Donavan?
Her stomach lurched faster than a major turbulence plunge. Oh God, she recognized that name. She waited for him to deny it … even though she already knew he wouldn’t.
“Yes, that’s me. Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Troy Donavan.
He’d confirmed it. He was far from a nice guy, far from some computer geek just passing time on a commuter flight. His reputation for partying hard and living on the edge made it into the social pages on a regular basis.
“Mr. Donavan, would you step out of your seat, please?”
Troy shot an apologetic look her way before he angled out to stand in front of the two men. “We could have met up at the gate like regular folks.”
The older man, the guy who seemed in charge, shook his head. “It’s better this way. We don’t want to keep Colonel Salvatore waiting.”
“Of course. Can’t inconvenience the colonel.” Muscles bunched in Troy’s arms, his hands fisting at his sides.
What the hell was going on?
The “men in black” retrieved Troy’s Italian leather briefcase and placed a streamlined linen fedora on his head, the same look that had been featured in countless articles. If she’d seen him in his signature hat, she would have recognized him in a heartbeat.
He was infamous in D.C. for having hacked the Department of Defense’s computer system seventeen years ago. She’d been all of ten at the time but he’d become an icon. From then on, any computer hacking was called “pulling a Donavan.” He’d made it into pop culture lexicons. He’d become a folk legend for the way he’d leaked information that exposed graft and weaknesses within the system. Some argued he’d merely stepped in where authorities and politicians should have. But there was no denying he’d broken major laws. If he’d been an adult, he would have spent his life in jail.
After a slap-on-the-wrist sentence in some military school, he’d been free to make billions and live out his life in a totally decadent swirl of travel and conspicuous consumption. And she’d fallen for his lying charm. She’d even liked him. She hadn’t learned a damn thing from Barry.
She bit her lip against the disappointment in herself. She was here to put the past behind her—not complicate her future. She pressed her back against the body of the plane, unable to get far enough away from the man who’d charmed the good sense right out of her.
Troy reached for his briefcase, but the younger man took a step back.
The older of the two men held out … handcuffs.
Cocking an eyebrow, Troy said, “Are these really needed?”
“I’m afraid they are.” Click. Click. “Troy Donavan, you’re under arrest.”
Two
“Were the handcuffs necessary?” Holding up his shackled hands, Troy sprawled in the backseat of the armored SUV as they powered away from the airport. The duo that had arrested him sat in the front. His mentor and former military school headmaster—Colonel John Salvatore—sat beside him with a smirk on his face.
As always, he wore a gray suit and red tie, no variation, same thing every day as if wearing a uniform even though he’d long ago left the army.
“Yes, Troy, actually they are required, as per the demands of the grand dame throwing this gala. She’s determined to have a bachelor auction like one she read about in a romance novel and she thought, given your checkered past, the handcuffs would generate buzz. And honest to God, the photos in the paper will only help your image, and therefore our purposes, as well.”
It was always about their purposes. Their agreement.
He’d struck a deal with Colonel Salvatore at twenty-one years old, once his official sentence was complete. Salvatore had been the headmaster of that military reform school—and more. Apparently he helped recruit freelancers for Interpol who could assist with difficult assignments—such as using Troy’s computer skills and later utilizing his access to high-power circles. Other graduates of the military school had been recruited, as well, people who could use their overprivileged existence to quickly move in high-profile circles. For these freelancers, no setup was needed for a cover story, a huge time and money saver for the government.
A person might be called on once. Or once a year. Maybe more. Salvatore offered things no one else in Troy’s life had ever given him. A real chance to atone.
He may not have felt guilty at fifteen, but over time he’d come to realize the repercussions of what he’d done were far-reaching. His big DOD computer exposé as a teen had inadvertently exposed two undercover operatives. And even though they hadn’t died, their careers had been cut short, their usefulness in the field ruined.
He should have taken his information to the authorities rather than giving it to the press. He’d been full of ego and the need to piss off his father. He knew better now, and had the opportunity to make up for what he’d cost the government and those two agents.
And yeah, he still enjoyed the rush of flying close to the flame while doing it.
Troy worked his hands inside the cuffs. “You could have waited. There was no need to freak out Hillary Wright. I would think you’d want her calm.”
Her horrified, disillusioned blue eyes were burned in his memory as deeply as the sound of her laugh and the genuine warmth of her smile.
Sighing, Salvatore swiped a hand over his closely shorn head. “If you’d been on the private jet like you were supposed to be none of this would have happened. Stop caring what Hillary Wright thinks of you. She’ll be out of your life by Monday. Your time will be your own soon enough and, with luck, I won’t need to call on you again for a long while.”
The years stretched ahead in monotony. His company all but ran itself now. The past eleven months since he’d been called upon had been boring as hell.
His mind zipped back to Hillary and how he would see her for the rest of the weekend—how she would see him. “A bachelor auction, huh? That grand dame can’t expect me to strut down some catwalk.”
“When did you start worrying about appearances?”
“When did you start using innocents like Hillary?” he snapped back, unsettled by the protective surge pumping through him. At least he would have a chance to explain to her some of what had happened on the plane. He could claim the event swore him to secrecy about the handcuffing gig, even if he wasn’t authorized to tell her about his role with Interpol. “I thought your gig was to, uh, collaborate with the fallen.”
“My ‘gig’ is to mentor people with potential. Always has been.”
“Mentor. Jailer.”
Salvatore smirked. “Someone’s grouchy.”
Troy rattled his cuffs as they drove deeper into the skyscraper-filled city. “Could you just take the cuffs off?”
He hated being confined and Salvatore knew that, damn it. Although looking at the cuffs now, other uses scrolled through his head, sexy fantasies of using them with Hillary.
