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“I can guaran-damn-tee you that Rex has already instructed Bulldog and Hank exactly how he wants us taken out.” Dylan lay next to her, also still clothed, but he’d kicked off his ostrich-skin boots, the courtesy to keep her bed clean incongruous with the man he portrayed as Hawk Masters. He gave her a quick glance. “What’s so funny about having laser targets on us 24/7?”

She hadn’t realized she’d let out a laugh. “Nothing’s humorous about living on this knife’s edge, at the mercy of Rex’s whims, trust me. I was looking at your feet. Do you think Hawk would kick his boots off before flopping on a bed?”

Dylan turned on his side, facing her, propped on his elbow. “Hawk would have already bedded you and tossed you out of the apartment.” His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth rested in a lopsided grin, sparks of humor popping from his gaze.

Look away. She should get up and walk away, damn it.

Too late. As their gazes held, shared mirth shifted into something inexplicably deeper. Urgent. She was past denying that it was desire and lust moving between them. Heat rushed over her, prickled her scalp under the ridiculous wig and warmed her cheeks under the layers of makeup. If she tried to stand—the fact that she still wore her stiletto boots notwithstanding—her legs wouldn’t hold her. Not because of the hours on her feet catering to the full spectrum of Frisky’s patrons in the blasted heels, but because her need for Dylan was stronger than it ever had been.

“Stop thinking, Veronica.” His voice was full of sensuality.

She watched his lids lower, his face moving closer. For the first time since meeting Hawk as Monique, she allowed herself to give in to her feelings, her basic instincts. Veronica closed her eyes.

Dylan’s lips met hers, but instead of giving her the hungry kiss she expected—wanted—he took his time. A soft kiss full on her lips, then on either side of her mouth, followed by a trail of hot, wet kisses down her throat, along her clavicle. What had she just been thinking about Dylan not giving her a sign?

“Dylan” She moaned as heat pulsed between her legs. It was all she could do to remain still, to fully enjoy this erotic break from the reality that pressed in from all sides.

“Veronica.” He rasped out her name, trailing his tongue back up her throat, to the side of her mouth. She opened her mouth fully, needing to be joined with his.

The languid first kisses were left behind as their tongues met with fury, the gentle exploration obliterated by deep-penetrating strokes. She reached for him then, grasping his shoulders. She needed his full weight on top of her. Wanting him inside her, now.

Dylan moved with the same expert precision she’d witnessed when he’d hidden from Hank against her bedroom wall, except now it was to lie on top of her—

“Oof.” He stopped, poised over her, his pelvis mere inches from hers.

“What is it?” She stopped mid-tug of his belt, her palms at his hips. “Dylan?”

“Your damned boots.”

Belatedly she realized that her left foot had pressed into his foot and not the bed. She’d dug the sharp boot heel into his leg.

“I’m sor—”

“Hang on.” Getting to all fours, he quickly unzipped each boot, removed them from her legs. His brow rose at the sight of her utilitarian compression socks. “Are you also an undercover nurse?”

She sat up, swatted his hands away as she began to roll the snug-fitting hosiery down. “I’m on my feet for twelve hours in those cruel shoes. I learned to wear compression socks when I was still on patrols, didn’t you? Oh, but of course you never did a full round of patrols.” He’d gone right to undercover.

Still on his haunches, she felt his gaze, and met it. Dylan was unreadable again.

“Veronica…” He ran his fingers through his hair. She was acutely, inexplicably self-conscious as she sat staring at him. This was nothing like what she’d envisioned when she’d fantasized about how she and Dylan would eventually be together. She certainly didn’t picture herself in a dark-to-the-point-of-harsh brunette wig, wearing what many considered grandma socks.

“You don’t have to say it aloud, Dylan.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her back to him. “My choice of socks is a buzz kill.”

“We’re working together, is all.” The bed sagged behind her and she heard him putting his boots back on. “A complication like this is a mistake.”

Pain seared her heart but it wasn’t from his words. It was from the realization that he hadn’t changed in the last five years, hadn’t suddenly realized that he’d made a mistake when he blew out of her life. And now she had a reason why he’d never given her the hint of being interested in her since their work-related reunion.

Dylan had never intended for them to be a couple.

Dylan recognized the attempt at humor in her tone, knew she was trying to make light of the sudden heaviness that had smothered the fire between them. He also heard her sharp inhale at his last comment, sensed her disappointment, wondered if it was as deep as his regret. He willed his focus to the mission at hand and away from Veronica, from the promise of sinking his still-hard length into her hot, welcoming center.

“I didn’t mean you’re the mistake. That we’re—”

“Save it.” She’d already stood and was making quick work of taking off her wig, the pings of her hairpins—or did his sisters call them bobby pins?—quiet recriminations as they hit the top of a scarred chest of drawers. She stripped off the wig cap next, then her costume jewelry. She turned and faced him. Gone was the woman who moments ago had welcomed his touch. Still dressed in that now-rumpled silk blouse and too-tight skirt, she was the woman he’d confided in through all the trials of being rookies, when all either of them longed for was to excel at their jobs and earn the next needed promotion. Correction: you wanted to serve RGPD. Dylan always planned to move away.

“We’re two professionals who happen to have shared history. Whatever.” She shrugged. “What matters most right now is that we’re still in this fight, alive. The lives of the citizens of Red Grove, hell, all of North Dakota’s citizens, are at stake. We have to eliminate Slim and his supply for good. If we get killed, it’ll be a blow the sheriff, PD and FBI will need months, probably years, to bounce back from.” She blew a tendril of hair that had fallen over her eyes and he realized he hated her dark wig. Her dark copperish hair was a force of nature all on its own, making his hands wish they were buried in it. He forced the observation aside and ignored how swollen her lips were from their almost-lovemaking. “Truth is that some new player will show up, sooner than later, and fill Slim’s place. But they’ll avoid our area for a while, which might be long enough to clean up this town of the dreck from this scourge.”

“Agreed.” There was no arguing with a woman with hellfire in her eyes and the pursuit of justice burning in her belly. Especially one with her hair in a mess around her head. And the only one you’ve ever cared about?