An Inconvenient Affair. Catherine Mann

sting operations. He was committed to the job, as he’d proven every time they’d tapped him for a new assignment.

      Over time, they also began utilizing him for more than computer help. His wealth gave him access to high-power circles. When Interpol needed a contact on the inside quickly, they used him—and other freelance agents like him. For the most part, he still provided behind-the-scenes computer advice. He was only called upon for something out in the open like this about once a year, so as not to overuse his cover.

      Some of that caution would have been nice now, rather than recklessly including Hillary Wright in this joint operation being run by the CIA and Interpol. She wouldn’t be able to carry off the charade this weekend. She couldn’t blend in.

      He’d known it the second he read her profile, even if they’d missed it. God only knew why they called him a genius and then refused to listen to him. So he’d arranged to meet her on this flight to confirm his suspicions. He was never wrong. He would stick by her side all weekend and make sure she didn’t blow the whole operation.

      Granted, that wouldn’t be a hardship, sticking near her for the weekend.

      For the first time in years he wasn’t bored. Something about this woman intrigued him, and there weren’t many puzzles in life for him. So he would stay right here for the rest of the flight and play this through. When she found out his full name—his public, infamous identity—she would pull away. She would likely never know his real reason for being part of this sting, and someone like Hillary Wright wouldn’t go for a guy with the reputation of Troy Donavan, especially so soon after getting her fingers burned in the relationship department.

      Not that he would let that affect his decision to stick by her. She needed him to get through this weekend, whether she knew it or not.

      A flight attendant ducked to ask, “Could I get either of you a complimentary beverage? Wine? A mixed drink?”

      Hillary’s smile froze, the lightheartedness fading from her face with the one simple request. The mention of alcohol stirred painful memories. “No, thank you.

      Troy shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks.” He turned back to Hillary. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine or something? A lot of folks drink to get over the fear.”

      She inched away from the wall and sat upright self-consciously. “I don’t drink.”

      “Ever?”

      She refused to risk ending up like her mother, in and out of alcohol rehabs every other year while her father continued to hold out hope that this time, the program would stick. It never did.

      There was nothing for her at home. D.C. was her chance at a real life. She couldn’t let anything risk ruining this opportunity. Not a drink. Not some charming guy, either.

      “Never,” she answered. “I never drink.”

      “There’s a story there.” He toyed with his platinum cuff links.

      “There is.” And honest to God, the bay rum scent of him was intoxicating enough.

      “But you’re not sharing.”

      “Not with a total stranger.” She was an expert at keeping family secrets, of sweeping up the mess so they would look normal to the outside world. Planning high-profile galas for the D.C. elite was a piece of cake after keeping up appearances as a teenager.

      She might look like a naive farm girl, but life had already done its fair share to leave her jaded. Which might be why she found herself questioning the ease of her past hour with Troy.

      Nothing about him was what she’d expected once he’d first flashed that bad-boy grin in her direction. They’d spent the entire flight just … talking. They’d discussed favorite artists and foods. Found they both liked jazz music and hokey horror movies. He was surprisingly well-read, could quote Shakespeare and had a sharp sense of humor. There was interest in his eyes, but his words stayed light all the way to the start of the plane’s descent.

      His eyes narrowed at her silence. “Is something wrong?”

      “You’re not hitting on me,” she blurted out.

      He blinked in surprise just once before that wicked slow smile spread across his face. “Do you want me to?”

      “Actually, I’m having fun just like this.”

      She sat back and waited for him to stop grinning when he realized she wasn’t coming on to him. Was she? She never went for this kind of guy, hair too long and a couple of tiny scars on his face like he was always getting into some kind of trouble. A line through one eyebrow. Another on his chin. And yet another on his forehead that played peekaboo when his hair shifted.

      But then Barry had been Mr. Buttoned-Up, clean-cut and respectful. Except it had all been a cover for a deceitful nature.

      Troy stared deeper into her eyes. “You don’t get to have fun often, do you?”

      Who had time for fun? She’d worked hard these past three years building a new life for herself, far away from a gossipy small town that knew her as the daughter of a drunk mother. Barry had tarnished her reputation with his shady dealings—stealing scholarship money for God’s sake. And unless she proved otherwise, people would always think she was involved, as well. They wouldn’t trust her.

      Her boss wouldn’t trust her.

      She picked at the hem of her skirt. “Why would you say I’m a wet blanket?”

      “Not a wet blanket. Just a workaholic. The portfolio under your seat is stuffed with official-looking papers, rather than a book or magazine. The chewed-down nails on your otherwise beautiful hands—sure shout stress.”

      She’d tried balancing her career and a relationship. That hadn’t gone very well for her. Thank you very much, Barry, for being a white-collar crook—and not even all that good of an embezzler, given how easily he’d been caught. She’d been so busy with her job that she’d completely missed the signs that he’d been using her to get close to her clients—and sucker them in.

      “Troy, I’m simply devoted to my career.” Which would be wrecked if she didn’t make sure everyone knew she was a hundred percent against what Barry had done. Her boss would fire her and no one else would hire her since the clients would never trust her. “Aren’t you?”

      What exactly did he do in computers? She was just beginning to realize that they’d talked all about her and not so much about him and the flight was already almost over.

      “Work rocks—as do vacations. So if you were taking this plane trip for pleasure, no work worries and you could pick up any connecting flight when we touch down—where would you go?”

      “Overseas.” She answered fast before realizing that again, he’d turned the conversation away from himself.

      “That’s a broad choice,” he said as the ground grew larger and larger, downtown Chicago coming into focus.

      “I would close my eyes and pick, some place far away.” Far, far away from the Windy City gala.

      “Ah, the old escape idea. I get that, totally. When I was in boarding school, I made plans for places to live and visit, places without fences.”

      Boarding school? Interesting and so far removed from her childhood riding the ancient bus with cracked leather seats each morning with all the friends from her neighborhood.

      She settled deeper into her seat. “Isn’t that the whole point of a vacation? To do something that is totally the opposite of your daily routine. Like open spaces being different from the walls of your old boarding school.”

      “You have a point.” His smile went tight for a flash before his face cleared. “Where are you from originally—so I can get a sense of your daily routine when I’m choosing our great escape?”

      Our? “Theoretically of course.”

      “Theoretically?