He pushed through the door.
The noise hit him first—conversation, laughter, the clatter of cups. He scanned the room automatically, the way he’d been trained. Exits. Threats. Anyone who didn’t fit.
His gaze landed on the corner booth.
Dark hair pulled back. Coffee in front of her that she wasn’t drinking. Clear sight lines to both entrances, back to the wall, positioned exactly the way an operative would position herself in an unfamiliar space.
Jayden.
She was watching the door, and he spotted when her gaze landed on him. The widening of her eyes, the parting of her mouth.
Wait.
Wait one doggone second.
He swallowed, and she leaned back, folded her arms, and shook her head.
He heard her voice again.
Listen, you know how vacation romances are. No one is ever who they say they are.
Their eyes locked across the room.
And everything Dakota had been holding together—the numbness, the professionalism, the carefully compartmentalized pain—shattered.
She’d lied to him, and big.
And then, the questions. Did she know who he was?
She had to have known, right? The Black Swans would have intel on Jones, Inc., operatives, would have briefed her on who she might encounter. She’d known, and she’d played the hotel inspector anyway. Played the grieving sister. Played the woman falling for him just as hard as he was falling for her.
Hunter Valley. The firelight on her face as she told him about Skylar. The way her hand had felt in his when she’d talked about faith. The kisses that had, in the end, nearly unmoored him.
All of it. Every moment. Every vulnerability he’d shown her.
Oh, he was a fool.
Jayden’s expression shifted as she read his face. Something flickered in her eyes—guilt, maybe.
Dakota didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He stood in the doorway of a Sydney coffee shop, tourists streaming past him, the harbor glittering in the afternoon sun, and his entire body lit on fire, heat and fury igniting every cell.
She’d lied to him.
She’d used him.
And worse, in his gut, he’d known she had a secret.
And then—wait . . . Oh, it all made sense now. Why she’d stuck with him on the tour. She’d seen his bag. Seen the file. She’d thought he was the killer.
And he’d probably confirmed it at the Opera House with his conversation with West.
Nice. No wonder she’d picked up her bag and run. He should probably be thankful she hadn’t shot him.
And yet, here she was, sitting in a coffee shop like nothing had happened, waiting to coordinate with him on a mission she’d been running parallel to his the entire time.
Dakota’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He walked toward her.
