Chapter 1

Bass Monroe pulled up a seat and ordered a whiskey, neat, from the impeccably subservient bartender. It was nice to be served again, and treated with deference, in any context. This was just one of the many things Monroe missed about the Militia, the Republic…but maybe it was the most important one. That feeling that he had power over others made him, in turn, sense that he had an identity and a purpose, irrefutably. It took all of the chaos in his mind and heart and turned it into simplicity, clarity.

But this momentary lapse into that clear focus was interrupted when Charlie Matheson appeared in a devastating black cocktail dress and sat down beside him. As soon as Monroe saw Charlie in that body-hugging sheath, her hair swept up in a loose twist that let soft tendrils frame her gorgeous face, and that irrepressible spark of trouble glittering in her eyes, chaos again consumed his every thought.

"A glass of champagne for the lady?" The barkeep asked, grinning in an artificially pleased way that made Monroe want to burst out laughing.

"Of course," Charlie purred, sneering as soon as the man turned his back. "Why are we still here?" she demanded of Bass in a judgmental hiss he found absurdly alluring. He'd long since ceased trying to deny to himself the effect she had on him, as it took enough effort to conceal it from her. So he let himself enjoy her pissed off demeanor and stunning appearance while defaulting to sullen and self-satisfied retorts externally.

We're still here because I can't stop looking at you in that dress, and there's nowhere I'd rather be than in this moment, Bass thought. "Settle down, princess," he said out loud, "We have to stay the night to avoid drawing suspicion. We're guests. Why don't you try committing yourself to the mission instead of whining about being ensnared in the lap of luxury? When was the last time you were this well fed and cared for?"

"I don't care about being cared for," Charlie snipped, rolling her eyes impatiently. "I just want to get this information back to Miles so we can hit the Patriots back as hard as possible, as soon as possible." Bass knew that she was past ready for this conflict with the Patriots to be over. This last disaster with Jason had stolen the last remnant of happiness from her light blue eyes in a way that twisted his heart. She was exhausted and hollow. That, Monroe could identify with.

Monroe and Charlie had come to a fancy political function in Austin with all of the major Patriot movers and shakers in attendance. Posing as a wealthy couple looking to donate significantly to support the "US" cause, they had infiltrated the event, casing any number of guests through a deft combination of flattery, boasting, and flirtation when it was needed. Then they'd hit a few of the Patriots' rooms, stealing every file of intel they could get their hands on. The whole stack was presently coiled up in Monroe's bag back in the room he and Charlie were supposedly sharing. Charlie was obviously annoyed that he had the files tucked away among his belongings, as she would have preferred to be the one in control. Yet another thing they had in common, Bass mused.

"I want those files in my hands, and I want to take them back to Willoughby tonight," Charlie insisted, taking a swig of champagne and making a face.

"It's not going to happen, Charlotte," Monroe assured her, standing and downing the last of his drink. "It'll all work out fine this way. The files are safe with me and they'll be coming back home with us in the morning. Where we can make a getaway without it actually looking like we're making a getaway." He paused, catching her gaze intently. "Charlie, trust me."

"God, I hate it when you say that," Charlie replied anxiously, distrustfully. "Don't you think those Patriots are going to go back to their rooms tonight and notice that everything we took is gone?"

"Look around," Bass suggested, letting his own gaze flick around the lavishly appointed party scene, with hoards of overdressed Patriot saps falling over themselves in sycophantic, narcissistic merriment. "No one here is sober enough to notice a damn thing when they head back and collapse into their beds to dream the dreams of the incredibly stupid and easily swindled."

"I'm going to bed," Monroe stated simply, stalking off with a perfectly insincere haughty attitude. When he arrived back at the room, he stared blankly at the big, comfortable bed with its many soft pillows and billion-thread-count duvet. Well, he reasoned, chances were that Charlie wouldn't even come back here tonight. She'd probably go back to Willoughby alone if she was that intolerant of staying. So what did she care if he slept in the bed? Finders, keepers.

And anyway, if she did show up, she could have the bed and he could move to the floor. Shaking his head, he thought to himself that there wasn't another human on the planet he'd ever do that for. The idea wouldn't even occur to him. Charlie was special, but he had to try not to dwell overly on it. To wish for impossible things…

Bass had expected to fall asleep instantly, but somehow the extravagance of the bed felt wrong after so many nights on the hard ground or rickety cots, and he couldn't stop thinking about Charlie, her soft, lost eyes, or what she might be doing right now. Frustrated, he sat up and yanked his shirt off, rifling a hand through his hair roughly before flopping back down and squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to stop this futile contemplation. She was haunting him. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he slipped off into a restless sleep that was interrupted when the door clicked open.

Instinctively, Bass jolted upright and had his rifle up and trained on the figure in the doorway before another second had passed. But it was only Charlie, pursing her lips and shaking her head. "Hey," he remarked, surprised. "I didn't expect to see you again tonight."

"I'm just full of surprises," Charlie replied smoothly, shutting the door behind her.

"Hey, I can sleep on the floor," Bass suggested, trying to subtly straighten out his mussed hair, uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Don't bother," Charlie told him, and then did something very strange: she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor, revealing a black, semi-sheer slip. She kicked off her shoes and looked up at him through lowered lashes, with a demeanor that was downright come-hither.

"What are you doing?" Monroe asked, his heart starting to pound automatically.

Silently, Charlie climbed onto the bed and then sat squarely in his lap. Monroe's head felt like it was spinning. What was her game?

"Charlie, what the—"

She cut him off, murmuring coquettishly, "I've seen how you look at me." She put her hands on his chest and waited for his reaction. Well, if she'd noticed him looking, she knew he wanted her. His mind fumbled pathetically against the desire she was awakening in him more and more with each second that passed.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Bass noticed Charlie's eyes flit over to the corner of the room, where his leather satchel lay. So that's what this was. He didn't know if he was more disappointed, angry, or sad.

"You want those files," Monroe stated firmly, sliding out from underneath her and glaring at her resentfully.

"What's that got to do with this?" Charlie asked, pouting slightly. This was infuriating.

"You were going to what, seduce me, try and gain my trust, then grab my bag while I was sleeping and run off?" Monroe quickly ascertained her plan, as much as it pained him.

Defeated, Charlie frowned and sighed. "I didn't know what else to do."

But something in her disappointed expression seemed to reflect more than just a girl whose plan had just failed.

"Wait a minute," Monroe said suddenly, reaching out to cup her face in his open hand, "There's more to it than that, isn't there?" Was it possible that she had more than one reason for wanting to be with him tonight? Hope lanced his heart as she avoided his eyes.

"No," she replied after a long, pregnant pause. "All I wanted was to use you and steal from you. Just like you do to everyone else. About time you got a taste of your own medicine."

But Bass could see through her facade of pride and habitual hatred. Some other sadness lurked below, a layer to her melancholy he'd failed to detect previously because he'd assumed it was impossible. There was a repressed longing evident in Charlie's face, in her nervous posture sitting there on his bed.

"I don't believe you," Monroe said finally, staring her down as he waited for her response.