WHAT IN THE WORLD . . . ?!

From her slouched position in a seat near the back of the classroom, Cate stifled a gasp as the tall, dark-haired man who’d once been the center of her universe entered and strode to the desk in front.

Zeke Sloan was the Spanish teacher at Ivy Hill Academy?

No.

Impossible.

Teresa Medina taught Spanish here—and Zeke’s name was nowhere in the dossier of school personnel the department had prepared for her.

Heart banging against her rib cage, Cate sank lower in her seat.

What was going on?

In light of the murmur that rippled through the students as Zeke faced them, she wasn’t the only one surprised by his presence.

“Good morning, ladies.” He gave the room a commanding sweep and displayed one of those half-hitch smiles that used to turn her to mush. “As you can see, I’m not Ms. Medina. Complications from the injuries she suffered in her car accident have delayed her return. I’m Zeke Martinez, her temporary replacement.”

As he finished the explanation and introduced himself with an unfamiliar surname, his gaze lingered on hers.

There was no flicker of recognition or acknowledgment in his eyes.

But he knew who she was, despite the blood-red streak she’d added to her hair and the dark eye makeup that wasn’t part of her usual beauty routine.

You didn’t give a man your heart without learning to read his every nuance.

Yet he wasn’t surprised by her presence.

Why not?

Who had tipped him off she was here?

Why was he using a fake name?

What had caused the barely detectable limp in his authoritative gait?

Was he at Ivy Hill on an undercover assignment for the DEA job that had sabotaged their relationship?

If so, how much did he know about her case?

As questions raced through her mind, she dipped her chin and fiddled with the cap on her pen.

She had to calm down. Play this cool. Zeke obviously didn’t intend to expose her. She owed him the same courtesy.

At least until she had a handle on what was going on.

Somehow she managed to function during the class, introducing herself when it was her turn, calling up the rudimentary Spanish Zeke himself had taught her, which had proven useful on a number of investigations.

But getting through the test he passed out—designed to assess the competence level of the class, he said—was a challenge. Speaking Spanish was one thing. Writing it, another.

As the students worked on the quiz in silence, Zeke circled the room, pausing here and there to look over a girl’s shoulder. Sometimes he asked a question or offered a suggestion in the husky-timbre voice that used to set her nerve endings aflutter.

Used to being the operative term.