had never met the Dillons.
FIVE
MARION MARGARET MACALLISTER had committed only two sins in her life. One, she'd been born the second child. Two, she'd been born a female.
She'd done her best to rectify these sins over time. In the men's locker-room world of the FBI, she could outshoot, outfight, and outthink her fellow agents. With her cool blond looks, she'd earned the nickname Iceman. She liked it.
Until two weeks ago, when her world had started falling apart.
She'd just turned thirty-four and had been passed over for promotion again, ostensibly because she was too young. William Walker, who did get the post, was only thirty-six — and balling the deputy director's daughter. Her father was dying of prostate cancer, a death that was taking a long time coming, and her husband of ten years had left her for a twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.
Then last night she'd gotten the call from Freddie. J.T. always had impeccable timing.
She motioned for the Nogales police to stay back and approached the house on her own. She wore her favorite navy blue pants suit. It was sharp and one hundred percent business. It was also too hot for Arizona. She focused on the cool feel of her gun pressed against her ribs while the dusty air stung her eyes.
“Good morning, Marion,” J.T. drawled. He lounged against the doorjamb, half naked and rumpled, as if caught mid-fuck. “How kind of you to visit.”
“We received a report of an intruder. I came to investigate.”
“All the way from D.C.?”
“Nothing's too good for my older brother.” She smiled with brittle sweetness and had the rare satisfaction of seeing her barb strike home. “Step out of the way, J.T. The officers here will secure your house.”
“I don't think so.”
“Jordan Terrance—”
“Freddie call you from town?” He shifted, crossing his ankles and getting more comfortable. She knew from Freddie that he drank a lot. She'd expected the alcohol to have taken a greater toll, but J.T. had always been a lucky SOB. Not even booze had thickened his waistline or sagged his middle. He was still the lean, fit man she remembered. The kid who'd won all the swimming trophies. The son whose uncanny shooting had made their father so proud. She wanted to strangle him.
“Freddie filed the report,” she replied stiffly.
“Ah, and here I thought he and I had reached an understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
J.T. made a great show of examining his fingernails. “I know he calls you, Marion. I know he's Daddy's little spy. You're both so afraid that someday I'll get drunk enough to speak the truth. Don't worry, I've been speaking it for quite some time now, and nobody's interested.”
“I don't know what you're—”
“I sent him away. Told Freddie to take a few days off — I didn't think my visitor wanted an audience. As for myself, well…” He shrugged. “Freddie makes a fine margarita. Of course now I'll have to reconsider his return. Calling the police about an intruder — that was pretty clever. I think he's a lot more clever than either of us suspect.”
“So there
is
an intruder! Step aside.”
“No.”
“Goddammit, J.T., I know there's a woman inside. And what do you really know about her? Look at your track record—”
“Leave my past out of it.”
“We're going to search the house, J.T. I want this woman gone.”
“Got a search warrant?”
“Of course not. We're responding to a report of an intruder—”
“And I'm telling you as owner of this property, there is no intruder. Now, take your little blue men and find another party to crash.”
“You stubborn, drunken, son of a—”
“Marion, you never did learn how to play nice.”
“J.T., as your sister—”
“You're ashamed of me, embarrassed to have me in the family, and on really good days you wish I was dead. I know, Marion. These open exchanges of family sentiment always leave me feeling warm and fuzzy all over.”
“So help me God, J.T., if I find so
FIVE
MARION MARGARET MACALLISTER had committed only two sins in her life. One, she'd been born the second child. Two, she'd been born a female.
She'd done her best to rectify these sins over time. In the men's locker-room world of the FBI, she could outshoot, outfight, and outthink her fellow agents. With her cool blond looks, she'd earned the nickname Iceman. She liked it.
Until two weeks ago, when her world had started falling apart.
She'd just turned thirty-four and had been passed over for promotion again, ostensibly because she was too young. William Walker, who did get the post, was only thirty-six — and balling the deputy director's daughter. Her father was dying of prostate cancer, a death that was taking a long time coming, and her husband of ten years had left her for a twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.
Then last night she'd gotten the call from Freddie. J.T. always had impeccable timing.
She motioned for the Nogales police to stay back and approached the house on her own. She wore her favorite navy blue pants suit. It was sharp and one hundred percent business. It was also too hot for Arizona. She focused on the cool feel of her gun pressed against her ribs while the dusty air stung her eyes.
“Good morning, Marion,” J.T. drawled. He lounged against the doorjamb, half naked and rumpled, as if caught mid-fuck. “How kind of you to visit.”
“We received a report of an intruder. I came to investigate.”
“All the way from D.C.?”
“Nothing's too good for my older brother.” She smiled with brittle sweetness and had the rare satisfaction of seeing her barb strike home. “Step out of the way, J.T. The officers here will secure your house.”
“I don't think so.”
“Jordan Terrance—”
“Freddie call you from town?” He shifted, crossing his ankles and getting more comfortable. She knew from Freddie that he drank a lot. She'd expected the alcohol to have taken a greater toll, but J.T. had always been a lucky SOB. Not even booze had thickened his waistline or sagged his middle. He was still the lean, fit man she remembered. The kid who'd won all the swimming trophies. The son whose uncanny shooting had made their father so proud. She wanted to strangle him.
“Freddie filed the report,” she replied stiffly.
“Ah, and here I thought he and I had reached an understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
J.T. made a great show of examining his fingernails. “I know he calls you, Marion. I know he's Daddy's little spy. You're both so afraid that someday I'll get drunk enough to speak the truth. Don't worry, I've been speaking it for quite some time now, and nobody's interested.”
“I don't know what you're—”
“I sent him away. Told Freddie to take a few days off — I didn't think my visitor wanted an audience. As for myself, well…” He shrugged. “Freddie makes a fine margarita. Of course now I'll have to reconsider his return. Calling the police about an intruder — that was pretty clever. I think he's a lot more clever than either of us suspect.”
“So there
is
an intruder! Step aside.”
“No.”
“Goddammit, J.T., I know there's a woman inside. And what do you really know about her? Look at your track record—”
“Leave my past out of it.”
“We're going to search the house, J.T. I want this woman gone.”
“Got a search warrant?”
“Of course not. We're responding to a report of an intruder—”
“And I'm telling you as owner of this property, there is no intruder. Now, take your little blue men and find another party to crash.”
“You stubborn, drunken, son of a—”
“Marion, you never did learn how to play nice.”
“J.T., as your sister—”
“You're ashamed of me, embarrassed to have me in the family, and on really good days you wish I was dead. I know, Marion. These open exchanges of family sentiment always leave me feeling warm and fuzzy all over.”
“So help me God, J.T., if I find so
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