Page 1 of Deadly Target
1
For Victor Dupé, perfection was a moving target.
Forget fifty shades of gray, there had to be at least one hundred shades of blue. Winter Blue? Sea Sprite? Southern Evening? What he really wanted to know was who sat around thinking up names for all these paint colors? Maybe he was in the wrong business.
Or maybe he should stick to solving crimes rather than renovating a house.
With at least a dozen different swatches of blue on the wall, he tried to decide. He’d already purchased several gallons of Southern Evening, but which shade was best for his vintage craftsman bungalow?
Did it really matter?Who’s going to see it besides me?
Buying the house and remodeling it had seemed like a good idea. He was tired of living in a condo and was ready for something more permanent. He’d always thought by the time he reached thirty-nine, he would have a wife and kids. A nice house. A dog.
The FBI had had other plans.
In reality, he didn’t blame his job for the lack of family and a home of his own. It was his own fault for loving his job more than the idea of marriage and kids. He’d assumed he would have time to settle down and start a family. Now, with his 40th approaching, an irritating itch had set up under his breastbone since meeting Olivia Fiorelli at a Christmas party the previous December.
The deputy US marshal, nicknamed the Rock Star Agent of Organized Crime, had stirred a passion inside him he hadn’t realized was dormant. Just as committed to her job as he was his, they had talked for hours over drinks. He’d laughed more that night than he had in the previous year, maybe longer. Her dark beauty had drawn him in, her take-no-prisoners attitude a total turn-on. He liked strong-willed women who knew their worth and had no qualms expressing themselves. There was a mystery about Olivia. A mystery he still hadn’t solved.
It wasn’t the only mystery he hadn’t solved. He glanced at the wooden dining room table he’d purchased at a local antique shop, dozens of papers spread over the stained and scarred top. Something about stripping wallpaper and fixing the bricks in the fireplace had made him long to pull out the one case in his life he had not solved. Yet, anyway.
It’s just a distraction. Whenever he got into something over his head, he circled back to the past, looking for answers. He knew subconsciously it was his way of processing the trauma he’d survived, the young boy in him believing if he only had answers to that one mystery, the answers for everything else would fall into place.
With Olivia, and definitely with this house project, he was in over his head. While he was no stranger to one-night stands, that night with Liv had set a chain of events into play. Hence, the reason he now had a mortgage and rundown house to fix up and was standing in his living room staring at too many fucking samples of blue paint.
Only a woman could do this to him.
Only Olivia Fiorelli.
Taz, Victor’s Lab mix, lifted his nose and whined at the front door.
Yeah, he had the dog from his “Things to Have by Forty” list, but Taz was only a loaner.
“What is it, buddy?” Victor glanced out the bay window and saw a familiar car pulling into the drive. His pulse accelerated and he grinned. Huh. What was she doing here?
After their one night of heated passion, he and Olivia had texted every day, talked for hours on the phone, and even met briefly for coffee. Every time they’d set up an official date, she’d cancelled. The reason—excuse?—was always work. Each time she had invited him to her place, work had come up for him, so he couldn’t fault her. Even their coffee date had been cut short when she’d gotten a call from her boss. It seemed like the universe was conspiring against them.
She exited the car with a white bag and a six-pack. The bright pink logo of his favorite bakery in Laguna Beach was visible on the side. Late afternoon sun glinted off subtle copper streaks in her hair, the long, brunette strands pulled back in a ponytail. Kicking the driver side door shut with her foot, she gave his house a once over, her gaze stopping on the six swatches of beige next to the front door.
Normally, he had no problems making decisions. That’s what made him the efficient director for the West Coast FBI. It was how he kept all of his hand-selected California Taskforces running smoothly. But when it came to paint…
Taz rose to his feet, a low growl issuing from his throat. Olivia had never been here, had never met the dog. Victor hoped Taz would like her as much as he did. “Down boy.” He ruffled the dog’s ears. “Best behavior, now, you hear?”
Victor threw open the door just as Olivia started up the wooden steps. He couldn’t keep a smile off his face. “Are you any good at picking paint colors?”
She smiled back and held up the contents of both hands. “That’s what sugar and beer are for. They dull the brain and give you a good excuse when anyone asks why you picked clashing colors. You can blame it on too many carbs causing poor decisions.”
Taz sniffed at her, now wagging his tail. “I thought you were working today.”
“I thought you were too,” she said. “I ran into Cooper and Celina buying diapers at the grocery store with their little girl. Cooper said you’re on a two-week vacation, and planned to work on your house, so I decided you might want some help.”
She lived in Carlsbad, not far from Cooper Harris, head of the SCVC Taskforce, and his wife, Celina, who’d once been on the taskforce and still worked for the FBI as a forensic photographer. Another reason Victor rarely saw Liv. His office was in LA, his new house Laguna Beach. From his place to hers was only forty-five miles, but with traffic on the freeway, what should take an hour or less often was double that.
He held the door open and motioned for her to come in. “I’d hoped to have a few things fixed up before I invited you over, but I’m really glad to see you.”
“From the looks of things,” she said, eyeing the living room swatches, “I got here in the nick of time.”
“You don’t like blue?”
