Ready, Aim...I Do!. Debra & Regan Webb & Black

with all the other condiments and accompaniments, made for a remarkable display.

      “Wow. This smells divine.”

      He replaced the cover over the omelet she was staring at. “Tell me why you did it and I’ll let you eat.”

      “You don’t want to go that route with me,” she warned. “I’m hungry.” Violence wasn’t the way she preferred to have her hands on him, but she’d put up a fight if it was the only way to earn his respect. “You have reach and strength on me, but I have guile, training and a clear head.”

      “Fair point.” He held out a plate. “Start there.”

      “Where?” She sliced off a portion of the omelet, added a strip of crisp bacon to her plate and returned to the counter and her coffee. As much as she wanted a mimosa, she knew the clear head was a necessity.

      “Start with your ‘clear head’ advantage. Why did you drug me?”

      “I didn’t.” She’d merely stepped in and likely saved his life and possibly her own by capitalizing on the moment. “You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth.”

      His gaze locked with hers, then with an arch of eyebrows, he turned his focus to drizzling syrup over a pancake.

      “Is your stomach bothering you?”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Of course you are.” And inexplicably she felt obligated to keep him that way.

      Although she didn’t believe he was the trouble in question, she didn’t think it was coincidence that her morning email alert included a caution about a sniper in Las Vegas. From the little she’d been able to dig up on him, Jason had the background and qualifications, but even when he’d been drugged, his sense of right and wrong remained intact.

      She’d searched his luggage and found nothing that indicated he had a weapon other than his handgun.

      She knew he doubted her about the drugs, and she didn’t hold it against him. People didn’t join covert agencies for the transparency factor. They chose it for a myriad of other reasons usually starting with some noble concept of honor and duty. Suddenly she wanted to know his motive for joining, wanted to know how it might have morphed or changed since getting into the field, but this wasn’t the time.

      “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked instead.

      “A shot of tequila.” He closed his eyes. “I barely remember biting the lime. If you don’t want to talk about that, tell me why you did this to us,” he said, wiggling his ring finger.

      “We’ll get there. I promise.” She swiped her finger in an X over her heart.

      “Not funny.”

      She laughed. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

      He grunted.

      “Come on, Jason. What’s the last thing you remember?”

      “The wig. You were wearing a wig and I made you take it off when we got here.”

      She nearly choked on her coffee. “I meant the last thing you remember before we, ah, hooked up.”

      “You mean before we got married.”

      “I do, yes.” She hadn’t heard the poor choice of words until one of his eyebrows lifted. She stifled a laugh, knowing he wouldn’t remember enough to understand the joke. “You know what I mean.”

      “The bar. I was hanging out in the bar waiting for the contact. I didn’t expect you.”

      “Same goes,” she muttered from behind her coffee cup. “How long had you been there?”

      “A couple of hours. I was nursing a beer, keeping an eye on the odds for the hockey game.”

      “Did you win? I’m up about five hundred dollars since I hit town.”

      “I don’t gamble.”

      “You’re kidding?” Her surprise brought forth another scowl. It amused her. “Well, maybe you don’t gamble with money, but clearly you enjoy some level of risk or you wouldn’t be the golden boy at Mission Recovery.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Not because you broke protocol and shared anything. I have my own sources.” She rolled her hand, signaling him to continue. “You’re at the bar, watching the scores and odds and then what?”

      She had to wait while he filled his plate with a slice of the omelet and two sausage links. Then he surprised her, bringing over the coffee carafe and refilling her cup.

      “The tequila shot, like I said. The bartender brought it over and said it was from you.”

      “He used my name?”

      “No.” He returned to the table. “He pointed to you at the other end of the bar.”

      “Describe the woman you saw. Please,” she added when he shook his head.

      “Blonde. Emerald dress that matches a certain eye color.”

      “You said she was at the other end of the bar. When did she get close enough that you could see her eyes?”

      He frowned at his plate. “Your eyes are green. The dress matched your eyes.”

      She shouldn’t be flattered that he knew that, but she was. “I was wearing contacts last night.”

      “I noticed. And a blond wig.”

      “Yes.” She was starting to really worry they’d both been set up by someone with too much information.

      “The dress was just like the one you wore in Colorado last month.”

      “You’re sure?” First of all, she would never wear the same outfit in an op she’d worn at a previous engagement. Men could get away with that kind of thing, but not a woman.

      He looked up at her, his expression troubled. “That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I was wondering what you were doing here and wearing that dress. After that the images are like snippets from a dream. I can’t quite hang on to enough to put the pieces together. You walked up and gave me the code phrase for extraction and—”

      “Oh, bloody hell.”

      “What?”

      “We’ve been compromised.” Alone but for her reluctant almost-husband, she gave in to the fidgets and started pacing the length of the room. “Something is dreadfully wrong. Yes, I joined you at the bar, but I didn’t send you the shot. Drugs and sedatives aren’t my style.”

      “Then whose style is it?”

      “I don’t know. No one I’ve been watching would have a reason to drug you.” She pushed her hands through her hair, tugged just a little. “I saw lots of people, including a blonde wearing an emerald dress, who I followed to the bar. But once I got there I was focused on you.” Because that’s all she’d needed to see. She’d let Isely’s unexpected appearance rattle her more than she’d thought. A rattled agent fails and she sure had done so here. She swore, turned on her heel and came up hard against Jason’s chest. He’d walked up right behind her.

      He caught her elbows and held her in place when she might have bounced off of him. “You’ll wear a rut in the carpet.”

      “I don’t care. And, for the record, that green dress wasn’t the one I was wearing the last time you saw me.” There were similarities she had to admit now that she really considered it. It was comparable enough to have a guy thinking it was the same.

      “Who’s your contact? What’s the signal if you need to be pulled out of your mission?” he demanded, dragging her attention back to him.

      “I don’t have a code phrase or a contact.” She pulled herself free of his touch. It was too distracting.