Marriage of Revenge. Sheri WhiteFeather

his gifts, with friends and family gathered around him. He thanked everyone, going from guest to guest, doling out hugs. When he embraced Talia, she wanted to cry. But she forced a smile instead, keeping her ache deep inside.

      After the singers, including Aaron, returned to the drum, Talia decided it was time for her to leave. She said goodbye to Thunder, Carrie and Danny, then she thanked Jeannie and Jim for their hospitality. They were gracious, and their kindness made the ache inside her grow even deeper.

      When she walked away, she wondered if Aaron was watching her again. She wasn’t about to turn around and find out.

      Talia left without looking back, even though the sound of his voice and the tribal song he was singing stayed with her.

      Long after she went to bed that night.

      Aaron didn’t bother to knock. On Monday morning, he walked straight into Talia’s office, knowing he would tick her off.

      With the phone pressed to her ear, she looked up and glared at him. He ignored her polarized expression and sat in a chair that faced her desk. Her office wasn’t as upscale as his, but she’d added feminine touches. Pretty dust collectors, he supposed. He’d always been aroused by the ladylike things she kept around. The gun she carried, a pearl-handled pistol, turned him on but good. Not that it should. The snub-nosed .38 was a weapon she would probably like to use on him.

      Aaron cringed at the thought, imagining her aiming it at his fly.

      She finished her call, and he slid a paper plate covered in aluminum foil toward her.

      “What’s that?”

      “Open it and find out.”

      “Fine.” She lifted a corner of the foil. “Indian food?”

      “Fry bread left over from the party.”

      “If I didn’t eat it there, why would I want it now?”

      He tore off a chunk and tried to feed it to her. The powdered sugar had caramelized. “Because it’s greasy and good.”

      She waved him away. “Knock it off.”

      “And you wonder why I didn’t marry you. My aunt thought you were a bitch.”

      “Really?” That got her goat. “Well, I thought she was a bitch, too.”

      Sometimes she was, but he kept that thought to himself. He ate the piece of fry bread Talia had refused, and she shifted in her chair.

      “What did your mother think of me?” she asked.

      “She didn’t trust you. You’re too La Femme Nikita for her tastes.”

      She flipped her hair. “I try.”

      “Don’t I know.” He wanted to make breathless love to her. Today she was wearing a blouse that rivaled the cobalt color of her eyes, and her skirt exposed just the right amount of thigh.

      “Why did you invite me, Aaron?”

      “To the party?” He caught a glimpse of lacy camisole beneath her blouse. “Because you complained about not meeting my family.”

      “And now I have.”

      “Yes, you have.” He covered the fry bread. “And it didn’t make a difference, did it?”

      “Which means what? That you’re off the hook for hurting me? Nice try, but life doesn’t work that way.”

      He smiled, keeping it thin and sharp. “You’re not over me, Tai.”

      Her skin almost paled. “You wish.”

      He argued his point. “If you didn’t care about me, you wouldn’t be holding a grudge.” He picked up a glass figurine from her desk. It was shaped like a butterfly. He traced each fragile wing, memories assaulting his mind. Talia had a tattoo of a butterfly on her bikini line. He’d been with her when she’d gotten it.

      “Put that down,” she told him.

      “Why?”

      “So you don’t break it.”

      “I’m being careful.”

      “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

      Part of him wanted to shatter the butterfly. Talia hadn’t made the slightest effort at the party. She hadn’t even tried to make a favorable impression.

      He set down the figurine. If he didn’t, he would break it, snap its delicate wings in half. “Where’s the Gamblers Anonymous list?”

      She opened a file on her computer. “I hate it when you do that.”

      “Do what? Change the subject without warning you? Would you rather talk about how not-over-me you are?”

      “Go to hell.”

      As if he hadn’t been there already. After Talia walked out on him, he’d saddled up with Satan too many times to count.

      She activated her printer and handed him a copy of the Nevada GA list she’d compiled. “Happy?”

      “Are you?” he shot back.

      “Ecstatic,” she droned. “I can’t wait to become your phony wife.”

      “We’re going to sleep in the same room.”

      “Over my dead body.”

      “That can be arranged.”

      “How? Are you going to contract Julia and Miriam’s hit man to do me in?”

      “If only I could. We don’t even know who he is.” Suddenly he thought about the person who’d asked them to help the FBI find Julia and Miriam. Thunder’s brother, Dylan, was the concerned party. Dylan had inadvertently rescued Julia from a kidnapping just days before she and her mother had disappeared, and now he was tangled up in their lives. Dylan even felt guilty about the assassin, but that was a long story.

      “I don’t need to hire someone to take you out,” Talia said. “I could do it myself.”

      “Go ahead and try,” he retorted. “Better yet, you can do it while we’re sharing a room.”

      “I’m serious about that, Aaron.”

      “So am I. It’s part of our cover.”

      “Bull.”

      “If we’re going to pull this off, if we’re going to become a married couple, then we have to behave accordingly, to get into character, to make our cover believable.” He glanced at the fragile butterfly, itching to touch it again, to threaten to break it. “We’re not going to blow this, Talia. We’re not going to put our lives on the line.”

      She gave him a cynical look. “No matter how much we want to waste each other?”

      Touché, Aaron thought, recalling her pearl-handled gun. “We’re going to pose as a couple on vacation in Nevada. I’ve been working on the details.” He paused, explained further. “I’ve got a makeup man on the payroll who will teach us how to change the way we look, just to be sure that the assassin doesn’t recognize us. We don’t know who he is, but he might know who we are.”

      “I don’t mind changing my appearance.”

      He took an unabashed gander at her. “I’m still deciding on the color of your hair.”

      “Red,” she told him.

      “We’ll see.” He wanted to tug her head back, to use her hair to rein her in. “SPEC will provide us with new identities, but I’ll make sure the feds approve them.”

      “How long will we be gone?”

      “Two weeks. Three if we need more time. I’ll make the travel arrangements.”

      “I’ll be there with wedding bells on.” She fluttered