CHAPTER ONE
Lightning ripped through the sky,turning the coastal pines white for an instant before plunging them back into shadow. Thunder rolled in behind it, deep and angry, shaking the ground beneath Special Agent Vivian Durand’s boots. The storm pressed down on the small Maine inlet, the kind that warned of worse to come—wind, sleet, power lines snapping in the night.
She climbed the porch steps, heart steady, rain sliding cold beneath her collar. Each board creaked underfoot, loud in the electric stillness. Wind scraped through the eaves, whispering through the cracked siding. The off-books safehouse crouched at the edge of the woods, half-hidden behind bare trees and low clouds.
No porch light. No generator hum.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the front of the house.
The door hung open.
She gripped her Glock before the thought finished forming. She pressed to the wall beside the doorframe, rain dripping from her sleeve, every sense tuned sharp. One breath. Two. The faintest sound—a floorboard giving underweight.
Someone moved inside.
A flash of lightning lit the entryway. She caught a shape—a shoulder, a movement—and she lunged. Boot to the door, gun raised, clearing left to right.
“Federal agent! Show me your hands!”
For a moment, only the storm answered.
“Unless you’re planning to shoot me, Viv, lower that thing before you take out the lamp.” A voice, deep and too calm, rolled from the shadows. A voice with a slight Boston accent that made ladies swoon over him. A voice she pulled away from and leaned into in equal measure.
Vivian exhaled hard, her grip loosening a fraction. Special Agent Thomas Blake, royal pain in Vivan’s life, stepped into the weak spill of light from the kitchen, a coffee cup in his hand and that infuriating half grin on his face.
“Blake,” she muttered, holstering her weapon. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow. Don’t you have a life beyond the job?”
He raised that cocky brow of his. “Should I point out you’re a day early, too? That accountant you’re involved with not live up to your expectations?”
“He was a data analyst, and my personal life isn’t up for discussion.”
“Was?” That crooked grin of his flashed, then he shrugged it away. But she knew he’d have plenty of opportunity to dig deeper on their long, sleepless nights waiting for bullets to fly on another undercover op.
“Storm coming through early. Figured I’d beat the traffic.” He gestured toward the single cup. “Didn’t expect company just yet, but good thing since we can beat the storm. Should slide past Winter Harbor.”
“You could’ve let me know you were here already.”
“And ruin your dramatic entrance?” His smirk deepened. “Didn’t think you’d actually clear the place with your gun drawn.Besides, the last transmission Jensen sent was intercepted. Any communication risks exposing us.”
He wasn’t wrong, which irked her, so she closed the door with a sharp shove. “You should’ve told me.”
He lifted the cup again, unbothered. “Want coffee?”
Her gaze swept the room—tight space, one bed, one couch, no separation. Terrific.
“You didn’t mention the safehouse was... cozy.”
“Didn’t know it mattered.”
“It doesn’t,” she snipped. “Why off books? Should’ve told Maddox about this place.”
“Not off books. Mine.” He gestured to the room like it was a grand palace, not a hunting style cabin.
“Yours?” She rolled her eyes. “Not a surprise. At least we’re out of here soon. Too small for two of us.”
“Space is perfect since Bureau says we’re honeymooners, not roommates.”
“The Bureau designed our cover, or did you suggest it?”
