License to Thrill
by
Stephanie Bond
Originally published 1997 in the U.S. by Bantam Books under the pen name Stephanie Bancroft.
This digital version has been updated by the author.
Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright 1997, 2011 by Stephanie Bond, Inc. All rights reserved.
Cover by Andy Brown at clicktwicedesign.com
eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
Author’s Note
This story was originally written for a mini-series within a romance novel line called “Men of Legend.” When I was asked to contribute, of course my first choice upon which to base a contemporary romance hero was the iconic James Bond character created by Ian Fleming. My James Donovan is his own man, though, and his bulletproof vest won’t protect his heart from my sassy, curvy all-American heroine! I hope you enjoy.
To Ruth Kagle,
a consummate professional
and a jolly good friend.
Prologue
Surrey, England
“James, darling, I knew you would come.” The stunning blonde set a champagne glass on a small marble table and gracefully rose to her feet.
James Donovan strolled into Lady Tania Mercer’s sitting room and lowered a friendly kiss onto her raised red mouth. “I’ve never been able to refuse you, Tania.”
“Almost never,” she corrected him, then smiled languidly. “I’m afraid this favor will be a bit more arduous than a night in my bed, James.”
His mouth quirked. “My lady, I doubt if even the British government could manufacture an assignment that demanding.”
Tania scoffed prettily and offered him a drink. While she mixed him a martini, James studied his former lover. Their brief affair had ended more than five years ago, before he retired from the British Secret Service. Tania had been a pleasant diversion from his unpredictable and often dangerous job. She’d wanted more than he could offer her, more than he could offer any woman, but they’d parted on congenial terms.
Lady Mercer moved in interesting circles and always had her finger in mysterious pies, so whatever the “favor,” he had a feeling it would be more entertaining than hunting and gaming on his estate, which had grown tiresome. “I have to admit your invitation has piqued my curiosity.”
She handed him his drink and laughed, a tinkling sound. “I figured after six months of inactivity, you might be getting restless.”
James pursed his lips to suppress a smile. “I haven’t been completely immobile.”
She raised a finely arched brow. “I was referring to your daytime activities, James.”
He raised his glass toward her. “You know me well, Tania.”
She inclined her head in agreement, touching her glass to his before taking a sip. “What would you say to a business trip to the States?”
He angled his head, surprised. “I’ve actually been toying with the idea of an extended holiday in New York City.”
“Unfortunately, this job would take you to the West Coast, to San Francisco.”
Nodding agreeably, he said, “I can combine the trips. What exactly did you have in mind?”
She swirled the liquid in her glass and shrugged. “It’s really quite mundane compared to your usual exploits, I’m sure, but I need an armed guard to accompany a courier and a piece of art to a museum there.”
“Are you dabbling in fine arts now?”
“It’s a letter, actually. A very old letter which recently came into my possession. I have reason to believe it is extremely valuable.”
“It sounds like a simple enough job. Why do you need me?”
Her mouth formed a lovely pout. “I need someone I can trust, and to be honest, I’d hoped we might be able to pick up where we left off once you returned.”
But James’s mind was elsewhere. In truth, her request had come at a good time. He’d been asked to consult on a case of improprieties at a London museum, but he’d postponed answering because his knowledge of the industry was so slim. This trip would allow him to pick the brain of a trained courier and perhaps he could offer assistance upon his return from New York.
Tania stood and slid her hand down the front of his linen shirt. “I could join you in the States once I’ve settled my affairs here. I love New York this time of the year, and I’ve missed you, James.”
He accepted her full-body kiss with only a mild stirring, a fact that irritated him. He was obviously losing his edge if he could conjure up so little interest in such a beautiful and skillful lover as Tania.
Apparently his lackluster response did not go unnoticed. She drew back, a frown marring her perfect brow. “Have you found a serious love interest?”
“No,” he said rather sharply, then laughed. “You forget who you are talking to, my dear.”
She sighed dramatically. “I see you are still enjoying your reputation as untouchable, James.”
“Well,” he murmured, dipping his head to hers again, “I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
Chapter 1
“Testosterone,” Kat McKray said, viciously squeezing a dribble of juice from the lemon wedge into her water glass. “Testosterone is the root of the world’s problems.”
“Mmm,” her best friend, Denise Womack, agreed as she sipped her tea.
“Overbearing men, everywhere I turn.” Kat pounded her fist on the cafe table. A waiter who had stopped to refill their drinks eyed her warily and moved on. She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. “If you ask me, hormone therapy would be the surest route to global peace.”
Denise arched an overplucked eyebrow. “Speaking of hormones, Kat, yours are running high today.” Then she nodded knowingly. “You need a man.”
Kat’s mouth fell open. “You’re delirious���that’s the last thing I need.”
But her red-haired friend only grinned. “You, my friend, are horny.”
Flustered, Kit could only gasp in outrage. “That’s ridiculous���just because I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with pushy men, doesn’t mean I’m… anything.”
“Let me guess���Napoleon’s being a pain in the ass again?”
“Again? He didn’t stop long enough to resume.”
“So why do you put up with the little dictator? He couldn’t run the museum without you.”
Kat sighed and tore off a chunk of buttered roll. Her friend didn’t know it, but she was planning her escape in two months, she just hadn’t yet chosen a destination. “I’ve been giving serious thought to leaving Jellico’s.”
“Good. There are dozens of museums and galleries in San Francisco that would pluck you up in a minute.” Her friend popped a cherry tomato into her mouth for emphasis.
Kat cupped her
hand behind her ear and tilted her head.
“What are you doing?”
“Listening as my father turns over in his grave for me even thinking about leaving Jellico’s.”
After a wry laugh, Denise said, “You’ve already made your mark there���why else would they have chosen you to handle the exhibition of the King’s letter?”
“Alleged King’s letter,” Kat said. “It hasn’t been authenticated yet. And this is a prime example of my boss lowering the standards of the museum by agreeing to show a document that might not even be genuine.”
“I saw an interview with the owner on the national news last night���she’s convinced it’s real.”
Kat laughed. “Lady Mercer has a vested interest in spreading that rumor���American collectors are clamoring for an invitation to bid on the letter.”
“She’ll be rich.”
“If it’s genuine.”
“What do you think?”
Kat chewed her bread. “I think it’s highly suspicious when a two-hundred-year-old historically significant document suddenly appears.”
“The news segment said the letter has been hidden between the pages of an old book and packed away in a trunk.”
Pursing her lips, Kat shook her head. “Seems a little pat to me.”
“It happens, doesn’t it?”
“Sure,” Kat conceded with a shrug. “It hasn’t been so long since an art collector attended a party and noticed a Michelangelo statue on a stairway newel post in the host’s home. The owners had no idea of its worth.”
“Wow,” Denise said, her eyes shining. “And now a love letter from King George III has come to light���you have to admit it’s kind of romantic, Kat.”
“If it was written by King George III,” Kat said wryly. “Besides, I think the collectors are more interested in the part about him being sympathetic to the American Revolutionaries than about the naughty talk to a mistress.”
“Have you read it?”
“No,” Kat said. “I just know what the newspapers are reporting, same as you.”
“Imagine, something worth so much money sitting right under your nose. Wouldn’t it be great if that hideous gargoyle on my fireplace mantel turned out to be worth something? Of course, it wouldn’t have to be a mint���I’d settle for a measly thirty-five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Still trying to buy your condo?” Kat asked sympathetically.
Denise nodded. “I’ve got six weeks to come up with the down payment or I’ll have to move.”
“Got any rich relatives?”
“Not any on the verge of dying, unfortunately.”
“You could marry my boss,” Kat suggested cheerfully. “And then get him off my back.”
Denise made a face. “I’m not getting on my back to save yours.”
“And why risk making that new boyfriend jealous?”
“Kat, I keep telling you, this guy is just a friend.”
“So what’s his name and when will I meet him?”
“Never mind, okay? What time does the letter arrive?”
Kat pointed her fork. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.”
“I only asked because I need to borrow your washer and dryer tonight.”
“Again? As much as your appliances break down, I’d think you’d be glad to move.”
Denise adopted a drawl. “It ain’t perfect, but it’s home.”
Kat squinted, mentally moving through the remainder of her day. “Besides the arrival of the infamous love letter, I have to develop a schedule to inventory our vaults. Arrrgh! I’m glad it only comes once every three years���I’d rather have a mammogram.”
Denise eyed her friend’s large breasts and ran a hand over her own flat chest. “Ouch.”
Kat laughed. “I should be home by seven o’clock.”
“Thanks.” Her petite friend flagged the waitress, then plopped down a couple of bills and some change.
“See you tonight,” she said, then waved and scampered off.
Kat watched her retreat, noticing several male heads turn. She scanned Denise’s picked-over salad, then frowned and glanced down at her own plate of fettuccini Alfredo. “I’m starting a diet,” she murmured, then twirled the noodles onto her fork. “Tomorrow.”
But as she walked back to the museum, Kat pushed aside thoughts of her snug waistband. The manuscript would arrive by courier from London around three o’clock. Upon arrival, she and the courier would note the condition of the document, then place it in the vault for the evening, where it would await the ministrations of a team of international experts on eighteenth-century British manuscripts.
Sending the letter to the States had been a brilliant move on the part of the owner, she noted. Most British historians had been outraged at the supposed content of the letter, and, naturally, most American historians had been delighted. The letter would make its debut next week at Jellico’s, San Francisco’s most renowned private museum and gallery.
As she badged in at the rear staff entrance, Kat laughed to herself, wondering if George would be amused at the new little war he’d started between England and the United States. Her smile dissolved when she saw her boss, Guy Trent, standing two feet inside the door, arms crossed, toe tapping.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.”
Kat adopted her own authoritative stance���not too difficult considering she towered over him by a good six inches. “To lunch,” she retorted. “I turn off my phone for an hour of peace and quiet.”
She didn’t miss his gaze flitting over her unfashionably round figure. “Well, while you were having lunch,” he said as if she’d committed a grievous sin, “the courier arrived.”
Kat’s pulse jumped. “I wasn’t expecting him for another two hours.”
Frowning, her boss walked to another door and flashed his badge in front of the card reader. “They’re waiting in the painting vault with Andy.”
“They?” She rushed to keep up with him as he trotted down the hallway.
He looked at her as if she were half-witted. “The courier and the armed guard.”
Now it was Kat’s turn to frown. She mentally scanned the details of the Mercer deal as they stopped before the door of the vault room and signed in at the guard’s desk “There was no mention of an armed guard in our negotiations.”
Guy flashed his badge again, and the light over the doorknob blinked. Placing his hand on the knob, her boss said, “Tell that to Her Majesty’s secret service man.”
Kat frowned, then lightly patted her tight chignon, even though she knew every dark hair was in place, as usual. She gave her black crepe suit a quick glance and smoothed a hand over her hips, sending the hem of her long skirt swishing around her ankles as she followed her boss into the vault.
The temperature-and moisture-controlled room was lined with narrow metal cages fitted with handles to slide them from their respective slots. Each cage was designed to hold a separate piece of art���in this particular vault, paintings, and in some cases, documents.
Two men stood beside her coworker Andy Wharton, and Kat’s eyes were instantly drawn to one of the strangers. Dressed in a slate-gray Armani suit, the dark-haired man stood well over six feet tall, his brown eyes squinting slightly as he sized her up in return. Tiny hairs rose on the exposed nape of her neck. The slight bulge of a shoulder holster beneath the fabric of his breast pocket confirmed his position, but this man was no rental cop.
“Gentlemen,” Guy said, smiling grandly. “May I present the curator who will be handling the letter, Ms. Katherine McKray. Kat, this is Mr. Muldoon, the courier.”
Kat dragged her eyes from the tall stranger to offer her hand and a smile to a smaller, wiry man. Mr. Muldoon nervously relinquished his grasp on the letter transport box long enough to give her a two-finger handshake.
Guy swept his hand up and toward the larger man. “And this is Mr.���”
“Donova
n,” the man supplied, his English accent lazy and rumbling. The right side of his mouth lifted as he captured Kat’s gaze and held it. “James Donovan.” As he spoke, a dimple appeared, then disappeared.
His schtick should have been cheesy. Instead, awareness of the man’s blatant sex appeal skittered over her nerve endings as she clasped the roomy hand he offered her. “How do you do, Mr. Donovan.”
The left side of his mouth joined the right, resulting in a devastating smile. “At the moment, Ms. McKray, I’m quite charmed, thank you.”
His rich, velvety accent stroked her eardrums. Was there anything more sexy in all the world? His fingers were long and well-shaped, warm and strong. When it seemed he had no intention of releasing her hand, she withdrew it carefully, mindful of the friction between their palms.
“You’ve taken us by surprise, gentlemen,” she said, rubbing her violated hand and purposely turning her attention to Mr. Muldoon.
The thin man shifted nervously, then slid his gaze to his companion. “It was Mr. Donovan’s idea.”
Feeling like a spectator at a tennis match, she looked back to Mr. Donovan, who was now leaning casually against a table, one hand in the pocket of trousers that looked incredibly wrinkle free considering the arduous flight. The man shrugged. “I thought it would be safer to arrive early in case you had notified a television crew.”
Kat kept her tone cool. “Mr. Donovan, we’re not in the habit of inviting news crews to film our security measures.” The raising of one thick eyebrow was his only response, so she continued. “While we’re on the subject, we should have been notified that a guard was traveling with the letter. Since you share our security concerns, I’m sure you’ll understand why we’ll need to contact Lady Mercer to verify your credentials.”
His eyes glinted in open amusement. “I’ve no doubt Lady Mercer will give me glowing marks.”
Kat bit the inside of her cheek to minimize her reaction to his thinly veiled innuendo. “Even so, payment for an armed guard was not in our contract.”
“That’s fortunate,” he said, adopting a serious expression and crossing his arms. “Because you couldn’t afford me.”
License to Thrill (a romantic mystery) Page 1
