Page 4 of Covert Past

Stop talking . . .

The instinct that had kept her alive for seven years kicked in to remind her even the nicest of people sometimes hid secrets.

Chapter Two

Ellie glanced around as others walked past them. “I should go.” She didn’t move. There was something about him that pulled her in. He exuded confidence, but not in a cocky way. Compassion softened the hard planes of his face. Ellie glanced down at her frayed jeans and plain blue T-shirt. Did he think she was a tourist? Or worse, homeless?

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d trusted anyone, no matter how nice they seemed. Letting down her guard made her vulnerable. The kindness she saw in this man could all be an act. She might be looking at a Mossad agent sent here to bring her in.

Stop it. Her brain had been trained to automatically treat every new person she met as a threat. As much as her head told her this encounter was purely accidental, her gut wouldn’t let her dismiss it so easily because she knew bad guys were not always easy to spot.

He was at least six-five and fit. Probably a jogger or maybe into some type of water sports given the island setting. He carried himself in a way that pegged him as having a military background. Dressed casually in a blue pullover and jeans. Boots that looked as if they’d been well broken in. His short, chestnut hair combed back from a wide forehead, he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

She realized he was assessing her in the same way she had him, further confirming he’d seen battle of some type.

“Again, sorry to have bumped you. I hope you have a nice day.” When she didn’t respond, he shrugged and turned toward the entrance of the coffeehouse.

Once he was out of her personal space, Ellie blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d kept in. The encounter had her rattled because it served as a reminder she was a long way from a hundred percent if even the slightest touch had sent splinters of pain shooting from the contact point. If her enemies came after her now, she wouldn’t stand a chance against a direct attack.

A sense of unease slithered into the pit of her stomach. She tugged sunglasses from her pocket and slipped them into place. Over the years, she’d changed her hair color almost as many times as she’d changed her name. Currently, it was a golden brown. The first thing she’d done upon arriving on Hope Island was to darken the blonde color she’d worn in Oregon.

The man who bumped her now reached for the doorhandle and opened it, sending her a final evaluating once-over look before going inside.

What is wrong with you?Ellie gave herself a mental shake. She was normally much better at keeping her emotions to herself. She blamed it on the years on the run and her recent injuries. She’d come as close to dying in Oregon as she had the night Daniel was murdered, and yet she was no closer to understanding what had happened. Her training told her the rumor about a mole inside Mossad was true. Someone had tipped off Syrian Intelligence, and it hadn’t been Daniel’s contact within that agency.

Ellie became aware of the foot traffic passing her by. Her attention returned to the help wanted sign, and she made up her mind.

Peering through the window, Ellie noticed the man she’d bumped into stood near the door scanning the room for someone. A woman with startling red hair waved to get his attention. A smile creased his face as he weaved his way through the tables and gave her a hug. A couple? She wasn’t so sure. They seemed friendly enough, but their body language hinted at more of a working relationshipperhaps.

She waited for several people to leave the coffeehouse before she went inside. As her gaze connected with the man who’d bumped her, she realized he’d been watching her since she entered the establishment. Those intense brown eyes narrowed as he continued to try and figure her out.

The redhead appeared amused by her friend’s attention.

Ellie pulled hers away from him and headed for the counter.

A young blonde woman in her early twenties smiled at Ellie’s approach. “Welcome to the Hopeful Coffeehouse. What can I get you?”

Ellie hesitated. Was she sure she wanted to become a barista? She certainly lacked that bubbly personality this woman presented to the world. She could fake a smile, but she’d never been accused of being perky. Hopefully, perkiness wasn’t part of the job description.

A glance over her shoulder confirmed the man’s attention still rested on her. Though he spoke to the redhead, he continued to watch Ellie.

For the first time since arriving on Hope Island she became concerned. She’d moved across the country for a chance to heal and regroup. Shades of the beating she’d taken in Oregon bled into the moment. Her body still held the marks of how close to death she’d come. The swelling had gone mostly. She’d used heavy makeup to cover the remaining bruises, yet she needed rest and the peace of mind that would allow her to get it.

Coming back to the moment, she realized the blonde waited for an answer.

Ellie crooked her thumb toward the help wanted poster. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the barista position.”

The woman’s smile slipped a little as she took in Ellie’s clothing. Her hair tangled from her walk along the beach earlier. She hadn’t exactly expected to go to a job interview today.

“Let me get Hank. She runs the place.” She turned before Ellie could respond and disappeared through the opening behind her.

Ellie somehow hid her surprise. Hank was a female. While she pondered what she’d say to the owner, a noise out on the streethad her on alert. A pop that sounded like gunfire made her jump, no doubt drawing more attention. Ellie’s gaze went to the window and the passing people. No one out there appeared nervous.

“That’s Fred Wilber’s old Ford. It backfires a lot.”

Ellie jerked toward the deep male voice she recognized. The man from earlier was now alone.

“Fred brings fresh produce in for the local restaurants every day.” His smile transformed his face to handsome. He was an attractive man, and he had a nice smile. “Name’s Boone Langston.” He held out his hand.

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