Hidden Agenda. Christy Barritt

intended to put an end to all of this. Now.

      Ed knew the truth. Despite his father’s congestive heart failure, he had not died of natural causes, and Ed would prove it.

      He forgot about formalities and about trying to preserve his dad’s house. All thoughts of coming home and paying respects to his dad, of both mourning and celebrating his dad’s life, disappeared.

      With expert training, he kicked the door. Wood splintered from the hinges, revealing the inside of the house. His years in the CIA had taught him a few things.

      More than he would have liked sometimes.

      He stared at the blackness oozing from the interior. It was thick, almost as though the darkness was a material thing.

      He reached for the light switch. The electricity was out. Of course.

      A storm like this could literally wipe out the whole island and send it toppling into the bay. Not to mention what it could do for the power grid of the small, isolated community.

      As if to confirm his theory, lightning slashed the sky behind him, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. This storm was a beast.

      He’d barely made it to the island in time. The pilot he’d hired was an expert. The storm came on faster than anticipated, and they’d landed just before the squall unleashed at full force. If his pilot hadn’t been so experienced, the plane would have probably crashed in the high winds and massive downpour.

      Ed had waited inside the tiny, two-room airport for a break in the weather before traveling the island roads, which were only accessible by golf cart or bike. A man at the airport had informed him that the bridge leading to his father’s estate was treacherous with the rising tide.

      But after a couple of hours of waiting, Ed had decided to take his chances. Alvin, the town chauffeur, had agreed to give him a ride to the bridge in a covered golf cart and bring Ed’s luggage for him later. Meanwhile, his pilot chose to camp out at the airport so he could leave as soon as the storm passed.

      Once Ed had waded through the water and reached the house, he’d discovered that his key to his dad’s place no longer worked.

      In the storm, the place looked even creepier than Ed remembered. It was a Georgian-style mansion with towers on the sides and a widow’s walk stretching across the roof. A shipping captain had built the place after staking claim to a good portion of land on the island nearly a century ago.

      As the eerily silent house surrounded him, Ed remembered the figure on the widow’s walk. He didn’t have any time to waste.

      He shook some water off himself and reached under his coat to retrieve his handgun, turning on the penlight on top so he’d have some light. In his line of work, one could never be too careful.

      Moving slowly, carefully, he stepped deeper into the house.

      He scanned the kitchen. There was no sign of movement. He doubted the woman would have been able to get from the widow’s walk down here in that short amount of time.

      Where had she gone? Had she hidden? Tried to escape?

      He wasn’t sure. But he was going to find out.

      Locating the woman in a house this massive, with so many twists and turns and back hallways, would be difficult. He’d start by going to the second level, and then he’d travel toward the staircase leading toward the widow’s walk.

      He walked slowly, daring any of the wooden steps to creak and announce his presence. If he’d learned one thing through the years, it was how to be quiet and stealthy, how to be light on his feet and disappear into the shadows.

      He reached the hallway and headed to the right. A long line of doors waited there, each a potential trap. He kept his gun drawn and his steps steady. He reached the first door and pushed it open.

      An empty bedroom stared back at him.

      He did the same at the next two doors.

      At the fourth door, he paused when he saw the edge of a blanket on the floor.

      He turned and spotted a woman behind the door. The woman. With a lamp above her head, poised like a baseball bat.

      “I don’t think so,” she mumbled, starting to swing.

      In one swift motion, he slid his gun back into the holster and grabbed her arm—just in time to stop her from crashing the ceramic base on his head. He squeezed her wrist until the lamp shattered onto the floor. The woman gasped, her eyes widening with surprise and fear. He still didn’t let go of her. No telling what she would try next.

      “Are you crazy?” He kept his voice low and serious, refusing to break his gaze. If anything, he knew how to handle himself in tense situations.

      The woman, at one moment frozen, suddenly came to life. She struggled against him, twisting, turning and trying to get away.

      “Get your hands off me!” she growled.

      She was a fighter. He’d give her credit for having spunk.

      But he did this for a living.

      Based on the way she flailed, this woman was no trained assassin. She probably hadn’t even taken any self-defense classes, for that matter. But who was she? As far as he knew, this place was supposed to be empty. Of course, he’d been out of touch for the past several months, on an assignment that required deep cover.

      The woman still tried to jerk away from him.

      “Calm down,” he muttered.

      “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

      He pinned both of her arms behind her back and restrained her until she stopped struggling. Her eyes didn’t lose their fight, though.

      He locked gazes with her. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

      She tried to jerk away one more time. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

      Ed sighed, waiting for her to wear herself out. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games, so why don’t you answer my question?”

      “Why don’t you let me go? Then maybe we can talk.”

      He wanted to really see her eyes, wanted to see if there was truth or deceit in their depths when she answered. It was a calculated risk he needed to take. He released her hand and pulled out his gun in one swift motion.

      “Back up to the wall,” he ordered. “Slowly. Don’t make any sudden moves or you’ll regret it.”

      She slowly turned, took two steps back and stood stiffly against the flowered wallpaper.

      He shined the light atop his gun on the woman, wanting to get a good look at her. She was on the taller side. Slim. Had long hair, light brown and straight, that fell halfway down her back. He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were—probably brown, he guessed—but they were big with thick lashes.

      He’d been deceived by more than one pretty woman in his day, enough that he was now immune to batting eyelashes and sweet smiles.

      “Start talking.” With mild amusement, he added, “Please.”

      The woman raised her hands, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. “I’m not looking for trouble. As soon as the storm is over, I’ll be gone from here. None of this stuff is mine, but I think you’re deplorable if you’re going to steal from a dead man.”

      “Steal?” He raised an eyebrow, curious now.

      “Yes, of course steal.” Suddenly, the woman pressed herself harder into the wall and rubbed her throat. “If you’re not a thief, then why are you here?”

      Seeing her fear caused something to click in his mind. While he didn’t want to be manipulated by a woman, he never wanted to see a woman look that frightened. He especially never wanted to be the cause of that fear.

      “Look, I’m