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Had he spotted her on the road, he might’ve mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.
    But she wasn’t going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.
    â€œWhy do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.
    She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn’t have another one.”
    â€œI’m not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”
    She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It’s a living, isn’t it?”
    A good living. They’d only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel’s involvement wasn’t entirely about the money. According to what he’d read in her file, and the bit of information she’d revealed, she’d had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who’d known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be.
    â€œThe danger doesn’t bother you?”
    â€œNo more than it bothers you.”
    He almost told her to get out. She didn’t need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff’s twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan’s former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might’ve been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he’d swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worsethan usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss’s orders.
    She flashed him her wedding ring. “Too late. You already tried that, anyway. Let’s go.”
    His thoughts gravitated to a former Department 6 employee. Enrico had lost his right eye when someone he knew in regular life happened upon him while he was on the job. After that friend inadvertently blew his cover, Enrico had been forced to fight for his life. Nate didn’t want something like that to happen again—to any member of his team, but especially one of the women.
    â€œThis could be unpredictable,” he warned.
    â€œThey’re all unpredictable.”
    â€œYou’re sure you’re up for it?”
    â€œI’m positive.”
    â€œYou didn’t seem so certain when you called me a few hours ago.”
    â€œHow would you know? You didn’t give me a chance to talk.”
    â€œI’m giving you a chance now.”
    â€œSomeone’s got to do this. Might as well be me.”
    She was right. Someone had to do it. He doubted Milt would change his mind, anyway. As she’d just said, Nate had already argued with him about it, to no avail.
    Ultimately, this was Milt’s decision. And Rachel’s. Not his.
    Taking a deep breath, he backed down her long drive. She’d chosen this line of work, applied of her own free will, knowing full well the dangers she’d encounter. And she’d proven herself effective.
    While he made the turn onto the winding road that would take them to the highway, she dug through her purse. He had no idea what she was searching for until he smelled the distinctive scent of fingernail polish.
    â€œHey, that stuff stinks,” he complained.
    She pulled off her sandal and hugged her left knee to her chest so she could paint her toenails. “I need to get into character. Rachel Mott is the kind of woman who likes her nails a delicate pink.”
    â€œHow do you know?” he countered. “That wasn’t in the dossier.”
    â€œThere wasn’t much in the