Chapter 1
Allie wished her scar sat a few inches higher on her leg.
Or that it wasn't obviously evidence of a bullet wound.
Or that her current assignment required pants.
She didn't want to take the beauty of her tropical assignment for granted, but she hadn't quite figured out how to blend in on the resort island of Isadora without wearing clothing that revealed the area just above her knee.
She noted the relaxed-island-vibes attire of every other passenger seated around her on the hotel shuttle. Yep. Every single one of them wore shorts.
She smoothed her knee-length sundress on her lap. It was working well for now, but she'd only brought three dresses that covered her scar—none of which would allow her to carry a concealed weapon.
And that would be a problem. Because she was required to be armed while on duty for WhiteRock Security.
She'd probably end up wearing pants every day—her new ones advertised as 'wrinkle-resistant, breathable, and perfect for summer travel.' She glanced at her stuffed suitcase sittingbehind the driver, knowing it was testing the 'wrinkle-resistant' claim.
After waiting three long months for her body to heal, the fact that she still had a job with WhiteRock Security baffled her. Her epic failure had inflicted more pain than the bullet. She'd take another bullet in a heartbeat if it would relieve the guilt tormenting her.
When the new WhiteRock director asked her to join Jason Bridger's team on a long-term assignment on a remote Caribbean island, she knew it was a second chance she didn't deserve. And she wasn't about to take it for granted.
The FBI probably asked WhiteRock to keep an eye on her. And she couldn't blame them. This job offer might just be a way to keep closer tabs on her. If that was true, so be it—she could still make the most of it. She desperately wanted to get back to work.
Her plane had landed two hours ago in Morghana City, on the main island of Morghana, but a thunderstorm hid the Caribbean beauty around her for the duration of the blustery ferry ride to Isadora Island. And the short shuttle ride to The Mandeville Hotel.
Fortunately, the rain stopped the moment the shuttle driver pulled up to the front doors of The Mandeville—as if the timing was orchestrated. She stepped off the shuttle and watched with admiration how easily the slight driver hefted everyone's luggage onto the sidewalk—most of the suitcases looked heavier than he was.
She retrieved her rolling bag from the lanky driver and tipped him. Convinced the thunderstorm had moved on, she shrugged off her rain jacket and inhaled the warm, salty ocean air. With the ocean breeze keeping the humidity in check, watching the island come alive with the sweet scent of recent rains was intoxicating. Lush, cleansing, and breathtaking.
A discreet three-hundred-sixty-degree glance revealed nothing of concern—only damp Caribbean beauty. She noted the guests entering and exiting the hotel. Their posture. Their clothes. Their eyes.
Force of habit.
Everyone looked genuinely relaxed—happy even.Well, that's encouraging.
Emerging sunshine and the possibility of resurrecting her career invigorated her. Besides feeling self-conscious about her scar, she was looking forward to enjoying this island resort.
An attentive valet offered to take her luggage to her room, but she opted to keep her one suitcase and tote with her.
Dripping jacket in one hand, she gripped the handle of her rolling luggage with the other, and marched into The Mandeville Hotel with a prayer on her lips.Oh, dear Lord, please help me. Help me redeem my career.
Other matters weighed heavier on her than needing to prove herself professionally. But she didn't have a clue how to word any of those concerns. Even in a prayer.
The Mandeville Hotel did not disappoint. It was as beautiful as the island it inhabited. And that was saying something.
The lobby greeted her with elegant sophistication—its grand arches of all-white Victorian architecture soared over polished marble floors, two-story windows, and potted palms. Her short briefing for this mission described The Mandeville as 'a secluded resort for wealthy patrons seeking tropical beauty and privacy.' Oh yes, the description made more sense now.
"Allie?"
She turned, relieved to see Jason Bridger striding across the lobby. She'd be reporting to Jason for the next few . . . days? Weeks? Months? Jason was smart, kind, and easy to work for. She was glad to see him first . . . before seeing Knox.
She'd worked with Jason and Knox on at least a dozen assignments for WhiteRock. But this assignment would be different. Her first assignment after her brother was arrested. Her first assignment after being shot, during said arrest. And her first time returning to duty after fatally shooting a man.
The physical and emotional scars still ached, but she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit the knot in her stomach this afternoon had more to do with Knox Coulter than anything else.
"Hello, Jason. You weren't exaggerating. This place is beautiful."
"The entire island is incredible." Jason's genuine smile reduced her anxiety a notch. "Don't worry, you'll get a chance to see some sights. We'll keep our headquarters here on Isadora Island, but I have a feeling we're going to have reason to check out some of the other islands in Morghana. I'll fill you in on specifics later. How was your travel today? Sorry you can't fly direct here."
