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All Bryce could muster was a nod. He opened the car door for Kira, and she raised a brow at him. “Get used to me opening doors for you,” he said, “and all the stuff that couples do. We have to sell our relationship.”

She smirked. “It’s not the door opening. I’m good with that. It’s the car. Does Turner know you sprung for this?”

He shrugged. “We need to show our wealth. This beauty came from our impound lot where the FBI seized some very nice cars. We can’t drive up in my old Honda.” The jet-black Mercedes SUV sparkled in the morning sunlight.

“As long as Turner knows you got the car, I’m good.” Kira sank into the passenger seat, and Bryce walked around to the driver’s side. “You drive an old Honda? That I can see. Very sensible and straitlaced.”

She wasn’t wrong, so why did it bother him that her impression of him included words like sensible and straitlaced? “Since I’m an art buyer for the uberwealthy Levi Solinger, I figured I needed to commit to the part.” He was overexplaining and snapped off the words. “Let’s hit the road and enjoy the luxury car while we have it.”

The engine purred and Bryce pulled away from Kira’s apartment. But he couldn’t get past the other part of her comment. “What gives you the impression that I’m some straitlaced, uptight, by-the-book agent?”

Kira glanced at him. “I asked around. Those words may have come up.”

“Violet? That’s your source? I met her once. Briefly. Also, note that my first impression of you happened in a police holding cell. And your second impression smashed me in the face with a trash can lid. So let’s push past impressions and learn our new roles.”

“At least I know you’re direct and to the point.” Kira’s phone chimed. “It’s Turner.” She put the phone on speaker and gave him a rundown of the loitering man with a camera.

Turner cleared his throat. “It appears that Violet’s father wanted to document the safety features of your new apartment. He sent someone to check out the area around the place. He was told not to get caught. That’s why he ran.”

“Ohhh, how did Violet take the news?”

“You might say she’s not too happy about this. But continue to watch your backs for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.”

The man hung up.

“Well, I guess that answers a few questions.” Kira stashed her phone in the front pocket of the designer bag. He caught the slight wince, as though the bag might turn to lava the moment she touched it. Interesting. “Turner’s description of Violet is probably an understatement. I imagine she’s pretty livid. You haven’t seen Violet get mad,” she said. “It’s not pretty.”

“I’m sure it’s not. I made a mental note when I met her. Don’t cross Violet Bancroft.” He’d checked up on Kira’s roommates. Violet might be petite and Southern, but she held one of the best shooting records coming out of Quantico.

Kira pulled out the envelope Turner had given them. She cleared her throat, an audible clue that she had the same awkward emotions about this undercover operation that plagued him. “How did we meet?” she asked. “I haven’t had a chance to give the paperwork a thorough read-through. I spent my time playing dress-up.”

“Let’s start with some introductions. I’m Brian Beckett, art buyer and connoisseur of the finer things in life.”

She twisted in her seat to face him. He kept his eyes on the road after a quick glance. “I’m Katrina Beckett. Wife and art buyer for Levi Solinger.”

Gone was her low, deeper voice, replaced with a fast-paced, high-pitched nasal whine in a perfect New York accent.

Bryce laughed. “What was that?”

“It says we’re born and raised New Yorkers. Specifically, Upper East Side. Why wouldn’t I have an accent?” She kept the thick intonation in place while she talked.

“It’s spot-on, I’ll give you that.”

“Are you sure it won’t draw too much attention? Should I go with something more nondescript?”

“No, I think it lends credibility to our story. How did you learn to do that?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time in my life playing various roles, pretending to be people I’m not. Plus, I worked hard as a kid to lose my Russian accent so I didn’t have to explain to people where I came from.” Her authentic voice, the one he preferred, resurfaced. Rich, melodic, and maybe even a bit sexy.

He immediately rerouted his wayward thoughts back to the conversation, and while he wanted to explore her last statement, professionalism reigned as king in his life. “We met at an art auction in New York.” He tried to suck the emotion out of his voice. Dry as toast. That’s what his colleagues called him when they assumed he wasn’t listening. Not that it hurt his feelings. He did thrive on predictability and routine. “We met when we were bidding on the same piece. Six months ago. Solinger hired you shortly after. We married within three months. We’re still newlyweds, so people might forgive us for not knowing everything about each other.”

“That works.”

And just like that, they were an old married couple who slipped into silent mode. She seemed lost in thought—probably pondering her first assignment in the field. Yet he couldn’t wrap his mind around mysterious Kira . . . or Katrina. He’d better get used to her new name.

He’d read her file. Questions settled on the edge of his tongue, but he didn’t dare voice them. How old was Kira when she came to the United States to be adopted? Her file held no details prior to this. What was it like growing up in an orphanage in Russia?

This is business. Don’t get personal.