Callie had replied that Beekman looked pretty much the same as he had at the compound, though his mouse-brown hair was even longer, and now he wore a close-cropped beard.

All the way there, Skye thought of her conversation with Edge. Edge Logan wasn’t a man who gave up on what he wanted. He had mentioned before that he hoped one day to return to the Green Berets. At the time, she’d hadn’t paid much attention. They were somewhere in the Mexican tropical dry forest, and people’s lives were at stake.

Now that she understood the circumstances that had caused him to leave the army, she realized he was going to continue his pursuit of Major Bradley Markham, and knowing Edge as she did, sooner or later he would find the proof he needed.

And he would leave.

An ache slid through her. She had known she was playing with fire from the start. Beyond a working relationship, she never should have gotten involved with him. She’d been dangerously attracted to Edge from the beginning. Now her heart was in peril, and when he was gone from her life, it was going to hurt badly.

Better to end things now, she told herself, before she got in any deeper.

She blew out a breath. On the other hand, they were teammates. They worked well together, and they had a job to do. She’d made a promise to Callie, and she meant to keep it. She was going to find Daniel Henson, find Lila Ramirez and bring her home. They were making headway.

The hard truth was she needed Edge’s help.

One thing was sure. It was past time she moved back into her own apartment. She would take care of that today.

She rang Conn’s doorbell. He lived in an old Victorian in a historic neighborhood on Vine Street. Conn had moved into the home after their father had died and their mother had remarried and moved to California. Skye hadn’t wanted the big old financial albatross, but Conn loved the place.

He worked on the house every time he got the chance, originally to get it ready for the woman he planned to marry. Unfortunately, his fiancée had broken their engagement. Conn was still reeling from the blow.

Skye walked along the cement path, climbed the steps to the covered front porch of the two-story red-brick home, and rang the bell. The housekeeper, Isabella Rossi, answered the door.

“Buongiorno, Izzy,” Skye said, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

“Si, si, you as well. Vieni, dentro!” She smiled and motioned Skye forward. “Come in. Come in.”

Isabel was a plump woman in her fifties with silver-streaked heavy black hair and an easy disposition. On a more leisurely day, the two of them would speak Italian while Izzy worked in the kitchen.