Chapter Three

The following afternoon, Abby pulled into the strip mall and chose to park on the periphery of the frantic lot. Although there was a spring chill in the air, the late afternoon was pleasant. Due to the warmer weather, people spilled out of crowded cafés onto the pavements, La Coraggio was the busiest of the bunch. The Italian community loved the place, and the result was a boisterous, laid-back atmosphere with incredible cuisine. Honestly, she loved it too. Abby had an Italian grandmother, vague memories of a warm, loud lady enveloping her in happy hugs. Although her grandmother passed away when Abby was four, she felt a sharp pull towards her Italian roots. Abby was told growing up that she was the spitting image of Granny Lucy.

Lucy had been married to Grandpa Noah for twenty-four years when she’d died suddenly of a heart attack. Abby’s father, Jimmy—their only child—turned in an extreme way to religion. A couple of years later, frustrated with his son’s constant tirades and Biblical lectures on sinning, Noah moved away. Abby remembered Noah clearly, often curling up on his big lap, and hearing that gruff laugh rumbling through his chest. He would jump out from nowhere and throw her over his bear-like shoulders, spinning her in circles until she was dizzy with giggles.

She never saw him again.

The happy times left with her grandpa’s disappearance from her life. As a teenager, she’d dreamt of running away from her father and his severe beatings and finding her grandpa. Would Noah know what a monster his son had become? Was he still alive? Luckily Abigail saved herself a long time ago from that life.

A smudge of yellow paint drew her attention, and Abby rubbed it off her wrist. The hands of a grubby artist. Abby grumbled at the spots of dried paint crammed under closely clipped nails. Tough luck, fancy manicures were a waste of time when slapping paint on a canvas on a weekly basis.

She grabbed her handbag and took off her sunglasses, only to slam them back on. Remnants of the migraine still lingered from the night before, the ebbing sun way too bright for her light-sensitive eyes, but this night was important. Abby hadn’t seen Lizzy in a while, and after loads of soppy texts and phone calls about the new man in her life, Abby thought it was time to meet the “dashing” specimen. If for no other reason than to assess the risk to her friend’s lovely heart.

If it weren’t for Lizzy, wild horses wouldn’t drag her out on a Friday night. There’d be other Americans at dinner. Lizzy had invited them from her F******k page, Americans in Jo’burg. Abby took a deep breath and clambered out of her car. The lively atmosphere in the café made her smile. Lizzy waved frantically, and Abby carefully maneuvered through crowded tables to the faction gathered on the far side of the outdoor piazza.

La Coraggio was a simply decorated café with little fuss. People came for the incredible food and great conversation. Red cloths hung off casual white tables, fairy lights decorated the railings and hung from the roof. Sounds of a televised soccer game flowed from the bar area, and men shouted over the game in Italian. Abby’s stomach growled in response to the delicious smells wafting out of the kitchen.

Lizzy could only be described as a bouncy ball of blonde energy that swept Abby up in a sweet-smelling hug, her Dutch roots evident in her sparkly blue eyes and vivacious smile. If you could combine bubble bath and rays of sunshine into a happy little package, you would create a Lizzy.

“Why is there a pink streak in your hair?”

“It’s just temporary. It goes with my Cyndi Lauper vibe.” Lizzy waved a fingerless laced glove. No one pulled off the retro vibe as effortlessly as she could. Her faded denim jacket looked like it had just been tossed off the runway.

She babbled, dragging Abby the rest of the way. Lizzy had spent most of her childhood in Santa Barbara and still retained that buttery Californian accent. “Holy Shiblets! You’re meeting my sexy man. He’s like a chilled version of Jason Momoa.”

“Who the hell is Jason Momoa?” Abby asked.

Lizzy rolled her eyes. “You know, Khal Drogo, Game of Thrones. But John is much sweeter, he’s a big teddy bear.” Abby still had no clue, not having time to watch telly or the iconic television series that everyone raved about. Lizzy waved a hand in the air, bangles jangling. “Okay, so don’t be mad, my friend, but we’ve organized a delicious little—well, maybe not so little—surprise for you. John has the nicest, hottest friend who’s here, and you’ll absolutely love him.”

Whoa… Before Abby had time to dig in her heels, they were at the table. Wrenching her hand out of Lizzy’s iron grip was next to impossible. Sheez, how strong was her little friend? Her glare met Lizzy’s innocent smile, and Abby whispered, “Sweetpea, what have you done?”

“Relax, Rain Man, it’s just dinner. Besides, there’s a whole group of us. Have some fun for a change.” Lizzy stuck out her tongue and swung Abby around for introductions.

Lizzy knew better. Abby would never allow a strange man anywhere near her world. Damn her meddling friend. Abby would gobble up her food and quickly excuse herself.

John stood, waiting to shake her hand, and Abby took an involuntary step back. Big and tall didn’t begin to describe the brawny giant standing before her. Lizzy hung off his arm like a tiny flea, barely reaching his broad chest. He could squash her little friend like a bug. Her eyes traveled up to his. John’s kind eyes crinkled in welcome—that was unexpected.

Lizzy toed her leg, and Abby shook his large hand.

“A fellow American. I’ve heard so much about you.” The soft-spoken mannerisms contrasted with his towering physique. Abby shot her friend a dark look. What had she told him?

“I told him that you’re a talented graphic designer and the loveliest friend a girl could have.”

Ah hell. Abby couldn’t stay mad. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that her life was so screwed up. Lizzy took that as a green light, promptly leading her to an open spot. On the way, Abby greeted Lizzy’s other friends. After slipping off her sunglasses, she went back to skewering John with an assessing stare. Lizzy threw her arms around Abby’s neck and whispered, “Turn around, buttercup.”

She turned to scowl, but all that registered were disturbing moonstone eyes. A lightning-quick assessment of the threat revealed an athletic built demigod, head lowered as he glanced at her from under his brows. He watched her with such stillness and yet she sensed tremendous icy energy swirling beneath the facade, ready to suck her in. Those deadly eyes ramped up his jarring intensity.

“Ab-cakes, Max Hansen works with John. Max, this is Abby Evans. She’s a fellow American, and my rock in this crazy country.”

***

Max Andersen used Hansen as a cover name. A background check by potential targets revealed a fully developed Max Hansen entity in the field. Max expected her reluctance—gaining her confidence or trust would almost be futile given what they suspected she was. Now as Evans stood in front of him, Max saw a glimpse of something else, uncertainty or interest maybe? Couldn’t be, but he could try his level best at charming the fuck out of her. Give it the old heave-ho and see where it led.

Evans was distractingly flawless in person. He’d seen a dated photo in her file and observed her at a distance but this close…sooty lashes framed ivy-green eyes and her skin glowed. A refreshing and mutely elegant tall drink of water. Dark blue jeans molded her ass beautifully, a white blouse clung to perfect curves. Two delicate gold chains adorned her slender neck, tangled and fighting for rights to her exquisite cleavage. He clasped her hand firmly, and the jolt of awareness was unexpected. Her hand jerked indicating she had felt it too. Fuck.

Evans shifted. “Um, excuse me?”

His gaze shot up and collided with hers. “Did I say that out loud? Double fuck.”

The corner of her mouth quirked, and she slid her hand out of their electric grip. Lizzy flitted off to grab menus, as they stared awkwardly. Time to play.

Evans slipped past, and Max touched her hand with the back of his. She froze, and he leaned in, speaking above the din. “Here’s the thing. I was caught unawares, just as you were. John told me about the blind date as you walked in. I’m not looking to hook up in any capacity—work is my priority.” Max stroked his thumb over the edge of her wrist, feeling a tremble, she liked that. “You’re beautiful.” His warm breath feathered her ear. “But I’m no idiot; I see you have no desire to meet someone. How about just a friendly meal and you need never see me again.”

Max let go. Her pretty lips parted, and her tongue darted out to lick a shapely lower lip. His eyes tracked the movement and rose to hers. Desire flashed before her walled serenity slammed back in.

“Max, is it? Thanks for clearing that up. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She politely smiled and headed to the ladies’ room.

Max paused to get his shit together. He’d deliberately tried to rattle her and succeeded, yet his own reaction pissed him off. Her silky skin and delicate scent drew him in, and that look in her eyes…

“Yo, Max, you gonna order or what?” Johnny yelled over the table.

Max lowered himself onto the bench as Johnny shot him a questioning glance.

***

The toilet cubicle felt safe, super safe. Abby had never been this shaken by a man and in such a short amount of time. One minute of conversation and she was ready to toss all caution to the wind.

Breathe, Abby. Don’t think about him. Focus on getting home and preparing for the mission ahead; you don’t need or want a man. Especially not a man like him. There’s no future for him in your existing world. He’ll end up very dead. Abby took another minute before heading back.

Max sat next to her open seat, his capable-looking hands playing with the paper from his straw. Her stomach did a flip. Abby slid in and opened a menu, studying it solemnly. She knew La Coraggio well and occasionally grabbed a bite to eat during the week when the place was quiet. Still, the menu gave her an excuse not to look to her left, at that rugged profile and sensuous mouth with that nibble-inducing, full lower lip.

Max glanced over at the menu she held up like a shield. Abby surreptitiously hid a stained fingernail.

“What’s good here?”

Max’s deep voice jarred her out of her reverie.

“Everything,” Abby answered. Your sexy, rippling, very male forearms…

“Yeah, but what would you recommend?”

Abby gnawed on her lip. Just answer, and he’ll quit. “The vitello or the polpette.”

“Come again?”

“The veal or the meatball pasta. They also have excellent lamb chops on the specials menu. You can’t go wrong with any of their pizzas either.”

He skewered her with a killer smile. Jeez, talk about Nordic god dimples. He was leaner than his wrestler-built friend John but just as lethal looking. Wowser. Abby took a slow breath and leaned over to chat with Lizzy.

***

She’d effectively dismissed him. Max wasn’t a natural flirt, but for him that was a first. Evans’s unflappable demeanor was a definite challenge.

Once everyone had ordered, Max tried his hand again, asking her what she did for work and for fun. Evans’s terse answers would have any man running. Max plugged on, smiling, touching her arm, staring into her eyes. Evans concentrated on the dish in front of her, and fair enough, it looked sumptuous. Tagliata beef filet baked in the oven—with garlic, rosemary, and balsamic vinegar. It wasn’t one of her recommendations to him—gee, thanks. His meatballs were great, but nothing compared to the juicy steak gracing her plate. He was staring morosely at Abby’s dish when she surprised him with a question.

“Are you from the Western states? We have a similar accent.”

“Yeah.” Max purposely didn’t elaborate. “But I’m sure both of us have also taken on some local African slang over the months of living here. Can’t be helped.”

“Do you work with John?”

“I run my own business as a subcontractor. John and I have worked together on many occasions.”

“What do you do?”

He took his time, wiped his mouth with the napkin before placing it back in his lap. His cover story could stand up to intensive background checks by the enemy. “I provide protective clothing to military and police around the world.”

“Like uniforms?”

“Boots, uniforms, gloves, helmets… Clothing needs to be climate- and situation-specific, designed for a particular use. For instance, fire-retardant boots for riot control and protection against Molotov cocktails. Kevlar gloves that may vary in the field. Lighter bulletproof vests that still offer full protection.”

She played with the stem of her wineglass. “Interesting. I guess you’ve served in the military?”

“I did. I left two years ago.”

“Were you Army? Navy?”

“Army but nothing too glamorous. I never really served in the field. In layman terms I provided and built security for all US assets and bases that enemies might want to target. You could say I was a security expert.”

He watched carefully for any reaction. A shift in posture, turn of her hand, any suspicious eye movements. Khalid would love to get his hands on a US security expert who’d supposedly built clandestine military facilities. A perfect honey trap to lure Khalid out of hiding.

Evans smiled. “Well, good for you and thank you for your service—you may not have served on the front lines but I’m sure you’ve made a difference.” A skinny dude on the other side of her asked a question and Evans promptly turned away.

Nothing. Zippo.

Terrorists could mask body language but never fully hide their tells. Max was an expert on spotting ticks and nuances. Was Evans that good at masking her interest? He exchanged a look with his team member, who’d also picked up on her flawless delivery. Evans could be biding her time, possibly contact him for a date, set him up as a mark.

She’d be signing her death warrant along with the rest of her terrorist cell.

***

It was time to leave, but Max’s fierce stare whenever he spoke kept Abby anchored to her seat. He kept touching her hand and even used his thumbnail to rub off a smidge of acrylic paint on her knuckle. The man used his hands a lot and not in a fidgety way. Nervous energy was not a synonym for Max Hansen. His movements were conservative and deliberate; that exacting control made her feel safe. She hadn’t felt safe in a long time.

Abby stared out into the night, beyond the noise and the laughter. Time to stop pretending, time to stop flirting. The last time she flirted with a man, it had almost gotten her killed.

His magical fingers touched her again. “Are you okay?”

She turned to his handsome face with a heavy heart. “It was lovely to meet you, I wish you luck in your military clothing business.” She squeezed his hand, not wanting to let go. “Please keep safe and tell John to treat Lizzy right. She’s a chatterbox, but she has the biggest heart.”

***

Max squashed a smidgen of guilt. The fallout would most likely crush her friend. Max failed to establish a strong enough connection. He swore softly as Lizzy and Johnny said their goodbyes. There were other ways to run into her; they’d adjust the schedule.

Clenching his jaw, Max forced himself to remain seated, mentally going over where he’d gone wrong. The hum in the café worked on his nerves. Needing space, Max shifted dinner plates. There, lying under a napkin, were her aviator sunglasses. She’d worn them on entering the restaurant. Evans didn’t seem like the type to forget things. Were they purposely left behind or was it an innocent mistake? With only one way of finding out and hoping to catch the elusive Evans before she left, Max picked up the shades and headed for the exit.

***

Chilled air whispered through Abby’s silken shirt as she made her way to her little Ford. The sweet night was a small memory to tuck away. Thoughts of Max made her want to turn back, instead she wrapped her arms closer, grimacing at her tiny car sitting desolately at the back end of the lot. Abby opened the door and was slammed forward. Her head bounced off the edge of the car roof, and an arm pulled her up against a hard chest as a gloved hand muffled her scream.

“Not a word.”

The gravelly voice was hot on her neck. The brutal stranger licked her ear, and revulsion made her lightheaded. Blood trickled from her hairline. God, was this a hijacking? Terror made her squirm. He twisted her with such violence that an elbow cracked painfully against the car. Wedged in the door with no room to move, Abby searched for an opening. A knitted balaclava hid the assailant’s face and beneath it, black paint masked his features. A black hoodie covered the rest. Something snicked and pricked her side. Vision tunneled as the horror slammed home.

“Move or scream, and I’ll gut you like a fish.” He wiggled the knife for good measure. “We’re going for a little ride.” He unclamped her bruised lips.

“The car…take the car…”

His erection pressed against her thigh. “I don’t want the car, sweet thing. I want you.”

Rubbing against her, he shoved his face into the side of her neck, biting down hard. At her yelp, the knife nipped her stomach. From a distance they looked like lovers, making out. No one would suspect a thing. If they drove to a second location, she was as good as dead. Abby wanted to throw up all over the hideous mask. Through the haze of adrenaline, she remembered the Taser tucked into the inner bucket of the door.

The knife slid up as she purposely collapsed, and her attacker was forced to readjust. “My head—I think I’m going to vomit.”

“Stand up, now.” His hand gripped her hair. Abby closed her hand around the Taser and rammed it deep into his groin, pulling the switch. The brute howled, stumbled back but didn’t collapse. Car keys lay somewhere on the ground. Abby shoved past and freedom lasted only a heartbeat. He dragged her back and wrenched the Taser away, before shoving it into her side. Agonizing pain had her collapsing onto the asphalt.

“Bitch! If you’re going to use a Taser, get a stronger one next time.”