by Misty Evans
“You’re good at avoiding my questions.”
“I'm not avoiding anything.” She dried her hands and patted her tiny wound with a tissue. The bleeding stopped, so she picked up the scissors once more. “My personal life is just that, personal. If it doesn’t assist us with the mission, we don’t need to discuss it.”
“Au contraire. There’s a chemistry between true friends and business partners. We have to share some personal stories to be believable, but okay.” He raised his hands as if he were an open book. “What would you like to know about me?”
For a minute, she ignored him, but curiosity got the best of her. “Why did you accept two different SEAL assignments, knowing you were likely going to end up in prison? Or worse, they might have killed you in retaliation for taking out both of those leaders.”
He looked a little surprised that she knew about his last two missions. “My job as a SEAL is to stop threats to the US.”
Pat answer. She kept trimming, but smirked at him in the mirror’s reflection. “Now who's avoiding answering the question?”
“The details of the mission don't matter as much as the end goal.”
“Humor me. Why does it matter if I like Beatrice? She's the boss, she gives me an assignment, I do the job. That's what you do, correct?”
He smirked back. “Touché, Miss Donovan.”
She stood in front of him, leaning down slightly to run the comb through his hair and check that both sides were even. A couple of strands over his left ear needed another half inch cut off.
“I know what you're saying about trust,” he said. His face close to hers, his eyes staring directly into hers. “I can't say I was thrilled about the parameters of those missions, but I trusted my commanding officer and those above him who were in charge.”
She wondered how much he felt like trusting them after they left him in prison all this time. Probably a touchy subject, so she let it go. For now, anyway. “How’d you break out of the cell?”
“You don't know?”
“I know Trace was involved but he didn't share details.”
“I'm not sure about them either.” He chuckled. “My noon meal came with a tiny American flag on top of two pieces of stale bread, alerting me to a possible rescue. In between the slices was a micro device I've never seen before. Within a minute, the overhead light flickered in Morse code with the word ROOF and the device turned itself on. It knocked out the computer-driven lock system, and, voila, I was a free man. Well, after I dodged the guards and sprinkler system filled with gas they use to subdue rioting prisoners.”
Yikes. “Emit Petit sure likes his gizmos,” she said, now satisfied with the length of his hair, but feeling a bit too close to him for comfort. “Beatrice must have someone inside who was willing to get it to you.”
She leaned down to comb through his beard and he reared back. “What are you doing?”
Face-to-face, she gave him an evil smile. “Trimming your beard, what else?”
He eyed the scissors out of his peripheral vision. “I can do it.”
“Don’t be silly.” Was he really squirming about her trimming his beard? “I promise to be careful.”
“How much are you going to cut off?”
“Several inches. Some stubble is okay, but you look like you’re a mountain man who hasn't seen civilization in decades. That's not the look we’re going for, Mr. Sterling.”
He released a deep breath, but his shoulders stayed tense. The beard was scratchy under her fingers and she worked through a couple of tiny knots first.
He closed his eyes, and she wasn't sure if it was because of her nearness or because he hated losing that awful beard.
“How long have you worked for Beatrice?” he asked.
Were they circling back to this? “Long enough.”
She had the feeling telling him the truth about her length of time with Shadow Force would not make him feel better. It had barely been three months, Beatrice recruiting her from the NSA, and promising her the money she would make with SFI would finally get her student loans paid off and give her the seed money for her own law firm.
Her sign-on bonus had allowed her to file her LLC and get business cards. Beatrice was her first—and only, at the moment—client, but Cassandra had big plans for the future.
“You don't know me, Mick, so reassuring you about Beatrice and Shadow Force is probably not worth much, but it appears you know Trace, and even though he is no longer a SEAL, I'm guessing that bond runs deep in his veins, like it does for you. If he trusts her, you should consider it.”
He stayed silent until she was done. They needed an electric razor with a beard trimmer, but this would do for now.
Cassandra stepped away so he could see the mirror. “Open your eyes.”
He peeked one open, seemed to like what he saw and opened the other as well. His hands went to what was left of his beard, stroking it with his long broad fingers.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”
His eyes flashed to hers and he smiled. “I'm impressed. It's not every day I trust my hair and beard to someone I don't know, but you did good, Juno.”
“I'm amazing like that,” she teased.
He rose from the chair, his body moving and angling close to hers until her butt hit the vanity. He leaned down to look her directly in the eyes. Those turquoise peepers of his were mesmerizing. “Turnabout’s fair play, partner.”
His breath was warm on her skin, his eyes dancing with mischief. She started to speak, voice coming out too ragged, and had to take a breath and start over. “What do you mean?”
His smile turned wicked and he leaned in closer, his lips nearly touching hers. “It’s your turn to get a makeover.”
5
When changing your appearance, don’t forget the shoes.
“Me?” Cassandra slipped to the side, getting away from all that male intensity. Those sexy eyes that did funny things to her. “I don't need a makeover.”
Mick’s fingers grazed her elbow as he stuck as close as honey on a bear’s paw. “You look like you should be a scientist at the convention, instead of an investor. I need a sexy COO, not a stuck up, frigid one. People will know you’re the intellectual and not me, but you have to live up to my image.”
“They’d be right about the intellectual part.”
He didn’t like her sass and took her hand against her protest, leading her out of the bathroom and dragging her across the floor to the walk-in closet. “I know why you picked this bedroom.” He waved a hand at the racks of clothes, shoes, and handbags inside. “This safe house either belongs to a fashion model or is obviously used for some high-end undercover work.”
Her gaze traveled over the designer clothes and one entire wall of shelves displaying shoes. It was a thing of beauty—and expense.
The handbags were works of art, positioned on a lighted carousel, a rainbow of colors, textures, and sizes. Her mouth went dry, her fingers longing to touch all of them. “It made no difference which room I ended up in. This one seemed more feminine, that’s all.”
“Right.” Mick stepped to a rack of sexy dresses. He pulled out a cranberry colored one. “Look at this baby. You would be absolutely stunning in this.”
Sure, if she were attending an exhibit at the Leopold Art Museum, which just happened to be on her bucket list, but there was no time for tourist visits.
For a couple of heartbeats, though, she imagined herself wearing the dress and walking through the museum’s displays. Soaking in the colors and designs. Becoming one herself.
She allowed her fingers to stroke the silky fabric, loving the way it felt. “Your taste in exquisite fabrics is commendable, but no one would ever wear something as fancy as this to a scientific conference on synthetic viruses and DNA modification.”
“Really?” He examined it as if perplexed. “I bet the countess will. She sounds like the kind of person who calls attention to herself, regardless of the setting.”
“I’m n
ot a countess.” Cassandra hated calling attention to herself. She liked being in the background, doing her thing, and staying out of the spotlight. “My clothes are fine.”
Mick gave her the hairy eyeball, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. She was wearing a similar outfit to the day before, her favorite work uniform consisting of a skirt, blouse, and sensible shoes. “You’d pass up the opportunity to wear something as sexy as this in favor of…”
That. The word hung in the air as he motioned at her clothes.
“What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”
He lifted a brow. “It's ultraconservative and boring.”
Boring? He hadn't seemed bored when he'd eyed her legs yesterday in the helicopter.
“There's nothing wrong with looking conservative. I'm a professional, and I'm pretending to be the same on this mission. A COO of a billion dollar company doesn't run around in silk and chiffon. She might wear good quality clothes, but they’d still be tailored and—” She tried to find a different word for “conservative.” He made it sound so…unadventurous. “Modest.”
He invaded her personal space, letting the dress brush against her arm. “Why would a beautiful woman like you ever want to appear modest?”
No one had ever called her beautiful, and here he’d said it two days in a row. She let the word sink in for a heartbeat. Did he really think that, or was he trying to manipulate her?
He was entirely too close, sucking the air from the space around her. His eyes shone bright enough she could get lost in them.
He completely discombobulated her when he was so close, and now that his hair and beard were trimmed, he looked good enough to eat.
Bonding. Was that what this was? It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Legs trembling, she edged around him and went to look at the carousel of handbags, trying to appear nonchalant. Her pulse hammered in her ears, her heart doing flip-flops inside her rib cage. She reached for her poise and rationality, fingering a Dolce & Gabbana tote. “I like dressing conservatively. It's not modesty, just my personal preference.”
With a loud sigh, he returned the dress to the rack and flipped through other clothes. She picked up a black leather D&G and took a sniff. Heaven. Pure heaven.
“How about this?”
She turned to find him holding a sleeveless sheath dress in a vibrant royal blue. Much more conservative than the red, but still a knockout and expertly made.
She walked over and touched the fabric, the linen perfectly pressed, a satin liner beneath and a single zipper down the back. The dress appeared to be exactly her size, and she wondered if Mick had simply lucked out or sized her up—literally—more thoroughly than she’d realized.
“It’s lovely.”
“High neck, falls below the knee, and you can dress it up with those heels.” He pointed to matching pumps on the wall. “It’s perfect for the conference—and your figure.”
That infamous grin lit his face, sending her pulse into another jitterbug.
She willed her fingers to release the fabric. “I don't need clothes or a makeover, but you do have an eye for beautiful dresses. I’ll give you that.”
“I let you hack off my beard. The least you could do is try it on and let me confirm how right I am about the fit.”
“I did not hack it off.” He was so full of himself, but her hand reached out and snagged the dress, even though her brain told her to ignore his egotistical challenge. She had a challenge for him too. “I'll try it on, but only if you thoroughly read your backstop identity file. I'm going to quiz you on it to be sure you have it down cold. I don't want it to only be an undercover identity, I want you to believe you are Graham Sterling. Got it?”
The grin turned lazy, indulgent. “There’s always a tit for tat with you, isn’t there? Everything’s a negotiation.”
She didn’t answer, turning on her heel and returning to the bathroom. She could smell the soap he’d used, the lemon scented shampoo as well. Her eyes darted to the shower stall, her mind imagining him naked under the water.
He’d been without many things those years in prison, including women. She hadn't been in prison, except the one of her own making, but she had a good idea how horny he must be since it had been a solid two years since her last relationship. She'd been too busy, she told herself. First with law school then her job. Relationships were challenging because of her schedule.
The tiny voice inside her mind laughed. She'd always been valued for her brains, not looks, and she was fine with that, but sometimes loneliness bulldozed through her. She envied her sister who had chosen a different career path and had also been married for five years to the love of her life. Mandy had a cute suburban house, her soulmate, one daughter and another on the way.
If she let herself think about it, Cassandra feared she would never have any of those things. She wasn’t cut out for a Hallmark movie. That was one of the reasons she’d always thrown herself into her work. Being there for everyone else—her parents, Jenny, her niece—made her happy. She was a good lawyer, daughter, and sister. Most days that was enough.
I am not boring, she told herself in the mirror. As if to prove a point to the mocking voice in her head, she removed her clothes and stepped into the dress.
The fabric was a sheer waterfall of blue falling over her body and sliding across her skin. It wrapped itself around her in a gentle hug.
The weight was solid, the cut ideal for her curves. Mick was right—the dress looked like it had been made especially for her.
Body consciousness issues had followed her since she was nine. She took after her mother, who had generous curves and never cared. Aurora Donovan hid them behind white lab coats and baggy pants—and her PhD.
Brains over beauty was respected in her family. Aurora kept her long, blond hair pulled back into a bun, her eyes like Cassandra's, hidden behind thick eyeglasses.
Oh God. Have I become my mother?
Cassandra didn't hide behind a lab coat and baggy pants. She enjoyed her white blouses and conservative skirts. It was always easy to figure out what she was going to wear.
Cassandra's father, Jonathan, never seemed to care about her mother’s weight. They would go out to eat every Friday night, and he would sometimes take Aurora dancing. Her mother would dress up, put on makeup, and pretend she didn't like it, but Cassandra always saw the light in her eyes when she looked at her dad. They would come home laughing, her father twirling her mother around as if they were still on the dance floor.
Cassandra had always wanted that.
The beautiful blue dress suddenly felt too tight. She felt ridiculous in it, ridiculous being here and agreeing to go undercover. Someone else should do it. Parker.
She hadn't zipped the dress all the way, unable to reach past a certain spot, and was about to undo it when a knock sounded at the door.
“Are you ever coming out or will I have to force my way in to see you in that knockout dress?”
Crud. “I forgot the shoes,” she said, stalling.
The door eased open a few inches and the blue pumps appeared, dangling from Mick’s long fingers. “Got ’em right here.”
Damn.
Keeping out of his eyesight, she snatched them from him. “Oh, too bad, they're the wrong size, and the dress is too tight so—”
She let out an eep as Mick pushed open the door.
“Holy Virgin, look at you. That dress is not too tight—it's perfect.”
The only full-length mirror was inside the walk-in closet, so she had no idea for sure how her bottom half looked from all sides. She was pretty sure she didn't want to know.
But the way Mick’s eyes smoldered, and the smile that grew on his face, she had to admit, she was a little curious.
He wiggled his fingers at her. “Turn around and let me finish zipping it.”
He didn't wait for her okay, his hands on her shoulders moving her to face the mirror.
His fingers tickled the spot between her shoulder blades as they fou
nd the zipper tab. His breath was warm on the back of her neck, and she couldn’t look away from his eyes as he slowly zipped the dress all the way up.
She shivered under his gaze, a low burn deep in her belly. He didn’t say anything, just hovered there, looking at her in the mirror, and she couldn’t find her voice.
He took her hand, once more tugging her behind him, swiping up the shoes as he went. Inside the closet, he faced her at the full length mirror, set the shoes in front of her bare feet, and offered a hand to help her step into them.
What was she doing? She wasn't quite sure as she tentatively slipped her hand into his. His strong fingers closed around hers, his palm warm and sturdy, calluses rough against her skin. Taking a deep breath, she slid her feet, one by one, into the waiting heels.
Another perfect fit.
Mick flashed that signature smile of his, confident and prideful. He stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and she sucked in a breath at what a good looking couple they made. “Holy crap, Donovan. Don’t you look absolutely stunning?”
That was pushing it, but the blue of the dress definitely accentuated her pale skin and blue eyes. The glove-like fit molded to every curve, giving her a perfect hourglass shape. The hips that she normally thought were too big were perfectly proportioned with her chest.
He whistled softly under his breath and waggled his eyebrows at her in the mirror. A soft growl issued from his mouth. “Those scientists aren't going to know what hit them when you walk into the room, partner. I'll have to beat them off with a stick.”
She couldn't help it, she laughed at his flattery. “I can beat them off with my own stick, if necessary, but thanks.”
He reached up and removed the pins from her bun, letting her white blond strands fall over her shoulders. Against her protest, he sunk his fingers in and tousled it. “That's better. I can't decide about the glasses, though. I like the intellectual look, but these don't quite work with the outfit. Do you have any others?”
She was blind as a bat without her glasses, and had never gotten used to the feel of contacts. “I have three pairs with me.”
