Bulletproof Bride. Diana Duncan

He gave her his boss’s name and phone number, and the code name Falcon Three so his boss would release the information to her. “When you talk to your friend Mel, make something up. Don’t tell her anything about me.”

      “Of course not. I’m not an imbecile.”

      “No you’re not. You’re a very sharp lady, and I’m glad you’re on my side.” He saluted, turned and sauntered out.

      Tessa didn’t trust the information he’d provided, after all he could have paid someone to lie for him. She called directory assistance in Washington, D.C. They recited the same number Gabe had given her. Hurdle one conquered. Excitement jittered through her. Feeling disconcertingly like a Bond babe, she dialed, waited through three transfers, and then gave the code name to the gravelly voiced baritone who identified himself as Gabe’s superior. At her request, the man supplied a dead-on description of Valentine Gabriel Colton down to the cleft in his chin, and verified that he was indeed a federal agent. Hurdle two. Relief, mixed with an emotion that felt oddly like happiness careened through her. Gabe was who he said he was. Not a criminal. FBI.

      After a second call to inform Mel that she’d been delayed at the police station, Tessa hung up and set the phone on the counter. Leaning on her elbows, she stared out the window at the forest, blazing with resplendent fall foliage. What was the strange reaction that overpowered her whenever Gabe was near? Her stomach jittered in horror. Maybe her mother’s genes would triumph after all. Tessa wanted stability and a family, but perhaps she was fated to follow her hormones through man after man, just like Vivienne.

      She slammed her palms on the counter. No way! Her mother’s life was a nightmare example of that tortured path. Tessa refused to follow in Vivienne’s destructive footsteps. Her shoulders stiff with resolve, she focused on making coffee and sandwiches. When they were ready, she carried a tray to the small table in the living room. Goose bumps prickled up her arms and she rubbed her hands together. The cabin hadn’t been in use, and the room was cold. Kneeling in front of the fireplace, she started a fire.

      A pair of long, tanned bare feet appeared in her line of vision. “I was gonna do that.”

      She swallowed hard. Good heavens, even the sight of the man’s feet tweaked her libido. She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “You don’t have frog’s feet.”

      His husky laugh bubbled through her veins like expensive champagne, filling her with a warm, sparkling glow. “I didn’t mean literally.”

      “Of course not.” She leapt up, backing toward the chair. “I made sandwiches and coffee.”

      Gabe’s brows tilted. “Should I have you taste-test them?”

      “I said I was sorry about that.”

      “So you did.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “But remember, honey, payback is hell.” He grabbed a sandwich and a mug of coffee and collapsed on the plaid sofa.

      She dropped into a chair beside the fire. The damp sheen of Gabe’s hair reflected the dancing flames. He’d changed into snug, faded jeans and a black cotton sweater. Trying to ignore the disturbing zings ricocheting along her nerve endings, she doggedly chewed her sandwich. It tasted like sawdust.

      “So—”

      She jerked, nearly spilling her coffee.

      He shook his head. “You’ve gotta get a handle on that hair-trigger reflex. Do I still make you nervous?”

      Not in the way he meant. “I was thinking, and you startled me, that’s all. How long will we be here?”

      “I don’t know. Did you leave the phone in the kitchen?” She nodded, and he rose. “Be right back.”

      His low voice murmured from the kitchen. In minutes he returned. For once, his face wore a somber expression, without a hint of levity. Dread hung heavily between them.

      Sighing, he jammed his fingers through his hair. “There’s no sugar-coated way to say this. Gregson may be dead.”

      Bile swelled in her throat. “Y-you killed him?”

      “No.” He dropped onto the sofa and stared down at the green braided rug. “Whoever he works for doesn’t have a real subtle job performance evaluation. You escaped, and I saw his face, but he didn’t see mine because of the helmet and sunglasses. With his cover blown, he was useless. The local cops found a John Doe in the river, a bullet in the back of his skull. My boss is running his prints. We’ll know soon if his real name was Gregson, and if he was genuine FBI.” Gabe’s intent gaze fastened on her.

      The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

      “You should know what we’re dealing with.” He left, quickly returned and handed her two checks. “You saw these before. What did you think?”

      Puzzled, she turned them over. “Sav-Mart payroll checks.”

      “But one’s real and one’s counterfeit. Problem is, we can’t tell them apart because stolen checks were used as templates to make perfect phonies. Counterfeit checks from big companies are showing up all over the Northwest. The Treasury Department has been tracking them for nearly two years, but every time they think they’re making progress, they run into a dead end. The bad guys are always somehow one step ahead.”

      Tessa frowned. “That’s why you suspect someone in law enforcement might be involved?”

      “Yeah, plus the fact that our previous agents on the inside were murdered. So I came in deep undercover. Only my boss knows I’m working this, and he’s top-level security. A few days ago, we arrested a check passer who gave us some information, but wanted immunity before he’d tell all. While we were working out the details, the suspect ‘hung himself’ in his cell. We knew the checks were in the cash delivery to your branch. The robbery got them into my hands without tipping off the crooks or burning my cover. The checks confirmed the one common thread we’ve found.”

      Every trace of the carefree rogue had disappeared. All business, his cool, serious gaze bored into hers. Tessa stared at a very different Gabe—the dangerous man his enemies faced. Icy fingers crawled up her spine.

      “The real checks are being stolen from Oregon Pacific Bank. So far, the crooks have cleared over eight million dollars.”

      “Eight million?”

      “A hell of a motive for murder.” He grimaced. “And one of your co-workers is up to their neck in blood.”