Veiled Intentions. Delores Fossen

stepped through the front door of the agency, mumbled a thank-you! for the Arctic blast of the A/C and made her way to the reception area.

      An empty area, she soon learned.

      Empty, no doubt, because she was early. But then, she usually was. Brayden joked that she’d inherited some bizarre fear-of-being-late gene, but her early arrival in this case would allow her time to double-check the few things she could actually double check. Exits. Bullet-accessible windows. Security cameras, like the one mounted on the light fixture in the center of the room. It also gave her some time to take a deep breath and steady her nerves.

      Someone had decorated the spacious rectangle-shaped room. Unlike her earlier visit, tonight there were bunches of gold Mylar balloons in the corners, huge bouquets of cream-colored flowers in crystal vases and bottles of champagne angled into gleaming silver ice buckets. Soft, romantic music filled the background. The stage was set for love.

      But hopefully not murder.

      She was armed with a Glock in her purse. It was her preferred poison when she needed to carry light. And thanks to the flexible, pencil-size device beneath her collar, she had two-way communication with headquarters. However, neither of those two security measures would give her much protection if someone opened fire through the trio of floor-to-ceiling windows. For all practical purposes, she was on her own.

      An obvious drawback to being early.

      The sudden clicking sound sent her reaching for her gun, but Katelyn forced herself not to draw. She needed to stay in character. It was a good thing, too. Because the click was a door opening, and the blond-haired man who came in through the side entrance wasn’t carrying a weapon but another bottle of champagne.

      He immediately made eye contact and smiled, a slightly too-friendly smile, before he proceeded to the table with the champagne. “Kate Kennedy, right?”

      “Yes.”

      Katelyn didn’t have to ask his name. He was Bruce Donovan. Age, twenty-nine. A local, but that sun-bleached hair, tropical tan and muscled torso seemed more suited to a California beach than the Alamo City. His official job title was office manager of the Perfect Match Agency.

      He was also a prime murder suspect.

      Of course, anyone associated with the agency was a suspect, but Donovan was near the top of that list. According to his background check, he’d been hit with not one but two restraining orders for stalking former girlfriends. The last incident had escalated into an assault. Combined with the fact that he was from San Antonio and a white male, it meant he fit their profile to a proverbial tee.

      “I’m Bruce Donovan,” he greeted. “I run things around here. In fact, I’m the one who processed your application.” His face got a contemplative look for several seconds, then he snapped his fingers. “You’re a P.E. teacher on break for the summer. You like old Indiana Jones movies, basketball and chili.”

      He grinned as if pleased with himself for recalling that information. Katelyn didn’t return the grin. If he actually memorized details about every client, it was a little unnerving. If he’d only memorized her details, then it went well past the unnerving stage.

      “I remember because I kept thinking what a great match we’d be,” he continued. “But unfortunately since I work here, I’m not allowed to pair up with any of the clients. Well, not officially anyway.”

      Good grief. As if he hadn’t gotten his message across, he aimed another flirtatious grin in her direction.

      “So do a lot of people actually find their perfect match at these icebreakers?” she asked.

      “Depends on your definition of perfect.”

      “A lifelong partner,” Katelyn quickly offered.

      “Ah, marriage.” He shrugged. “Sure, it happens.” But that was as far as he took the thread of conversation.

      She pointed to the wall above the table. “You should put photos of the happy couples there. It’d be great publicity.”

      “I’ll pass on your suggestion to my boss.” He placed the bottle of champagne on the table, searched through the two dozen or so plastic-encased name tags and picked up one.

      Hers, apparently.

      He crossed the room and reached out as if to pin it on her jacket, just over her left breast, but Katelyn intervened and took it from him instead. So he was perhaps a groping pervert in addition to being a stalker and a killer.

      What a pleasant guy.

      His all-American surfer-dude smile faded. He probably wasn’t happy with her insistence that she pin on her own name tag.

      Katelyn nodded her greeting in lieu of a handshake, and she tried to pick up on any other vibes. There was definitely that little buzz in the back of her head, but it’d been there since she’d first stepped foot in the place. And speaking of stepping, she backtracked a little toward the door so she could take cover in case Donovan was aiming for a third restraining order.

      Donovan tipped his head to the glossy gold-and-white Perfect Match folder she’d tucked beneath her arm. “So did you see any immediate prospects on your list?”

      “One. But it could be a coincidence.” Since it was time to do a little more stage setting, she pinned on her name tag and opened the folder. She pointed to Joe’s alias. “I dated a guy by that name in high school.”

      Something darted through his coffee-brown eyes. Concern, maybe? “Is that good or bad?”

      “Definitely good. He’s the one who got away, if you know what I mean.”

      He made a sound of superficial agreement and then quickly excused himself to leave when a man and a woman came in. Not Joe. But from the already friendly chatter and come-and-get-me smiles, these two had already decided they were a good match.

      Once the two newcomers had on their name tags, Katelyn whispered their identities so the tech back at headquarters could begin background checks. In case something serious developed between them, she didn’t want this couple to become the sniper’s next targets.

      “Kate Kennedy?” she heard the now-familiar voice say. “Is that really you?”

      It was show time. She took a long breath, braced herself and turned toward him to start the charade.

      Oh, mercy.

      She obviously hadn’t braced herself nearly enough.

      At the wedding, she’d seen Joe Rico’s GQ look, and over the past couple of days, his urban cop look of khakis and button-down dress shirts. But this was obviously his cool hot-guy look.

      It worked.

      Black pants, perfectly tailored. A deep crimson red crewneck pullover that hugged his chest the way men’s chests should be hugged. Well, men with great chests, anyway.

      Which he had.

      The breeze coming in from the still-open door stirred his lightweight jacket. Also black. He’d likely worn it to conceal his .357 Magnum, but it made him look a little mysterious, confident. And dangerous.

      Katelyn bet he’d never had to take a deep breath to steady himself. On the other hand, she required several more.

      “Joe?” she managed to say, when she remembered how to form words. Sheez, her throat actually clamped up. She added a staged giggle of excitement to unclamp it. “It is you. I can’t believe this.”

      As they’d discussed, Joe and she went to each other immediately, and he pulled her into his arms. Yep. He was definitely carrying concealed, and there was a backup in the slide holster on the rear waist of his pants.

      “You’re early,” he whispered.

      “You’re not,” she countered, also in a whisper.

      “I was busy. We might have a little problem.”

      Okay. Little