David Budian stood before him not in the neat suit of an active posse member or the dark slacks and shirt also allowed those working strenuous field positions. Nor was he the usual stature of such field agents—the classic deep olive skin and black hair, set off by silver studs and rings. Budian was a man of middling complexion, middling height, middling features.
None of that came as a surprise—the man’s appearance was why Lerche assigned him to particular activities with particular anonymity. Even Ana, as naive as she was, would spot a man of brawn and classic full-blooded complexion.
But it surprised him to see Budian in torn clothes and bruises.
Lerche said, “Have you compromised us, Mr. Budian?”
Budian looked as alarmed as he should. “Drozhar—”
“Don’t suck up.” Drozhar was a term held by regional princes, as well as the world septs Prince. Not a posse leader. Not even when the posse was as large as the one Lerche now commanded here in Santa Fe. “I want to know what’s happened!”
“I observed Ana as ordered. She was dawdling, so I provided an opportunity for her.” Budian’s self-satisfaction made it to his face in a way he likely didn’t realize. “You know how those Sentinels are, sir. If they see a chance to meddle, they’ll take it.”
Lerche sat at his massive desk, relaxing into the padded chair. He brushed his hand across the black gleam of the surface, displacing invisible dust motes. “True enough. Did you achieve results?”
“I gave him a chance to play the hero and he took it. If that little dirt-bred bitch can’t make something of it, then she’s as hopeless as I think she is.”
“Mind your tongue, Mr. Budian.” Lerche’s words held no heat; it went against everyone’s instincts to use a woman in an important field operation. But Ana was everything they needed—petite, beautiful with an elegant delicacy and utterly determined to prove her worth to them...without the faintest idea that she never could. “She knows nothing of that thin Sentinel heritage, and I want it to stay that way.”
“Until it’s too late, you mean,” Budian suggested.
Lerche smiled. “Exactly so, Mr. Budian.” And then he would be free of her. “Just exactly so.”
* * *
Ana found herself sitting in cool Santa Fe comfort—saltillo floors and kitchen counters, hand-painted Talavera tiles set in the walls around the light switches and along the counter backsplash, gauzy curtains under shaded windows. The air was redolent of spices and oils and the scent of something baking. Something good.
Ian had introduced himself, and Fernie—Fernanda—and had handed her a damp washcloth, disappearing with “Be right back.”
Ana waited on a spindle-backed stool at the breakfast bar and patted the cool cloth against the road rash beneath her elbow, near to dizzy with the conflicting experiences of being in such a homey welcoming atmosphere while within the grasp of the enemy.
Especially an enemy who kept her on edge in every way.
Ian—the enemy—returned to the kitchen in a billow of what seemed to be his usual energy, dropping a tub of salve on the counter. “This stuff will speed the healing.”
Fernie put a hot tray of muffins on the sideboard and sent Ian a disapproving frown. “A gentleman would help her take care of such awkward injuries.”
“Oh,” Ana protested. “You can hardly call them injuries. A few scrapes and bruises—fewer than that cyclist had, I’m sure.”
Ian stepped back. “A gentleman respects the boundaries a lady sets.” But his gaze met hers with amusement, as if they were somehow in this together.
She understood why. Fernie obviously ruled this house—a so-called corporate retreat—with an iron pot holder. Of medium stature, with a plump figure and shining strands of gray in her black hair, Fernie’s Latina and Native heritage came through in both her features and the gentle roll of her words. Given Fernie’s position here in the house, Ana guessed that she wasn’t a full-blooded field Sentinel—one of those with roots deep enough to reach to their lurking other within.
Looking at Ian, Ana would never doubt it of him. Even if she hadn’t actually seen his snow leopard the week before.
But field Sentinel or not, Fernie was obviously formidable and just as obviously possessed of an uncanny ability to read beneath the emotional surface of those around her. She cleared her throat at Ian as she tapped the previous tray of muffins loose from the cups.
Ana pressed her lips together in a smile. “Well,” she said, and offered Ian the washcloth, “maybe under the circumstances...”
“All right, then.” He stopped tapping to whatever rhythm ran in his head to take the cloth. The same hands that had taken down the cyclist became surprisingly gentle as he turned her arm to see the scrape.
“Don’t you ever sit still?” she asked, not truly having meant to say it.
Fernie laughed, placing a selection of muffins on a plate and sliding it within reach along with butter, a knife and napkins. “Not that anyone’s observed so far. What brings you to Santa Fe, Ana?”
Oh, nothing of importance. Just spying on you.
“A quiet vacation,” she said, in spite of the fact that she’d lived here for months now, along with the rest of Lerche’s posse. They’d had no idea the retreat existed until Lerche had tracked Ian to it. “The Georgia O’Keeffe museum, the plaza, the pueblos, the Indian Market... I meant to come with a friend, but family issues cropped up.” She shrugged, comfortable with the amiable cover story Lerche had given her. “It’s a little strange to be here without a travel companion, I admit.”
Fernie sent Ian a pointed glance. “You see? You could be doing something other than fretting. See the sights with this woman!”
Ian glared at Fernie, not Ana. “I do not fret,” he said, even as he dabbed her arm. “And I don’t need mothering.”
Fernie ran a trickle of water into the sink, briskly rinsing dishes before stashing them in the dishwasher. Ana only got a glimpse, but she was pretty sure the other woman smiled behind her noncommittal noise of response. And Ian, with his mix of annoyance and affection...
He wasn’t what she’d expected. Even beyond what she’d seen and what she’d read.
She knew he’d been badly hurt in early spring but had healed well and quickly, as Sentinels did. She knew he’d had several skirmishes with the Core before that. She knew, most of all, that the Sentinels counted on him to solve the mystery of the silent amulets, and the Core therefore needed to find out everything they could about his progress—here, away from protected Southwest Brevis headquarters.
That was her job. To plant the spy amulet—to connect with him and absorb what she could of him in person.
“You’re staring,” he said, keeping his voice low—although Fernie had left to clatter around in the dining room, laying out silverware and dishes. He held her arm as he dipped into the herbal unguent and spread it lightly over her skin.
She shivered at the touch, bemused at her own sensitivity—at her sudden extreme awareness of his fingers against her skin. “I was thinking,” she said—but stopped, caught by his eyes—the contrast of those pale irises with the dark rims, the dark lashes and glinting silver hair, mussed with the casual authority of a bad boy model even though she doubted he paid much attention to it at all. “Your eyes—”
His brows shot up; she looked away, profoundly embarrassed. She wasn’t cut out for deception. The Core should have known better.
She’d never understood why they’d chosen her for this—she knew only that she was desperate