Home > Labyrinth of Lies (Triple Threat #2)(8)

Labyrinth of Lies (Triple Threat #2)(8)
Author: Irene Hannon

“I’m aware of that.” He paused at the window as ice pellets began pinging against the glass.

Wonderful.

The commute tomorrow morning for the first day of school was going to be a bear.

“I’ll work some other contacts discreetly on my end, but you may get answers faster from the source.”

“Yeah.” Zeke rubbed his temple, where a headache was beginning to throb. “Thanks.”

“Good luck—and keep us in the loop.”

“That’s the plan.”

Zeke ended the call, slid the cell back into his pocket, and retrieved a soda from the fridge. Popping the tab, he wandered through the rooms filled with upscale furnishings.

Quite an improvement over most of the places he’d set up camp in during the past eight years.

He could get used to this sort of environment, though, now that the shadowy, dangerous existence he’d once embraced was beginning to wear on him—as veterans had warned him it would.

Like it or not, and despite his commitment to his job, burnout was setting in.

He stopped at the window again, shifting his weight off his bum leg.

It would be easy to blame his current mental state on the injury that had sidelined him, but that would be a lie. The truth was, he’d begun to consider changing course months ago. This assignment should have been the perfect chance to think through next steps in his career without the distraction of having to watch his back constantly.

In fact, his boss had billed the job as a cakewalk compared to his previous roles.

But that was before Cate had entered the picture.

Cate.

He sipped his soda and stared into the darkness.

How many times had he thought of her through the years? Pictured that glorious, dark auburn hair . . . those intense eyes that could burn with passion . . . the firm mouth that had yielded so appealingly beneath his?

How many times, as he lay awake in a grungy, sweltering fleabag motel, his pistol inches from his fingers, tensing at every squeak in the hall, had he calmed his jitters by calling up memories of her soft skin, the silkiness of her hair, the gentle touch of her fingers against his face?

Too many to count.

More than he wanted to admit.

Because after they’d parted on that long-ago day in the park beneath a blaze of autumn color, he’d vowed to put her out of his mind. To focus only on the priority which, at that stage of his life, had superseded everything else.

He took another swig of the sweet beverage—but the fizzy soft drink left a sour taste in his mouth.

Maybe, if he’d been able to explain to her about the demons that drove him, she’d have understood why he’d chosen to take an unexpected opportunity to switch career paths over their relationship.

Maybe.

But the hurt inside him had run too deep.

The guilt ran too deep.

And dredging up the courage to expose his shame to a woman like Cate, who was all about honor and integrity and principles, had eluded him.

So he’d broken her heart instead.

Another source of guilt.

Headlights arced across his window, and he jerked back, every muscle stiffening.

Overkill, Sloan.

Right.

The reflexive self-defense moves that were force of habit after all his years in law enforcement shouldn’t be necessary on this job.

He rotated his shoulders until the rigid line softened.

As long as he maintained his cover at Ivy Hill, no one should come gunning for him.

Which brought him back to Cate.

Tomorrow they were going to meet face-to-face.

He was forewarned and ready.

She wasn’t.

A plan to get her alone so they could hash out what was going on was already forming in his mind—but it all hinged on her reaction when she saw him.

If she was well trained . . . if her acting skills were strong . . . if she was able to think fast and mask her surprise . . . they could pull this off.

If she wasn’t?

They could both be hosed.

 

 

4


WHAT IN THE WORLD . . . ?!

From her slouched position in a seat near the back of the classroom, Cate stifled a gasp as the tall, dark-haired man who’d once been the center of her universe entered and strode to the desk in front.

Zeke Sloan was the Spanish teacher at Ivy Hill Academy?

No.

Impossible.

Teresa Medina taught Spanish here—and Zeke’s name was nowhere in the dossier of school personnel the department had prepared for her.

Heart banging against her rib cage, Cate sank lower in her seat.

What was going on?

In light of the murmur that rippled through the students as Zeke faced them, she wasn’t the only one surprised by his presence.

“Good morning, ladies.” He gave the room a commanding sweep and displayed one of those half-hitch smiles that used to turn her to mush. “As you can see, I’m not Ms. Medina. Complications from the injuries she suffered in her car accident have delayed her return. I’m Zeke Martinez, her temporary replacement.”

As he finished the explanation and introduced himself with an unfamiliar surname, his gaze lingered on hers.

There was no flicker of recognition or acknowledgment in his eyes.

But he knew who she was, despite the blood-red streak she’d added to her hair and the dark eye makeup that wasn’t part of her usual beauty routine.

You didn’t give a man your heart without learning to read his every nuance.

Yet he wasn’t surprised by her presence.

Why not?

Who had tipped him off she was here?

Why was he using a fake name?

What had caused the barely detectable limp in his authoritative gait?

Was he at Ivy Hill on an undercover assignment for the DEA job that had sabotaged their relationship?

If so, how much did he know about her case?

As questions raced through her mind, she dipped her chin and fiddled with the cap on her pen.

She had to calm down. Play this cool. Zeke obviously didn’t intend to expose her. She owed him the same courtesy.

At least until she had a handle on what was going on.

Somehow she managed to function during the class, introducing herself when it was her turn, calling up the rudimentary Spanish Zeke himself had taught her, which had proven useful on a number of investigations.

But getting through the test he passed out—designed to assess the competence level of the class, he said—was a challenge. Speaking Spanish was one thing. Writing it, another.

As the students worked on the quiz in silence, Zeke circled the room, pausing here and there to look over a girl’s shoulder. Sometimes he asked a question or offered a suggestion in the husky-timbre voice that used to set her nerve endings aflutter.

Used to being the operative term.

She tightened her grip on her pen, focused on the sheet in front of her, and willed her pulse to behave as he started up her aisle from the rear.

Zeke Sloan was history.

This intersection of their lives was nothing more than a piece of bad luck—for both of them.

He may have been alerted to her presence in advance of this class, but he couldn’t be any happier than she was about the freaky combination of circumstances that had put them in the same orbit.

She kept writing on the paper in front of her, but she knew the instant he stopped behind her. The sense of his nearness was so acute she had to forcibly regulate her respiration to keep from hyperventilating.

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