Read the book: «The Security Specialists»

ONE

I’ve missed you. When you visit the one you love, you’ll see how much I love you, too.

Cosette LaCroix’s hands trembled and she dropped the card with the typed note inside on the café table. It had been three years and she’d finally stopped looking over her shoulder, waiting for Jeffrey Levitts—her former boyfriend and boss in Washington, DC—to appear. But he’d found her. And she knew exactly what this note meant. She darted a glance out the large café windows and searched the sidewalks. Was he out there lurking? She shivered, suddenly feeling watched.

“Hey!” Wilder Flynn’s husky, deep voice boomed.

Cosette startled and fumbled to shove the card inside the envelope and appear calm. Collected. Her present boss couldn’t know about Jeffrey—that she’d been in a relationship with a narcissistic monster. Her job was to spot these people. To help other women escape them. Not fall into the same trap. Not to mention Wilder didn’t know she’d taken the job at Covenant Crisis Management three years ago to escape Jeffrey. Who better to find safety with than a security specialist? She was supposed to be one herself!

Clearing her throat, she masked the sheer terror sending her heart into arrhythmia. “What?” she barked and balled her fist in her lap to conceal the tremors.

He cocked his head, studied her and frowned. “Amy said you took the last of the cascara syrup. I was set on a cascara latte. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Couldn’t find any matching socks?” Cosette smirked, but inside she was drowning. She peeked out the window again, watching downtown Atlanta in action and hoping Jeffrey wasn’t out there. “Tell Aurora to order more syrup.” Aurora Marsh had opened Sufficient Grounds 2.0 a year ago, after her first coffee café had burned down, when she’d lived in Hope, Tennessee. Cosette loved the atmosphere here. Wilder loved the free coffee and free use of the conference center to meet with clients and colleagues on occasion, which must be why he was here.

“Matching socks have nothing to do with it. I’m trying to figure out what to do with the apartment upstairs now that you’ve moved out—which I still think is ridiculous.” He pouted like a child, not a six-foot-three former Navy SEAL who ran a world renowned private security company. Wilder collapsed in the chair across from her, his ebony hair falling over his eyebrows. He didn’t keep a military cut like most soldiers. Probably because one of his best features was his thick, luxurious locks. It was shaggy, but not like a kid who needed a haircut. More like a hair model. She’d love to run her hands—

“Stop staring at my hair and focus.” Teasing played in his voice.

“I’m not staring.” But taking her mind off what was lying on the table helped bring calm to her jittery insides. Nothing helped the feeling that malicious eyes might right now be spying on her, though.

He gave her a pointed look. Okay, she was staring. Wilder was a sight to behold, but she’d given up on men for good after Jeffrey. Men in her life abused and manipulated, all the way back to her father, who was rotting in a New Orleans prison this very moment. Right where he belonged. The thought brought her back to the card, and her stomach knotted.

“What’s going on with you?” Wilder asked, his usual charm replaced with concern. Great. She thought she’d done a better job hiding it.

“Nothing,” she managed.

“Look at me.” Wilder waited and she inhaled, then slowly shifted her gaze to his emerald greens canopied by dark lashes. He peered into her eyes until she squirmed in her seat. It felt like a year passed with him just staring at her, searching for truth, assessing. “You’re lying to me,” he murmured.

She didn’t want to. “I’m not.” He was going to push until she squealed. That was his way, which wasn’t fair. Wilder was sealed tighter than his weapons’ cage at CCM. He would never take the hourly couch sessions she required from all team members. Never talked about his sister Meghan’s murder—and it had been several years since she’d been killed by a stalker. Cosette felt the blood drain from her face in a whoosh.

“Yes, you are, Cosette. You’re looking me right in the eye and lying your face off.” His inhalation was sharp and he pushed back in his chair. “But I guess we’re all entitled to secrets. I just don’t like ones that bleach your face and make you fidgety and paranoid.”

She didn’t like keeping secrets from Wilder, but she would have to admit she’d originally accepted the job to hide. From a stalker! Admit she’d failed professionally...and personally. “I, um...I got an invitation to my fifteenth high school reunion.” One truth she could reveal.

How did Jeffrey know her PO box number? She never used her physical address.

“Really? That’s what’s got your pants in a wrinkle?” The black-as-night scruff that covered Wilder’s chin, cheeks and neck hid a face that was too boyish to be thirty-three, but it didn’t hide the fact he wasn’t buying her weak excuse.

No, that wasn’t what had her in a mood; she wasn’t going. While Jeffrey had been the most humiliating “relationship” of her life, since she ought to have seen the signs—she was a behavioral expert!—it wasn’t her only disastrous or toxic romance. With an abusive father came all the baggage. And as a teenage girl, she’d wanted approval, acceptance and love. She’d been like a starving dog, happy to eat scraps. It had led to many rotten boys. She would no more step foot at that reunion, where people knew her indiscretions, her poor family history, than—

“Are you going?” Wilder was holding her postcard-style invitation in his hand, pointing to the Plus-One. “It’s this weekend.”

She always visited Mama’s grave on Mother’s Day. That was next Sunday. But Jeffrey had left something there for her and he’d be expecting her to come retrieve it—or he might be baiting her. If she used the reunion as a cover, she could go early and still pay Mama her respects, as well as change the flowers on her grave.

“If I can have the weekend, including Friday, off.” Working in the security industry meant her weekends were often tied up on the job.

“You want both weekends off?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No, I’ll just visit my mama’s grave this Sunday.”

Wilder’s lips corkscrewed and his eyes narrowed. “What’s the real deal with you, Cosette?” He folded his arms and pinned her with a glare. This man!

“Nothing. I just... I need this weekend.”

“And a Plus-One.” He held up the invitation again and pointed to it.

She groaned. “I don’t need a man.”

Men were nothing but trouble. Possessive. Demanding.

A lopsided grin spread. “Well, what about a chicory coffee? Because I need that cascara latte.”

She wasn’t immune to Wilder’s ways. His charm was like a weapon he wielded with ease and perfection, always hitting his intended target. But she was wise to it and right now, he wanted her to relax so she’d spill the truth. Also, he did want her latte. That much she would give in to.

She slid him the coffee. “I have lipstick marks on it.”

“Red.” He didn’t bother to wipe the stains away before he sipped the drink. “My favorite.” The way he said it—the action itself—did strange things to her belly. No. Way. Wilder was a gorgeous man, honest and caring, but there were too many reasons she refused to entertain romantic ideas about him. He had a few traits that kept her at bay, like his obsessive tendencies and his need to control, plus he was her boss, and if that wasn’t enough, he was emotionally unavailable. Besides, she wasn’t going to be another man’s possession ever again. “When do we leave Friday?” he asked.

“There is no ‘we’—only me.” The last thing she needed was Wilder forcing her to attend the reunion and discovering what a needy, clingy and starved-for-love girl Cosette had been—might still be. “And if you’re going to drink my latte, the least you can do is go order my chicory coffee.” She shooed him away with her hand. She needed air. A minute to think without him hovering.

His massive frame lifted from the chair and he swaggered to the counter, his trendy jeans fitting snugly and his white dress shirt stretching across his back.

Should she even go to New Orleans at all? She didn’t care that Jeffrey had left her something at the grave—no, she did. It angered her that he would infringe on her private place where she honored her mother. He’d desecrated it. And he wasn’t going to keep her from going to Mama like she did every year.

“Here’s your coffee with chicory, Miss LaCroix.” Amy grinned and set it on the table. “Mr. Flynn had a phone call. Said to deliver it to you in person because...” her cheeks turned pink “...you were too lazy to walk to the counter and get it yourself. I think he was teasing, though.”

Cosette rolled her eyes and darted one last peek out the window, trying not to shiver again. “Thanks, Amy. And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Cosette?” Amy had been dating their computer analyst for almost five months. By now, they should be on a first name basis. She motioned to Wilder’s empty chair. “Have a seat if you have a sec.” She could use a distraction from the card, from the feeling of eyes on her, from Wilder.

Amy sat across from her, a dreamy grin on her face.

“Thinking of Wheezer?” Cosette asked. She knew that lovesick look.

“We’re going ice-skating tonight at the indoor rink.”

Wheezer didn’t seem like the skating type. It was nice to see Amy bringing him out of his shell and the control room at CCM. He lived on computers and was a cyber genius. The things he could do with a computer were scary.

“That sounds fun. You ready to be done with school for the summer? Any big plans?”

Amy shook her head. “I’m spending it with my mom.”

“That’s great.” Cosette’s heart pinched. She’d give anything to go on a summer trip with her mom. To hug her or even hold her hand just one more time. “Enjoy the time you have. It’s precious.” And fleeting. If Mama had listened to Cosette and left Dad, she’d still be alive. But she was the textbook case of an abused wife. Cosette’s training and begging hadn’t been enough to save her—to convince her she could walk away.

Her phone rang. Her dad’s lawyer calling again. She ignored every single one. She didn’t care what he had to say. The phone beeped notifying her that she had a voice mail. She promptly deleted it without listening, as she had all of them in the past few months. She’d never forgive her father for what he’d done. Never betray her mother in that way.

The scripture that encouraged loving and forgiving your enemies needled her, but she ignored it.

Sorry, Lord, this one is too hard.

Wilder returned and Amy stood. “Back to work.”

He reclaimed his uninvited spot. “Okay, what time are we leaving Friday?”

Cosette snorted and sifted through a few ads, folding the ones she wanted and tucking them into her purse. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Other than the crew coming out to go Karate Kid on the house, I’m dead-free.”

“Painters or they’re kicking it down?”

Wilder didn’t bother to answer. He checked his phone. Sent a text. “Time?”

He wasn’t going to let it go. Why wasn’t he going to let it go?

Because she was a terrible liar. She knew all the tricks and she still stank at it. She was a fraud through and through, and Wilder was onto her. His intuition was practically perfect. Like some kind of otherworldly power. Probably what kept him alive on so many tours and SEAL missions. Too bad her intuition wasn’t that spot-on. She might never have been involved with Jeffrey—or numerous others before him.

The more she protested, the worse it would become. Wilder’s obsessive tendencies wouldn’t allow him to let up. But he wasn’t a sociopath or a narcissist. Actually, he was the only man she felt truly, completely safe with—physically. She didn’t trust her heart to anyone but herself these days. No getting out of this. Looked like she was stuck attending the reunion.

“Do we fly or drive?” she asked.

“Do we want to get there in less than two hours or less than seven?”

She didn’t want to get there at all. But if she was going to visit Mama’s grave, this was her sliver of opportunity. “Less than two. I’ll book a flight. Festivities start at seven.”

Wilder stood and lightly brushed her shoulder as he leaned down. “Wear your dancin’ shoes, darlin’,” he murmured, drawing out the endearment like he always did in a soft, Southern purr, then he left the café. She rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms.

This was a stupid and dangerous idea on so many levels.

* * *

Wilder didn’t believe a word that came out of the French Cajun’s mouth. A very kissable mouth coated in cherry red. Something in that stack of mail the other day had wigged her out and in the three years Wilder had known Cosette, very little scared her. He admired that—her strength and bravery. Her cool head and soothing voice, unless she had her dander up and then she’d go to town jabbering in French Cajun—not one word understandable, but he sure enjoyed watching it. Enjoyed watching her in general. Graceful. Poised. That long, brunette hair wavy and wild down her back. But that’s all he could do—admire and appreciate.

He didn’t date team members. But that wasn’t the main reason he couldn’t pursue his attraction to her. An attraction that had almost kept him from hiring her altogether. In that initial interview, there had been desperation in her eyes—like that of a wounded animal, horror-struck and terrified. Like she needed to come under his sheltering wings. So he’d said yes. Her credentials were top-shelf, but the pull toward her...that was visceral and scary. Wilder didn’t have the luxury of falling in love.

He had his people to protect and lead.

Clients who needed his attention.

And mostly, if he gave his heart away, he’d have to give it all, which meant transparency and honesty about his past. That was something he wasn’t willing to give. If Cosette knew the deep secrets he harbored, she’d lose all respect for him. All trust. That terrified him more than his attraction to her. So he kept her at arm’s length. But it wasn’t easy. And this weekend was a dumb idea, but something had her rattled and she’d barely spoken on the flight to New Orleans. Not taking two weekends off sent a red flag flying; she’d made sure she was at her mother’s grave every Mother’s Day since she’d taken the job. Had noted in her interview that it was important to her. She’d rather go to her reunion and swing by the gravesite a week early? Nope. He hadn’t bought it. Too bad he hadn’t gotten his hands on her mail. Federal offense, but Wilder wasn’t above crossing lines if it meant protecting the people he cared about.

She’d said to meet him in the hotel lobby at six. He grabbed his keys, wallet and phone and headed that way. She sat on a bar stool drinking a soda and looking absolutely stunning. Glad not to be wearing a tie, he felt choked already. He leaned against the bar and tapped her shoulder, startling her. Her head was somewhere else. Fear coursed through those coffee-bean-colored eyes. Her smile didn’t reach them.

But he’d let it go. For now.

“You ready, Miss LaCroix?” He extended his elbow and she accepted and slid off the stool, reaching him at chin-level in her sleek red heels. “You look incredible.”

She snorted and adjusted her snug but not too revealing dress. “Puh-leeze.”

Cosette wasn’t what he’d call model thin, but then he thought those women needed a roast beef sandwich. He liked her curves.

They drove to a nearby park. The pavilion had been decorated in strands of twinkling white lights and a live band played. Cosette opted out of name tags. Newspaper stretched across a long table and mounds of crawfish, corn on the cob, shrimp and baby potatoes spilled from one end to the other. Wilder’s mouth watered.

Cosette filled her plate, but she wasn’t herself. Nervous. Fidgety. Distracted. Head down, making zero eye contact with people.

Wilder didn’t like it. Didn’t like that worry and fear in her eyes. He scanned the scene. Booze flowed and smoke drifted on the warm Southern air. His instincts went on high alert. Something eerie wafted with the laughter and Cajun spices.

“You want to sit over at that picnic table?” he asked.

“Sure.”

A few women stopped her and chatted. Typical female jest. They grinned, but sized one another up. Who’d gained more weight? Who had the better job? The better man? As if it wasn’t obvious. He was a man and could see it. Women. Wilder shook his head, but smiled as Cosette introduced him.

They gawked at his hair.

He ought to cut it. But he had to admit—to himself and no one else alive—he loved his hair. No reason. Just did.

They moseyed to the table as the New Orleans jazz band played. People whirled on the gazebo dance floor. But Cosette was not into this night. “So how bad did you hate high school?” he asked.

She pinched the mudbug and sucked the juice out, then went to work on the tail like a pro. That was one thing Wilder could not do. “Bad,” she said and dived into another one. “But I worked my behind off so I could get scholarships for college. Get educated...get out.”

“Why are you here then?” Maybe he’d get to the truth. Probably not. Cosette was working pitifully hard to conceal something. She wasn’t bound to crack anytime soon, and ribbing her would only prolong it. And yet he couldn’t help himself. The deep desire to know, to protect, to fix whatever ailed her nagged him half to death.

“I miss the music.”

“Pandora station right there on your phone.”

“I like my music live.”

“Buy a live album.”

She scowled and ignored his remark. He peeled his shrimp and ate. Spicy enough to open his sinuses.

Several more former students made their way to the table and chatted with Cosette. Every time, she seemed afraid, and she never stopped scanning the woods, the crowds. Finally, after eating a piece of key lime pie, she excused herself to the restroom, and Wilder went straight for the cherry crisp. She hadn’t returned by the time he’d eaten that and drunk a cup of punch, so he strode toward the restrooms and caught a blonde coming out.

“Have you seen Cosette? Cosette LaCroix?” Something was wrong, burning his gut like acid, and it wasn’t the Cajun food.

“She’s not in there.” A sly grin slid across the woman’s face. “I think I saw her talking to Beau Chauvert earlier. She may have slipped off with him. Old Beau—in many ways. But she’d be crazy to go with him. Not with a man like you at her side.”

Wilder wanted to say “Go home, lady, you’re drunk.” But she’d probably think it was full of innuendo. “Thanks,” he said instead and darted behind the restrooms. Where could she be? He knew Cosette well enough to know she wouldn’t slip into the dark with any man willingly.

* * *

“Beau! Let go of me!” Cosette hollered as her high school boyfriend hauled her farther into the woods. She clawed at his beefy arms, sickened at his booze-laced breath.

“I just wanted to talk to you. To dance. I’ve missed you.”

Her blood froze. The first line in the note she’d received... Did she have it all wrong? Had Beau sent the card?

“But you don’t want to talk. Or dance with the likes of me. I’m not good enough for you now.” He shoved her against a tree. “I used to be very good for you.”

Cosette’s stomach roiled and the bark dug into the thin fabric of her dress.

“You are lookin’ so fine. Little thicker than I remember, but I’m not complaining.”

“Beau,” she said, trying to remain calm. To see him as a hostile patient. “You’re drunk. Why don’t you sleep it off, and we can talk tomorrow when you’re sober. I’m in town a couple more days.” But she wouldn’t be seeing him, that was for sure.

He released his grip and she stepped away from the tree, her heart racing. She slowly backed out of the woods.

Beau stepped forward and grabbed her forearm. She’d have bruising tomorrow. “You think you’re all uppity now? I know what you really are.”

Brush and twigs snapped.

Cosette would recognize the imposing figure a mile away.

“You have less than a second to take your hands off her,” Wilder said, his voice low and menacing. The man could be boyish and charming, and in an instant, menacing and terrifying. It sent a zing into her middle.

Beau was a bully. This wouldn’t end well—for Beau.

“And just what are you gonna do about it?” he spat, spittle landing in dots on Cosette’s neck.

In a blink, Wilder had inserted himself between the two of them. He faced Beau, put his palm flush against Cosette’s belly and guided her behind him, leaving his hand resting against her. The feel of his warmth seeping through the fabric of her dress brought her comfort as well as butterflies.

“When I was in fourth grade, two sixth grade bullies would take my milk money. Every. Single. Day.”

Where in the world was this going?

“You know what I did about it?”

Uh-oh.

“Nothing.”

Beau chuckled. “And you’re gonna do nothin’ about this, either. This is between me and my old lady.”

Wilder’s face appeared relaxed, except for that one little tick in his jaw when Beau called her his. She wasn’t his. She belonged to nobody but herself.

Wilder cocked his head, pressed his hand more firmly into her belly as he guided her another step back. “The reason I did nothing wasn’t out of fear. I didn’t care because...I just don’t like milk.”

“Wilder,” Cosette whispered. Now was not the time for one of his many anecdotes.

“But then they started bullying the milk money from my sister Meghan, and Meghan loved her chocolate milk. Every day at one fifteen. So I had to get involved. Because she was my baby sister and I cared about her.”

Uh-oh. His voice had changed. Become deeper. Sinister. He was going to—

He wrenched Beau’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first into a tree. Beau cried out. “Now, if I apply just a bit more pressure—” Wilder said.

Beau cried out again.

“—your elbow’s gonna break. It’s excruciating. Or you can apologize to the lady—who doesn’t belong to you and is far from old—and not only leave the area but the event. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Beau nodded profusely.

By now, a small crowd had gathered. Cosette’s cheeks heated.

“And don’t drive drunk.” He let up on Beau. Beau turned and swung.

Wilder grabbed his fist and put him on the ground, then planted his foot on Beau’s back like a weight. “Can one of you spectators come take this jerk home before he gets himself killed?”

Not that Wilder would kill him. But he was furious. A cold and quiet kind of fury. She’d seen it before. Much more frightening than someone blowing a gasket.