man I’ve ever been with. When we’re together, I feel safe and happy. Special.”
“You are special.”
Everything between them fell into place right from the start, tumblers in a lock clicking into position. Her presence, her affection, her warmth, lessened the emptiness that gnawed at him.
She had a good heart and wasn’t weak. This woman had grit. She was fierce and smart and trusting. An irresistible mix of qualities that were hard to find and it made him even hotter for her.
He’d never considered having a long-term girlfriend, or commitments outside the military and the USMS, but he wanted to give himself to Isabel, have a future with her.
“This may sound crazy,” she said, raw vulnerability all over her face, “but I think I’m falling in love with you.”
His heart ached because he was falling in love, too. For the first time in his life.
If he told her the truth about who he was, he’d jeopardize everything. But if he slept with her without her knowing, she’d never forgive him, and he’d lose her forever.
Dutch squeezed his eyes shut, the importance of the mission weighing on him heavy as wet sandbags, knowing what was at risk if he failed—the lives of fellow marshals, their spouses, their children.
There was no debate. He had no choice. Right or wrong, what he had to do next was clear.
* * *
“I TOLD YOU I love you,” she said. And he hadn’t said it back. Not that he owed her such a huge declaration.
Isabel drew in a shuddering breath, wondering if her admission was too much for him. Ill-timed? Too soon? Was she supposed to wait for him to say something so big first?
She’d had a handful of lovers, but none that she’d loved, and she wanted to share herself with someone who filled her heart.
Dutch opened his eyes, his gaze locked with hers, and she knew. Without him needing to say it, she saw it crystal clear, the same affection, the same passion, an absolute soul-deep connection glittering back at her.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. Her heart stuttered and swelled with relief. She brushed her mouth across his, but there was no answering pressure.
“Isabel,” he said, and she put her hand to his chest, feeling the hard muscles bunch under his T-shirt, the hammering beat of his heart beneath. “I’m undercover.”
“Huh?” That hadn’t been what she’d expected to hear, and it made no sense. “What—what are you talking about?”
“I’m a US marshal. Undercover.” His body flexed with tension. A dark sadness, pain, filled his eyes. “I was sent to get close to you. To recover something important that your uncle stole. To save lives.” The words cut through her, leaving her raw, exposed.
She gathered her robe closed, covering herself as she pushed upright and tied the sash tight. Too stunned and confused to speak, she cradled her head in her hands. She tried breaking down what he’d said into tiny digestible pieces, but before she had a chance, he kept talking.
“Your uncle isn’t who you think he is.” Dutch sat up beside her. “He’s not a legitimate businessman. He’s the head of the Los Chacales cartel,” he said, the name ringing bells in her head—big, clanging warning bells. “At least, he’s in charge on the West Coast. His son, Miguel, handles things on the East Coast since your uncle put him in power.”
A chill so cold that it burned raced over her skin.
Dutch put his hand on her thigh.
She flinched, jumping to her feet. “Don’t touch me. Stay away from me.”
“Your uncle Emilio peddles drugs and death,” Dutch said, low and calm while a storm of emotion brewed inside her. “He’s a man of violence with brutal tendencies. He’s also a growing threat to national security.”
“That’s not true!” She stumbled back. “Why are you saying these horrible things?”
Dutch strode across the room to a briefcase. He entered a code, unlocking it, and pulled out a thick file. Sitting back on the sofa, he set it on the coffee table and opened it somewhere in the middle. “Do you know this woman?”
Isabel stepped closer and peered over at a picture of a young woman she recognized and stilled. Icy fingers closed around her heart and squeezed. “Yes. She’s my uncle’s ex-girlfriend.”
“Your uncle uses every legitimate business that he owns, including your art gallery, to wash his money or sell drugs. Lori Carpenter,” he said, pointing to the picture, “worked at a capital-management firm, where your uncle laundered hundreds of millions of dollars. After