Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 4

FOUR

How had he gone from a superstar to the tagalong?

One minute, Conrad had been congratulating himself for not melting down in front of a group of hero-worshipping teenagers . . . the next, She Who Would Not Text Him had replaced him.

At least, that’s what it felt like as he watched Penelope and Lucas walk out of the building, chatting like a couple.

What. ever.

Wow, had he pegged that wrong. And worse, he’d made a royal fool out of himself, acting like he might be her hero.

He wanted to floor it back to Minneapolis instead of following Simon and the other team members to Lakeside Pizza Company, on the shores of Duck Lake.

“Just go,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, a.k.a. his sister Austen, the One Who Knew. Because she’d been there that night when his panic attacks had started.

Seagulls cried in the air on her end, so she probably sat at dock in her trawler-slash-live-aboard boat.

He slowed, driving through Duck Lake to the west end, where Lakeside Pizza Company sat on the edge of the namesake lake. Light puddled on the streets, cleared of snow and rubble that had been dumped into the municipal parking lot for now. A few shops remained open—Duck Lake Market, Sip and Paint, and the Lumberjack’s Table, a couple neon signs glowing in the bar-side extension.

He should really swing by and see his parents out at the King’s Inn, but then there would be questions and maybe some dodging of the truth, and he hated secrets. Hated lying.

Hated his stupid mistakes.

“The more you show up, the easier it will get,” Austen said through the speaker in his car.

And of course, she was referring to practice and the fact that he’d made it through without the world closing in on him. Without even having to find a small quiet place and breathe.

As if his nightmares hadn’t begun on this very ice so many years ago. Fifteen, to be exact.

“It’s just through next weekend; then I’m out.”

“But you had fun, right?”

Fun. Maybe. “I don’t know. Simon’s doing a good job. I showed up and helped him with some drills, taught them some shooting techniques.”

“You represent everything they can be. Everything they dream about. It doesn’t hurt to give them a piece of yourself. You have a lot to give.”

Funny, it felt like the kids had given to him , at least for that brief hour of practice. He’d found pieces of himself he’d forgotten as he’d taken shots on goal against Simon.

“Well, at the very least, I didn’t throw up on them.”

She laughed. “That’s always a win. Maybe it was all those visualization exercises you did over the past four days.”

He heard rain pinging on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“On the Fancy Free . There’s a little squall moving in.”

“Please tell me you’re at a dock.”

“Yes. Calm down. But tomorrow’s my day off. I’m heading out to a dive—serious treasure debris about sixty feet down. We’ll see.”

A clunk—maybe she was filling tanks.

He turned onto the drive toward Lakeside Pizza ahead.

“So, was he there?”

A beat.

“Jeremy.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. No, he didn’t show up for practice.”

“Maybe that was God on your side. Baby steps.”

He didn’t attribute any of that to God’s involvement. But he didn’t want to argue with her theology. Leave well enough alone and maybe everything would be fine.

“By the way, their Hawaiian pizza is amazing. Stein and I went out before I headed back to the Keys. How is he? It’s been a minute since I’ve heard from him.”

“I saw him last weekend, at the EmPowerPlay charity event. He’s working with Declan Stone. Stone offered him a job after Stein returned his phone.” Their brother had weirdly found Declan Stone’s phone in his suit pocket after Boo’s wedding reception.

“He was still thinking about the offer when I left. Did he ever figure out how Stone’s phone ended up in his pocket?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the man mistook Stein’s jacket for his own.”

“Well, I’m glad he took it. He needed something besides teaching kids how to snorkel.” Another thump. “Listen. Eat some pizza, relax. This could be fun—just don’t overthink it.”

“Have you met me?” He pulled into a space.

“Right. What Conrad wants, Conrad gets.”

“Ha. I’d like to live in your fantasy.”

“Love you, bro. Stay groovy.” She hung up.

Geez, his sister, the surfer girl, marine biologist, deep-sea treasure hunter.

Maybe he was overthinking the entire thing. The past. His career. Penelope.

“What Conrad wants, Conrad gets.”

Hardly, but . . . what did he want?

His gaze landed on Penelope the moment he entered the former Pizza Hut with red vinyl booths and black tables. The place smelled of garlic and Italian sausage and tomato sauce, and he lifted a hand to a couple locals as he came in, including Deputy Jenna Hayes, who sat at a booth with a man he didn’t recognize.

A glance around the room said that Lucas hadn’t joined them. But Penelope had, and now she sat at a booth across from a table of raucous boys, reading her phone.

She looked up as he walked over. “Hey.”

“This seat taken by anyone under the age of thirty-two?”

She arched a brow, but offered a slim smile. “Don’t break a hip sliding in.”

He sat down, waved to Simon, sitting with a couple kids, and turned to her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking up hockey suppliers.” She met his eyes. “These guys need gear. New helmets, new skates, new pads, new everything. I had a talk with Simon—they got a bus to transport kids last year, and that ate up their entire budget.”

Oh. “I didn’t know.”

A waitress came over and he ordered a Coke.

“Pepperoni?” he asked.

“Whatever you want. But I heard the Hawaiian is good.”

From who? “Sure,” he said, and the waitress left.

He glanced at the other table, where a serious arm-wrestling match was going down.

She turned to him. “Okay, I can admit I didn’t expect to see you at practice. I mean—I guess I figured we’d connect, you know, but you seemed a little . . . weird, I guess, after seeing Simon at the gala.”

Oh, right. “Yeah. Um, actually, Coach Jace asked me to help. I’m sitting out a couple road games?—”

“ Sitting out a couple road games? Holy cats, Conrad. Why? ”

He didn’t want to smile, but her concern felt . . . genuine. So maybe they were friends. He could do friends. “I was a little . . . grumpy, let’s call it, during the last game.”

“Oh, you mean the brawl with the Colorado left winger? The penalty call?”

And now, really ? “You saw the game?”

“It was on while I was making dinner.”

“Late dinner.”

“Sometimes. Research. I get sort of wrapped up in it, and it drags me down, holds me captive. I can even forget to eat.”

“Yeah. Me too. Only, my addiction is sailing shows on YouTube.”

She gave him a look.

“Right? Crazy. But once upon a time, my grandfather had a little daysailer on the lake, and he taught me how to sail. Someday.” He lifted a shoulder.

“I didn’t see you as a sailor.”

“It’s very quiet. Sometimes . . . I like quiet.”

Why had he said that? But maybe friends were honest with each other, right?

He found himself tracing her smile, then trying to figure out the exact color of her eyes.

She nodded. “I like quiet too,” she said. “But what I’d really like is peace.”

“Don’t you have peace?”

“I have questions,” she said.

He blinked at her, the candor undoing him a little. But before he could chase down her comment, the pizza arrived.

And that’s when trouble showed up in the form of Tyler Bouchard, the center he’d been helping with strategy today. “Dare you to a pizza contest, Coach.”

Conrad’s stupid mouth, and maybe a little ego, said yes.

Forty minutes later, he stared at a pile of crusts, his stomach hurting as he went toe to toe with Tardis-for-a-Stomach Tyler.

The kid had him by four slices, easy.

For her part, Penelope stood at the end of the table, watching, her arms folded.

“You tapping out, Coach C?”

Coach C. He could live with that.

He held up his hands, and behind him, people clapped. He hadn’t realized they’d gathered an audience.

Tyler’s father, Steve, came up and shook his hand. “Didn’t think you could get beat by a kid, right, King Con?”

The guy was a little paunchy, wore beer on his breath. Conrad smiled, kept it easy. “He’s a champ, for sure.”

Steve grinned, threw an arm around his wife, plump, wearing an Ice Hawks jersey. Conrad had noticed a few other parents in the bleachers. Some had followed him to the pizza joint.

The team took a few photos with him, and even Penelope hopped in, moving in right next to him, her arm around his waist.

Huh. He settled his arm over her shoulders. Like they belonged together.

Then he and Simon huddled up to go over details for the next practice.

When he walked back to Penelope, she was reading her phone. Something in her expression seemed unnerved. “You okay?”

She looked up, flashed him her phone screen. “Beckett texted me. Said he has information for me. Maybe he got Kyle’s computer.”

Beckett—it took a second but, “The guy from the men’s restroom.”

“Please say that a little louder.” She glanced around her.

He shook his head. “So—he wants to meet up?”

“Yeah. Gave me his address.” She dropped her phone into her bag and grabbed her jacket. “Good to see you, Conrad.”

And— wait . “Where are you going?”

“To Beckett’s house?” She wore a little confusion.

“Over my dead body.”

Silence.

Maybe he’d said that too loud.

“What did you say?”

“I said . . .” He schooled his voice. “This guy gives me, to quote my father, the willies . You’re not going alone.”

“I can handle myself.” She pulled on her jacket.

“I don’t care if you’re a Navy SEAL, you’re not going alone.” He also nabbed his jacket. “And you’re not a Navy SEAL, in case you’re wondering.”

Her mouth opened, just slightly. Then, “I am aware that I am not a Navy SEAL.”

“Good. I’ll follow you.” He lifted a hand to Simon and went to the door. Held it open for her.

“You don’t have to?—”

“Where does he live?”

She glanced at her phone. “In the Golf Terrace Heights area in Edina.”

“Perfect. I know exactly where that is. Let’s go.”

She raised an eyebrow, but headed out to her Nissan Rogue.

He got in the Charger and glued to her tail as she motored out of the lot, his chest tighter than it should be. What was it about this woman that he couldn’t help but be worried about her?

He turned on the radio, found some jazz, and settled in for the ride, the night crisp, the stars bright in the dark sky, her taillights in view. They finally reached the city, but as they got on 100, heading to Golf Terrace Heights, the stars vanished, the lights of the city blurring the panorama.

And up ahead, a glow pressed against the darkness.

She got off 100, onto Vernon Ave., and as he looked across the snow-blanketed golf course, he spotted the source of the light.

House fire. One of the stately homes that edged the golf course.

They headed down Wooddale, and the knot in his gut tightened. He’d been in one house fire—or rather, garage fire—as a child. Terrifying.

Red lights flashed against frozen pavement and snowy banks as they turned onto Golf Terrace Road. Smoke billowed from the back of the house, flames crashing through the main-story windows of a once-gorgeous Tudor with tall angled rooftops and a brick facade. Three fire trucks sprayed the home, turning the air soggy. Snow melted around the house.

Penelope stopped a short distance from where police cars cordoned off the area.

A few onlookers dressed in jackets and hats stood watching the peril.

Conrad pulled up too. Shut off his car. Got out. Penelope had gotten out and ventured closer, wrapping her arms around herself as she watched the firefighters.

“What happened?” Conrad addressed his question to a bystander, a middle-aged man in a parka and slippers, hands shoved into his pockets.

“I don’t know—the house just exploded about twenty minutes ago. Must have been the heater. It’s an old house.”

Right.

He walked up to Penelope, stood behind her. “That’s Beckett’s house, right?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

And then, just to confuse him even more, she turned, put her arms around his waist, and hung on.

* * *

Let go.

Let the poor man go.

The thought pulsed inside Penelope, in her head, even her chest, but it just couldn’t make it out to her arms.

Which were viced around Conrad like he might again be an anchor.

A buoy in the sudden tsunami of despair.

Okay, that felt overly dramatic, but not a bad line—she might use that in an upcoming podcast. Still?—

His big hands held her arms and finally went around her, probably as he was thinking through the fact that this was not in his contract.

Whatever.

But as if to confirm her thought, he loosened his hold, then took her arms and moved her away from him.

Right. His gaze was on the house, so she turned and spotted firefighters emerging from the blazing structure.

Between them, they carried a bagged body, heavy, and to her guess, one Anton Beckett.

“Oh no. Beckett was home,” said the man near her, wearing a parka and slippers. He’d come up next to them near the police barricade. “Poor man—I saw lights on just before the house blew up.”

The cold night slid into her soul.

And then, probably because he was still a nice guy, Conrad put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed. Heat poured through her at the gesture, but she didn’t move.

The firefighters put the body into an ambulance, which pulled away into the night.

Her last lead had just been cindered. Another man killed. To her knowledge, Beckett didn’t have a wife or kids, but he did have a life.

Or had.

Her throat thickened.

“Let’s go,” Conrad said softly. “I think maybe you need a cookie.”

She glanced up at him, turned, frowned. “A cookie ?”

“Trust me.” He gestured with his head to their cars, and she followed him, stood at her open car door.

“Where are we going?”

“Follow and learn.” He got into his sleek Charger and backed into a driveway, pulled out. Like a woman hypnotized, she obeyed.

And yet, her heart banged in her chest, her breaths hard, her thoughts tangled as she pinned her gaze to his taillights, red and glowing like a beacon in the night.

She followed him through the maze of streets leading to St. Louis Park, and weirdly, just south of her own neighborhood, then over to Lake of the Isles and, tucked back a couple blocks off Hennepin, into the lot of a vintage-train depot. Yellow awnings over the windows, decorated with twinkle lights that lit up the space. He was waiting by the door, holding it open as she walked up. “What is this?”

“Ironclad Desserts.” He wore a grin, and she frowned but headed inside.

The aroma of chocolate baked goods filled the eclectic space. Small wooden tables with votive centerpieces, a long, high wall shelf crammed with used books, and hanging industrial lights gave the place an easy vibe. Leather chairs circled around wooden coffee tables, creating conversation nooks by the windows.

He stopped at the order station. “Hey, Marcie. I’m going to need a chocolate toffee-chip, stat.”

The woman—pretty, in her twenties—grinned, a few stars in her eyes as she took his card, swiped it, and handed it back. “Right away, Mr. Kingston. And your regular coffee order?”

Huh.

“Times two, but make them unleaded,” he said. Then Conrad gestured to a leather chair grouping.

She sat, leaned back, closing her eyes. “It’s late. I should go home.”

“Me too. I have practice in the morning.”

“You’re going to practice even though you’re suspended for two games?”

Marcie came over with a couple decaf coffees. “You forgot these.” She winked at him.

“Thanks, Marce.” He picked up the coffee. “I come here after games sometimes. Habit. My mom used to make me chocolate chip cookies after every game . . . Sort of a lucky charm.” He took a sip of coffee. “Best late-night brew in Minneapolis. And I’m not suspended. Just . . .” He made a face. “Let’s call it a mental time-out.”

She took a sip of the coffee. “This is good.”

“They call it the late-night latte. Decaf, milk, a hint of vanilla.” He set the cup down. “Now what?”

“Now what?”

“If that body was Beckett, then clearly whatever he wanted to tell you is dead with him, so . . . what’s next?”

Oh. She had the weirdest sense that this might be a continuation of that hug he’d given her. Only without any contact. Because hello, no cameras. But she’d met him—this was Men’s-Bathroom Guy, and maybe Carry-Her-Up-the-Stairs Guy. Not I-Am-into-You Guy, so calm down.

Marcie walked over again, this time carrying a sizzling skillet that she set down, along with two plates and forks, on the table between them. A giant chocolate chip cookie with whipped cream melting over the top. She cut the cookie into pie angles, then lifted one onto a plate, gave it to Penelope. The other onto a plate for Conrad. “Enjoy.”

Penelope picked up her fork. “How do you stay in such good shape with this kind of late-night sugar?”

“Sometimes I don’t eat the entire thing.” He took a bite. “At once.” His eyes closed, and he made a deep, rumbly sound in his chest.

Dangerous man, with the cookie, and the hug, and now a lion grumble.

Good thing this was all just pretend. And maybe, right now, therapy.

She took a bite. “How do you not eat the entire thing? Holy cats.”

“Right?”

She set her fork down. Picked up her coffee. “I needed that information.”

He also set down his fork, picked up his coffee. “Why?”

“Because I think Sarah Livingston knew that my sister’s fiancé, Edward, was murdered.”

He didn’t flinch, just looked at her, steady on. “I’m listening.”

She set her coffee down. “Okay, so, Sarah was a real estate agent, and she did a lot of work with Walsh and Swindle’s management group. They owned a high-end condo along the river, downtown, and Edward lived in one of them. One night, it burned to the ground, with him in it.”

He cocked his head. “Like Beckett.”

“Just like Beckett. An explosion out of nowhere. But I got the official report. They said it was a gas leak ignited by a cigarette—or even a lit joint. Which is a complete lie because Edward didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs. The man was a fitness junkie. He barely even used his stove. Smoothies galore.”

Conrad was nodding.

“They ruled it an accident, and S & W got the insurance money, and the case was closed.”

“What did Sarah have to do with it?”

“Edward had given his notice, had a house pending for him and Tia once they walked down the aisle. Sarah was handling the transaction. She’d also gotten him into the condo, so they were longtime friends.” She drew in a breath, met his eyes. A beat, then, why not ? —

“What no one knows, even my audience, is that I met with Sarah before she was murdered. About a month before, in fact. I told her what I thought, and she said she’d do some digging, see if S & W had any information about the fire or how it might have happened. And at the time she was dating Holden Walsh, so . . .”

Her eyes started to burn, and she looked away.

“That’s why you picked up Sarah’s case. You went from a closed-case podcast to a cold case.”

She looked at Conrad. “You listen to my podcast?”

“While I cook.”

She smiled, his reference to her watching his game hitting home. “On Friday nights?”

“I live a boring life.”

“Sure you do. I’ve seen your Instagram.”

His mouth tightened and he looked down at his coffee. Oh, shoot —and now it all felt very awkward. She’d sort of forgotten, at least for a second, just what had brought them back together.

At least, on his end.

For her part . . . shoot. She looked down at her share. “I can’t eat all this.”

“It didn’t go down like it played out on social media,” he said then, softly. She looked up, frowned.

“I don’t need to know?—”

“I need to tell you.” He drew in a breath. “Torch had been seeing this girl—Jasmine. Mostly hookups. She was what we call an ice bunny?—”

“Girls who hang around the players.”

“Yes. He brought her to an after-game event at Sammy’s, a restaurant in St. Paul, and she got a little drunk—as did he. He got a cab home and left her there, so I offered to drive her. I was in the Charger, and muscle cars don’t do well on the ice. It was slick out, and I hit a patch of ice . . . Anyway, I got pulled over. It was weird—like the cop was following me. Maybe. Anyway, they pulled me out of the car, and she got out of the car too, and the cops made me do a sobriety test, and she was there, making a scene—it all got caught on video, got posted, and went viral. Torch was really hot when he saw it—but when she started showing up at games and then at my house, he realized she’d moved on. I had to take a restraining order out on her . . . But people accused me of . . . well?—”

“I can imagine.” She hated the way his eyes had darkened, the story quieting his voice, as if he carried shame. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have called her a cab.” He shook his head. “It was an impulsive decision. I’m working on that.” He offered a wry smile.

Wait—had this been an impulsive decision? “I’m not going to stalk you, Conrad.”

His eyes widened. “I didn’t?—”

She held up her hand. “And just to be clear, I’m not going to fall for you. So don’t worry.”

He frowned.

“You probably shouldn’t fall for me either.” She looked at him, winked, desperate to deflate the sudden tension between them.

“Right,” he said. “Gotcha.” He set his coffee down and motioned to Marcie. “So, why not leave Sarah’s case to the police?”

Oh. The abrupt change of subject made her blink, scramble to catch up. Right. Sarah’s cold case. “Because it feels like they’re not looking very deep. They don’t see the connection, I guess.”

Marcie came over with a couple Styrofoam take-out boxes.

“I do.” He lifted his cookie slice into his box.

She did the same. “S & W, right? They had everything to gain from the fire. But why kill Edward? That’s the connection I’m missing.”

He leaned back, frowning. “Seriously? You don’t see it? Edward and Sarah and Kyle and now Beckett, not to mention the attempts made on Ty and Tommy back in Duck Lake a month ago?”

She closed her box, licked off some whipped cream that had gotten on her finger. “Sure—the Sarah Livingston case.”

He leaned forward. “No, Penny. Not the Sarah Livingston case.” He paused, his blue eyes on hers, something fierce and solemn and unmoving in them, the sense of it rooting her to the spot, seeping over her. “You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”

A chill washed through her.

“Everyone you knew—even Edward—dead. Someone is watching you . . . and taking out people around you and your investigation.” He picked up his box. “Now, never mind me while I follow you home and make sure you get inside okay. Do you have an alarm system?”

She nodded, her words trapped.

“Good. And then tomorrow I want you to call your rich father and tell him you need personal security, or you can expect me to show up on your doorstep, hockey stick in hand.”

He didn’t seem to be kidding as he got up and held out his hand to her.

Oh. my.

“Listen. You don’t have to do that. I have security—it’s just that I don’t . . . well, I don’t like them following me around, so I sort of fired them.”

“Well, unfire them.” He held the door open for her.

“Night, King Con,” said Marcie as they left. He smiled and waved and followed Penelope out into the night.

And followed her all the way home.

The last Penelope saw of him was his headlights as he backed out of her driveway.

No, the last she saw was her memory of him, the smile on his handsome face, his gaze on hers.

Offering her a cookie.

* * *

He was back in his skin.

Steinbeck stood away from his boss, of course, letting Declan have his space, move around the rooftop terrace of the Majestic Hotel in Barcelona, glad-handing colleagues here for the conference. And sure, jet lag sent a buzz through him, turned him hot and punchy. But it only stirred up memories of a day when he’d been someone, done things that had sent a fire through him.

He didn’t miss the beach for one lousy millisecond.

And this view topped any beachside cabana. The rooftop bar stood eight stories up, offered a panoramic view of the city. The air was still a little crisp, hovering in the mid-sixties today, so the hotel had fired up the outdoor heaters and served the food inside the adjoining restaurant. The picture windows looked out on a view of the soaring multitowered cathedral, Sagrada Família, and the wide Passeig de Gràcia boulevard, with Gaudí’s famous casas and works by other modern architects.

Stein knew Antoni Gaudí might be deemed a little unconventional, but a strange part of Stein liked the unconventional nature-themed architecture that defied reason and felt a little like a theme-park attraction. Declan had planned an outing to the cathedral during the conference this week, so Stein hoped to get a closer look.

He could get used to traveling with Stone. Working for Stone. The guy had a level head, wasn’t an eccentric billionaire, and had even asked Stein to spar with him on a couple occasions.

Maybe to see if the former SEAL really could hold his own. Stein had tried not to hurt his boss when he’d taken him down. Again. And again.

Then again, he’d had to tell Declan the truth about his scars and why he’d left the teams, and while he’d left the story sketchy, he’d told him enough about the Krakow disaster for Declan to realize the decision to leave the Navy had been agonizing.

And out of patriotism.

He just couldn’t slow his team down, not with his knees.

But he could slow down someone trying to take out his boss, or even rob him, which Declan thought had happened when Stein had returned his phone after finding it in his coat pocket the night of Boo’s wedding.

Weird.

Now, he watched as Declan, dressed in a velvet navy sports coat and tweed pants, his dark hair freshly cut, stood with a couple men from Germany.

Speaking German, of course.

Stein caught a few words, but he wasn’t really listening.

He was watching. Watching the delegation of men from Hungary, scientist types, talking with a researcher from Prague, a woman with dark hair. There were only three women at the conference, which felt strange since AI technology didn’t discriminate. But add that to the defense applications—hence the AI-Genesis Conference, a summit of technology-progressive thinkers.

And Declan Stone owned one of the largest AI research programs in the world—Spectra. Stein had done some not-so-light reading on the plane on his way over about Axiom, the AI program that had a number of—in his opinion—frightening defense applications. But only in the wrong hands.

It gave Stein the reason why Declan might be unnerved about someone stealing his phone, and more specifically, his passwords and any other gateways to his program.

Like personal coercion.

His gaze fell on a blonde grabbing a drink at the bar. Vermouth with an orange slice.

“Your tan is fading.”

He glanced over at the voice and grinned. “What are you doing here, cuz?”

Colt Kingston held out his hand. Colt stood the same height as Stein, his dark hair clipped short, in a blue suit that stretched over his shoulders, a white oxford, dress shoes. “Same thing you are. Shadow work.”

“Really.” He released Colt’s hand. “I thought you were on a boat in Florida.”

“And I thought you were teaching bikinis how to scuba dive.”

Stein laughed and Colt grinned. “So, who are you with?”

Stein lifted a chin. “Declan Stone.”

“The tech guy. Yeah, we know him. His AI program is leading edge. The DOD has used it with some of their cyber soldiers?—”

“I really don’t want to hear the end of that sentence.”

“Can you say Terminator ?”

“‘Come with me if you want to live’?”

Colt nodded. “It could be prophetic.”

“And I’m working for the creator of the Terminator—Skynet.” He glanced at Declan. “He doesn’t seem like a power-hungry dictator. I ate a plate of patatas bravas last night with him in the Gothic Quarter.”

“No. He’s been vetted. Actually served in the Marines, so a patriot. But Logan Thorne has us just . . . watching.”

“You’re here with Logan Thorne?”

“You know him?”

“Of him,” Stein said. “He’s from Chester, a small town near ours. Went missing after he joined the SEALs. I didn’t realize he’d been found.”

“Oh, that’s a story, but yeah. He works directly with President White, for a group called the Caleb Group.”

“Like Caleb from the Bible?”

Colt nodded. “Not bad.”

“I’m a Kingston. You and I have the same blood for fathers. Bible at the dinner table.”

Colt nodded toward a tall man, brown hair, dressed in a suit, now talking with Declan. “That’s Logan.”

Another man stood with him, lighter brown hair, but definitely a military bearing. “Who’s that?”

“Another guy on the team.”

Maybe he’d said his name, but Stein’s gaze had returned to the blonde he’d seen earlier. She stood near a window, staring out, but even he could see her gaze fall on Declan.

She was studying him.

Maybe it was just female appreciation—he supposed his boss looked a little like a movie star with his dark hair, pale gray eyes. And he had money.

But this felt different. As if she might be sizing him up, considering him?—

Her gaze shifted to Stein. Just like that, she caught his eyes, held them.

He couldn’t move, his heart slamming into his ribcage. He knew her. Not a name, not even a face, but those eyes?—

No. That smile. Those lips, full, formed . . . with a smirk ?

For a second—a long, beautiful, intoxicating second—he was back at his sister’s wedding, dancing with a stranger, the kind of dance that had him forgetting his name, moving in sync with a woman who seemed to fit him, who knew how to follow and yet possessed her own power, enough to make him want to keep up, to match her.

She’d left without a name, without a look back, the aura of mystery in her wake.

His throat dried.

She’d had blonde hair too, blue eyes, and—no, it couldn’t be her. Couldn’t be the same, captivating smile. Couldn’t be?—

And then another image hit him. Something . . . further back. Same smile. Different aura. Fierce. Angry. Desperate. So no . . . it couldn’t be Phoenix.

Especially since she was dead.

The woman looked away, sighed, took a sip of her drink.

He looked at Colt. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Colt held a glass of water, sipped it, his eyebrows up, a side-eye at Stein. “But I think that blonde over there just shouted across the room.”

“You’re hilarious,” Stein said, but couldn’t help turning back for another glimpse.

She was gone.

He glanced around the room, frowned.

“Interesting,” Colt said, then lifted his glass and walked away to where his boss had left Declan.

It couldn’t be her.

Really.

Focus, Stein . The last thing he needed was for his boss to get hurt—or worse—during Steinbeck’s first gig back in the game.