He still loved Daisy. How could he still love Daisy and want someone else so badly?
Sweet Lord, he missed her so much.
The hole in his gut that he’d been trying to heal for nearly three years tore wide open.
And he released Zoe’s hand and took a step backward, bumping awkwardly against the elevator wall. He realized almost instantly that he was well on his way to becoming completely aroused. Ah, jeez, terrific. Just what he needed—a souvenir from his little guilt trip.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
So he did neither, casually holding his briefcase in front of him.
Zoe kept her eyes carefully on the numbers above the elevator door, and he knew she’d seen something in his eyes that embarrassed her. No wonder—he’d been eyeing her like the hungry old fox checking out the gingerbread girl. Good job, Robinson. Way to feel even older and nastier. And somehow it was even worse since his attraction was clearly one-sided.
But when she turned toward him, she was the one who apologized. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You must get approached by people all the time and—”
“I like it when they’ve done something really right with their lives—the way your father obviously did. He must be very proud of you. God knows I’d be proud as hell if you were my kid.” He tried his best to sound fatherly. But all he sounded was pathetic.
She smiled tentatively. “Well, thanks.”
The elevator opened, and this time Jake stood back, courteously letting her out first. She looked both ways, up and down the deserted corridor as the elevator doors closed behind them.
“Exit to the street’s down that way.” Jake pointed. “Take the—”
“First right,” she said. “I know, thanks. Listen, Admiral—”
“Jake,” he said. “Please.”
“Actually, Admiral works a little better for me.”
“All right,” he said quickly. “That’s fine. It’s not like I’m ordering you to call me Jake or anything. It’s not like—”
“I know.” She tried to meet his gaze, but couldn’t hold it this time. She was nervous again. “I was just … I can’t help but wonder about your willingness to put yourself at risk. I mean, you’ve earned the right to sit back and command safely from behind a desk, sir. And I can’t imagine your, um, wife is very happy about your decision to go back into the field. Particularly after that assassination attempt a few years ago. You were in the hospital for months.”
Jake had been around long enough to recognize a fishing expedition when he heard one. But what information exactly was Zoe Lange fishing for? Was she looking to find his motivation for taking the mission or his reason for looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive?
He had no need to hide anything from her—well, except for the extremely unprofessional fact that nearly every time he looked at her, he pictured her naked. And even if thoughts of Daisy didn’t stop that, all he really had to do was think about those missing canisters of T-X. That cooled him down pretty damn instantly.
“I know that’s an extremely personal question,” she continued quickly, “and you can tell me it’s none of my business if you want and—”
“Daisy, my wife, died of cancer,” he told her quietly. “It’ll be three years ago this Christmas.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“And I think you’re probably right. If she were still alive, I’d be thinking long and hard about the risks of this mission. But even if she were still alive, I wouldn’t be able to avoid the fact that I’ve got a connection to Christopher Vincent. I know I can get into the CRO’s inner sanctions. It’s just, this way, it makes the choice a complete no-brainer.”
She was looking at him with compassion in her eyes, and he glanced away, unable to bear the thought of looking closer and seeing her pity.
“You better go pack,” he said brusquely. “We go wheels up in ninety-eight minutes. If you make us wait for you, trust me, the team will never let you live it down.”
“Don’t worry, Jake,” she said. “I’ll be the first one on the plane.”
He watched her walk away, and before she took that right corner, she looked back and gave him a smile and a little wave.
And it wasn’t until he was in his office, changing out of his ice-cream suit and into black BDUs, that he realized she’d called him Jake.
CHAPTER THREE
ZOE ITCHED TO CALL PETER.
Five months ago, she would have. She would have called on a secured line and she would have said, “What does it mean—a man’s been a widower for nearly three years, and he still wears his wedding ring?”
Peter would’ve said, “That’s obvious. He uses the ring to keep women from coming too close.”
And she would have said, “I think he still loves her.”
And Peter would’ve snorted and said, “Love’s a myth. He just hasn’t met anyone who could replace his dead wife. But you better believe when he does, that ring will come off faster than you can spit. The hell with him. What do you say you and I meet in Boston next weekend and set the Ritz-Carlton aflame?”
But that’s what Peter would’ve said five months ago. Before he’d discovered that love was indeed not a myth.
Her name was Marita and she was a TV news anchor based in Miami. She was of Cuban descent and lovely, but Zoe wasn’t even remotely jealous. Well, maybe she was a little jealous—but only of the fact that Peter, restless, hungry, insatiable, cynical superagent Peter McBride had finally found complete inner peace.
Zoe was jealous of that. She’d liked Peter—she’d even loved him more than a little, but she knew just from one conversation with him after he’d met Marita that he finally had a shot at true happiness.
And Peter deserved that.
Zoe had liked talking to him, liked the way he could always make her laugh. And she had liked making love with him the few times a year that their work for the Agency brought them into each other’s presence.
But she’d known from the start there could be no permanence in their relationship. She was too like him. Too restless, too hungry, too damned insatiable, too jaded by a world bent on destroying itself.
She hadn’t spoken to Peter in five months, assuming his new bride wouldn’t appreciate his getting phone calls from a former lover. But she missed his friendship. She missed talking to him.
She missed the sex, too. It had been safe. She’d never once been in danger of completely losing her heart.
“So,” she said to Peter, even though he wasn’t there, “what does it mean that I’m packing my sexiest underwear and this little black nightgown?”
“To wear in Montana in September?” he would have mused, lifting one elegant eyebrow. “You’re in trouble, Lange.”
“You wouldn’t believe the way he looked at me in that elevator.” Zoe closed her eyes, momentarily melting just from the heat of the memory. “Dear God, I am in trouble.”
“Doing your boss is bad office politics,” Peter would have reminded her. “But on the other hand, he’s not really your boss, is he? Pat Sullivan is. So, go for him. You’ve been fantasizing about the guy for years—how could you not go for him? And if he’s looking at you like that … I’m surprised