Free White Heat by Cherry Adair

in search of Max, sipping as she walked through the large rooms of the villa. The black coffee was strong and bitter, and with just a little milk added would have been perfect. Still, the caffeine did its job and finished the waking-up process. Daniel’s son was probably counting the silver and calling an appraiser in to tell him how much money he could get when he sold everything.
    It had taken Daniel most of his life to amass an enviable art collection. From what she knew of Max, he’d probably sell the lot to the highest bidder. Emily tried not to resent him for his greed. Hell, she didn’t know him, just of him from the stories Daniel had shared. Time would tell.
    She wasn’t ready to see Daniel’s studio without Daniel in it. She also wasn’t ready to see Max. She was still annoyed at him for not arriving in time to attend his own father’s funeral. And for leaving her without a backward glance. And for being a player with the moral fiber of a fruit fly.
    Worst of all, she admitted to herself as she headed to the tower and Daniel’s studio, worst of all was the way her traitorous body responded to him whenever he was within sight. Her brain and her hormones were in violent conflict.
    “My new mantra,” she muttered, climbing the stairs to the tower’s second-floor studio. “Mind over matter.” My mind, and Max Aries doesn’t matter. I can do this. It’s only for a few more hours at most. She smiled as she reached the landing.
    She was woman. Hear her ignore.
    EARPIECE IN PLACE, MAX LEANED HIS SHOULDER AGAINST THE CASEMENT of the open French door. He stared unseeing at the vast stretch of lawn and the leafless trees as he filled in his Control, Darius, about the events of the early hours of that morning. The rain had finally stopped about half an hour ago, and the landscape had been washed clean. Water sparkled like diamonds as it dripped off bare branches.
    The subject switched to operative Catherine Seymour’s, code name “Savage,” recent activities. “We fucking know Savage is a rogue operative,” he snapped. “Why the hell would you—Yeah, I hear you.” Keep your enemy close. He got it. But it pissed him off that the powers-that-be at T-FLAC headquarters were still sending Savage out on ops. Minor ones, true. But they had confirmation that she’d almost killed Taylor Kincaid in the op in South Africa three months ago. Hunt St. John was gunning for Savage’s blood, and Max didn’t blame him.
    The more they’d dug, the more crap they’d unearthed about one of their best sharpshooters. Savage had been with T-FLAC for almost ten years. While they’d been fucking chasing their tails trying to track down the head of the Black Rose terrorist organization one of that slithery tango group had been working right alongside them.
    They knew Savage was a Black Rose asset. Catching her was easy. But keeping her close and still active would lead them to the head of the tango group. And that’s what they wanted. Savage couldn’t sneeze without them knowing the velocity.
    “Where’s she now?” Max listened, then gave a short bark of laughter. “Not a shitload of tangos in Portland. Anything else of interest?” He’d called in to see if their medical team had discovered anything interesting about the old man’s body after exhumation. So far they hadn’t. Still, Max knew how thorough they were. If there was anything hinky, other than being tossed off a three-story balcony, they’d find it.
    He listened absently as his Control, Darius gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had happened—tango related—in the world at large in the last twenty-four hours. The U.S. embassy in Mauritius had had several bomb threats. A church had been blown up in Brazil, thirty dead. A bunch of lilies had been left near the site. A synagogue in Rio had a minor explosion, more lilies. That was a pattern they were following, and keeping a tight watch on. A train had been derailed in Hong Kong—three hundred dead or