“Under a different name,” Garen said, “but that shouldn’t pose a problem since you’ll need several alternative identifications.”

Tamara swallowed more coffee. The next question was hard, but she had to know. “My family. Will they have to think I’m dead?”

“Aw, sweetie.” Miranda lunged halfway across the table and patted her shoulder. “Of course not.”

“But won’t it be dangerous for them if they know I’m alive and where I am?”

“Who are your parents?” Garen asked.

“Leona and Christian MacBride,” Tamara replied, mystified. “Why are their names important?”

Garen drew his brows together into a thin line. “I may know your father. He’s been around for a while, hasn’t he?”

“If you’re asking whether he’s one of the old ones, he is.” Tamara pressed her lips together. “He deals in jewelry. He’s not some kind of revolutionary. Sure and I’d know after all the tragedies I covered in Northern Ireland.”

“That would be in your lifetime,” Garen said softly. “Unless he told you, you’d have no idea who—or what—he was before.”

Lars, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, took her hand again. “I have been thinking—”

“Uh-oh.” Garen snorted. “Always dangerous.”

“Ssht,” Miranda said. “Let’s see what he came up with.”

“Thank you.” Lars inclined his head toward Miranda. “We must proceed in some sort of order—”

“Watch it!” Garen stabbed a finger toward Lars. “Your German roots are showing.”

Lars rolled his eyes. “The order is this, or it could be if Tamara wishes. First, she must decide whether she will sign on with The Company.” He turned his gray gaze on Miranda. “Did you tell her everything? That this is a lifetime commitment with no out-clause?”

Miranda nodded solemnly. “Yup. I covered all the bases.”

“Excellent. Once she decides, then we will bind her with the blood oath, even though she is not yet a vetted agent.” Garen opened his mouth, but Lars shook his head. “Hear me out. We already know she is one of us. The only reason to withhold the blood oath is because you wait until the very last moment to assure yourself your agents are shifters. A tactic I strongly disagree with, by the way.”

“Yes, you’ve said as much,” Garen muttered and made a grab for his coffee.

“She will be safer after the blood oath because it allows telepathic communication among us in human form,” Lars argued.

“He has a point,” Miranda said.

“From my own mate?” Garen tried to look upset, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“We’re all part of a board of directors that runs The Company,” she pointed out. “If we want to change some aspects of how we do things, we put it to the board for a vote.”

“Hmph. Guess I did agree to that.” Garen’s twitching mouth curved into a grin. “It will take some getting used to, since I’m accustomed to running things.”

“Yes, well I was used to running the European office.” Lars shrugged. “Time marches on, my friend. But we digress. Back to Tamara.” He moved his chair right next to her and draped an arm around her shoulders. “Many game pieces will fall into place, but the linchpin is your decision about The Company. We cannot finish this conversation until you have made up your mind.”

“May I get up? Walk around a bit by myself, maybe out in those lovely gardens.”

“Of course.” Lars got to his feet and held a hand to her. “You will probably want a jacket. It is not as warm as it appears. The grounds are safe.”

“I had a feeling they’d be.” She wanted to bury herself in his arms; instead she walked, straight-backed, from the kitchen table. A clear head would be her ally and Lars clouded her thoughts. According to him, she’d be a part of his life no matter what, but she had a feeling things would be different, richer, deeper, if she signed on with The Company.

For one thing, I’d know what they were all so thrilled about when Garen did that thumbs-up deal.

Tamara reached the top of the stairs and headed for their room. She found her jacket easily enough, slid it on, and retraced her steps, except this time, she let herself out the ornate front door. As she walked down brick steps and wandered through a garden laid out in rectangular and circular planting beds, she made an effort to sort her jumbled thoughts.

Part of the problem was she hadn’t totally moved past feeling like Jaret Chen’s patsy. Her escape had slid from a sure thing, to dicey, to little shy of miraculous after Lars had dragged her out of the taxi. Tamara asked herself what sort of woman would place herself in that kind of situation. Did the fact that she had mean she had the raw material she’d need to work in espionage?

What Garen had inferred about her father was intriguing. Tamara didn’t know much about either parent, beyond who they’d been raising her and her siblings. It was almost as if her family had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy in place, sort of like the U.S. military for their gay soldiers.

About the only thing I know is they raised other kids. We never did find out about our older brothers and sisters because it was too dangerous…

One of the huge pluses of signing on with The Company would be being able to claim all of who she was. To not have to hide anymore. Shifters who admitted what they were had been forced into compounds. They wore electronic ankle bands to track their movements. At first, it had been just in the United States, but Canada, Europe, and the U.K. were quick to pass similar laws. All that had happened before she’d been born—except the electronic ankle band part—so she’d never lived in a time when she didn’t have to lead a dual existence.

She sat on a stone bench and inhaled the mingled scents of damp flowers and greenery. The Pacific Northwest was rainy and verdant. In many ways, it reminded her of Ireland. Deeper thoughts buffeted her. She’d known at some level she’d never be able to go home once Jaret was dead. She hadn’t allowed herself to go there because it might have crippled her resolve.

Maybe I’m more like Lars and Garen and Miranda than I know…

Tamara got to her feet and made her way back into the house. The group wasn’t in the cozy breakfast nook anymore. It didn’t take her long to locate them in another of the home’s many downstairs rooms. She walked through the door of a cheerful sitting room with a stone fireplace at one end. Colorful occasional chairs and sofas were scattered in small conversational groupings. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls. Lars, Miranda, and Garen turned at the sound of her footsteps.

Lars leaped to his feet, his heart in his eyes. He held out both hands to her, but she shook her head. “Sure and you’re an amazing man, but my head is clear and I don’t want to muddy things. It is kind of you to invite me to be a part of what you have been building for a long time.

“I thought about a lot of things while I was outside, but maybe the biggest one is I’m sick of feeling like a second-class citizen, of pretending to be what I’m not. So,” she looked right at Lars, “regardless of whether you and I end up together or no, I accept Garen’s offer.”

Miranda whooped. She jumped out of her chair, ran to Tamara, and swept her into a huge hug. “Enjoy the love now,” she said. “I’m a bitch in the field.”

Garen shoved his mate aside and shook Tamara’s hand. “Welcome aboard.” Miranda looped an arm through Garen’s and pulled hard. He looked at his mate. “What?”

“They need to talk,” she said pointedly and dragged Garen out of the sitting room.

•●•

Lars still had his hands extended toward her, but he felt suddenly shy and awkward, and dropped them to his sides. “Ja. Miranda is correct. There is much to talk about. Would you like to sit? Or maybe walk a little more? You never did take your coat off.”

“So I didn’t. Sure and walking would be perfect.” She turned and strode out of the room. He followed her, wanting to touch her, at least hold her hand, but he understood she had to come to him. He caught up to her at the front door and held it open. “Such a gentleman,” she murmured.