Page 8 of Avenging Jessie
“We’re going to the damn gala.” She did a heel turn, already halfway back out. “Get ready.”
The door slammed before he could ask what had changed her mind.
He stared at the space she’d just filled, her voice echoing in his skull. He’d expected more verbal sparring. Another wall. Not this about-face. Had she changed her mind because of what he’d said—or was she just angry enough to prove she wasn’t afraid?
Either way, she was walking straight into danger—and he wasn’t sure he could watch her do it.
He swore under his breath, launched himself out of the desk chair, and tapped into a secure server to hack the gala’s guest list. The Bundestag Initiative maintained a tight list of tech donors and political figures. Posing as cybersecurity consultants from a high-level firm took finesse, but he could spoof credentials in his sleep.
He cracked the guest registry through a shell proxy, splicing in some fake credentials while pretending not to notice that his hands were shaking.
His cover alias: Spencer Worth, CTO of Sentinel Defense.
Hers: Jayla Worth, his brilliant and beautiful wife.
He paused long enough to wince at that. Jessie would hate it. Hate him.
What’s new? He uploaded the forged invitation and fired off a rush order with the hotel’s concierge for a tailored tuxedo to be delivered within the hour. It wouldn’t be designer, but with his build, he knew how to make it look like it.
He was just finishing when a soft knock echoed from the connecting door.
When he opened it, a dangerous hallucination was standing there.
The gown was black satin, cut sharp and sleek, slit to the thigh, and sleeveless. It fit her like it had been molded to her curves. Her heels made her several inches taller, bringing her up to his own height.
Her eyes—no, not her eyes—contacts, he realized. They were a deep emerald, disguising her hazel color, and rimmed in charcoal. Her lashes were already thick, but she’d added a layer of falsies to call even more attention to them.
He hadn’t seen her wear makeup since Vienna. What she’d done with concealer and blush had sculpted her features just enough to soften the angles—contour over her cheekbones, shadow to recede her jaw. But it was still her. Fierce. Battle-forged.
And drop-dead gorgeous. He tried to say something. Failed.
“I stole it off the rack of dry-cleaned clothes a maid was delivering to various rooms.” She held up a dark auburn wig. “I need help with this. I can’t get it to stay put. I don’t want to color my hair, so a wig is the answer. The shop downstairs had a slim selection. Above all else, I cannot let Keller recognize me.”
He tried to speak again. His tongue tripped over itself.
“Spence?”
Swallowing hard and turning away so she didn’t notice what was going on down below in his pants—hello, instant erection—he gestured for her to enter. “Yeah, yeah. Come in.”
She stepped across the threshold, hesitant this time. The scent of lemon and eucalyptus followed. She didn’t look around, didn’t comment on his frantic effort to make the room presentable. Just walked straight to the bathroom with the wig, a hairbrush, and a handful of pins.
He followed, heart thudding like a live grenade in his chest. This was why emotional entanglements were off-mission. They scrambled the brain.Danger assessment: fucking off the charts.
When he joined her in the luxurious bathroom, the open space suddenly felt like close quarters. He fidgeted with his hands, not knowing what to do with them. His attention kept straying from the deep V of the dress that exposed her vulnerable spine to her tight shoulders. And then there was the delicate curve of her neck…
“Spence?” She frowned at him in the mirror. “Are you okay?”
Snap out of it, he ordered himself. He returned to the main room and grabbed a barstool from the breakfast nook. “Here,” he told her, setting it next to her. “You sit. I’ll fix it.”
He wasn’t sure how. While he’d had training in using disguises, he’d never made over a female accomplice before, and he sure as hell wasn’t sure what to do with a wig.
She eased onto the stool, back straight, eyes locked on her reflection. He grabbed the brush and started smoothing down her dark hair. It was shorter than when he’d first met her, back when they’d both been younger, more at ease with their jobs, and eager to do them. Not younger in years, but in their perspectives.
All that had changed when Mosai Hagar had kidnapped her and Meg. Before Jessie had been killed on camera during a live stream to the entire world.
Except, it had been a deep fake. Not the kind where AI was used to mimic her death, but one where another woman who had an uncanny resemblance to her had been beaten to the point she wasn’t recognizable and put in Jessie’s place. Not that Jessie hadn’t been beaten to a pulp, too, but she’d been saved from death by Harris Brewer and forced to work for him by threatening to kill Tommy.
Spencer had always known Jessie was loyal to the CIA and America. But those loyalties could be broken. The one to her brother could not. She’d endured everything Brewer had thrown at her in order to keep Tommy safe.
