Caught by You

Book 1: Secret Agents

by Kris Rafferty

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

It takes a specialized task force to bring down the most notorious criminals, FBI agents with the guts to go for the glory, and the smarts to know what rules to break—for justice and for love . . . Avery Coppola is a woman on the run—not from the law, but from the lawless. Her ex-husband, mafia boss Dante Coppola, never forgets or forgives, especially since Avery stole incriminating files from him. For now, she’s found sanctuary in the North Country of New Hampshire, working as a waitress to support herself and her ten-year-old sister. But not only are Dante’s men on her trail, so is the FBI . . . Special Agent Vincent Modena is at the end of his rope. After a year-long attempt to infiltrate the Coppola organization, his only chance to ensnare the crime lord now lies with the ex-wife. After locating her, Vincent makes contact, unafraid to use his good looks to capture Avery’s attention. But she turns the tables on him with an intoxicating combination of innocent beauty . . . and the mind-blowing skills of a stone-cold killer. On the run from Dante’s hit men, Avery takes Vincent on a wild ride of danger and deceit, hiding a secret that could destroy Vincent’s trust in her—and in himself . . .

Release date: March 13, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 200

Sample

Chapter 1

“Deming? Are you insane?” Special Agent Vincent Modena was in the back of the FBI’s surveillance van, kneeling knee to knee with Special Agent Cynthia Deming, the task force’s profiler. It wasn’t Deming who was the problem; it was the five-pound flounder she held by the gills. It was staring at him, and smelled hideous.

“Your cover is a week-long fishing trip. You’re too clean.” Deming narrowed her blue eyes, and then slapped the fish against Vincent’s chest.

“Stop!” He grabbed her wrist, processing the moment. Rich, blond, gorgeous Cynthia Deming, in a black Dolce & Gabbana suit and heels, was on her knees swinging a fish. Nope. He was living it and still didn’t believe his eyes. Meanwhile, the flounder hung limp in the air between them. “I’m supposed to keep Avery Coppola in the diner, Deming. Hit me with that again, and the smell will chase her out.” She broke his grip, seemingly teetering between agreeing and having another go at him with the fish.

Special Agent Jack Benton, FBI task force team leader, jumped from the van’s passenger seat into the back. “What the hell?” He grimaced, glaring at the profiler and Vincent, as if Vincent had anything to do with the fish. He didn’t.

“Exactly,” Vincent said. “What the hell, Deming?”

“What’s with the fish?” Benton’s black hair hung in his face, obscuring the intensity in his blue-eyed gaze. His year-long deep embed with Dante Coppola’s syndicate crashed and burned yesterday, requiring the task force to extract him. His split lip hinted at the bruises and abrasions hidden beneath his conservative black suit and tie, but it was the banked rage that made his team nervous. Benton hadn’t taken time off to shake his role of gunrunner, and some deep embeds needed more recovery time than others, but he’d escaped with a lead, so Benton wasn’t going anywhere. The lead was, Coppola hired contract killers to find and kill his ex-wife and her little sister. Rumor had it, when she’d divorced him three years ago, the ex-wife left with incriminating files. Now, Coppola knew where the ex-wife was, and so did Benton. It appeared as if the task force lucked out and got here first.

“The fish is necessary for authenticity,” Deming said. “Modena’s too…” She waved a hand at him. “Handsome.”

“Hey, Benton.” Vincent held Deming gaze and then winked. “Deming thinks I’m handsome.”

She shook her head, barely paying attention to Vincent. “Maybe clean is a better word. After a week of backcountry camping, he wouldn’t be this clean.” She used the back of her wrist to nudge a blond lock off her cheek. “No one sleeps outside for a week, lives off fresh catch of the day, and doesn’t suffer from puffy face and bad hair. Avery’s clever and distrustful. She’s had to be to escape detection for three years with a sister in tow. With contract killers on her scent, she’ll smell a rat if Modena doesn’t commit to his backstory.”

“She’ll smell something.” Special Agent Harris Gilroy was the task force’s official driver. Blond hair cropped to his head, brown eyes, mid-thirties, he looked like an Irish bare-knuckle fighter, crooked nose and all.

“His backpack is enough of a prop,” Benton said. “Get rid of the fish, Deming.”

“Fine.” She tossed it into a Styrofoam cooler, and then stripped off her latex gloves, throwing them inside, too. She seemed on edge. Yesterday’s violent extraction of Benton had notably rattled her, rattled them all, as did the dead bodies the team left behind. And when Deming was rattled, she distracted herself with details—like Vincent’s backstory and a fish—so Vincent tried not to take the fish assault personally.

“Our warrant is to surveil Avery Coppola’s apartment,” Benton said. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t convince the judge that rumored files containing alleged evidence is grounds for a search warrant, so we watch and wait for Coppola’s men to make their move. If the files are in her apartment, she either surrenders them, or we need probable cause to take them. If Coppola’s men find her, maybe make a move on her at the apartment, we’ve got them and our probable cause, so cross your fingers. Modena, you keep an eye on her at the diner while we set up the cameras outside of her apartment. I want any potential attack on video. Let a judge and jury see who these monsters are, and if we’re forced to bust into her apartment to save her, and happen to find evidence, they’ll be forced to make our findings admissible in court. Time is short, folks. We have no idea when Coppola’s men will show, but this isn’t rocket science. If she has files, which my contact assured me she does, it’s probably hidden in her apartment. Coppola’s men have to know that.”

“Yeah, about that, Benton,” Deming said. “I think I should go in the diner instead of Modena. Look at him. He looks dangerous. She’ll think he’s a contract killer, maybe run, and ruin the whole operation. We can think of a different backstory for me.”

“Deming, you’d be walking into a backwoods diner wearing Dolce & Gabbana,” Vincent said. “Do you really think you’ll get anywhere near her without making her suspicious? And Benton knows I have advantages you don’t have.” He allowed a slow smile to crack his lips. “Leave the ex-wife to me.”

She shook her head, still not convinced. “But—”

“I know. I know. I’m handsome, clean, and dangerous.” Vincent winked, trying not to enjoy Deming’s annoyance too much. Being on the sidelines was twisting her in knots. She wanted in on the action, and he didn’t blame her, but he’d waited too long to meet Avery Coppola to just give this moment away. “I think you’re crushing on me.”

“Blow me, Modena.” She turned toward Benton, waiting for his decision.

“We stick with the plan,” Benton said. “Modena, go.”

Gilroy reached into a console between the two front seats and produced a bottle of Febreze. He aimed it into the back of the van and sprayed with no concern for whom he doused. Between the fish smell, and being gassed by Gilroy, Vincent found it a relief to spill out into the parking lot, backpack slung over his shoulder.

As the task force sped off in the van, heading down the street toward Avery Coppola’s apartment, Vincent walked toward the diner, passing a multitude of beat up SUVs and trucks, listening to his hiking boots crunch gravel underfoot. The chirping of birds, the breezes rustling through maple and oak leaves, it was a nice change from the city. August in the North Country of New Hampshire, mountainous. Vincent was enjoying himself, and the diner’s aromas wafting through the air. His stomach growled as he approached the door, but his thoughts were all on the woman inside.

Avery Coppola. Damn. Her name had been popping up in the Coppola case for a year now, but Vincent had only actively studied her for the last few months. He was a little ashamed to be this excited about meeting her…Dante Coppola’s one vulnerability. Avery was the crime lord’s ex-wife, so probably poison, without conscience. Totally his type. Vincent’s ex-wife taught him a thing or two about women like that. On his second tour in Afghanistan, she’d sent him a Dear John letter paper clipped to divorce papers. It had a way of changing a man’s paradigm real quick. It certainly forced Vincent to see things more clearly. Women were mercurial at best, self-serving at worst. It was weird to know he had something in common with a murderous crime lord. Both he and Coppola married women who’d betrayed them.

He’d memorized Avery’s pictures. She had the look of an innocent, red-headed imp, and seemed younger than her years. She certainly didn’t look like someone who could inspired an ex-husband to hire contract killers to off her. Not a sterling personal recommendation, and yet, the contradiction tickled Vincent’s curiosity. What would she be like? Or rather, how best to bend her to his will?

Benton wanted to try and flip her, see if they could convince her to give up the goods on her ex, rather than make the Feds slog for the evidence, but they didn’t have enough intel to know how best to approach her. Deming, the task force’s profiler, suggested they feel her out with some casual conversation. Benton had tapped Vincent, and he’d report back to the team after they’d finished installing security cameras around her apartment.

Just meeting her would probably answer most of the questions his team had. Then, if all went as planned, they’d find the leverage they needed to flip her, and she’d help break open the task force’s RICO case against her ex-husband. If that went south, she’d either face jail time or risk a bullet between the eyes. Dante Coppola wasn’t pulling his hit on her anytime soon, and now that he knew where she was, she had a target on her back. The FBI would offer her protection, if she was willing to deal, but they couldn’t make her accept their help. No, that would take persuasion. And that was where Vincent came in.

He smiled as he opened the diner’s door. A bell chimed overhead, announcing his arrival. It was old-fashioned and kitschy, and he liked it. As he stepped inside, he finally admitted to himself that he’d been anticipating this meeting with Avery Coppola since he’d first seen her photo nearly a year ago. He was excited, and when his gaze zeroed in on her behind the diner’s counter, his chest tightened because he knew… This was going to be fun. Lots and lots of fun.

Chapter 2

Avery’s feet were already hurting and it was only late morning, four hours into her eight-hour shift. She was bored and restless when the bell over the diner’s door chimed. Like Pavlov’s dog, she had a reaction every time it rang, but instead of salivating, her stomach tightened with dread. Another customer requiring a smile and chirpy greeting.

Then she saw him and her day suddenly wasn’t so boring.

Scruffy, lots of stubble, he was deliciously sexy; strong jaw, aviator sunglasses, dark brown disheveled hair, his red flannel shirt was open, revealing a tight black T-shirt stretched over a flat, muscular stomach. Her eyes zeroed in on his silver belt buckle, and then she spent a moment or two imagining what his black jeans were hiding. Yum. Yum. Yummy.

Avery bit her lip, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. It was a nervous habit, but this guy made her nervous in a good way. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, unveiling eyes so green and vibrant she had to will her jaw not to drop. He approached, propped his backpack against the counter, and scanned the room. Avery quickly looked away, her pride fighting with her instinct to gawk.

Nat Harris, a retired barber who ate at the diner every day, was sitting at the counter, chuckling under his breath, because he’d caught her wanting something she couldn’t have. Embarrassed, Avery found it hard to meet Nat’s gaze. He was a man who knew a thing or two about not getting what you want. He’d struggled with wanderlust his whole life, but between raising siblings and keeping his business afloat, he’d been stuck in North Conway, New Hampshire for thirty years. Retired now, he lived to travel, and was taking a cruise next month. The brochure was on the counter between them.

Nat nudged his coffee cup toward Avery. “Can I have a refill, honey?”

“Sure thing.” Despite Nat’s preferences, she refilled it with decaf instead of high octane. He had a bad ticker, so she ignored his grimace and instead focused on the brochure, its bright colors and exciting pictures. A clutch of wistfulness had her grimacing. Not for the first time, she was reminded she was where Nat had been, raising a sibling, out of options, feeling life passing by. Avery wanted to travel. She wanted to be anywhere but here, but choices had consequences, and she had the life she deserved.

Jaw-droppingly handsome man sat his fine self at the counter, slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, and made Avery’s heart pound just a little bit faster. She told herself to play it cool, to enjoy the moment without inviting too much comment, and when she felt his eyes on her, despite her better judgment, she looked back at him.

Only he wasn’t looking at her eyes. Ostensibly reaching for a menu, he leaned, peering over the counter and openly admired her legs. His gaze moved slowly up her body until it connected with hers, and then he smiled. Yikes. Handsome man was coming on strong.

It made her regret not blow drying her auburn hair straight this morning, but instead allowing it to air dry into waves that fought the restraint of her ponytail. And her practical “nurse” shoes? She regretted not wearing a heel, something that said sex kitten, rather than bed pan. She regretted not changing her beige and cream-colored uniform this morning, when she’d realized it still reeked of syrup despite being washed. This man had Avery regretting a lot, down to not putting on makeup, not even a smudge of lipstick.

Releasing a sigh that had become habitual, Avery forced a smile, because she knew it wasn’t her lack of blow-dryer, laundry expertise, heels, or lipstick that ailed her, it was her lack of options. She’d made decisions that had unavoidable repercussions, and now she had to live with them. This handsome man wasn’t for her. He was for other women. Women who hadn’t…well, hadn’t sold their souls.

“Coffee?” She set a cup and saucer before handsome man and then offered the choice of the two coffeepots. Her nerves were getting the better of her, making her hands tremble, and not just a little. The bitter brew inside the pots quivered. “Decaf or regular?” He briefly ran his hand over his mouth as if hiding a smile. He discombobulated her, and from all appearances, he’d noticed.

“Caffeine, please. I’ve been camping for the last week and I’m desperate for a decent cup. And a full night’s sleep. I came to the great outdoors tense and irritable, and now I’m leaving tense and irritable. I thought nature was supposed to soothe the savage beast.”

Pouring his coffee, Avery aimed for a polite though disinterested attitude. His ego seemed plenty stroked, and her pride was stinging from failing to hide her attraction. Her one move was to make it clear that her being attracted to him didn’t buy him anything.

“Is that what you are? A savage beast?” She’d unintentionally allowed the last two words to fall from her lips like she’d enjoyed saying them. Damn. She sucked at standoffish.

He chuckled, ignoring her question. With a glance at her name tag, he seemed to settle in for a long talk, studying her as if later he’d be quizzed on the details. “Patty? Nice name. Mine’s Vincent.”

Patty Whitman was Avery’s alias. “Pleased to meet you, Vincent.” She replaced the coffeepots, and then turned back to him, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like your fishing trip was successful.” He did reek, and it made her wonder if focusing on that flaw might dampen her raging hormones. It didn’t take long to acknowledge little would. Maybe if he were unkind? Yeah, that would do it.

He wrinkled his nose, too. “Sorry. I had a disagreement with a fish and the fish won.” He scanned his menu and seemed overwhelmed by the options.

“You’re lucky you didn’t meet up with bears.” They would have eaten him alive. She sighed again, wondering how Vincent tasted. His lips were perfect and quick to smile. They probably tasted divine.

“No bears.” He rolled up his flannel sleeves, eyes still perusing the menu.

No customer was attempting to catch her eye, so Avery leaned her hip on the counter and lingered. She recognized his tattoo immediately. A cobra entwined around a human skull over a cross of rifles, and the moto one shot, one kill written under it. He caught her looking, and instead of eagerly discussing the tat, like every other ink fan, his smile lost its authenticity, and he rubbed his hand over his forearm, as if it bothered him.

“Sniper,” she said. The word popped from her mouth, and she regretted it immediately when his smile faded. A veteran who didn’t want to talk about his experiences killing people? Totally understandable. There were plenty things in her life she didn’t talk about, especially to a stranger while slinging coffee in a diner. “I saw that art in a tattoo magazine once.” It was a lie. She’d seen it on too many arms, on too many men who’d taken their skills to the marketplace, but she didn’t say that because she didn’t want questions, such as, why a waitress in North Conway, New Hampshire, knew about sniper tattoos.

Vincent tapped the menu. “What do you recommend?”

“The burgers are good.”

“Cheeseburger plate then,” he said, “with onion rings instead of fries. And Coke.” He leaned forward, his brows lifted, and suddenly he was all charm. “Did anyone ever tell you what amazing green eyes you have? I have green eyes, too.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I can see.”

He peered closer, studying hers, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do. “There are gold flecks in yours, and—”

His pause lengthened and seemed strange. “And?” she said.

He no longer focused on her eyes, but rather on her gaze. His smile widened, grew flirty. “They’re stunning. Rare. They go along with your hair. Less than two percent of the world’s population has red hair.”

“Hmm.” She tried to repress a smile and failed miserably. “I think I’ve heard that before.”

He faux frowned. “Then I need to up my game. When is your shift over?”

Whoa, Nelly. That escalated quickly. And oh how she wished she could be just a girl, being picked up by just a guy, who wanted to be with her at the end of her shift. But she wasn’t. Time to set boundaries.

“Why do you ask? Looking to take me home to mother?” Her returning smile was playful, but the shake of her head made it clear whatever he had in mind was not happening.

“Now why’d you have to go bringing my mother into this?” He feigned hurt, but she could see she’d amused him. The guy liked a challenge, apparently, and Avery was having a hard time pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.

A glance over her shoulder told her no orders were up, so she leaned on her elbows, taking what pleasure she could from the interaction. “Mother’s tend to keep people honest,” she said.

His smile couldn’t have been naughtier. “I like honesty.”

“Yeah?” She licked her lips, repressing a smile. “So, where do you see this going?” His chuckle was scandalous, and had a few customers taking note. The guy certainly didn’t mind her calling him on his shit. In fact, she suspected he liked it, and damn…so did she. “You. Me,” she said. “We hook up during my lunch break, I bring you to my apartment, we spend a glorious hour of nasty, mind-blowing sex—”

“Liking where your head is at.” He was smart enough to know she was teasing, but confident enough not to be offended. It was a giddy-inspiring combination.

“—on the bed, the couch, in the shower, drinking water off each other’s skin.” She lifted her brows, smiling, not in the least surprised to discover she would love to live out that little fantasy. “We’ll make naughty memories to last a lifetime, all in the span of an hour’s lunch break.” He leaned on the counter, moving his face closer to hers, lips cracked with a smile.

“An hour isn’t enough,” he said, “but if you insist.”

She laughed hard enough to throw her head back. “You’re incorrigible.” Then she stepped back and clipped his order slip onto the order carousel. “If I insist, huh?” Hot and bothered, Avery knew if she continued their flirting, there was no way she’d retain even a sliver of what pride she had left. “I have a feeling women insist a lot with you.”

“If I was a good boy, you wouldn’t want me.” He winked.

Ugh. Truer words were never spoke. How else to explain her ex-husband? Still. This guy didn’t know her, and Avery didn’t like that she’d become so transparent that even a stranger could read her.

After a polite but dismissive nod, she grabbed the coffeepots and walked away, moving from table to table, refilling cups. The whole time, she had to force herself not to look at him, because she knew he was looking at her. She could see his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the counter. Vincent. He’d suddenly become the embodiment of all things she’d given up three years ago. Her penance. Her punishment. And not for the first time, she resented the restrictions of her fate. Resented the hell out of it.

The bell above the entrance chimed, distracting her. A woman gasped and caught Avery’s attention. A chair fell to the floor, but Avery’s gaze remained locked on the woman’s expression of horror. She couldn’t force herself to follow the woman’s gaze to the diner’s entrance, because the chatting stopped, the utensils stilled their scraping on plates, and silence hung in the air, as if even sound feared what was to come.

Avery forced herself to move, to walk behind the counter, eyes front, seeking to make it to the kitchen before the unseen danger got her.

A shotgun cocked, and the familiar sound had her stopping in her tracts. “You!”

She didn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of her ex-husband’s contract killers. It had been three years since she’d left Dante. Odds were he’d found her, and that shotgun was how she’d die.

Avery turned to face her fate. Her killer. He was around her age, early twenties, wearing flannels and jeans. Greasy, blond hair, high as a kite. The man couldn’t control his twitching and suffered from facial tics. So, strung out on meth, probably. His hands shook, and his head bobbed uncontrollably as he aimed the shotgun at her. It told her that he wasn’t here because of her ex-husband. Coppola contract killers weren’t meth heads. They were all too sober. Yet, he still looked a. . .