“Perk of the job. I assume you were given a similar carte blanche at Saks—or wherever rich teens shop.”

“Yes. Not that I’ll ever wear any of this stuff again.”

“The leggings are keepers.”

She stiffened and shot him a withering look but let the remark pass. “I doubt you’ll have much use for your wardrobe in your next assignment—assuming you’re still doing gritty jobs in far-flung places.”

The perfect opening to alert her to his shifting career plan.

“My traveling days may be coming to an end.”

She shoved the Spanish text into her backpack. “What does that mean?”

“I’m considering leaving undercover work. Going to regular agent duty.”

For one infinitesimal second, she froze.

Then she jerked her hand out of the backpack and secured the clasp with more force than necessary.

She didn’t have to speak for him to know what was running through her mind.

You gave up a whole lifetime with me to do a measly eight years of undercover work?

He couldn’t let her walk out of here thinking that was the trade-off he’d expected.

“Cate.”

She continued to secure her backpack, waves of hurt radiating off her.

“Cate. Please.” It took every ounce of his willpower to restrain the urge to reach out, grasp her hand.

Yet some nuance in his entreaty must have infiltrated her defenses, because she paused. Turned her head.

“When I took the DEA job, I expected to stay undercover for my entire career—like I told you at the time. I wanted to address the drug problem at the source. Help stem the tide of narcotics flowing over the border and flooding our streets. Killing people. Especially young people.” His voice rasped, and he picked up his cell, staying in character as he pretended to check his schedule—but the tremor in his fingers was telling.

He slanted a look toward her.

Cate’s gaze was riveted on his hands.

So much for hiding his feelings—with her, anyway.

He cleared his throat and stared at the screen. “But I’ve come to realize that no matter how hard I work, no matter how many risks I take, no matter how many operations I bust, my efforts put only a small dent in the problem. The truth is, I can do as much good working here in the States, at the street level, disrupting gang operations and diverting the pipeline—like I’m doing on this job. I’ve put my life on the line in nightmare situations for eight years, and . . .” He breathed in. Exhaled. “And I think . . . I hope . . . the debt is paid.”

“What debt?”

He kept his attention fixed on the phone, but he could hear her puzzlement.

That was the secret he’d never shared with her. The one he’d guarded close to his heart—out of shame and sorrow and fear of rejection—for almost two decades.