I needed a strong last name for Brenda Leigh's undercover name. I've used Steele before and liked it...way before those shitty 50 Shades of Grey books so it kinda pained me to use it here. But it fit. So I did.

It took 6 months for Brenda to become Valencia Steele and immerse herself in the diamond underworld. Her blonde wavy mane was now shoulder length and brunette…chocolate caramel is what the color was officially called. A deep aqua blue replaced the dark brown of her eyes. Some of the flowery dresses remained but Valencia was sexy and bold and confident. The tight, short skirts and low cut dresses were now her signature.

Surprisingly, Brenda enjoyed being Valencia Steele. Her every thought and focus was on the Job. She had one mission: to entangle herself with the head of the diamond smuggling operation and take him down…no matter how long it took.

After Vegas, she flew to London. That was the last known location of "Il Diamante" as they called him. Her funds were unlimited. She had to play the part and Valencia Steele was a super wealthy, super sexy diamonds buyer. It wasn't hard to make herself known in the diamond world. It was easier to get in when you're a sexy lady in a sea of men.

But Brenda was enjoying every minute of the campaign. It gave her the freedom to not dwell on the past. To not make the same mistakes Brenda had made.

Walking through Hyde Park, she knew someone was following her. They'd been for a few weeks now. But he never approached her. It wasn't anyone she'd met before and it wasn't anyone on her spec list. Her heart started racing. Maybe it was him.

Retying the knot of her short red trench coat, she sat down on an empty park bench and waited. With her peripheral vision she saw the target stop at the edge of the lake. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a book to pretend to read until he made his move. If he made one at all.

About 20 minutes later he slowly walked toward her. He was handsome. Extremely so. His dark hair cut loose over his collar. And he was younger than she thought he would be…probably mid-40s. The scruff on his face made him appear a bit rugged. He wore black denim jeans faded in all the right spots. His button up grey shirt hung loose over his narrow hips. With the sleeves rolled up on his forearms he looked like any other guy. Maybe it wasn't him…but she had a feeling in her gut that it was.

She didn't look at him as he approached.

"Is this seat taken, miss?" He asked.

Looking up as if she wasn't aware of his presence she stammered a bit. "Uh…no. It's not taken." She pretended to read her book again.

It shocked her that he had an American accent. They hadn't had much intelligence on him but they thought he might be Italian. If, indeed, this was their man.

They sat in silence for a long while before he finally spoke.

"American?" He asked. His voice was deep and brooding.

Brenda looked up from her book. "Pardon me?"

"You're an American?" He asked again with a sly smile on his face. This one was a charmer.

"Oh yes. I apologize. Sometimes a good mystery can be quite distracting." Smiling, she flipped her book over in her hands. Gone was her Southern drawl and in its place was a crisp, upper crust, slight New England accent. The CIA didn't want the risk of her accent being detected and many elitists didn't take southerners seriously.

His mahogany brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he stuck his hand out towards her. A chill went down her spine when she placed her hand demurely into his and he leaned forward to gently feather a kiss across the top.

Oh yeah. This was him, she thought to herself. Her eyes caught sight of the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist and the black leather Berluti shoes on his feet. Yes, it was definitely her man.

"G. R. Hawthorne. Very nice to make your acquaintance, miss…" The dimples in his cheeks deepened as she waited for her reply.

"Valencia Steele." She easily returned his smile.

He repeated her name like he was branding it in his mind.

"Are you here on business or pleasure?" His coffee colored eyes stared deeply into hers. For a brief moment she almost lost herself in them.

"Oh a little of both but business mostly." She didn't offer anything else. She couldn't give more than he asked for or it might set off his radar. The CIA had never been able to put a pin on him. Why was he letting his guard down now?

He crossed his legs. "And what business would that be?"

Turning to him she lifted her eyebrow and smirked. "You're certainly full of questions, Mr. Hawthorne."

He laughed a deep, hearty laugh which made her smile. But he didn't press her for an answer this time. He knew who Valencia Steele was.

"It's the nature of my business, Miss Steele. I'm a writer and sometimes a muse is just a glance away." She saw him watching her to see if she gave away a tell. But she knew better. Was trained better. It was like playing poker. A good player could tell just by looking at your face what you held in your hand. But a better player knew how to keep it hidden.

He uncrossed his legs and stood up in front of her. It wasn't hard to tower over her sitting frame when he was at least 6'2. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Miss Steele. It would be a great disservice if we did not." And with that he turned and she watched him continue to walk down the path he followed her on.

Brenda Leigh knew immediately that he would contact her again. As she remained on the bench for some time, she could feel his eyes boring into her. Opening the book she never read a word of, she sat back against the bench for another good hour before meandering slowly back to her flat.

By the time she finished her report on her new acquaintance, it was well after dark. Every day, all day she thought of nothing but the Job. It was almost a brain-washing affect.

But every night right before she fell asleep, she didn't think of the life Brenda Leigh had…she thought of Sharon Raydor. She'd been gone for 6 months. Had Sharon tried to contact Brenda Leigh or had she forgotten about her already? As much as she knew she couldn't reach out to Sharon, the more she wanted to. Needed to. But it would be risking the whole operation. Not to mention her life as well as Sharon's.

So each night she lay in her big bed and stared out into the dark London night through the wall length picture windows and thought about her friend.

Some nights she thought about the grief her guys would likely give Captain Sharon Raydor mostly on purpose and for their own amusement.

And some nights she yearned to sit with her in some smoky, dark bar and share a glass or more of wine together.

Then some nights…the lonely nights…she thought about the way it felt when Sharon touched her shoulder or put her hand on her back. And all at once, those peculiar feelings came flooding back.

The longer she was away, the stronger they got.