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here. Keys out, poised to unlock the door. What the devil was she thinking?
    Oh, come on, Julia, her inner voice cajoled. You loved him, still love him, why wouldn’t you stay at your apartment tonight and wait for him just in case he does show up?
    She leaned her forehead against the door. Because by faking his own death, he nearly killed me too. Because if he could do that to me, I don’t want to be with him . She racked her brain for more. Because now there’s Michael.
    Michael. Conrad. Two very different men, and yet, on some level, the same. Both were puzzles she couldn’t completely figure out. Both were men she loved, respected.
    Just not the same way.
    Julia slid the key into the lock and let herself into the apartment.
    She stopped short at the sight of her favorite flowers, red and white tulips, overflowing from a glass vase on the diminutive entryway table. She was confused and alert at the same time. Assassins and terrorists rarely announced their presence with flowers, but then again some were very resourceful…
    Ex-lovers, even more.
    Considering her options, she brought out the SIG. It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to scare the heck out of whomever it was— the dirty rotten sneak— just for good measure.
    Slipping her heels off, she dropped her purse quietly to the floor. Standing motionless, her back against the wall, she slowed her uneven breathing and listened. The unobtrusive clink of silverware met her ears. The aroma of sautéing onions wafted past her nose.
    Yep, ex-lover.
    Gun at her side, she walked soundlessly down the hall feeling pissed off and relieved at the same time. She passed the living room and bedroom. It didn’t surprise her Con had gotten in—he’d gotten into Michael’s house without so much as breaking a sweat and she had to find out how he did that—but she hoped he’d been diligent enough to scan the apartment for bugs before he’d announced his presence.
    She stopped in the kitchen doorway, scanning the room. Place settings for three had been squeezed onto her small dinette table. A single red tulip sat spotlighted under the low-hanging lamp. Con was at the stove, pushing chopped onion and mushrooms around in a frying pan. The blood red color of his Iowa State University sweatshirt matched the New York strips lying on the counter nearby.
    Ryan Smith, in his standard polo shirt and chinos, was standing across from the sink, pouring wine into glasses. He looked up when she took a hesitant step forward and flashed her a big smile. “Welcome home, Sheba.” He walked toward her, offering one of the glasses. “How was your day at work? Kick any terrorist butt?”
    And just like that, Julia Torrison was back.

Chapter Six
    Langley
    Michael closed Smith’s personnel file and threw it on top of Flynn’s. He rubbed his eyes and swiveled his chair to look outside. Darkness was falling and he wished he could to say to hell with it all and go home. Branches of the nearby pin oaks bowed effortlessly with the wind as if waving him away.
    He didn’t really want to go home though—Abby wouldn’t be there. Funny how fast he’d gotten used to her presence, how fast she had turned his home into hers. Unlike the other women he’d known, Abigail hadn’t forced herself into his life. She hadn’t been looking for the perfect man to hang on her arm and show off to her friends while she privately criticized his long hours at the office and nagged him relentlessly to give up confidential information on his network of spies.
    Spies, always a double-edged sword. He turned back to his desk, his fingers toying with the manila file folder still unopened. Julia Torrison, aka Abigail Quinn. He knew the information contained in the file by heart, but he opened and scanned the highlights of her Agency bio again.

    JULIA MARIE TORRISON
    SEX/F
    RAC/W
    POB/ILLINOIS
    DOB/060177
    HGT/5’4”
    WGT/125
    EYE/GRE
    HAI/BROWN
    LV/APT
    TWN/ARLING
    ST/VA
    EDU/BA-SYR