Grace had traveled on a chartered private jet before. It was her preferred method of travel, but a professor's salary made it cost-prohibitive to fly luxuriously. Although Agent Wolff offered to handle travel arrangements to the Glen, Grace had eagerly accepted Web's offer to send the Glen's private jet. The jet would give her the privacy, comfort, and speed that a commercial airliner—with layovers to reduce expenses—wouldn't come close to providing. Two pilots greeted them at the hanging steps of the small door. Wolff extended his hand for her to enter. His hand rested on her elbow, but she longed to feel it at the small of her back...her bare skin.

She settled on the right side of the plane, setting her things down on the chair. Wolff entered and sat beside her. She took a long, lingering look at the interior. It was cozy, seating eight in two columns. It was an upgrade from Collin's other plane—the one that had dropped her off in Maine, never to return for her. The old plane's interior had been dark and antiquated, but the new jet was bright with glossy, reddish wood trim. Grace slid a finger over the trim, feeling the smoothness of the varnish. Soft leather seats enveloped her body. Her eyes gleamed with the opulence. Collin Shepherd had spared no expense on the new aircraft.

It wasn't his doing; she was sure of it.

Collin had lived richly, but he was also conscientious. It was something he'd taught her: Live within your means, and don't rely on other people's money—it comes at a price. Even as a child, they'd lived in the cottage rather than the main house. And the main house had all the servants and staff, waiting to serve them—waiting to serve him. But it was Collin who'd often tended to her, even with Vickie—Grace seemed to forget her last name—as her full-time nanny. Collin's fiscal influence had been responsible for Grace working toward owning and tending the microfarm. It would take her another twenty-seven years to pay off the mortgage, but along with her reasonable teaching salary and meager textbook sales, her lavender and honey harvest and goat's milk sales were projected to pay off the principle sooner than expected. Every cent mattered. Most importantly, she was doing it by herself.

Money. She smelled money in the sumptuousness of the leather seats. Money was under her fingertips as she lifted the shade from the window and looked out at the other private planes stationed at the private hangar in Portland.

She'd never planned to use any part of her trust or inheritance for her homestead. Besides, she figured her estrangement from Collin had eliminated any future money from him. To know he'd left her the Glen, a twelve-hundred-acre estate in Sonoma County, was beyond her wildest dreams. It was more of a nightmare, maintaining eight acres west of Portland was hard enough, much less over a thousand acres in one of the richest counties in North America. Not to mention, the vast dealings on the property itself: the farming, animal husbandry, the real estate property, and the staff. Worst, the taxes. Anxiety bubbled in her belly at the responsibility.

And the members of the Glen. She didn't dare consider the intent and purpose of the Glen itself. That was another hellish consideration. One she'd have to confront once they landed in exactly five hours.

Before buckling her seat belt, she unfastened and removed her copper-colored blazer that matched her trousers. The suit felt restrictive despite the professional tailoring to her exact measurements. An overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia shimmered through her body. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her sheer blouse, rubbing her hand over her chest. From the periphery, she saw Agent Wolff look at her, but she didn't acknowledge him.

Agent Wolff hadn't contained his wide-eyed surprise when he'd seen her wearing business attire. It was a far departure from the coveralls and apron she'd had on the day before. However, Grace wore suits or dresses to lectures, office hours and meetings—and travel was no exception. Wearing navy pumps may have appeared to be a deviation from the rubber boots used to muck stalls and the sneakers for her morning runs, but her vast collection of designer footwear would rival any boutique on Rodeo Drive. After each morning working the farm, the only makeup she'd wear was a bit of gloss and mascara. However, whenever off the farm, her hair and makeup emulated models in print magazines. Grace's feminine rituals gave her a sense of balance. There was a time to get down and dirty in the soil, and a time to polish and shine after the work was done.

When Agent Wolff inspected her designer suitcase, fingering the gold "LV" emblem on the front, she frowned. It was the first time she felt ashamed of her finely crafted designer purchases—as if she'd mercilessly flaunted her independent, working-woman lifestyle to a law enforcement officer with a capped pay grade.

The pilot alerted them they were free to take off and revved the engines in preparation. With French designer sunglasses shielding her tired eyes and an Italian leather handbag nestled at her side, Grace braced herself for the trip.

Her stomach flipped as the speeding plane lifted into the air, climbing higher and higher.

The pressure in the cabin was made thicker and more confining by the awkwardness between her and Agent Wolff, and something else. Her attraction to him was palpable. She tried to dismiss it. Andrew Wolff was only in her life for a brief period of time and for the sole purpose of finding her father's murderer, so how could she expect—or even want—something more between them? Yet, she sat so close, feeling the warmth radiate from his body. The white button-down shirt was neatly pressed and clung perfectly to his torso...and arms.

She lost herself in all things Wolff.

His muscular arm flexed and contracted with each tap of his pointer finger on his tablet. He encompassed most of the cabin with his imposing frame. She calculated that he nearly approached six feet five inches. A colossal form that had her dreaming of him all night.

It had been a long time since she'd dated. Even longer since she'd fucked a man. There was no love-making, just fucking. And Wolff stirred up desires and needs Grace had long since tucked away. While self-stimulation was typical, she'd not had a real-life man in her fantasies. Not even Ethan Kline, her farm hand and friend who'd shown interest in her, had been on her mind whenever she'd masturbated. If Ethan had been her lover, she wouldn't have wanted a good fuck from Wolff.

Fuck, a crude word she used with wild abandon. Her life was fucked up. Her dead father had been a fucking sadist. She suspected her mother of being a fucking masochist who'd left her with a fucked-up narcissist. Until recently, the farm had been a big fucking money pit. Her newly acquired post as Assistant Professor of Sociology with an emphasis on sex and its role in society and religion was a fucking joke to her peers and students—yet, they loved listening to her seminars on BDSM. The biggest fucking lie of her life—being an expert in sex.

Imposter syndrome invaded every fiber of her being. Sure, she'd met with sadists, Dominants, Dommes, slaves, submissives, and fetishists who answered her questions, performed in front of her, and even had her receive pleasure and pain as a researcher—but Grace never believed she was qualified to teach all the intricate aspects of bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism. There were still many unanswered questions. There were many undiscovered emotions, like insidious wounds left to fester and rot away. While groups of people were her focus, she knew the field required more psychological study. It was a wonder to her that an established institution such as Darlow College, a small private liberal arts program nestled between west Portland and a few hours east of the New Hampshire border, would hire her to teach not only Sociology 101 and 102, but Sociology of Sex.

All night, Grace had ruminated over Agent Wolff's offer to find her mother. She couldn't see how he would be able to. Hundreds of women, maybe thousands, had been Collin Shepherd's lovers over his lifetime. Finding one woman out of at least a few dozen who could have conceived her in 1989 was impossible. Not to mention Collin's ability to legally conceal the identity of her mother, placing multiple roadblocks that had caused her to quit her search.

"Would you like something to eat?" Agent Wolff extended a box filled with snacks.

Snapped out of her reverie, she turned to him and smiled, shaking her head. He didn't return her smile, remaining as stoic as he had when she'd agreed to his terms—visit the Glen, allow him access to solve Collin's murder, then assist her in finding her mother.

"Professor?" he asked, looking in her direction.

Grace turned to him. "Unless you're registered for Sociology 302, you're not to call me Professor, okay?"

Remaining expressionless, Agent Wolff replied, "I just thought it would be better than calling you ma'am."

"Anything is better than ma'am." She unbuttoned her sleeve, folding the fabric up her forearm. She caught his eyes skimming over her décolletage. She smiled. "Call me Grace. If your grand plans are to work, calling me Professor is the last thing you should slip up and do."

Wolff opened the fridge door and pulled out a tiny bottle, a scotch. Her father's preferred drink. She shuddered at the thought that her father had sat in the plane, drinking alone. But Collin may never have been alone.

"Should you be drinking while on duty?" Grace asked.

Agent Wolff gave her a side-eyed glare. "I think the circumstances call for a stiff drink."

Grace nodded, tendrils falling over her shoulder. "Then, isn't it a bit too early to be drinking?"

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Doc." He took a swig.

"Great, another formal title. I'm not a true psychologist. I deal mostly with groups, not the individual." She crossed her arms.

"My apologies. I do know the difference. I'm just..." He tossed his head back on the headrest. She followed his gaze, observing the pilots work the controls, the sun streaming into their small cockpit. He turned to her, and she locked eyes with him. "There are a lot of things I'm trying to work out in my head before we arrive."

She pursed her lips, thinking about the quickly concocted story he'd given her to tell Web, that she was arriving at the Glen with her partner, a man she was dating who was visiting from Boston. The story was enough to get him a one-way ticket into the secretive compound. The concept of Grace bringing home a man wasn't implausible. At the tail end of her twenties, most of her friends, peers, and acquaintances were in committed relationships—many of them were married; even a few of her young graduate students were married.

"What's your story?" she asked him. He looked at her with his dark blue eyes. A shudder ran through her. "The story we'll give the people back at the Glen."

"We'll give them any story that doesn't get us kicked out." He turned away, returning to his tablet.

"Collin Shepherd's followers are a very close-knit group. They'll reject new people. Me included."

"I've studied sociology." Agent Wolff shrugged without giving her the decency of looking her in the eyes—of rewarding her with another glimpse of his handsome face.

"You may have learned how to create surveys and read past research findings. But this isn't so simple. This is a mob mentality. I'm talking about a group of people who will do anything to preserve their lifestyle. They're a family—"

He grimaced. "Family?"

"Despite the salaciousness of the group's mission, my father was the leader of a family. I didn't even know most of them weren't blood relatives until I was fifteen."

Agent Wolff listened, his clenched jaw slackening. "How much do you know?"

Grace's eyes glazed over with fresh tears. It was the second time she'd gotten emotional in Agent Wolff's presence. "Enough to know that what my father did at the Glen wasn't normal..." She swallowed a knot in her throat.

"Who's to say it's not normal?" Agent Wolff asked wryly.

"Agent. I think—"

"Call me Drew," he answered, then took a sip of his drink. "Or Wolff. I respond to both."

"Drew—" Grace started, but the surprised look on his face made her stop. "What?"

"The irony just came to me."

Her eyebrow lifted. "Pardon?"

"Your last name is Shepherd. The deceased was Shepherd, and created a family called Shepherds and sex slaves called Lambs. And my last name is Wolff." He took another sip. "Which you can't bring yourself to call me."

"That's not irony."

"What?"

"It's a coincidence, not irony. And I'll call you Wolff, if you'd prefer, but all I want is for us to get to know each other. If I'm supposed to return home as the grieving daughter, and you're supposed to be the dutiful boyfriend, then it's important for us to get our stories straight."

Listening intently, he rubbed his pointer finger on the rim of his glass tumbler, creating a low-pitched ringing sound. "Okay. Where do we start?"

Grace smiled with excitement. "Where did we meet?"

"Why don't you just make it up and tell me?"

"Because it has to come naturally from your own imagination. You'll remember it best if the answers come from you."

"Well, the same can be said about you. You may forget a detail or two."

"That's not possible."

"Why?"

"Trust me. I have a great memory."

He looked at her skeptically and took a swig of his drink. "Okay. Boston."

She was eager to learn more of his fantasies and desires from the lies he told. "Where in Boston?"

Wolff shrugged, raising his large, tan hands in the air. "Um, at the Commons. At the duckling statue."

"Too cliché," she said, shaking her head.

"My story." He closed his tablet and swiveled the leather chair to face her. She hadn't known the seat could be repositioned. Grace nodded, extending her hand for him to continue. "We saw each other, and I was on a date with another woman." He stared off in the distance as if imagining the scene—or replaying a real-life event he was sharing only with her.

"Classy."

He pursed his lips but continued, "I placed my Red Sox cap on the mother duck. I asked if you'd take our picture. You agreed. You took one picture. Then you said you needed to take another one because I'd made a weird face. But you used the forward-facing camera and took a picture of yourself. You claimed to be checking to see if you'd taken it correctly, but you saved your profile pic and phone number in my phone. When you returned the cell phone, the first image of my date and me were on screen. Later, when I returned home, I reviewed the pics and found yours. The rest is history."

Grace remained quiet, staring at Wolff. Breaking from the daze, she turned her attention to her fingers, staring at the rudimentary manicure she'd given herself. Her cuticles were dry and split from milking, egg gathering, mucking, and washing the grit and grime of her life. She couldn't believe his imagination. And if it were a memory, he was clearly in love with someone else.

"What?" he asked.

"Did that actually happen to you?"

"Why?" He shrugged.

She smiled gently. "That was a very elaborate story."

He waved off her comment with a flick of his hand. "You told me to use my imagination."

"Well, I never..." She twirled her thumbs.

Wolff frowned, staring at her. "You never what?" He raised his hand as if demanding her to complete the thought.

She stared at him wide-eyed. "Knew that you could be so romantic. Worse, a pathological liar."

His eyes narrowed. The ice in his glass clinked when the plane jumped through a pocket of air. "You have no idea."

The plane jostled through a rough patch. The pilot warned of turbulence. Wolff gripped his armchair. He turned the chair forward, hiding himself from Grace's scrutiny. She took a sip of water. After the plane shuddered and dropped slightly, Grace peered at Wolff. The back of his head had burrowed into the headrest and his eyes were shut. She scanned down his broad shoulder to his flexed forearms then to his clenched fist.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked, concerned by his rapid breathing.

"Yeah," he blurted. She saw him discreetly tighten his seat belt.

"I'm an only child, as far as I know. I bet you knew that already. So how many siblings should I say you have?" she asked, distracting him from the trembling aircraft.

"None."

"Really?" She delighted that they had that in common but sympathized that they'd been raised alone.

"Yeah."

"So, you're an only child too?"

"No," he answered.

Troubled by the ease in which he made up lies, she quietly said, "Oh. How many siblings do you actually have?"

With a one-eyed glare, Wolff answered, "If it's all the same with you, Professor...Doc—I mean, Grace—I'd rather keep my private life under wraps."

"I see." She turned away from him and looked out the narrow window. A sip of water helped douse the burning sensation from her hurt feelings. Wolff knew a lot about her, but she knew almost nothing about him. She was also expected to help reveal family secrets she didn't fully know, but he couldn't share simple details about his life.

The plane ascended to smoother air. An audible sigh escaped him. She looked over to see if he was okay. He inhaled deeply before taking a sip of his drink.

Grace refrained from making eye contact. She feared Wolff's biting remarks. Her nerves were already frayed. It was no comfort to return to her childhood home after a decade. The long estrangement wasn't lengthy enough to handle and process Collin's death. The active murder investigation had unnerved her. And she knew she'd have to place herself in danger to find out the truth—who killed Collin and why, and was her mother's identity connected to his death.

The attractive agent sitting beside her didn't help matters. Living alone and tending to her animals was far better than socially interacting with men her age. Society expected her to be in a committed relationship at this point, but she relished her solitude.

Anxiety racked her mind, making her body tense, her fingers numb, and her heart beat faster. It was hard leaving the comfort of her daily life with her animals, and the upcoming harvest weighed heavily on her mind. Thankfully, Ethan had agreed to take over her daily chores while she was away. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. He'd been staying on the leased parcel of land where he'd transplanted seedlings for his academic research and thesis. Ethan was a trustworthy man. She couldn't think of anyone else to take on the overwhelming responsibility of tending to her animals and harvesting the honey from three of the six apiaries.

She shivered from stress.

"Do you need a blanket?" Wolff asked.

She mumbled a rejection.

Despite her refusal, he leaned over, pulled a thin knit blanket out of his travel case and draped one over her shoulder. A whiff of his scent emanated from the fabric. It smelled like his cologne, a scent she'd memorized the day before when she'd walked him and Agent Yaeger out of her home. A quick surge of heat burst through her, warming her to the core.

When she peered up, they locked eyes. He didn't smile. In turn, she remained impassive but managed to say thank you. Yet, her heart beat loudly in her ears, and it skipped a beat when his fingers grazed her neck as he reclaimed his arm.

"Thank you." She hugged herself. "Your wife is a lucky woman," she probed, knowing that a lack of a wedding ring didn't necessarily mean he was single.

"I don't think she'd agree with you," Wolff replied.

Grace's stomach lurched, feeling an intense ache, then an emptiness. She couldn't dismiss her attraction to him but knew she could never be a mistress.

"Divorced." He took another swig of his drink.

Giving the customary answer, "Oh, I'm sorry," relief and excitement enveloped her. "How are you doing?"

"Do you have an off button that stops you from analyzing me?"

Her eyes widened. "Honestly, Wolff. I was trying to pass the time on this long, boring flight. I have absolutely no desire to return to the Glen. I swore I'd never go back. It may be easy for you to infiltrate a covert group in the Middle East or a dictatorship in South America, but this is a place I escaped from... And now I have to go back and bury a man I grieved a decade ago." She wrapped the blanket around herself and turned away from him.

"I'm sorry, Grace..." He sighed. "But we're just working together to get information. As soon as we get what we need, we're free to go our separate ways. Getting to know each other complicates things."

Grace nodded, but a chill coursed through her veins, seeping through her bones and into her marrow. As she closed her eyes, feeling his gaze linger over her, she resolved that her intense attraction was just loneliness and vulnerability—and a huge dose of sexual frustration. She needed another human's touch to fill the void. And she wouldn't be able to schedule a visit with Monsieur Dupuis anytime soon.

Wolff was right; once she learned of her mother's identity and her father's murderer, they wouldn't have reason to continue communication—this wouldn't be love, and he wouldn't give into lust. With his scent imprinted on every cell of her body, Grace fell asleep with a prayer that her homecoming would be less painful than Wolff's rejection.