She knew that her obsession with him was not acceptable. If George Hammond knew the intensity of her feelings, he would probably have her reassigned or maybe do worse. Who knew what they might do if somebody in a position as sensitive as hers unwound on them?

She’d had one night with Mark, really just an evening, but those hours had come to form the center of her life. It was absurd, but he was just so—well, so much what she wanted.

She dreamed of him as a boy. In the privacy of her imagination, they’d grown up together, gone to school together, lived on the same block. They were lifelong lovers.

In the real world, he was all work and no play. She doubted if he even remembered that glorious night.

After he had left, she’d felt the most complex emptiness, as if she had found a softness inside herself that she’d never really believed was there, and a darkness. She’d dozed a little, so happy, so—oh, delighted. Yes, delighted. The man was gracious in bed, he was deliciously strong, his eyes wild during his pleasure—it had been an amazing experience for her. Her best experience. The best single thing that had ever happened to her.

The next day, not a phone call, an e-mail, a text, nothing. Then he was on assignment and their communications were limited to official channels. You did highly classified work in the field within the United States, and you were not going to be using any cell phones or nonsecure e-mail accounts. Secure communications only.

That night had apparently been for him a perfunctory release of tension. It made her feel used, and it made her angry. She spent her life having her half of a fight with the man she loved, raging at him, leaving him, forgiving him, and returning. Her heart belonged to him, and to loss.

She’d been watching closely as they went into the woods, an uneasy situation like that. Having him out there, knowing that she could at any moment become helpless witness to his death, was her central nightmare.

So when she’d seen that figure leap on him and watched his telemetry go berserk, heart rate through the roof, brain waves in hyperdrive—her stomach had almost ripped itself apart. She’d pitched forward gagging, only with enormous effort forcing herself back under control. This office was not a private place. At Langley, there was no such thing.

Before him, there had been boys and men, but never a lover. Once she had understood that he wasn’t going to be calling her, her work had become her life.

They were a CIA family, the Lyndons. Better, she was a loner, and the Company liked loners. If you wanted to socialize, fine, but do it in-house. If you just kept to yourself, that was fine, too. Easier, actually.