Would-Be Christmas Wedding. Debra & Regan Webb & Black

the contact name from her notes. “Your Mr. Holt can scout all he wants, but we all know he won’t be able to lift a finger against me. At least not and get away with it.”

      Thomas took the note and stalked out of the house without another word.

      Cecelia turned to Casey. “Well, since you’ve got everything packed, I might as well go check in at the hotel and make Thomas happy.”

      “I can move there with you. Keep you company.”

      Cecelia bit back the frustrated reply as she loaded the used coffee mugs into the dishwasher. “You stay here like we planned and enjoy some quiet with your new husband when he arrives.” She’d have to put this place up for sale one day, but it didn’t have to be today. The place was just too large for her to keep up on her own. Especially if she was away a lot.

      “We came to see you, Mom.”

      “And I appreciate it, sweetheart. We both know your uncle’s already assigned a detail to hover over my shoulder.” She flicked a hand in the direction of the street. “I know for a fact the Millers haven’t had a week’s worth of plumbing trouble and yet the van is still out there.”

      Casey walked toward the front window to look. “He just wants to keep you safe,” she said with a soft laugh.

      “I know that. It’s only a ten-minute drive to the Plaza.” She was already mentally adjusting her plans to give her date a chance to explain himself before Thomas barged in and wrecked it.

      Was she that desperate? Maybe.

      Whatever Emmett’s reasons for reaching out to her through the online dating site and making the donation, she felt there was potential for a real connection between them. What she didn’t feel was that he posed any threat to her.

      Thomas would call that naive. Casey would call it wishful thinking.

      She called it intuition, and she’d learned to trust her instincts long ago.

      Cecelia was going on that date.

      Chapter Three

      Mission Recovery Training Center, 3:24 p.m.

      Emmett Holt braced his elbows on his knees and caught his breath while he unwound the hand wraps protecting his knuckles from the heavy bag. The sweat dripped from his brow, trickled down his arms. Most days a hard workout cleared his head, but he’d been balanced on the edge for too long.

      He recognized the signs, knew the inherent danger, but there was no going back.

      Not now. He glanced up at the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television screen. No inexplicable illness outbreaks. No one closing in on him here at the gym with weapons drawn and handcuffs ready.

      Every hour that passed without incident only amped up his tension.

      This game had very real, life-altering consequences. Life ending was more accurate. For the inevitable innocent victims, as well as Isely and his team of instigators who’d launched this frustrating drama.

      He crossed the gym and locked his ankles into the inversion table, then eased back. For a long moment, he just let himself hang there, upside down, daring anyone to take a shot.

      Neither side would make a move here, not in public. It was the shadows he had to worry about. And those were all around him...every move he made.

      Hands fisted, he crossed them over his chest and started the first set of fifty crunches.

      He focused on the count, only letting his mind wander once he was relaxed and stretching out the burn.

      Isely still had the one thing Holt needed to secure: the last vial of a deadly new virus. And Holt had more of what Isely wanted: damaging information on Director Thomas Casey.

      Years ago, Casey had gone undercover in Germany, disrupting an exchange that would have set the Isely crime family at the pinnacle of the black-market weapons business forever.

      It was one of those rare, landscape-changing deals, and Mission Recovery had successfully stopped it.

      That’s what they did, the whole reason the team existed. God, he was going to miss having that kind of clear purpose in his life.

      Holt did a slow-burn second set, then paused to think some more.

      He glanced around the gym, and though there were only a few other Specialists around, he felt like they were watching him too closely and with too much wariness lurking behind those neutral expressions. Did they expect him to just lose it with a violent outburst or remorseful confession? Which one of them had been on his tail when he made the drop for Isely?

      Months ago he’d have chalked up the wide berth they gave him to being the deputy director. He wasn’t popular with the team. That hadn’t bothered him much before. His management style was simply different from Casey’s, more aloof.

      It wasn’t his job to make friends.

      But since he’d chosen to take this mission on his own, with no one else read into the situation, he felt the unavoidable onset of mild paranoia. Holt told himself to relax. Even if Casey had started to piece it together, he wouldn’t have shared such a damning theory with the entire team.

      Not yet, anyway.

      Holt took a deep breath, reminding himself he’d been trained to succeed at all costs. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that his current efforts made him a potential target. That’s how he’d planned it.

      He came back to an upright position slowly to avoid the disorienting head rush, then unlocked the ankle bar and moved to an empty weight bench to work on his back.

      Everyone thought he was just a suit, sitting in the successor’s chair. Days like this were a clear reminder to the team that his strengths went well beyond pushing paper and signing off on personnel evaluations.

      “Sir?”

      He recognized his assistant’s voice, as well as her polished black pumps when Nadine stopped in front of him.

      He sat upright and pushed a towel across his face. “What is it?”

      “Two of the messages you’ve been expecting.”

      Holt tossed the towel over his shoulder and accepted the cell phone she handed him. One number was blocked, but the terse text message left no doubt the sender was Isely.

      The clock is ticking.

      Holt scrolled, switched to the voice mail message with a shake of his head. The world was full of ticking clocks.

      The silky feminine voice, definitely a product of a private school, drifted into his ear and eased the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you for the substantial donation, Emmett. We’ve reserved a seat for you at tomorrow’s event. We’re thrilled that you’ll be able to join us so we can personally express our appreciation for your generosity.”

      Cecelia. It was exactly the opening Isely had ordered him to create. He smiled, unable to temper his enthusiasm for their date tonight. He struggled to keep it in the appropriate perspective. She was part of the job, but he’d discovered a few layers under the polish that tweaked his curiosity.

      After all, despite popular opinion, he was human.

      Holt handed the phone back to Nadine. “Thank you.”

      She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

      “Do you have plans tonight?”

      “No, sir.”

      He studied her, but couldn’t be sure if she was lying. It didn’t matter. They both knew she’d cancel her plans if necessary to fulfill his request. “I could use your help in Alexandria.”

      “Black tie?”

      “No.” So she’d seen his reservations for the weekend. The reservation he wanted her to see anyway. “A