Midnight Games Excerpt:

Never Took You for a Coward

“He called again last night.”

Isabel Roma froze. Only for a split second, but a second was all it took to tip off her boss, whose smirk widened. Crap. Noelle was a predator— how her any sign of weakness and the queen of assassins would eat you alive.

“What’d you tell him?” Isabel asked carefully.

“Same thing I’ve been telling him for the past five months. You’re deep cover and can’t be reached.” Noelle paused, an honest-to-God grin gracing her bloodred lips.

Considering that the woman only smiled right before she killed you, Isabel grew a tad worried. Gulping, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Spit it out, Noelle.”

“He wanted me to pass along a message.” That shit-eating grin got bigger. “He said he never took you for a coward.”

A coward? The insult prickled her skin, even though she knew the accusation had been Trevor Callaghan’s way of provoking a reaction from her. He of all people knew that she was the furthest thing from a coward.

Bristling, she drifted toward the wet bar on the other side of the lavish living room. She was staying at Noelle’s Paris penthouse until she found a place of her own, but although she was technically homeless, she had zero complaints about her current digs. The gorgeous two-story apartment was located on the Right Bank, an area known for its spacious avenues, ornate nineteenth-century buildings, and wealthy foreign residents. The enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the breathtaking cityscape, even more beautiful at night with all the lights twinkling like diamonds. Outside, the silver frost clinging to the streetlamps and the layer of white covering the sidewalks created a magical ambience that Isabel would’ve taken more time to admire if she hadn’t been so rattled at the moment.

With a sigh, she poured herself a glass of Maker’s Mark and took a long swig. The alcohol scorched a path down her throat but did nothing to quell the uneasiness that had been rippling in her stomach ever since she’d landed at the private airstrip this morning, where Noelle had been waiting in a silver Mercedes. In that nonchalant, I-don’t-particularly-give-a-fuck tone, Noelle had revealed that Trevor Callaghan had been hounding her for information ever since he and Isabel had said good-bye in New York.

Said good-bye? echoed the mocking voice in her head.

Fine. So maybe they hadn’t exchanged any good-byes. Maybe she’d just left.

Left?

Gritting her teeth, Isabel tried to silence the exasperating voice by taking another gulp of whiskey, but it didn’t work. Guilt continued to trickle into her, along with a pang of shame that made her chest hurt.

Damn it. Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe she was a coward. How else could you explain why she’d abandoned him like that?

Five months ago, she’d done some undercover work for mercenary extraordinaire Jim Morgan, which had yet again paired her with Trevor. The first time she’d worked with the former Special Forces soldier, he’d been a ravaged, grieving mess— man with a death wish, a man she shouldn’t have been attracted to but was. The second time around, that attraction had intensified, and Trevor had been a changed man. A healed man.

They’d connected during that second job, really connected. They’d kissed, for Pete’s sake. And what had she done? She’d deserted him. Left him waiting at her SoHo apartment, hopped a plane, and fled the country.

How long had he waited?

Another rush of guilt flooded her belly as the question she’d been wondering these past five months floated into her head. A part of her hoped that Trevor had figured out the score after an hour or two, but deep down she knew he wouldn’t have given up that fast. He would’ve waited for hours, days even, and when she still didn’t return . . . that’s when the worry would have set in. The anger. The bitterness.

But again, she knew Trevor—no matter how angry he was, he would need to make sure she was all right, which meant he would move heaven and earth to track her down.

According to Noelle, he’d been doing just that.