“Well, fuck Sarah Banks and—” Ian’s words halted when the door opened. “Oh. I already have.”

Bloody hell. It was only a matter of time until one of those many, many one-night stands would come back to bite him in the ass.

Sandy hair, blue eyes, and a smile he’d pronounced “pretty” the night he’d met her in Singapore. She’d probably been a government plant to see if he could stick to his story. And now she’d been promoted to a position in Canada.

He didn’t bother averting his eyes, but held her cold gaze as Henry made a brief round of introductions around a long conference table. He didn’t bother to listen to the names of the two men; they weren’t why he was in this room.

Oh, bollocks. Sarah. It all came back to him now. She’d approached him in a dive in Geylang and he’d been drunk enough to believe she was a British tourist who’d ended up in the wrong part of Singapore. Her accent had sounded like home and her hair reminded him of…

“We’ve met,” she said icily. “Unless you don’t remember.”

He ignored the comment, narrowing his eyes to remind her that even though she’d been a plant sent to test his ability to keep his identity secret, she’d also been a willing and eager sex partner. No doubt that wasn’t in her job description.

“I want my children,” he said softly. “And I’m here to find out exactly what I need to do to get them short of taking them, which I will do if forced.”

One of the men leaned forward. “We take threats like that very seriously.”

You ought to, Ian said with his glare.

“Your unstable lifestyle concerns me,” Sarah said, turning a page in a file he assumed was a blow-by-blow description of his many instabilities. “We have no issue how you choose to live in your government-granted identity when you are on your own, Mr. Browning, but bringing children into the mix is an entirely different equation.”

“Henry gave us the impression you were settling down, even marrying,” the other man said. “That would go a long way to assuaging our issues.”

He practically curled his lip and fought the urge to make a fist to assuage his issues. “You expect me to marry someone and not tell them my life story?”

Sarah shrugged. “It’s been done, and, frankly, we think that encourages you to fully embrace your identity, forcing you to become the new person we say you are.”

He managed not to spit or leap over the table and throttle her skinny neck, but only thanks to a superhuman effort. “I’ll never be the person you say I am.”

“Then you can’t have your children.” She leveled him with a look that sent his blood pressure soaring. “Unless and until you prove your stability.”

He closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath, mining every drop of composure he had. “I assume you don’t have children, Ms. Banks.”

“My life is not on the table.”

“My life”—he clenched his jaw and leaned closer—“isn’t a life. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in the personal hell you condemn people to every day?”

She launched one well-drawn brow. “You’d perhaps prefer a slow death at the hands of some London gang member?”

Just his bloody luck to have his fate in the hands of a woman he’d screwed every way possible. “I’d perhaps prefer to live exactly as I did before some maniac murdered my wife, left my children screaming, and stole any semblance of normalcy I’ve ever had.”

“It’s that semblance of normalcy we’re looking for, Mr. Browning. Get it and we’ll see what we can do about your kids. But you’ll have to hurry. They turn four in a few months.”

Next to him, Henry’s phone hummed and he checked it, pushed back his chair, and left.

After a moment, Ian pinned her with a long look. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“We need to believe those children will live in a secure and stable environment,” one of the men said.

“My children are on the third family in as many years,” he fired back. “They’re about to be separated after my son was hospitalized. What is stable and secure about that?”

It was the other man’s turn as Sarah flipped through the file without looking at him. “We need to see a record that shows you are prepared to raise and rear those children.”

“They’re mine. I was prepared to raise and rear them the day they were born. Before.”

Sarah fluttered the file. “Until we know you are completely safe, the children stay in Canada, in two different families. As you know, when they are four, you can no longer move them, so—”

He launched toward the table, ripped the file out of her hand, and stuck his face right in front of hers, eliciting a soft cry as she pushed backward.

“How many times do I have to die for you people to be satisfied?” He ground out the words. “Because I died in London, I died in Singapore, I died in Florida, and I’m dying here.” He balled the papers in fisted hands. “I want to live. I finally want to live so, for God’s sake, lady, let me do that.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

The door popped open, startling all of them. Henry held his phone, his eyes sparking as he seized the shoulder of Ian’s jacket and pulled him off the table. “Save your breath, mate. The game changed. This meeting’s over.”


Tessa gingerly set the plastic stick on the bathroom counter, washed her hands, and closed the door as she walked out.

A watched test never reveals two lines.

Exhaling softly, she went into the living room, paced from one side to the other, then closed her eyes. Time for the same prayer she’d said every single time she’d gone through this exercise in fertility-futility, as Billy once called her obsessive test-taking when her period was about four minutes late.

“Please, God, let this be the—No…” She shook her head, letting her voice trail off.

That wasn’t the plea she wanted to make. Deep inside, Tessa wanted to pray for something else. This time, the negative result was for the better.

Stunned, she unfolded her prayer-hands and pressed them to her burning cheeks.

Was it possible she was hoping for a negative test? How could that be?

Of course she wanted to be pregnant! That desire was as much a part of her as gardening or breathing. She’d wanted a baby for as long as she could remember. In front of the bookcase, she crouched down to her secret infertility shelf, remembering how John had discovered the books and pulled one out.

Five Hundred Ways to Get Pregnant. She could still hear the humor in his voice. Who knew there were more than one? She’d died a little that moment. Because he was funny and sweet and honest and—

Not honest.

She straightened. She’d forgiven him the lies in the beginning because during their last days and nights together, she’d shared more with him than she ever had with Billy. And he’d told her every minute detail of his life, his childhood, his education, his marriage, his hopes and dreams.

And with each revelation, she’d fallen deeper and deeper in love. In love enough that she didn’t want John’s baby…not without John. Where was the joy in that? What did that leave her for a future?

She wanted a family, not a baby. A child didn’t make a family; love did.

For one thing, she’d merely ache for him for the rest of her life. And what would she tell her child? The same pack of lies her mother had told her? She’d have no hope of being honest with her child and her life would be like her mother’s—buried in secrets and lies, all motivated and rationalized and carried on generation after generation.

The overpowering realization of that made her head spin.

No, something else made her head spin. How could she have ignored that dizziness all these weeks?

Because the sensation wasn’t distinct or long-lasting enough to make her stop and think about it, but now she realized that at least once or twice a day she’d been feeling a distant humming in her brain, the sense that, for one flash of a second, her head wasn’t quite connected to the rest of her.

Truth was, she’d thought she was lovesick until Ashley described her symptoms. But Ashley had been wrong about being pregnant, and Tessa might be, too.

She squeezed her hands and started another prayer. “Please, God. Not this time. Not this time. Not this time.”

The whispered words were like a mantra, relieving her and calming her and reassuring her that this was nothing but a false alarm, like she’d had other times in her life. Still, they didn’t erase the irony of how much she didn’t want to be pregnant.

But it was time to find out. On a slow breath, she walked into the bathroom and closed her eyes, letting her pulse hammer a good five or six beats before she dared to look.

And there were the hard cold facts that couldn’t be denied.

She grabbed the counter and let the impact wash over her, her fingers brushing the bright pink box and knocking it to the floor. Another test slipped out, still sealed in its pouch.

The backup, she used to call it. Should she? It wouldn’t be the first time she refused to believe the results. Once she’d taken five tests because her period was ten days late.

Because all she wanted was a child of her own.

Wrong. She wanted a family. And there was a difference, at least to her. She didn’t want a child of her own, and that was probably why she’d been dragging her heels on adopting or surrogacy or even foster parenting. She wanted the whole package: a father, a mother, kids.

Everything she’d never had. Everything she’d never get.

She turned her back on the extra test, certain this one was accurate enough, slowly sinking to the floor with burning eyelids and a heavy heart.