Evidence of Passion (Shadow Agents 7)

I’m a step ahead.

Always.

He didn’t need to get inside Rachel’s apartment in order to take out Dylan Foxx. He could take steps for the man’s execution from outside.

He just had to plan carefully, had to move all the players right in this little game.

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a playing card. The Jack. That card was just for Dylan.

Because you’re next.

Jack rarely killed unless money was involved. After all, he wasn’t a monster. He was a businessman. Patterson had just been business.

Dylan Foxx...his death would be both for business and for pleasure.

You should’ve been faster in that alley. If you’d rounded the corner seconds sooner, you would’ve seen me scaling that restaurant wall.

Dylan Foxx kept underestimating him. That was a fatal mistake.

* * *

RACHEL BELTED HER bathrobe around her body. She stared in the mirror. The woman who gazed back at her looked nervous, maybe even afraid. Her eyes were too big. Her lips trembled.

Rachel’s hands tightened around the belt. Get a grip. Women took lovers every day. Rachel faced down terrorists and madmen on a routine basis. Surely, she had this.

Her breath eased out. She opened the door. Paused.

Dylan matters. I don’t want to mess this up.

Her steps were swallowed by the thick carpeting. She crept toward the den. She’d worked up a semi-speech in the shower. Something that would sound fairly sophisticated. They were friends. Of course they could be lovers, too. They could enjoy one another.

No emotions. Just pleasure. That was the spiel in her mind. It was also a—

Lie, lie, lie. Because when it came to Dylan, her emotions always seemed to be involved.

Mercer had given them the go-ahead for this charade. Only she and Dylan would know that they’d actually carried things to the next level.

When Jack and the threat he posed were gone, would she and Dylan return to a friends-only basis? Or would it be too late for that?

Her gaze darted around the den. Dylan wasn’t there. He was—

The smell of scrambled eggs teased her nose. Her head immediately turned toward the kitchen.

Dylan stood behind the counter. He motioned toward the table. “It’s not much, but I didn’t want you starving on me.”

He’d cooked? Dylan was the king of takeout. He never cooked.

“Eggs, bread and wine.” He gave a little shrug. Was it her imagination or were his cheeks a little ruddy? “I know, it’s no Rachel Mancini Italian feast, but it will keep you going through the night.”

She found herself smiling. Even after everything that had happened that day, a bubble of happiness pushed through her. Dylan could do that. He could always make her happy, even when she knew she should be afraid. “It smells wonderful,” she replied as she headed toward him.

Dylan’s gaze slid down her body, lingering on her legs. The robe was short, falling to only midthigh, and she was pretty sure that his eyes heated as he stared at her.

Her skin sure seemed to burn beneath his gaze.

Very slowly, Dylan’s eyes rose to her face once more. “Do you...feel better?”

Rachel nodded.