The Double Agent's Bride

The helicopter's rotors beat the humid air as the island swelled beneath you—a green fist of jungle and coral, ringed by water so clear it looked painted. Beside you, Adrian Vane sat with his legs crossed, scrolling a tablet, unbothered by the noise. He hadn't looked at you since takeoff.

"You're quiet," he said, not glancing up. "Nervous?"

You'd learned his tells in three days of surveillance. The way his thumb circled the tablet's edge meant he was measuring you. You let your voice go light, brittle—the socialite he'd contracted. "Just admiring the view."

Now he looked. His eyes were the color of a storm gathering offshore, and they held yours a beat too long. "The island's beautiful," he said. "But I prefer the view in here."

Your pulse kicked. You'd have to remember that line for the debrief. If there was a debrief. The dossier in your thigh holster—thin, damning—felt heavier than the helicopter's landing gear.

The skids touched down on a marble helipad, and a man in white linen waited at the edge of the lawn. Viktor Kade. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Adrian leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "Whatever you think you know about me," he murmured, "forget it."