For a while, anyway. Until his work got them all killed.

Joe flipped over again, sending the sheet flying off his body. He felt hot. Enraged. He felt that familiar black hole in his gut, and knew he'd never find a way to fill it.

It had been the assignment of a lifetime. Their job was to infiltrate Guzman's Albuquerque cell and get enough evidence to take down the entire organization. The cartel was suspected of smuggling huge quantities of cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamines into the country and distributing it all over the western United States. He and Steve soon learned the group had expanded its reach by subcontracting to deliver Colombian heroin as well.

It took them ten months to worm their way into the good graces of Guzman's men, making several small buys of cocaine and heroin. Their money was clean. Their word was good. They earned the dealers' trust. And the team did a meticulous job of documenting every encounter, every meeting, every word exchanged. The result was that even if they never caught Guzman himself in the act, the U.S. attorneys had enough evidence to nail the elusive drug lord.

Joe had never met Guzman during his two-year assignment in Mexico City but knew all about him. He was in his early fifties, a man who'd been born in the fetid slums of Ciudad Ju amp;rez on the U.S. border and had worked his way up in the ranks of organized crime.

He earned a reputation for killing anyone who looked at him funny. He had a large and loyal following of men who knew that if they made one misstep, their families would die. It's how any tyrant won respect-with fear. Absolute fear.

Joe laced his fingers together behind his head and let the memory of Steve's murder flood his brain.

They'd been hanging with Guzman's men that evening, putting the finishing touches on the deal that was supposed to go down the next morning. Guzman was already in town to supervise the transaction-fifty kilos of cocaine for $5 million. In hours, they'd catch him orchestrating the sale, on videotape.

Joe and Steve left in separate cars about 2:00 a.m. and met up at the Denny's on Alameda Boulevard, like they sometimes did. They had no idea that just moments before some two-bit informant they'd dealt with in another case had blown their cover. They had no idea they'd been followed, that Guzman's men sat outside like the patient predators they were. Steve reached the door first. It was sheer dumb luck that Joe was two steps behind, still paying the bill.

The henchmen got to Reba and Daniel before agents could. They'd been executed in their sleep. It was Guzman's way of making his point quite clear: Special Agent Joe Bellacera-and anyone close to him-would never be safe.

Guzman was snagged by agents later that night at an airstrip forty miles out on the mesa. It wasn't the Hollywood ending, but agents impounded the cocaine intended for distribution, arrested twenty-seven Mexican nationals, and took the big man into custody.

It was no comfort to Joe that Guzman now sat in maximum security at the federal prison in Beaumont, Texas. Because he still had his followers. And he'd promised a million dollars to whoever brought him Joe's head.

A million dollars was highly motivating.

That's why Joe had to hide. Why he had to live in Ohio. And if all that weren't enough, he was faced with the ultimate irony: He'd finally found his mystery woman and couldn't go to her.

Joe took a deep breath and smelled the honeysuckle again. The mind could play tricks on a man, he was well aware, but another sniff assured him this was no illusion. He made a mental note to find wherever that tangle of weed existed on this property and hack it to pieces.

Burn it if he had to.

Because he saw Reba and little Daniel Simmons in his mind and knew he could never go to Charlotte Tasker, tell her he'd searched for her, that he'd never forgotten her, that he'd missed her every damn day for thirteen years. He couldn't risk getting close to anyone.

Not ever again.

Not fifteen minutes had passed since Bonnie went home, and the poems were coming fast and furious. Maybe because of the Glenlivet but more likely because he was here. He was real.

Charlotte could feel a crackle in the air around her. She felt like a live wire, her skin raw, her mouth dry. And all she could think of was his face, now thirteen years older and framed in a villain's goatee and longer hair. But it was the same face. It was his face. There was no doubt.

At first, when she'd hauled herself off the floor and retrieved the binoculars, she told herself no-it couldn't be him. It was just a man who looked like him. A man who happened to move like he'd moved and smile like he'd smiled. Besides, the man she'd known so briefly was clean-shaven and wore a crew cut. The Chippendales guy's face was harsher. Much more intense, even when he smiled. So, no. It wasn't him.

But there was no mistaking those piercing black eyesy that sensuous, wide mouth, those big but graceful hands. The man's entire body seemed to glide through space, like a sleek jaguar, just like her fantasy man.

She couldn't stop writing.

Glide

Tongue on tongue

Slide on me

Teeth to flesh

Consume me

Move inside

Fill the void

Feel the glide

Deliver me.

Charlotte closed her eyes tight and allowed herself the luxury of the ultimate fantasy. Here's what would happen: She'd walk over and knock on his door. He would smile and wrap her up in his arms and he'd say, why, of course he remembered her! And yes, he happened to be single yet adored children, and he was sane, employed, and free of all communicable diseases! And of course he'd love to pick up where they left off thirteen years ago and fuck her brains out on a regular basis!

Would Tuesday work for her?

She sighed. Even if all that were true, what exactly would she tell Hank and Matt? That Mommy had a special new friend? The thought made her queasy.

She chewed on the end of the pen, then stopped, her mouth falling open in shock. This was the end! This moment marked the official death of her sexual fantasy life. For thirteen years she'd built a personal ritual around a mystery man, a man who lived only in her memory and imagination, and now the real man had to move next door-in the flesh-and ruin it!

God! Couldn't a woman even masturbate in peace?

She flipped back through her journal, finding a poem she'd worked on a few months ago. The more she read, the more pissed off she became.

All I've Got

I'll pretend it's you

Will you humor me? And for awhile I will be free

Sweat heat

Fiery friction

I will burn

In my latex addiction

I'll burn and scream and writhe

So hot!

I'll pretend it's you

Though I know it's not.

But it's all I've got

Charlotte choked back a fresh batch of tears, took another swill from the water bottle by the bedside, and wiped her mouth. She needed to stay hydrated. She'd be sure to eat plenty of potassium tomorrow and take her vitamin B supplements. She'd do a three-mile loop at the park once she got the kids off to school. One thing she knew for sure-healthy food and fresh air had always helped to make anything survivable.

She'd get through this as well.