Operation: Midnight Cowboy. Linda Castillo
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name. She couldn’t remember where she’d seen his face. Odd, because his was a memorable face. Dark eyes. Hawkish nose. Square jaw that hadn’t been shaved for at least twenty-four hours. His body language and the directness of his stare told her he was law enforcement. The jeans and cowboy boots told her he held disdain for any kind of dress code. Who was he and what the hell was he doing here?
She looked at Cutter and frowned. “You wanted to see me?”
He frowned back, watching her the way a disapproving parent might watch an unruly teenager who was about to be grounded for life. “Have a seat.”
Never taking her eyes from her superior, she sat opposite the cowboy and set her leather pad on the table in front of her.
“How are you feeling?” Cutter asked.
“Good enough to return to work.” She gazed at him levelly. “I’m hoping you won’t disappoint me.”
The two men exchanged a look she didn’t understand. A look that gave her a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It looks a lot worse than it is,” she said, referring to the bruises on her face.
“I have the report from the doc right here.” Cutter looked down at the file. “Dislocated shoulder. The laceration on your left temple required seven stitches. You had fluid drained from your knee.” He scowled at her. “I guess it sounds worse than what it really is, too, huh?”
Rachael flushed. “I heal fast.”
“Yeah, and I wasn’t born yesterday.”
It was then that she knew the minor injuries she’d sustained in the car crash were the least of her worries. “I can do desk work until the bruises fade.”
“No need because effective immediately you are on administrative leave.”
An emotion that was alarmingly close to panic gripped her and squeezed. “Cutter, I feel fine.”
“This isn’t about how you feel.”
“With all due respect, sir, I feel I would be much more effective in the field. You know that.”
“What I know is that the most powerful crime lord in the world wants you dead. It’s my responsibility to make sure he doesn’t succeed.”
“But—”
“This is Bo Ruskin,” he interrupted, nodding at the cowboy.
Ruskin.
Her memory stirred. Ruskin was a former MIDNIGHT agent. He and Michael had worked together. They’d been friends. Ruskin had been there the night Michael was killed….
“We’ve met,” she said. At the funeral. No wonder she hadn’t remembered him. Those dark weeks following her late husband’s death had been a blur of grief and rage and insurmountable loss….
“Yes, ma’am,” Ruskin drawled in a deep baritone.
Cutter continued. “You will be accompanying Agent Ruskin to an undisclosed location this afternoon for safekeeping until Karas is apprehended.”
The words jerked her back to the matter at hand. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s an order,” Cutter returned.
“You can’t take me off Karas now.” She held her fingers a fraction of an inch apart. “I’m this close to nailing him.”
“And he came that close to killing you three days ago.” Cutter sighed, then looked at Bo Ruskin. “Can you excuse us a moment?”
“You bet.” The cowboy rose, tipped his hat at her, then started toward the door.
Rachael got the impression of wide shoulders, narrow hips encased in denim and cowboy boots. But her focus was on the man yanking the proverbial rug out from beneath her feet.
“Cutter, please don’t do this,” she said, hating the pleading tone of her voice. “I’m close to—”
“You have twenty minutes to gather your notes and files on Karas and turn everything over to me.”
She almost couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re assigning my case to another team?”
“Not that you’ve ever been much of a team player. But yes, I’m assigning a fresh team.”
“That’s incredibly unfair.”
“This is not about fair. It’s about keeping you alive. Keeping you healthy.” Cutter leaned forward. His eyes sought hers, held them. “You’re a good agent, Rachael. One of my best. I don’t want to lose you. But you need some downtime. I advise you to make the best of this.” He motioned toward her shoulder. “Get yourself healed. Get your perspective back. The last couple of years have been tough for you.”
“I’ve dealt with it,” she ground out, hating that her voice quivered.
“You can’t even say it.”
“I’ve dealt with Michael’s death, damn it. I have.”
“You’ve dealt with it by working yourself into the ground. By jumping first and thinking later. I should have put a stop to it long before now.”
“I shouldn’t be penalized for not being afraid to do my job.”
“I’m not penalizing you. But in case you haven’t figured it out by now, good old-fashioned fear is what keeps us alive. It’s what keeps us healthy in our line of work. And you don’t seem to have it anymore.”
“I don’t have a death wish, if that’s what you’re imply—”
He raised his hand and cut her off. “You are to treat your leave as you would any covert operation. No one knows where you are. Business as usual. You got that?”
“I don’t agree with what you’re doing.”
“Duly noted.” Cutter looked at his watch. “Let’s find Ruskin.”
BO’S LEGS WERE SHAKING by the time he reached the lobby. He wanted to chalk it up to a sleepless night and the long flight from Wyoming. But he knew the queasy stomach and muscles knotted like ropes between his shoulder blades had nothing to do with fatigue—and everything to do with a woman whose face he still saw in his dreams.
In the years he and Michael had worked together, he’d caught glimpses of her. From photos mostly, since Mike had always tried to keep his personal life as far removed from work as possible. She was a tawny-haired beauty with green eyes and the kind of smile that could bring a man to his knees. He’d listened to Michael speak of her, and Bo had been envious. On more than one occasion, Bo had razzed his fellow agent about how lucky he was to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.
It wasn’t too far from the truth.
Rachael Armitage was even more beautiful now than he remembered. Tougher. A little rough around the edges. But then that’s what happened to people in this line of work.
Bo ought to know.
The one and only time he’d met her was at the funeral. She’d been somehow softer back then. Not quite so thin. He remembered the way the black dress she’d worn had contrasted starkly against her pale complexion. She’d looked fragile and grief-stricken and…shattered.
But then Michael Armitage’s death had shattered a lot of people.
Standing at the bank of windows, looking out at the dreary day beyond, Bo thought he could still smell her. A warm, female scent that reminded him of mountain columbine and rain. Wild and fragile and recklessly beautiful. Just like her.
“Bo.”
Cutter’s voice drilled into his thoughts. Bo spun to find the agency head and Rachael standing a few feet away. “Did you file the flight plan?” Cutter asked.
Bo nodded.