“Yeah, about that, Benton,” Deming said. “I think I should go in the diner instead of Modena. Look at him. He looks dangerous. She’ll think he’s a contract killer, maybe run, and ruin the whole operation. We can think of a different backstory for me.”
“Deming, you’d be walking into a backwoods diner wearing Dolce & Gabbana,” Vincent said. “Do you really think you’ll get anywhere near her without making her suspicious? And Benton knows I have advantages you don’t have.” He allowed a slow smile to crack his lips. “Leave the ex-wife to me.”
She shook her head, still not convinced. “But—”
“I know. I know. I’m handsome, clean, and dangerous.” Vincent winked, trying not to enjoy Deming’s annoyance too much. Being on the sidelines was twisting her in knots. She wanted in on the action, and he didn’t blame her, but he’d waited too long to meet Avery Coppola to just give this moment away. “I think you’re crushing on me.”
“Blow me, Modena.” She turned toward Benton, waiting for his decision.
“We stick with the plan,” Benton said. “Modena, go.”
Gilroy reached into a console between the two front seats and produced a bottle of Febreze. He aimed it into the back of the van and sprayed with no concern for whom he doused. Between the fish smell, and being gassed by Gilroy, Vincent found it a relief to spill out into the parking lot, backpack slung over his shoulder.
As the task force sped off in the van, heading down the street toward Avery Coppola’s apartment, Vincent walked toward the diner, passing a multitude of beat up SUVs and trucks, listening to his hiking boots crunch gravel underfoot. The chirping of birds, the breezes rustling through maple and oak leaves, it was a nice change from the city. August in the North Country of New Hampshire, mountainous. Vincent was enjoying himself, and the diner’s aromas wafting through the air. His stomach growled as he approached the door, but his thoughts were all on the woman inside.
Avery Coppola. Damn. Her name had been popping up in the Coppola case for a year now, but Vincent had only actively studied her for the last few months. He was a little ashamed to be this excited about meeting her…Dante Coppola’s one vulnerability. Avery was the crime lord’s ex-wife, so probably poison, without conscience. Totally his type. Vincent’s ex-wife taught him a thing or two about women like that. On his second tour in Afghanistan, she’d sent him a Dear John letter paper clipped to divorce papers. It had a way of changing a man’s paradigm real quick. It certainly forced Vincent to see things more clearly. Women were mercurial at best, self-serving at worst. It was weird to know he had something in common with a murderous crime lord. Both he and Coppola married women who’d betrayed them.
He’d memorized Avery’s pictures. She had the look of an innocent, red-headed imp, and seemed younger than her years. She certainly didn’t look like someone who could inspired an ex-husband to hire contract killers to off her. Not a sterling personal recommendation, and yet, the contradiction tickled Vincent’s curiosity. What would she be like? Or rather, how best to bend her to his will?
Benton wanted to try and flip her, see if they could convince her to give up the goods on her ex, rather than make the Feds slog for the evidence, but they didn’t have enough intel to know how best to approach her. Deming, the task force’s profiler, suggested they feel her out with some casual conversation. Benton had tapped Vincent, and he’d report back to the team after they’d finished installing security cameras around her apartment.
Just meeting her would probably answer most of the questions his team had. Then, if all went as planned, they’d find the leverage they needed to flip her, and she’d help break open the task force’s RICO case against her ex-husband. If that went south, she’d either face jail time or risk a bullet between the eyes. Dante Coppola wasn’t pulling his hit on her anytime soon, and now that he knew where she was, she had a target on her back. The FBI would offer her protection, if she was willing to deal, but they couldn’t make her accept their help. No, that would take persuasion. And that was where Vincent came in.
He smiled as he opened the diner’s door. A bell chimed overhead, announcing his arrival. It was old-fashioned and kitschy, and he liked it. As he stepped inside, he finally admitted to himself that he’d been anticipating this meeting with Avery Coppola since he’d first seen her photo nearly a year ago. He was excited, and when his gaze zeroed in on her behind the diner’s counter, his chest tightened because he knew… This was going to be fun. Lots and lots of fun.
Chapter 2
Avery’s feet were already hurting and it was only late morning, four hours into her eight-hour shift. She was bored and restless when the bell over the diner’s door chimed. Like Pavlov’s dog, she had a reaction every time it rang, but instead of salivating, her stomach tightened with dread. Another customer requiring a smile and chirpy greeting.
Then she saw him and her day suddenly wasn’t so boring.
Scruffy, lots of stubble, he was deliciously sexy; strong jaw, aviator sunglasses, dark brown disheveled hair, his red flannel shirt was open, revealing a tight black T-shirt stretched over a flat, muscular stomach. Her eyes zeroed in on his silver belt buckle, and then she spent a moment or two imagining what his black jeans were hiding. Yum. Yum. Yummy.
Avery bit her lip, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. It was a nervous habit, but this guy made her nervous in a good way. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, unveiling eyes so green and vibrant she had to will her jaw not to drop. He approached, propped his backpack against the counter, and scanned the room. Avery quickly looked away, her pride fighting with her instinct to gawk.
Nat Harris, a retired barber who ate at the diner every day, was sitting at the counter, chuckling under his breath, because he’d caught her wanting something she couldn’t have. Embarrassed, Avery found it hard to meet Nat’s gaze. He was a man who knew a thing or two about not getting what you want. He’d struggled with wanderlust his whole life, but between raising siblings and keeping his business afloat, he’d been stuck in North Conway, New Hampshire for thirty years. Retired now, he lived to travel, and was taking a cruise next month. The brochure was on the counter between them.
Nat nudged his coffee cup toward Avery. “Can I have a refill, honey?”
“Sure thing.” Despite Nat’s preferences, she refilled it with decaf instead of high octane. He had a bad ticker, so she ignored his grimace and instead focused on the brochure, its bright colors and exciting pictures. A clutch of wistfulness had her grimacing. Not for the first time, she was reminded she was where Nat had been, raising a sibling, out of options, feeling life passing by. Avery wanted to travel. She wanted to be anywhere but here, but choices had consequences, and she had the life she deserved.
Jaw-droppingly handsome man sat his fine self at the counter, slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, and made Avery’s heart pound just a little bit faster. She told herself to play it cool, to enjoy the moment without inviting too much comment, and when she felt his eyes on her, despite her better judgment, she looked back at him.
Only he wasn’t looking at her eyes. Ostensibly reaching for a menu, he leaned, peering over the counter and openly admired her legs. His gaze moved slowly up her body until it connected with hers, and then he smiled. Yikes. Handsome man was coming on strong.
It made her regret not blow drying her auburn hair straight this morning, but instead allowing it to air dry into waves that fought the restraint of her ponytail. And her practical “nurse” shoes? She regretted not wearing a heel, something that said sex kitten, rather than bed pan. She regretted not changing her beige and cream-colored uniform this morning, when she’d realized it still reeked of syrup despite being washed. This man had Avery regretting a lot, down to not putting on makeup, not even a smudge of lipstick.
Releasing a sigh that had become habitual, Avery forced a smile, because she knew it wasn’t her lack of blow-dryer, laundry expertise, heels, or lipstick that ailed her, it was her lack of options. She’d