The Shaughnessey Accord Read online

  Praise for

  “Good romantic suspense is hard to pull off in 300+ pages, let alone a mere 117. But in The Shaughnessey Accord, Alison Kent presents readers with romantic suspense that delivers on both counts.”

  ~ All About Romance

  “Kent combines James Bond-like characters with a realistic plot that has descriptive and detailed scenes to provide readers with plenty of fast-paced action.”

  ~ RT Book Reviews

  Meet the members of the Smithson Group—five alpha males whose best work is done undercover. Unimaginably skilled, they’re the spies you want on your side…of the bed.

  Tripp Shaughnessey is a trip: funny and fun-loving, ridiculously sarcastic, and appreciative of every woman he meets. But it’s Glory Brighton, the owner of his favorite sandwich shop, who gets him hot and bothered. Their ongoing back-and-forth has been leading to a kiss to end all kisses in her supply room. And that’s where they are when all hell breaks loose.

  Glory’s history includes some men connected to Spectra IT. They’re convinced she’s hiding vital intel in her place. With the shop under siege, and the customers held at gunpoint, Tripp’s hand is forced. Breaking the Smithson Group’s rules, he reveals that he’s no simple engineer, but a hardcore covert operative, whose easy-going veneer is about to be stripped away.

  “With great power there must also come great responsibility!”

  —Introducing Spider-Man

  Amazing Fantasy #15, August 1962

  Writer: Stan Lee

  Artist: Steve Ditko

  New York City, 2004

  The Smithson Group’s Manhattan ops center, never a hotbed of mind-blowing excitement in and of itself, was duller these days than a plastic knife working at a stick of cold butter.

  It was driving Tripp Shaughnessey out of his ever-loving gourd.

  He understood the laid-back, uneventful, mellow-as-molasses mood; really, he did. But without something to do besides sitting and staring zombie-eyed at static surveillance feeds, he was at a huge risk for losing the rest of his mind.

  The Smithson Group—Christian Bane specifically—had recently pulled the plug and sent Peter Deacon, the sleazy front man for the international crime syndicate Spectra IT, swirling down one nasty drain.

  That only left, oh, another umpty dozen members of the organization to annihilate.

  There were days it seemed nothing short of an apocalyptic, second-coming, end-of-world scenario would make a dent in the work the SG-5 team had remaining to do.

  In the meantime, Tripp’s eyes and ass needed a break. Even a highly trained Smithson Group operative could only sit and stare for so long without giving in to distraction.

  He pushed up from a squat to his feet, righted his chair, capped the tube of bearing grease he’d brought with him this morning, and tossed it to his desk.

  He twirled the chair this way, twirled it that, sat and drew his knees to his chest.

  Bracing the balls of his feet against the edge of his desktop, he shoved. The chair sailed into the center of the ops center’s huge horseshoe-shaped workstation and beyond.

  He was rolling, rolling, rolling...slowing, slowing, slowing...

  “Crap.”

  He glanced to his right where Christian sat holding headphones to one ear, shaking his head.

  He glanced to his left where Kelly John Beach faced him, arms crossed, brow arched.

  Oops.

  “What the hell did I tell you? Inline-skate wheels, you maroon. Otherwise, forget it. You can’t race Hot Wheels on a NASCAR track.”

  Tripp shrugged, leaned back in his chair, legs extended, ankles crossed. It was all good. He had it under control.

  Laced hands behind his head, he stared up into the cavernous darkness of the twenty-fourth floor’s ceiling that was nothing but a web of exposed ductwork.

  “Thought I’d give the bearing grease a try before changing out the wheels. Picked the stuff up at a skate shop down in Philly last week.”

  His comment was met with snorting in stereo, and Kelly John’s, “Waste of money.”

  Tripp rolled his eyes. “Now, how can you say that when I bested my record by ten feet at least?”

  “Good to see you’re keeping yourself busy,” Christian said without looking up.

  K.J., on the other hand, met Tripp’s gaze straight on. “Yeah, don’t you have some work to do?”

  “Nag, nag, nag.” Yes, he had work to do. Or he would as soon as the Spectra IT agent he had on his scope made a noticeable move.

  The agent who’d chosen Brighton’s Spuds & Subs Sandwich Shop at the end of the block as his base of operations.

  Tripp hadn’t yet made the dude’s cover story; he only knew the agent was monitoring the early afternoon traffic coming and going from the building across the street, housing, among other things, a privately held, family-owned-and-for-the-most-part-operated diamond exchange.

  Tripp was monitoring the traffic as well. Especially since it wasn’t Spectra’s MO to deal with such a small-time operation as Marian Diamonds—and because word on the street said Marian Diamonds was trading in illegal conflict stones smuggled out of Sierra Leone.

  Sure, the Spectra agent could’ve been canvassing the dealings of the entire block—a lot of high dollar transactions went on in the area between the hours of nine and five.

  But just about the same time Spectra had shown up at Brighton’s, the grandson of Marian’s owner had gotten a hankering for sandwiches eaten long past lunchtime, ordering corned beef and sauerkraut on rye to go the same time every afternoon.

  Of course, his hankering could’ve been for Glory Brighton instead. In which case Tripp had a decision to make. Cement shoes or defenestration, because Glory Brighton was off-limits, whether she knew it or not.

  His partners having put the kibosh on playtime, he spun his chair around and shoved off in the direction from which he’d come. This time he only made it two thirds of the way across the room.

  Crap and a half.

  He rolled his eyes. Christian chuckled. Kelly John offered up a round of applause and a suggestion. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go grab us some lunch?”

  “I could. But I’m trying to keep a low profile here. Sticking with Hank’s playbook and all that.” Tripp followed the Smithson principal’s instructions to the letter, but then so did all five of Hank’s original handpicked operatives as well as the newest recruit.

  Each one of them owed him, if not for the fact that their names weren’t yet carved into nondescript tombstones, then for keeping them from a lot of years spent incarcerated at Leavenworth or Gitmo.

  Besides, there was something about Hank’s seventy-five years of experience at staying alive that spoke to a man.

  “No one said you had to go to Brighton’s,” K.J. was saying. “Order a pizza. Pick up Chinese.”

  “Besides,” Christian added, “there are other delis out there.”

  Tripp sputtered, feigning shock. “Heresy. Blasphemy. Other delis indeed.”

  K.J. waved Tripp away and turned back to the bank of monitors at his desk. “So, phone in an order. Have Glory leave it for you with Glenn in the garage. Pick it up there if you think your mark’s gonna make you.”

  Tripp wasn’t too keen on the idea. The garage separating the buildings housing Brighton’s and Smithson Engineering—the cover for the SG-5 team—was no better than a war zone. The honking, the squealing tires, the exhaust fumes—not to mention the nosy punk parking attendant.

  Forget getting in any quality Glory time with Glenn hovering around. And that quality time—even more than the freakish boredom—was the only reason Tripp was even considering venturing out of the ops center.

  Kelly John and Christian might wa
nt food, but it wasn’t too high on Tripp’s list of priorities. He’d learned to do without in the weeks before Hank Smithson swooped down on salvation’s wings and plucked him off a Colombian mountainside, and he’d never quite gotten back to his old way of thinking.

  He ate enough to keep his body strong and able, his mind active and alert. Just not enough to start taking sustenance for granted. Not when he knew all too well the way life had of snatching away what he valued.

  He glanced at the monitors on his desk. The first received the wireless feed from the camera hidden behind the marquee over the entrance to the Smithson building. He toggled left, toggled right. Nothing out of the ordinary on the street in front of Brighton’s or the diamond exchange.

  Next he glanced at the monitor showing the feed from Brighton’s security system. Glory had no knowledge of SG-5’s video tap of her wires. The shop’s surveillance cameras were simply set up to encourage employee honesty, scare straight the kids working for her, stuff like that.

  But they told Tripp what he needed to know. Spectra IT’s agent had not yet arrived.

  Tripp pounced on the window of opportunity, shooting out of his chair and making like a rabbit for the door to the safety vestibule. The walls of the tiny chamber were constructed of sixteen-inch steel and separated the SG-5 nerve center from the floor’s areas of public access.

  “Back in a flash,” he said, pressing his thumb to the pad of the biometric sensor. Mechanized bolts and pins disengaged and the door swung open.

  “Or at least in an hour or two,” Christian corrected.

  “Hey. A girl likes a guy who takes his time,” Tripp said, stepping inside. The closing door cut off further contact, sealing him up like a hot dog in Tupperware.

  Overhead lights switched on inside the high-ceilinged, four-walled enclosure outfitted top to bottom in soundproofing tile.

  Funny about that. The soundproofing. The lack of outside contact. How it still got to him after all this time. The idea of help being within reach...but not.

  It wasn’t like he needed help, or that he was really cut off, as seconds later he punched the code and exited into the suite’s bamboo and black-lacquer façade of a reception area. And the confining space wasn’t an issue.

  But the idea of being on his own sure was enough to cause a bitch of a hitch in his side.

  “Fourteen-seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, ninety, fifteen and twenty.” Glory Brighton counted out her customer’s change. “There ya go, Wes. And you enjoy that new baby girl, ya hear?”

  “No worries there, Glory,” Wes said, lifting the white bag containing sandwich and chips in a parting gesture. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yep. Same bat time, same bat sandwich,” she said, and Wes chuckled. Oh, yeah. She was absolutely hilarious. Really cracked herself up. Snort.

  Glancing at the phone then just as quickly away, she shut the register drawer, straightened the stack of expensive trifold color brochures and takeout menus on one side, closed up the display case of freshly baked and individually wrapped cookies on the other.

  Two-twenty-five apiece, and people paid without thinking twice. And why should she complain? They cost her a fraction of that and made for quite the tidy profit.

  She wasn’t complaining. Just...having a bad day. No real reason she should be. Except for the fight she’d had on the phone with her mother this morning.

  Which meant that her father, having gone home for his Thursday lunch of a meat loaf sandwich and potato pancakes made from last night’s leftovers, and by now on his way back to the bank, would be calling before he sat down for the afternoon to review loan applications.

  Your mother has your best interests at heart, Glory. She is thinking of your future. Her concern for your welfare shows how very much she loves you.

  Nothing in there about Ann Brighton’s dread at having to explain her only child’s continuing lack of suitable matrimonial prospects to the ladies at the First Presbyterian Friday morning prayer circle.

  The same group who two years later was still clucking over the fact that Glory had been taken in by that sweet-talking career criminal, Cody Scott, before he carjacked an undercover cop and got sent up the river to Riker’s.

  And nine months after the fact continued to sing a loud chorus of hallelujahs that she’d learned the truth of Jason Piaggi’s affiliation with the “Piaggi Family” before it was too late.

  Even now Glory couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Such drama over nothing.

  Yes. She’d made two bad man choices in her twenty-seven years. A girl was allowed a relationship strike or two, wasn’t she? Before being written off as a has-been?

  “Hey, Glory.”

  She glanced to the right, down the long sandwich bar where Neal Baker stood rewrapping the ham he’d sliced up for Wes.

  “Hey, Neal.”

  He grinned, but not at her so much as at their personalized “hey, you” routine. “You still need me to hang around while you inventory for tomorrow’s order?”

  Shoot. The order. She’d been so focused on the inevitable call from her father that she was on the verge of a screw-up bigger than her penchant for dating criminal losers.

  She untied her apron, slipped it off over her head. She knew Neal’s girlfriend’s dance troupe’s showcase premiered tomorrow night and tonight was the family-and-friends preview.

  “Sorry, Neal. I’ll make it quick.”

  “Mikki appreciates it in advance.”

  “She damn well better,” Glory teased, grabbing her clipboard from beneath the counter.

  She made a quick visual sweep of the shop, took in the customers still eating, and glanced at the pickle-shaped wall clock.

  Nothing going on Neal couldn’t handle alone. Hell, his efficiency made the lack of hers that much more obvious. Ugh. There she went again with the ridiculous self-deprecation.

  She was plenty efficient, she mused, heading into the storeroom down the hall at the rear of the shop. Just look at the shelves in here. A place for everything. Everything in its place.

  It was just the constant parental haranguing that enforced the sense of being less. Less a good judge of character than expected of a daughter of Ann Brighton. Less respectable than what she would be as the married daughter of Milt.

  And now with the trickle-down effect, she was feeling less efficient than her own part-time employee.

  The only time lately she’d felt like more was when staring into the beautiful green eyes of one Smithson Engineering project consultant. That Tripp Shaughnessey. Mmm-mmm-mmm. Definitely one to throw a curve at a girl’s plans.

  Before he’d shown up in her shop weeks ago, months actually, though it seemed like days, seconds even, since she felt that first tingling rush of attraction every time he walked through her doors...before he’d shown up in her shop whenever it was, she’d been thinking of giving her parents’ matchmaking efforts another chance, or two, or three.

  Now she was thinking about nothing but having Tripp’s babies. At least in a figurative sense.

  Yes, she wanted to get married—eventually. Yes, she wanted to start her own family—when it was time. Yes, she wanted to test the proverbial boiling waters between Tripp and herself.

  Right now, however, she needed to count the pickles so Neal could get going. The pickles, the olives, the paper napkins, the cans of tuna...

  Could life possibly get any better than this? she mused.

  And she was still musing ten minutes later when behind her the door to the storeroom slammed shut.

  Glory whirled around, hand pressed to the base of her throat. The click of the door latch still echoed as she stared at her intruder, glared at her intruder, watched as he reached down and turned the lock on the door, looking her way all the while.

  Her gaze slid from his very large hand on the doorknob back to the face she saw every night in her dreams. She did her best not to sigh, to appear peeved rather than pleased, but it was hard when her tummy was tingling with blooming daffodil petals.


  One eye narrowed, she pointed with the sharp end of her pencil. “You, Tripp Shaughnessey, are a very bad man.”

  “Ah, now, Glory, admit it. I’m not half as bad as you want me to be.” He leaned his broad shoulders against the door, crossed his arms over his impressively buff chest, and grinned in that way he had.

  That way that made her want to take off all of her clothes, piece by piece in a slow sultry striptease—a thought that sent the daffodil tingles tickling in deep dark places that seemed these days to have Tripp’s name written all over them.

  Returning her attention to the task at hand, she finished counting the gallon cans of black olives, marked her inventory sheet, then slipped the clipboard over the hook centered on the shelving unit’s support rail.

  It was time, she decided, once she’d filled her lungs with the air she needed to breathe. Time to put her plan into motion. Or to take it to the next level since she’d made the first move when she’d dressed this morning with Tripp specifically in mind.

  She did that a lot these days.

  “I dunno, Shaughnessey,” she said, and turned. “I’m not sure any man has it in him to be that bad.” She let her gaze crawl the length of his very fine body, smoothing her palms over the zipped-up and laced-up khaki miniskirt that hugged her hips and little more.

  He took in the motion of her hands; heat flared in his bright green eyes. His thick honey-blond lashes came down slowly, lifted in another smooth upward sweep. His lips curved in a smile that said oodles about all the ways he knew to be bad.

  It was the very look she’d been hoping for, had been waiting for, yes, had been planning for. She’d seen it—no, she’d felt it—so many times lately but never in the right place at the right time.

  This, fingers crossed, could be both.

  “Well, now. That sounds to me like a challenge,” Tripp finally said after clearing his throat. He cocked his head to the side and considered her. “And here I thought you knew by now that I’m never one to back down.”