Charade. Kate Donovan
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the good news.”
“Oh! That’s such a relief. But…”
“The other girl is unharmed. Unfortunately we were unable to rescue her. Mostly because she didn’t cooperate with us.”
“Why not?”
Allison grimaced. “She wants to investigate from the inside. To learn who masterminded the kidnappings, and for what purpose.”
“Cool kid.”
“I suppose. But she’s driving us crazy in the process.”
“I can imagine.” Sasha took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “I really appreciate getting all this information, especially firsthand like this. But I’ve got to ask. Why are you telling me of all people?”
Allison gave her a confident smile. “Because you—of all people—are the perfect person to help us recover the missing student. Assuming of course, that you’re willing.”
Chapter 3
Tossing his car keys onto his cluttered desk, Jeff Crossman strode to the only window in his sparsely furnished studio apartment, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared through the miniblinds at the neon lights that illuminated the freezing Chicago night.
“Un-effing-believable,” he murmured to himself. “You kissed Big Frankie’s daughter? You must be out of your effing mind.”
He could just imagine what Winston Lowe and Chuck McBride—the younger, less-experienced agents on his Organized Crime team—would say if they heard about this. Those guys had been openly and obnoxiously wild about Sasha Bracciali from the start, to the point where the Special Agent in Charge—namely Jeff—had had to pull rank on them more than once, warning them to cut it out when the compliments started flying too thick and fast.
“You’re an effing hypocrite, Crossman,” he assured himself now, although that characterization wasn’t completely true. He had never denied that she was pretty—okay, smoking hot—but he had been determined his team would treat her with respect. She was, after all, a nice, decent girl trying her best to do what was right.
But he had also seen her as a liability, and now as he stared out into the night, with the haze of their kiss beginning to fade, he focused on other, less sexy parts of their incendiary encounter. In particular, he reminded himself of her accusation: that he had been conducting a vendetta against her.
Those words had shocked him, but didn’t they hold a grain of truth? He had been uncomfortable with the idea of handling her, right from the start. Not because of her social and financial advantages, real or imagined, but because of her motivation. Because to Jeff, motive was everything when it came to evaluating an asset.
He could respect straight, uncomplicated revenge as a motivator. It actually made things simple. And he also appreciated the most common incentive of the garden-variety snitch—cold, hard cash.
In contrast, he didn’t trust an asset whom the Bureau was manipulating into cooperation by threat of imprisonment. Nor was he comfortable with someone whose sole motive contained any other element of fear. It made them too emotional, which in turn led to surprises and complications.
Jeff Crossman didn’t like complications.
Because of your normalness, he reminded himself, but his goofy smile faded quickly. He needed to stop fantasizing about how sexy and vulnerable she had been at her apartment, and start remembering the reason he had gone there in the first place.
To apologize, yes, but also to have a talk—the talk they should have had that first day, when she had walked into Jeff’s downtown office, a tentative smile on her face, her hand outstretched to meet him. She had looked so pretty. So hopeful. So very, very dangerous.
Because as a professional, he had forced himself that day to look past the pretty face, the waist-long wavy hair and dynamite body—to see into her heart, her soul, her brain. And he had seen a needy daughter whose father had devastated her with betrayal and hurt so intense, she now needed to lash out at him—or more precisely, at the world that had created him. The world that had allowed Frankie Bracciali to order a hit on his own beloved wife, Sasha’s mother, because of alleged marital infidelity.
Not that Sasha had been willing to work directly against her father. She had been clear about that from the start, insisting that Frankie Bracciali and his organization were off-limits. She would, however, use her contacts and background to help bring down anyone else.
It had seemed too good to be true. And then she had looked Jeff right in the eye and told him confidently that it wouldn’t make sense to waste time on her father’s dealings in any event, because “these days, ninety-nine percent of Dad’s business is legitimate.”
Those words, more than anything, had confirmed Jeff’s belief that Sasha was a deluded, emotional girl who still loved her father as fiercely as ever. If it came to a choice between Frankie Bracciali and an investigation—and that day was bound to come—pretty little Sasha would choose her father over law and order without a moment’s hesitation.
Jeff didn’t blame her for that. Didn’t judge her for it as a daughter, or as a human being. But in her capacity as an asset, he had believed it made her worthless.
Over the ensuing months she had done a good job. A great job, in fact. But it wasn’t until the Martino wedding that she had conclusively proved Jeff wrong. She had been nothing short of brilliant at that reception, even before she got a shot of Vincent the Butcher’s renovated face with her crazy-ass bra-cam. Just the way she had handled herself—so cool, so professional—had impressed her reluctant handler beyond words.
Anyone else would have been distracted and subverted by waves of nostalgia and confusion, but not Sasha. Despite her clear affection for the bride and her warm history with the Martino family in general, she had been all business. Completely focused on the ultimate goal—finding a way to track down and apprehend Vincent “the Butcher” Martino.
And man, had she delivered.
To Jeff’s discredit, he hadn’t been willing to accept the truth right away. Instead he had struggled with it, weighing her every word, every movement, intent on finding proof that her emotional ties to Antonio Martino—the man she affectionately called “zio Antonio”—provided justification for not fully trusting her. It was only when she had walked out of the debriefing, her head held high, her long legs and pretty ass mocking him with every stride, that he had realized it was time to admit the truth.
He had been wrong. From the start. About everything.
She was an incredible find, an invaluable asset and one-effing-hell of a female.
And for reasons that had made perfect sense at the time, he had felt the need to tell her that. In person. Right away, even though the hour was late and she was probably in bed. He had convinced himself he had to go over there—to her personal residence—and apologize right away.
Now he knew better. Somewhere along the line, his body had taken over, conning his mind into thinking his purpose was to talk, when all the while, he had had a much more basic objective: to act on impulses that had been suppressed and denied for so many months, he hadn’t even remembered they were there until it was too late. Until he was drowning in her eyes. In her silk-clad curves. In her kiss.
Un-effing-believable, Crossman.
“I guess you’ve heard I’ve been working with the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit. But only as an asset, Allison, not an agent,” Sasha explained with an apologetic smile. “I’m flattered—and trust me, I’ll gladly do whatever you ask—but I’m a little confused. There are so many other alumni with more impressive qualifications and relevant experience. Really outstanding women in every sense of the word. So? Why me?”
Allison pursed her lips. “I should probably start at the beginning. But let me just say first, I disagree with your self-assessment. Your qualifications are as impressive as any Athena Academy student, past or present.”