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  "Well, hi," she said, stepping back to admit them. "Gary, your students are here," she sang out, clearly mistaking Juliet and Tristan for her husband's pupils. "I'm Holly," she added, shaking Juliet's hand first as they joined her in the warm foyer.

  "I'm Juliet," she introduced them, "and this is Tristan."

  Holly squinted up at Tristan as she pumped his hand. "I think we've met," she said.

  With an expression of bemusement, Tristan didn't say anything.

  "Well, come on in. Don't be shy." Holly led them into a tastefully decorated living room, where a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man sat, eyes glued to the play unfolding on a flat-screen TV. "Sweetie, I told you some of your students would show up."

  A handsome, craggy face swung in their direction. Gary Sigmund did a double take, then pushed to his feet. "These aren't my students." He regarded them quizzically, his gaze homing in on Tristan. "Can I help you?"

  Seeing his biological father face-to-face put a stranglehold on Tristan's vocal cords. Everything about Gary Sigmund, from his rugged features to the smile lines fanning the corners of his deep-set eyes struck Tristan as endearing. The impulse to cry, "Dad!" and barrel into the stranger's arms caught him by surprise.

  Juliet spoke up into the long silence. "Sir, I'm Juliet Rhodes. I'm a private investigator."

  The colonel's forehead creased with concern as he divided his gaze between them.

  "I'd like you to meet Tristan Halliday," she added.

  Recognition lit the colonel's face, and stepped toward Tristan to shake his hand. "The NASCAR driver?"

  The fact that his father had followed his career kept Tristan speechless as their hands connected. A distinct warmth traveled up his arm, and he managed to nod.

  "He's a Navy SEAL now," Juliet revealed.

  "Even better," Gary exclaimed, gripping Tristan's hand more enthusiastically.

  "And he's your son," Juliet added gently.

  The colonel's eyes flared. His handshake froze.

  Holly cut a sharp look at her husband, her eyebrows shooting up.

  "I don't have a son," Gary protested, as he broke the contact, dropping his hand back to his side.

  Tristan managed to find his voice. "My mother was Cassidy King," he stated hoarsely. "You had a—a thing with her back in '87."

  The silence between the people in the room contrasted starkly with the rousing cheer coming from the television. Gary Sigmund gaped at Tristan. "Holy mother of God," he finally exclaimed. "I never—Cassidy never told me she got pregnant."

  Holly's eyebrows remained aloft. She propped her hands on her hips, looking back and forth between the two men.

  "Well... she did," Tristan insisted. "I guess she was all about her career, and she didn't want to have to settle down, so...."

  "Oh, for the love of Pete, Gary," Holly interrupted on a sympathetic note. "Of course he's your son. Don't just stand there. Give your boy a hug before I do!"

  Shaking himself from his trancelike state, the colonel threw open his arms and engulfed his son in an embrace. Tristan melted. He had thought claiming kinship to a pure stranger might feel awkward. But Gary's heart pounding against his chest drove home their blood connection. A bond, unlike anything he'd ever experienced, sealed instantly and effortlessly between them.

  At last, the colonel's grip relaxed. Surreptitiously wiping a tear from his eye, he turned Tristan toward the lamp's glow.

  "Let me look at you." Hazel eyes, bright with interest, searched his face. "My God, what a sight," he exclaimed, clearly liking what he saw. He shot a grin at his wife. "Look what I made."

  "Not exactly by yourself," Holly drawled.

  Tristan sent Juliet a bemused smile.

  "Told you," she mouthed.

  She'd been right. His father had welcomed him.

  "Let's all sit down," Holly suggested, gesturing to the wide couch.

  The three of them took the sofa while the colonel resumed his seat in the arm chair. His unabashed gaze never left Tristan's face.

  "He's got Cassidy's coloring, her blue eyes," he said to his wife. "How is your mother?" he asked Tristan with sudden interest.

  Tristan's throat closed up on him a second time. He shot a pleading glance at Juliet.

  "Cassidy didn't raise Tristan," Juliet informed the other couple. Their confused response prompted her to explain the circumstances of Tristan's abandonment and subsequent adoption. "He only just found out who you are and who his mother was," she tacked on, glancing at him sidelong.

  "She's dead," Tristan inserted roughly.

  Dismay wreathed Gary's face as he noted Tristan's sorrow. "Cassidy's dead?" he said in disbelief.

  Speaking over the lump in his throat, Tristan described his recent trip to Carmel and the awful news he'd received from his aunt.

  The colonel covered his eyes as he listened. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry, son. Son," he repeated, lowering his hand to send his wife a wonder-filled look. "I have a son as well as two daughters!"

  "Wait, I have sisters?" Tristan asked.

  "Caitlyn and Ashley," Gary confirmed, leaping up to fetch the two framed photographs off the wall. "Nineteen and twenty-one." He handed them to Tristan to study. "They're both away at college."

  "Oh, my God," Tristan could see a family resemblance between all three of them. Holly leaned closer to explain which girl was which and what they were doing with their lives.

  Warmed by the woman's acceptance, Tristan glanced at Juliet and saw a softness in her face he had never seen before. The look eased the irritation he'd grappled with earlier over her refusal to admit to feelings for him. If she didn't care for him at all, she wouldn't be so happy for him right now. Whether she realized it or not, his prickly PI was falling for him.

  Gary straightened suddenly. "We need to toast this occasion. Holly, honey, where's that bottle of scotch I've been saving?"

  "It's in the cabinet above the refrigerator."

  Tristan caught Juliet's eye and sent her a smug smile. His father called his woman "honey," too.

  * * *

  Sitting in the cramped, fragrant restaurant in D.C.'s Chinatown, Hilary noticed a thirty-something career woman giving Stu the look. A proud little smile twitched across Hilary's as she considered her date through the other woman's eyes.

  Dressed in the knit forest-green crewneck sweater and the designer jeans she'd picked out at the mall that morning, Stu only vaguely resembled the awkward man who'd arrived at her apartment the day before.

  They'd spent a fabulous day together—first shopping at Tyson's Corner, then taking the Metro into the heart of Washington, D.C. to visit the Air and Space Museum. There, they had read every placard on every display, absorbing the history of aeronautics like a pair of sponges. While waiting for a virtual ride aboard the space shuttle, Stu had, without any provocation on her part, grabbed her hand and held onto it. The memory of that moment caused Hilary's pulse to skitter. Prior to then, she'd never thought of holding hands as a kind of foreplay.

  They'd left the museum ravenous for food and grabbed a taxi into Chinatown. And here they were, enjoying the best General Tso chicken she had ever tasted.

  "I had the best day ever." Hilary simply couldn't contain her happiness and saw no reason not to expound on it. Except then she recalled that it was all about to end. They would return to her apartment, and Stu would get into his all-electric Volt and drive all the way back to Virginia Beach, after finding some place to charge it. She might never even see him again. Hilary's smile abruptly faded.

  Gazing across the table, she was pleased to find Stu regarding her intently. So often, his thoughts were turned inward, but right then, he was really looking at her. Reaching across the table, he laid his hand over hers and lightly stroked her knuckles with his thumb. The sensation, like his unexpected action, made her stomach whirl like a spinning top.

  "I could stay, you know," he offered unexpectedly.

  "What?" Hilary sat straighter in her seat.

  "I have two weeks
of downtime before the next assignment. I don't have to go back tonight."

  "You mean you have the same time off as Tristan?"

  "Yes," Stu affirmed, watching Hilary's reaction.

  "Oh." Delight blossomed within her. "Stay, please! It'll take the FBI weeks to catch up to where we are with this investigation. I bet we can put the pieces together before the Bureau even looks into Juliet's allegations."

  Stu's answering smile conveyed confidence. "If that's what you want."

  What she wanted was for Stu to lay her across her bed and ravish her, and maybe that would fit right in while they attended to Juliet's problem. After all, two weeks was a long time. "Oh, I do," she said earnestly.

  His phone buzzed, interrupting whatever he was going to say. Figuring it was Tristan checking in, Hilary watched Stu pluck his cell phone from the holster on his belt. She hadn't had the heart to deny him that particular accessory.

  Pretending disinterest, she applied herself to finishing the food on her plate while straining to hear his conversation over the piped-in music. The call lasted all of thirty seconds, and she'd barely had time to swallow a forkful of rice, before he thumbed it to a close and put his phone away.

  "Sorry," he apologized.

  "Tristan?" she asked.

  "My secret contact."

  "Oh." Hilary laid down her fork and leaned across her plate. Curiosity consumed her, but she wouldn't ask who the person was, what they did for a living that made them so secretive, or how Stu even knew the person. "What did he or she say?" she whispered.

  "He told me where Goebel was offered asylum, and what name he adopted."

  Hilary noted with relief that the contact wasn't female. "And?" she prompted, eager to hear what he'd learned.

  "He went by Peter Goyle," Stu relayed. "He was given an apartment in San Francisco and a sizeable monthly stipend to live on. He also passed away two years ago."

  Possibilities fired off millions of neurons in Hilary's brain at once. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she pitched her voice so only Stu could hear. "Maybe he had a LinkedIn page like Coenen does, and we can establish a connection between them."

  Stu's dark eyes glimmered with excitement. Looking away, he sought to catch the waiter's eye.

  Minutes later, they were hustling toward the nearest Metro stop, eager to return to her apartment to research Peter Goyle/ Dieter Goebel.

  Suddenly, with the sureness of a shadow warrior, Stu hooked an arm around Hilary's waist and backed her against the marble exterior of a fancy hotel. He searched her expression briefly. In the dark, all she could make out were his eyes as he lowered his head and gently brushed her lips.

  A thrill rippled through her like water slipping over a rocky streambed. Stu was finally kissing her. Hilary couldn't believe it.

  His kiss was as light as the wind wafting down the dark alley—and it made her sizzle from her head to the tippy toes of her purple high-heeled boots.

  Lifting his head, he took in her reaction, then lowered his mouth a second time and kissed her hard enough to coax her lips apart. Hilary fought the impulse to take over. It was obvious he hadn't kissed many women. His instincts, however, were unerring, his tentative foray like the Enterprise venturing where no man had ever gone before—except that many had. Stu didn't need to know that, of course.

  She'd never been kissed like this—as if every second counted. He wasn't simply making a pit stop on his way to the finish line. He was going to stay awhile, explore the terrain, and even classify the life forms.

  As the kiss deepened, Hilary's bones went into a slow melt. Yet their height difference must have troubled him for, without warning, he lifted her off her feet and fused his mouth with hers. Behind her closed eyes, the bright lights of the city seemed to spin.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Hilary would have groped her partner boldly. But this was Stu, and she was dangling helplessly, so she coiled her arms demurely about his neck. Instead of grinding her pelvis against his thigh, she rubbed his broad shoulders through the soft fabric of his new sweater.

  All too soon, he severed the kiss and slowly lowered her to the ground—though not before she felt evidence of his arousal. "Sorry," he said.

  As if he had any reason to apologize.

  "That's OK. Anytime," she added, hoping Stu would kiss her again.

  Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the street. "Better keep moving. We have a lot of work to do."

  The inference that they would be researching Peter Goyle all night and not exploring new frontiers wasn't lost on her. Oddly enough, she was OK with that. There was something nice about dating at Stu's pace. It was like junior high all over again, when a girl could like a guy and didn't have to do backflips to prove it.

  As they caught the Silver Line Metro back to Tyson's Corner, Hilary wondered whether she and Stu could connect Hans Coenen and the so-called Peter Goyle before the FBI returned Juliet's phone call. Hell, Juliet would have to give her a raise if that happened!

  Chapter 15

  "Well, you must be one hell of a private investigator," Gary Sigmund asserted, fixing his admiring gaze on Juliet.

  The four of them were seated around the Sigmunds' coffee table, holding beer bottles and munching on chips. The clock on the muted football game showed a minute left. Having filled his father in on the highlights of his twenty-nine years, Tristan ended his narrative with an explanation of how Juliet had managed to do what the Wilmington police hadn't—track down his birth mother by identifying the man who'd left him as an infant in the medical center.

  "My assistant gets the credit for that," Juliet demurred.

  "They are both amazing women," Tristan chimed in, bestowing Juliet with an affectionate shoulder rub.

  The colonel took note. "So, you two are a couple?" he inquired.

  Juliet kept quiet.

  "Yes," Tristan answered. He shot her a wounded look for not answering.

  Holly and her husband made eye contact.

  "I'm here on business," Juliet clarified.

  "She's going after the guy who killed her parents," Tristan explained.

  Both Sigmunds look at Juliet to see if Tristan was joking. She met their stares without blinking.

  "You mind if I tell them?" Tristan asked.

  She didn't see much reason to reveal her story, but Tristan seemed eager to share, so she said, "Go ahead."

  "OK, so get this." He propped his elbows on his knees as he leaned in to tell his story. "Juliet's mother was a spy for East Germany."

  "No way." Holly's expression conveyed skepticism.

  "It's true." Tristan insisted. He sketched them a description of Anya Ausfeld's past—her recruitment by the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance and her subsequent attempts to glean intelligence from an American employee of NSA working in West Berlin.

  "Wait a minute," Gary Sigmund interrupted. "You know I teach History of the Cold War at the Post-Graduate school, right?" He looked from Tristan to Juliet.

  That was news to her. Juliet shook her head. "No, we only knew that you taught here, but not your subject."

  Gary waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, get back to your story."

  Tristan hesitated. "Well, maybe Juliet should tell it."

  With the Sigmunds eyeing her expectantly, Juliet found herself describing her parents' marriage, her mother's subsequent defection from East Germany, and the couple's mutual plea for asylum in the States. "WITSEC gave Anya and Gerard new names, new jobs as teachers, and a house. I grew up never knowing what they'd been through," she added.

  Holly and Gary regarded her with identical expressions of incredulity.

  "My parents were safe for twenty years," Juliet continued, pushing through the sudden constriction in her throat. "But, when I was sixteen, I believe my mother's past caught up with her."

  With rising agitation, she described the single-car accident and the mechanical malfunctions that led to the death of both parents. "The car was resting on its side in a ditch. My arm got
pinned, trapping me in the back seat, but I saw a man looking through my mother's window."

  Holly covered her mouth with one hand.

  "He couldn't see me, but I saw him clearly. After a minute of staring at my parents, he just turned and walked away. No one came to help for another four hours. I now believe my mother used to work with that man, in the Directorate. I think he caused the accident."

  "Oh, you poor girl." Holly looked like she might get out of her seat to come offer her a hug.

  Tristan rubbed Juliet's back consolingly.

  "Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on perspective, after I recovered, I had no memory of the man." Juliet shook her head in regret. "It was only a week ago that I remembered seeing him at the car window."

  "Juliet's unconscious mind was trying to protect her," Tristan explained.

  "That happened to a friend of mine in the Corp," Gary said. "It's not that unusual."

  "I believe I have discovered who the man is." Continuing her tale, Juliet explained how she and Tristan ended up searching in San Francisco for Hans Coenen.

  Gary's eyes narrowed. "He's here in the U.S.?"

  "Yes. He's a retired policeman living in San Francisco."

  "A policeman," Holly marveled.

  Juliet caught Gary's eye. "Perhaps you've heard of the man who headed up the Directorate—Dieter Goebel?" she asked.

  "Of course," Gary said, even as Holly shook her head. "The Man Without a Face, the world's greatest spymaster. The reunified German courts tried and imprisoned him after the Wall came down."

  Juliet nodded, pleased to find Gary well informed. "Yes, but Goebel disappeared from jail in 1992 because the CIA offered him asylum in the States."

  Gary nodded gravely. "I'd heard that rumor."

  "Guess where they placed him." While Tristan had been sharing the highlights of his racing career with Gary, Juliet had received a text from Hilary that confirmed her suspicions. She held up her phone. "My assistant just informed me that he took the name Peter Goyle, and he lived in San Francisco until his death two years ago."