had those dark brows.
But she didn’t have her cousin’s tilted eyes, rich brown irises rimmed with black. And she didn’t have the bone structure that reflected those eyes, the angular cheekbones over an equally angular jaw.
“His maternal grandparents met in Japan,” Owen said, perfectly aware of the contradictions in Carlsen’s appearance that had caught her eye. “He was a sailor. She worked in a factory. They came over here and settled in with the Danish side of the family who’d already established themselves on Lake Michigan. It’s all in there, buried beneath his training, his performance, his hobbies.” Pen and brush calligraphy. A handy skill for covert identity creation in the field. And Carlsen had a weakness for crossword puzzles…no doubt he liked to play with ciphers, too. Though he’d have no need for either in Mill Springs, Pennsylvania.
Owen jabbed a finger at the paper. “Written neatly between the lines is a scandal over his retirement—almost certainly he was hurt and has some kind of pension—but no one seems willing to talk about it. Someone messed up, and Carlsen paid the price.”
“Scandal.” She flipped the folder closed and stuffed it back into the accordion envelope. “That sounds promising.”
“His cousin trusts him with her life.”
“And her fiancé doesn’t.”
He shrugged. “True. But I think we can figure he’ll be more than adequate in neutralizing close-range threats. As for you, it’s a simple cover. Forget all that work you did to drop your childhood speech patterns and you’re set. You already know more about the area than anyone else we’ve got, even if Mill Springs isn’t quite Munroville. There’s a car waiting in the visitor’s lot, and it’s got identification, a credit card, and quite a bit of cash waiting for you. Keep your phone charged.” He ignored the face she made, and she didn’t blame him. Not with her track record of cell phones and batteries. “Be frugal—your cover persona isn’t used to having an expense account.”
“No need to remind me,” Kimmer said, voice dry. “But don’t you suppose someone might just recognize me, even the next town over from home? Why not use my own name?”
“That would virtually guarantee recognition, which would provide too much of the distraction you’re worried about.” Owen gave her an amused look, gesturing to encompass her from head to toe. “You were only a girl when you left. Now, no more wild hair, no birthmark, clothes that fit…No one’s likely to connect you to Kimmer Reed even if you walked into downtown Munroville.”
Kimmer snorted. Not likely to happen. But Mill Springs? Did she dare Mill Springs? Was Owen right, that her habitual distance represented a problem and not the strength she’d always considered it? Kimmer bit the corner of her lip hard as she came head-to-head with the decision and knew, suddenly, that she was indeed headed for Mill Springs. Back to western Pennsylvania. Back where memories lurked, waiting to pounce, and where she might well even be recognized.
But they were old memories from a young girl, and she was grown now.
She would pounce back.
Her assigned car, an older Taurus wagon with enough dings and scratches to suit her struggling cover persona, waited in the visitor’s lot as promised, looking sad and battered in the predawn darkness. Kimmer gave it a resentful stare and couldn’t quite yet open the door. She glared out over the facility, not needing sunlight or even breaking dawn to perfectly visualize the grounds.
Full Cry Winery was nestled between two of New York State’s southern-tier Finger Lakes, up against the shore of Seneca Lake. Upon arrival she’d pulled her own car past the old barn—converted to a visitor’s center—to the addition and modern outbuildings where the business offices and actual working areas of the fully functioning winery were located. The double-level cellar started beneath the business offices and ran under the barn; Kimmer liked to walk it in the hottest part of summer and absorb the stringent smells of tannin and crushed grape and wine and damp concrete.
Not far from here sat the Hunter family home, a surprisingly modest structure. And hidden away behind the winery’s business section, buffered by discreet security measures, the Hunter Agency maintained its own entrance to its own offices, one that was, without fanfare, labeled Viniculture Development.
Theoretically, Kimmer worked at Viniculture Development, and knew a smattering of wicked grape phrases to throw around should a tourist catch her on the grounds.
Theoretically, she’d never intended to so much as pass through western Pennsylvania. But Kimmer never did anything halfway, so she turned back to inspect the interior of the Taurus. As expected, the car came with a standard complement of quick disguises—wigs, hats, colorful scarves to catch the eye and obscure the features, even an ugly pink raincoat. Eye catchers.
Kimmer threw her suitcase and duffel into the back seat and quickly assessed the contents of the battered tote in the front passenger seat, shoving the leather accordion folder in with the rest of it. Her new name was Bonnie Miller, and evidently Bonnie Miller preferred nail polish with no subtlety whatsoever. That, too, was in the tote, along with a selection of intense eye shadow and a collection of bright little barrettes. Kimmer ran her hand over her hair, a cap of curls Halle Berry short and fringed at the edges, and supposed she might find enough hair to keep a barrette or two from falling out. “Bonnie Miller,” she murmured, looking at herself in the rearview mirror and then back at the contents of the tote. “You’ve got real style.”
But what Bonnie Miller also had, Kimmer quickly discovered, was a tail. The bronze sedan appeared after she’d turned out of Full Cry Winery’s long, winding driveway and onto the state road that would eventually take her to Route 86 and east, until she hit Erie and cut south. Rio and Carolyne Carlsen would be on that road, too—but she had a complete description of the rental car, and could easily avoid bumping into them.
She’d wondered at the necessity of an undercover backup. She’d wondered just how crucial Carolyne’s discovery could be, and just whether anyone would truly care.
Now she looked at the headlights in her rearview mirror, the ones that still, oh so casually, followed her winding, backtracking course.
Someone cares.
Someone already knows too much.
Chapter 2
R io Carlsen shifted at the wheel of his rented sedan, his butt already numb with a couple of hours of deep night driving behind him and dawn just hinting at the horizon. His cousin Caro slept in the passenger seat beside him, her mouth slightly open and the faint hint of a snore audible above the hum of tires against cold asphalt. A crossword puzzle book was tumbled askew in her lap, caught in a fold of her winter coat. Soon they’d reach Erie, and he’d swap cars. Not a precaution on which he’d planned, but that had been before he’d arrived at Caro’s house in Watervliet and seen the extent of the fear lurking in his cousin’s every expression, every movement. And before one too many things had gone bump in the night.
The evening before Carolyne had greeted him with a wholehearted hug and a whole lot of words, all tripping over themselves to add up to trouble. And not long after, Rio’s hackles had gone up, a warning sign he’d learned to heed well in his CIA years. Caro wanted to run, and Rio thought it was a good idea.
Though not immediately. To start with, he’d focused on the details of getting her packed. Easy details, simple after some of the covert scenarios he’d run. Shortly after his arrival, he snapped his cell phone closed as Carolyne paced into the room, picking up a book as though she might pack it and putting it down somewhere else three steps later.
“Relax,” he said, but winced at the glare she sent him. It had sounded a little patronizing. “Look, Caro, everything will be fine. We’re all set with the B&B in Mill Springs. Don’t get carked.”
“Nice try, but I know that word and I am worried.” She hesitated in midstep, electronic gadgetry dangling from her hand. A battery charger and cords, he thought. “You called them from here? Was that safe?”
“My