Page 9 of Colton’s Secret Identity

As they had all night long in the midst of counting cash and handing out tiny bags of meth, thoughts of Dylan Colton intruded on her mind as she tried to decompress from a trying day. The mental image of his expression as recognition dawned, that initial spark—of joy, surprise, welcome?—in his eyes, immediately doused by his harsh glare.

“Intruded” means unwelcome.

Okay, so maybe she’d invited him into her thoughts more times than she could count over these last five years. Maybe she’d fantasized about tracking him down. She could have approached another Colton as Red Grove had plenty of them. Dylan’s twin brother, Aiden, lived in town. And now she worked with his brother Callum. Any one of his siblings would have gotten a message to him from her if she’d asked, or at least let her know how he was doing. Unless they hadn’t known where he was, either.

Unless he’d warned them not to.

She sat back up, removed the wig and then the sweat-soaked cap, and sighed. Veronica would never know because she hadn’t reached out.

Two big reasons prevented her from putting an end to her ridiculous reunion fantasies. First, Dylan had been recruited by the FBI during the wrap-up of a particularly difficult takedown that involved traffickers. His skills had proved top-notch whenever they worked together. The chief had been effusive in her praise of not only Dylan’s ability to handle the threat in front of him and his assigned partner, but also his knack for comprehending the big picture and using it to predict their target’s future actions. No other RGPD officer at the time had had that kind of vision.

Veronica had no doubt that Dylan had been pressed into undercover ops of the highest significance almost right away. There was a good chance his family was clueless as to his activities, as they should be. Even Sheriff Colton didn’t need to know every detail of a federal investigation. She hadn’t wanted to put Dylan or any op he was working at risk of compromise with her loose lips.

The second and real reason she hadn’t tried to find him was that Veronica prided herself on her resilience and self-sufficiency. Hadn’t she gotten Mom and Tawny through those lean years until Mom got on her feet financially, and had met her second husband? She hadn’t needed a father figure as a kid and she sure as heck didn’t need a man now.

You deserved closure. Dylan should have called, texted, sent a message through Sheriff Colton, at least.

Maybe. But whatever they’d shared, worrying about what could have been, was too long gone to keep wasting precious energy on.

“That was then, this is now.” She soothed herself with the motto she’d adopted as her own and padded to the bathroom, turned the shower to full pressure. Right now all she wanted was to scrub the scent of stale booze and stained money off her skin, then crawl into her good-enough bed. Tomorrow would need all of her energy, as would every day from here out. Until they brought down Rex.

Damn it. Dylan had missed his chance to let Veronica know he was in her apartment before she got into the shower. Naked.

Don’t go there.

He stood up from behind the minuscule love seat where he’d folded himself down only seconds before he heard her heels click-clack up the rickety stairwell. He couldn’t reveal himself until he knew she was alone, but she’d made a beeline to the bedroom.

This place was a firetrap, the only window being over that poor excuse for a bed. He’d picked his way inside after he was certain his stooges were snug as the rats they were in their beds. They all crashed at the McMansion on the outskirts of town that the Bureau’s clandestine operations fund had purchased after the DEA took down his predecessor’s drug ring. That had been his first clue that the three men he’d inherited as “protection” weren’t the most intelligent creatures. They assumed he owned the place.

The shower water stopped and he froze in the center of the tiny living area. His hesitation annoyed him—it was purely Dylan who reacted, who wanted to give Veronica her privacy to at least get dressed before he announced his presence. He swore under his breath and closed his eyes. “You’re Hawk,” he whispered.

Two car doors slammed in the night, on the other side of the apartment entry. He moved to the door as quietly as possible, wishing he’d taken off the high-end cowboy boots his twin, Aiden, had loaned him without asking why he needed them. Peering through the peephole, he saw no one, so he cracked the door, stuck his head out.

The back parking lot of Frisky stood empty except for two vehicles, one which he immediately recognized even before Scar and Slash stepped out. A third person approached them from the club’s back exit. Hank. Hank nodded to his pair of punks, as if they were all BFFs. As if they’d known one another before…

Scar had made the connection with Hank, but said it was his first time reaching out since they’d worked a job together “a long time ago.” As Dylan watched, the three men laughed, patted one another on the back and pointed at…him.

He pulled his head in. They weren’t pointing at him; they didn’t know he was here. They thought Veronica was here. Alone.

What the actual… Fury made his vision narrow and his legs jerked to run down the steps and confront the three traitors.

But if he got injured or worse in a shootout, where would that leave Veronica?

“Ahhh.” She slid between the bamboo sheets she’d purchased as she believed everyone deserved a comfortable sleep, even the drug-peddling nightclub owner she posed as, and closed her eyes. The sweet drift of slumber wrapped—

Creak.

Someone was in her apartment. Very close. Here, in her bedroom.

She sat straight up, reached for the pistol in her nightstand. As her fingers wrapped around the drawer knob, a strong hand grasped her wrist, stopping her. Veronica’s trained reflexes kicked in, sending her into full defensive mode. She used the place where her attacker gripped her wrist as a pivot, brought her legs up, over, and aimed a kick at his head. She moved in total silence, as she needed her energy and oxygen to fight. Even if she yelled, who would come to her rescue? The nightclub was empty and Hank had gone home an hour ago.

Her assailant was quicker, though, and let go of her wrist before she fully spun, forcing her momentum to drop her, heavily, onto the floor.

It wasn’t the throw rug that caught her fall, though. She lay astride her attacker, who now had both her wrists held securely.

“You—” She moved to headbutt him, her mouth open and ready to bite his nose.

“Veronica, it’s me. Dylan.” The fierce whisper cut through her adrenaline rush, through the hours of repetitive defensive and offensive training.