the first one, my search delivers invoices and random documents related to ceramic tile, which I suspect is somehow a money laundering operation. I shoot pictures of addresses and names, as well as financial information, then repeat the same in the next office.

Exiting the office, I do random crate checks to find tile is indeed what’s inside. Checking my watch, I’m at the six-minute mark, and I make my way back to the meet up point with Amanda. She’s ahead of me by several feet when instinct stops me in my tracks.

Amanda feels it too, no longer moving, her hand reaching for a gun, but before she can draw it, a man with a gun pointed at her steps into the doorway. Amanda goes for her gun anyway, and the next thing I know, the man is on the ground. That’s when three other men jump from the top of the crates above her and she’s surrounded. I shoot two of them, and she takes out the other, but a fourth drops behind her, and points his gun at the back of her head, yanking her around to put his back to the crates.

I’m in front of Amanda, and several feet back, in an instant. “Stay back or I’ll shoot!” the man shouts, and I stand my ground. The man, a foot taller than Amanda, with a hundred pounds on her, towers over her, a perfect target, I plant to take. “Drop your gun,” he shouts at me, and then to Amanda. “Drop the gun, bitch, or you’re dead.”

Amanda does not drop her gun. My gaze shifts to his trembling hand, and I can’t know if his finger is on the trigger from behind, but I have to assume it is, and anyone as nervous as he is might just shoot. My eyes meet Amanda’s and I drop my gun, my silent message to her urging her to do the same. I give her the slightest incline of my chin, willing her to do as I bid. Her eyes go wide with objection and my lips tighten. The man starts shouting at me in Spanish about his dead brother, who is apparently lying at my feet.

He’s going to shoot Amanda and I act then. No hesitation. The blade in my sleeve is out and in his wrist in seconds, the gun hitting the ground. The next blade lands in between his eyes and he drops. Amanda’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t miss a beat, rotating and scanning for our next attacker that don’t exist. We are quick and efficient, making our way to the fire escape.

It’s there that she gives me an incredulous look. “What you did—”

I cup her head and pull her to me. “Now you know what kind of needs I satisfy for the agency. Trust me next time and don’t fight me.” I kiss her hard and fast before I release her, and we get the hell out of Dodge.

The plane shakes and I open my eyes, listening to the hum of the engine with the realization that I’ve been asleep, and my arm is now throbbing. Shoving aside the pain, I focus on the memory I’ve been living, remembering that night in the warehouse once again. Trust me, I’d said, and from that point forward, I’d been certain she had, at least on some level. The real trust came later. Or so I’d thought. Assuming her innocent of a crime, then she left me after hearing my name on that recording, and that doesn’t say trust. At this point, I have to accept that the trust that I’d known to be between us existed in only one layer of our relationship when there were many. And I’m sure me warning her that I was dangerous that night didn’t help.

The throb in my arm becomes a hammering sensation, and I raise my seat to find Amanda’s seat is back as well, and she’s lying on her side, the cat curled in the crook of her body.

I walk a few steps and grab my jacket, removing the medication there, and taking out a pain pill and an antibiotic. A bottle of water sits in a drink holder and I open it and suck down the meds. When I’m done, I set the bottle down and Amanda has yet to move. My mind flashes back to that long flight from Rome to New York, that first night with her. She’d fallen sound asleep and I’d watched her, amazed at not only how beautiful and tough she was, but how damn sound asleep. When she’d woken up, I’d ask her how she managed to sleep that soundly.

“How the hell did you sleep that soundly?”

“Don’t you on a plane?” she asks. “It’s the one place we know that no one can sneak up on us and attack. It’s a safe zone.”

But I was there. A stranger she seemed to instinctively trust. And now, I’m not a stranger. I’m the man she loved and still the man she considers her would-be assassin, and yet she’s sound asleep. Nothing in the facts I’ve explored or in my gut says that this woman is dirty. Nothing. Not in the past. Not now. So, if she really trusts me, and right now, watching her sleep, I believe she does, then why did she run?