It was the judge who finally admitted he'd been alerted to look for that technicality. The admission came only after Lightning had brought the pressure of the White House to bear on the judge. Even then it took more hours of sifting through bureaucratic layers to determine that the whole bust had been a setup.
As TJ had always asserted, Jordan acknowledged bitterly. He'd told her the absolute truth, dressed up to look like a lie. She hadn't believed him then. She wasn't sure she could believe him now.
She knew how bureaucracy worked. All too well. Despite the recommendations of the 9/11 Commission to streamline and centralize intelligence, the overhaul bill President Bush had signed into law had yet to break down the compartmentalization that was both the bane and the backbone of the intelligence community.
Some information had to be kept close-hold. The more people who were read into a program, the higher the possibility of a leak. On the other hand, the fewer who knew about clandestine operations such as this one, the greater the likelihood of crossed communications.
She had her orders. She was to apprise TJ of her mission. He in turn would be instructed to cooperate fully with her. After what they'd put each other through three years ago, though, she suspected cooperation wouldn't equate with trust.
When he dropped down beside her a few moments later, he didn't look any more ready to forgive and forget than Jordan felt at the moment.
"All right, Special Agent Colby. Headquarters confirms you're on the side of justice, equality and the American way. Now suppose you tell me what the hell you're doing in the middle of my op."
"You heard about the theft of the sultana of D'han's emerald?"
He sent her a scathing look. "I may be out of the loop on some matters, but headquarters did read me in on that little incident. They also advised me Bartholomew Greene is one of the prime suspects behind the heist. In addition to being in bed with the Colombians, which is why I was sent to Hawaii in the first place."
"Have you uncovered any evidence that points to either the theft or Greene's involvement in money laundering?"
"Not yet. Have you?"
He'd slipped the blade in so smoothly it took Jordan a moment to feel the prick.
"Okay, okay. I admit it. I did some snooping around last night."
He didn't appear gratified by her grudging admission. In the dim glow of the moon, his face was all hard angles and deep creases.
"How did you bypass the security systems?"
"I used a sniffer to detect and avoid the motion sensors."
"What about the Y-beams?"
"Headquarters outfitted me with a thermal suit that contains body heat. It also," she tacked on after a moment of brittle silence, "makes me sweat like a pig. That's why my foot went out from under me on the bathroom tiles."
He angled her another look. "Did you find anything while you were poking around?"
"No."
She hated having to admit failure to another operative. Particularly this operative. She hadn't yet made the mental leap from thinking of him as a dirty cop.
A short, charged silence spun out while Jordan remembered the humiliation, anger and hurt she'd nursed for so long. She had to ask, had to know.
"Why did you get involved with me back in New York? Was I part of your cover? Crooked cop needs extra cash to romance his supermodel girlfriend?"
"You were never part of the sting, Red. You just...happened. For what it's worth, I never intended to take things so far between us."
"What did you intend?"
"A hot date," he replied with brutal honesty. "An even hotter weekend. That's all I had in mind when I approached you at the charity ball. I'd spent months perfecting my cover and setting myself up to take the fall. I knew the bust was coming, knew I couldn't get serious about any woman."
"So you were just filling time."
"Yeah. At first. Then..."
"Then?"
"Then things got complicated."
That was one way of describing the fire they'd ignited in each other, Jordan supposed.
"The bust wasn't supposed to net anyone except me," TJ said after a moment.
"So what went wrong?"
"A vice cop picked up a pimp I'd put the squeeze on. The pimp squealed, Vice took it to Internal Affairs and IA came down on the captain in charge of the anticorruption task force. We had planned the bust for later in the week, but with the crap about to hit the fan, the captain had to move on it. Unfortunately, he picked the same afternoon I finally got you into my bed."
"Finally?" She let out a huff of derision and disgust. "As I recall, we'd tangled between the sheets several times before that supremely regrettable session in your apartment."
"You can't regret it any more than I do."
She wasn't so sure about that. Resting her chin on her sandy knees, she let the memories of their last hour together sweep back.
As if it were yesterday, she could feel the tiny beads of sweat that had pooled at the base of TJ's spine. The rasp of his unshaven cheek against hers.
The sheer wonder of exploring his lean, muscled body with mouth and tongue and teeth. She'd never experienced anything close to that level of sensuality before. Or since.
She wouldn't have been so angry or so disgusted with herself afterward if the hunger had been purely physical. What hurt then, what still hurt, was the aching realization she'd come to crave his company as much as his touch.
He'd craved hers, too. The connection hadn't been all one-sided. Jordan had sensed it in the shared laughter, the verbal sparring matches, the discovery of mutual likes and avid dislikes. She had to know how he could abandon that—and her—without a backward glance.
"Why did you go undercover, TJ? Why give up twelve years on the force and let all your friends believe you'd turned?"
He didn't answer right away. Hooking his elbows over his knees, he stared out at the dark, restless sea.
"It started with an arrest I made," he said finally. "A street punk who'd robbed a convenience store. He was young, just twelve it turned out, and so stoned he couldn't remember his name. I'd busted twelve-year-olds before. Too damn many of them. But something about this one got to me. Maybe the fact that he puked all over me before I got him to the juvenile detention center."
"That would certainly endear him to me, too."
The comment drew a wry smile.
"I sort of made him my personal project after that. He didn't have anyone else who cared what happened to him. His mother had taken a hike. His father had already written him off as a dopehead and a loser. I worked with his caseworker, talked to the judge, got the kid into rehab. Social services managed to place him in a decent foster home after rehab."
Jordan had spent a number of years on her own. She knew how tough it was to climb out of the gutter and stay out. So she wasn't surprised at what came next.
"Two weeks after he got out of rehab, he OD'd."
TJ's shrug disguised the bone-deep frustration of a cop who dealt with such tragedies every day.
"The kid was just another statistic, one more throwaway, but I decided then I was tired of going after the street pushers and two-bit junkies. I wanted the big guys, the ones flooding the schools with snow and coke and meth."
"And you couldn't get to them as an NYPD narc?"
"Not the ones I wanted. Not the ones funneling the crap in by the plane- and boatload."
"So you talked to the feds."
"I talked to the feds. Then I started putting the squeeze on the pimps and pushers on my beat. Word soon got out I was looking to make more than what I could earn as a cop."
It wouldn't take long, Jordan knew. That kind of thing was like mold. It spread to dark, dank corners almost without check.
"After I was busted for taking bribes, I let it be known I was available to the highest bidder. Surprising how many scuzz-balls wanted to hire the same cop who'd sent their friends to Rikers. Eventually, I worked my way into the inner circle of some heavy hit
ters. A number of them are now behind bars," he said with fierce satisfaction. "They still don't have a clue who put them there."
Three years, Jordan thought. He'd been living among scum for three years. The same kind of scum she'd once accused him of being.
"It never occurred to you to tell me you were undercover?"
"I wanted to, Red. You have no idea how badly. But I couldn't take you where I was going and I sure as hell didn't want to expose you to the kind of people I'd be dealing with."
"That's pure unadulterated crap. What you mean is that you couldn't trust me with the truth."
He slanted her a quick glance. "I'd say that worked both ways. I was a cop, a good one as far as you knew. Yet you never gave me a hint you were anything other than a supermodel turned entrepreneur."
He was right. She hadn't.
Scooping up a clump of damp sand, she crumbled it and let the grains sift through her fingers. With it went the anger at what she'd always believed was a betrayal.
"We had a chance at something," she said after a moment.
"Yes, we did."
"Too bad we screwed everything up."
"Maybe not everything. Best I recall, there were one or two things we did pretty well."
She looked up and saw his mouth curve in a grin, but didn't realize his intent until he slid a palm around her nape.
"Hold on, Scott! This is not a good idea. In case you've forgotten, we're on an op here."
"I haven't forgotten, Red. This is just for old time's sake."
His lips brushed hers once, twice.
Jordan knew she should pull away. Her head was whirling with everything he'd told her. And they still hadn't discussed coordinating their actions on what was now a joint mission. Neither of them had any business indulging in a maudlin bout of nostalgia, however brief.
Which didn't explain why she shifted position and angled her mouth to his. Or why heat streaked through every inch of her body.
Chapter 8
One kiss. That was all Jordan had intended. A taste of warm, wet mouth. A brief dance of tongues and teeth. Before she quite knew how it had happened, the kiss had morphed into a scene right out of From Here To Eternity.
She remembered slicking her hands over TJ's bare shoulders and back. And his low growl when he took her down with him onto the hard-packed sand. The next thing she knew, they were doing one heck of an imitation of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr sprawled in wild abandon while waves broke over them.
"TJ!" she gasped as his mouth blazed a hot trail from her mouth to her throat. "This is insane!"
"Yeah, I know."
The surf rushed in, climbing higher onto the shore. Eddies foamed over Jordan's legs. Her dress swirled up to her thighs. Feeling ridiculous and aroused and in imminent danger of drowning, she voiced no objection when TJ scooped her up and carried her to higher ground.
Into the shadows, she noted with the minuscule corner of her brain still functioning. Hidden from anyone who might decide to stroll along the bluffs above the beach. The agent in her approved of his instinctive caution even as the female in her urged him to hurry.
Her hazy worry that the break in mouth-to-mouth contact would snap them back to sanity disappeared when TJ stooped. Balancing her on one knee, he groped for the shirt she hadn't noticed lying in the shadows and spread it into a makeshift beach blanket.
The contrast between the warm, dry cotton under her back and the cool, sleek body that covered hers jolted every one of Jordan's nerve endings. Breathing in his salty scent, she closed her eyes to the dark silhouette of the palms rustling far above them.
She wasn't as successful at closing her mind to the tiny voice inside her head. It kept whispering to her. Reminding her. This was TJ. The man she'd tumbled into love with once before. The man who'd walked away from her.
A tug on the elasticized bodice of her dress silenced the nagging whispers. The bodice came down. A moment later, the sodden skirt came up. Both ends met in a tangle around her waist.
"I'd almost forgotten how beautiful you are."
His voice was low and rough, his callused palm prickly against her skin as he traced the curve of her breasts and waist and hips.
"You're not so bad yourself."
She laid her palms against the smooth curve of skin and sinew. The feel of him tightened the muscles low in her belly. Her womb clenched and a liquid heat rushed through her veins, firing a hunger she hadn't felt in so long she'd forgotten its potency.
To hell with it. She'd sort everything out later. Right now, she wanted exactly what TJ was offering.
"We'll play this different from last time," she panted, fumbling for the snap on his jeans. "No hearts. No violins. No schmaltzy Sunday afternoons in the park. This is just sex, Scott. For old time's sake."
He went still for a moment, frowning at the way she'd thrown his words back at him. In no mood for argument or discussion, Jordan tugged down his zipper and closed her hand over the hard, hot bulge behind it. Thirty seconds later they were both naked.
"No hearts," he agreed, positioning himself between her legs. "No flowers. Just this."
Jordan's heels dug into the sand. Her thighs cradled his. When he thrust into her, she was ready.
Too ready!
Three strong, smooth strokes arched her back.
Three more brought a groan ripping from deep in her throat. Somehow, she managed to hang on until TJ's breath was as rough and as fast as hers.
Her climax shot her as high as the peaks towering above them in the darkness of the night. The aftermath floated her back down in slow, spiraling swirls.
She was still gliding when TJ fisted his hands in her hair. Bunching his thigh muscles, he thrust into her a final time.
Jordan had once read a magazine article devoted to the fine art of transitioning from bed to breakfast. The author had claimed there was no need for awkward mornings-after. No cause to feel embarrassed when rolling out of tangled sheets. All a girl needed to get through that moment of separation was a dash of wit and a dollop of panache.
Unfortunately, nothing in the article had suggested a graceful way to dust off sand, drag a soggy dress over equally soggy panties, and face the man who'd dumped you three years ago for reasons you now understood but couldn't quite forgive.
Okay, Jordan thought as she squirmed into her wet bikini briefs. All right. They'd fed the raging beast. Satisfied the hunger left over from three years ago. Now it was time to address the matter that had brought them back into each other's orbits. Folding her legs under her, she sat up and assumed as brisk an air as possible with her hair in tangles and her mouth salty with the taste of TJ's skin.
"We need to talk about Bartholomew and his operation here at the institute."
The snap on his jeans closed with a small pop. Shaking the sand from his shirt, he dragged it on.
"What have you got so far?" she asked, when he'd hunkered down beside her.
"Not a whole lot."
TJ flicked a broken piece of shell off his forearm and watched it spin into the shadows. His pulse had pretty well steadied and his brain had reengaged with his body, but he had a tough time wrapping his thoughts around either Bartholomew Greene or the Tranquility Institute. His mind was still alive with images of Jordan all taut and slick and shuddering in his arms. Filing those vivid visuals away for replay later, he channeled his thoughts to the task that had consumed him for the past three months.
"I'm pretty sure Greene's not using his guests as mules. We've had them under tight surveillance from the moment they landed at the airport and haven't uncovered any evidence they're transporting excessive amounts of cash in or out of the institute."
"Excessive being the operative word," Jordan murmured. "Most of the folks I've met so far could buy my business a dozen times over and barely see a dip in their bottom line."
"So could Greene's Colombian pals."
It was a vicious fact of life. The Colombian drug cartels ranked right up there with th
e top Fortune 500 corporations in terms of sales and beat most of them hands down when it came to profit margin. TJ knew he couldn't wipe out that margin entirely, but he sure as hell intended to put a dent in it.
The only way to get them was to go for their pressure points. Hit them where it hurt most. Despite their vast distribution and sales network, the cartels faced a serious problem when it came to converting their profits into cash. They couldn't bring the dollars they collected from their thousands of dealers into their own country. The Colombian government—with the willing and eager assistance of the United States—monitored the influx of foreign currency too closely these days. That meant the drug lords had to convert dollars to pesos.
The system was actually fairly simple. A Colombian drug trafficker or his U.S. counterpart would contact their American cohort and negotiate an exchange rate, usually thirty to forty percent below the official exchange rate. The trafficker would then arrange to have his dollars delivered to a drop-off point. The money could arrive in suitcases, shopping bags or the trunk of a car.
The American cohort would then disperse the dollars to scores of different banks. He had to keep each deposit under ten thousand dollars to avoid triggering the automatic report to law enforcement activities required on all such deposits. Once in the banking system, the money could be electronically manipulated, sent to offshore accounts and converted into pesos.
As simple as the process sounded, it still required an intake point, someone willing to accept the drug dollars and feed them into banks. The FBI, DEA and now this new agency, OMEGA, suspected Bartholomew Greene of doing just that. Proving it was taming out to be more difficult—and more dangerous—than anticipated. One DEA agent had already disappeared while attempting to penetrate Greene's organization.
Now another operative had joined TJ on the scene. Christ! Jordan Colby, undercover for some shadowy agency he'd just learned existed! How the hell was he supposed to separate the woman whose bones he'd just jumped from the agent he'd been instructed to cooperate with?
Diamonds Can Be Deadly Page 8
