by Julie Kenner
Finn rubbed his palms vigorously over his face, pulling himself out of the fantasy, and trying to concentrate on the pile of work stacked up on his kitchen table. It wasn’t easy. The work was deathly dull, the blonde across the courtyard so much more intriguing.
He didn’t know one damn thing about her, but already she’d sparked his imagination. She rarely closed her curtains, and her patio door was right across from his kitchen window. Fair game. Especially since he enjoyed watching her move a hell of a lot more than he enjoyed reading briefs.
The woman was spectacular. Tall, like a model, but not stick thin and flat-chested like so many of the magazines liked to hawk these days. The kind of woman a man could get his hands around.
He imagined she knew her appeal, too, and used it to her advantage. Probably smuggling something into the country, using her feminine wiles to bribe customs agents, kissing them with poisoned lipstick if other means didn’t prevail.
Not that he had any real reason to think that. From what he could tell, her life never veered from the normal. She worked out every night in a skin-tight black leotard, then popped a movie into the VCR. Every once in a while, she’d practice some kicks—like she thought she was Buffy or something. Once in a while she dressed up, and Finn could only assume she had a date. If so, she met him somewhere, because loverboy never came to her door.
Overall, pretty standard stuff. Compared to him, though, her life was a mile-a-minute thrill ride. His was a slow ride on a kiddie train.
Law school. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d fantasized about pacing a courtroom, a modern day Perry Mason, and winning the day for truth, justice, and all the rest of it. Not hardly. And now he needed the salary to pay off the law school loans. Trapped by his own stupidity. Damn it all, he should have just been a bartender.
With one frustrated swipe of his arm, Finn sent the stack of interrogatories and deposition transcripts flying onto the floor. So much for the exciting life of a trial attorney—he was bored out of his freaking mind. For one solid week, he’d pulled seventeen-hour days at the office, researching bullshit procedural points, objecting to discovery, and summarizing depositions. The promise of the upcoming weekend had been the only thing that kept him sane.
And now his much-anticipated weekend had arrived. A glorious Southern California day. Not a particle of smog in the air. The beach five blocks away. A perfect seventy-eight degrees. But was he outside enjoying it? Not hardly. Instead he was holed up in his apartment, trying to concentrate on the pile of work due first thing Monday morning, and fantasizing about the woman in the window.
Shit.
He snorted, disgusted with himself, and got up to inspect the contents of his refrigerator. Nothing except a bottle of Gatorade and a three-day old burrito. Hell, even his food was dull.
Whatever. The bottom line, it was going to be a long weekend. And if he was going to survive it, he needed coffee.
With his Starbucks goal firmly in mind, he grabbed his keys off the microwave and headed for the door, yanking it open with more force than he intended.
The woman in the hall jumped, turning to press her back against the wall. “Oh!” she said. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” He stepped into the hallway. “Amy, right?”
“Amber,” she said. “Amber Robinson.” She was decked out in sweatpants and a T-shirt topped with a hooded jacket. A backpack hung casually from one shoulder. She wore no make-up and her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, a few tendrils, damp with sweat, curling around her hairline.
She’d lived next door to him for a month now, and he’d never seen her in anything but baggy jeans or sweatpants, her hair always pulled into a ponytail, her face usually hidden by a baseball cap. She could probably be pretty, he supposed, but she didn’t seem like the type who cared.
“Going out?” she asked, making small talk. From what he could tell, she was something of a recluse, and they rarely saw each other. When they did, the conversation was polite. Neighborly, but boring.
“Coffee run,” he said. He considered asking her to join him, but ruled it out. “I’m working at home.”
“You lawyers. They grind you into the ground.”
“No kidding,” he said, wondering when he’d told her his profession. Maybe in the laundry room…?
She aimed a thumb at her doorway, facing him as she walked backward in that direction. “I should be getting inside. Good to see you.” Her hand closed around her doorknob, and she leaned in as the door opened, then disappeared from his view.
Something akin to disappointment settled in Finn’s chest, and he frowned. Clearly, he was working too much, not getting enough quality interaction with the opposite sex. Amber Robinson was definitely not his type. Not even close.
No, if he was stuck in a boring job, he wanted excitement in the rest of his life, and particularly in his bed. An adventurous woman. One who could keep him on his toes, both in and out of the bedroom.
The woman in the window, maybe.
Amber?
Definitely not.
• • •
Amber clicked the door shut and locked it, the precaution automatic. She reached behind her to the waistband of her sweats, her fingers closing around the molded butt of her Walther PPK.
She slipped the gun free as she walked into her living room, tossing it onto the couch as a vivid curse slipped from her lips. She’d been careless out there, stupidly adjusting the gun when Finn had opened his door. Dumb and dangerous. She wasn’t usually so sloppy—hell, she’d developed a reputation within the Group as being dead-on perfect—and her lapse pissed her off.
“Temper, temper,” a voice chastised behind her.
She whipped around, muscles tight and poised, the knife she’d sheathed under her sleeve pulled out and ready.
From her bathroom doorway, Brandon Kline held up his hands, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Shit, Robinson, it’s just me.”
“Dammit, Brandon.” She pitched the knife next to the gun. “Haven’t I asked you nicely to please not break in? Someone might see.”
“Not to worry,” he said, moving to sit on one of her barstools. “I’m good.”
She frowned, but didn’t argue. He was good. They’d been recruited together by the Group, and had become fast friends. She’d trusted Brandon with her life on more than one occasion.
“So what’s got your panties in a wad?” he asked.
“I just did a stupid thing, and it’s irritating me.” She kicked off her running shoes, careful not to damage the camera hidden in the toe, then unzipped her warm-up jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. The tank top followed, then the sweatpants. Each layer revealing more of the short, flirty black dress she’d worn earlier.
Brandon raked an appreciative gaze over her. “You know, kid, there are times when I think maybe we should just get it on,” he said, a tease in his voice.
“What? And ruin my perfect record of being completely unable to have a romantic relationship?” She shook her head. “Not even for you.”
“So how’d it go?” he asked, turning serious.
“Smooth as silk. Everything’s in place.” Translation, she’d tagged their target with the homing device.
“Good girl. Sorry for such a mundane assignment.”
“No problem,” she said. “It was the highlight of my month.” Maybe that was the cause of her earlier faux pas in the hallway—too much observation and not enough action. And today, when she’d been temporarily pulled off her current assignment, she’d let the thrill of having something active to do go to her head.
A serious mistake, especially considering Phineus Teague was a living, breathing question mark.
She knew a lot about him, but still he was a mystery. A lawyer, but there was clearly more. A background check revealed that Finn had bounced from career to career, before acing law school and settling in at Levitt, Marc, Goodson & Blair, a huge Los Angeles–based firm that did ninety percent of the legal work for
ninety percent of the defense contractors in the area.
A coincidence? Maybe. But Amber didn’t think so. Especially since she’d first run across Finn’s name when she was tracking down Albert Alcott and the diamonds he’d stolen. Gemstone quality stones, the proceeds intended to go to the Group to finance their operations. When Joey Malone had stolen the diamonds from the Group’s primary financial backer, that had been a serious setback, and it had only gotten worse when Al had managed to get the diamonds out of the country. More brownie points in her favor when she’d recovered Al—along with his numbered bank accounts.
And now Finn had his eye on her current quarry. From what Amber had seen, Finn was keeping a close watch on Diana Traynor. The question, of course, was why.
Brandon headed for her kitchen, then pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and popped the top. “Anything new on your neighbor?” he asked, apparently reading her mind.
“I was just thinking about him,” she admitted. “There’s more to Phineus Teague than meets the eye.”
“I’ll buy that,” Brandon said. He tossed her a beer. She caught it one-handed. “But who does he work for? We already checked him out thoroughly, and not a damn thing showed up.”
“He must be a new recruit,” Amber said. “Or a civilian pulled in to do a team’s dirty work.”
“Fair enough,” Brandon said with a nod. “But if that’s the case, he’s in over his head.”
Amber silently agreed. If their information was right, Traynor had managed to infiltrate Aeronautical Engineering Labs—a major defense contractor—and acquire the plans to a state-of-the-art communications satellite. In other words, a spy satellite. But Traynor herself was just a guppy. The Group, a shadowy organization that did everything from hostage rescue to out-and-out espionage, had been called in to catch the bigger fish.
So far, Amber had spent three weeks observing Traynor, waiting for the woman to slip up. Nothing. Traynor was a professional. Teague, however, was not. It had taken her less than a day to make him, and she wondered if Traynor had made him, too. If so, unless Finn learned the rules of the game pretty darn fast, chances were he’d be fish food before long.
A shame, actually. The man was exceptionally good looking. Nice, too, if their short conversations in front of the mailboxes were any indication. She might have an allergy to relationships, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a well-built man—and she certainly knew what to do with one.
“There are too many questions out there for me to be comfortable,” she said, thinking aloud. “Teague’s firm represents AEL. He moved in across the courtyard from Traynor. And when he’s home, he keeps a pretty close eye on her.” She popped the top on her beer. “That must add up to something.”
The corner of Brandon’s mouth twitched. “Seems like you know an awful lot about Mr. Teague’s habits.”
Her skin flushed warm. She was not going to go there. “The man’s got his eye on my quarry. Damn straight I’m going to watch him.” Was it her fault the view was nice? She raised her chin. “As a matter of fact, I’m planning on doing a bit more than watch.”
Brandon’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
She nodded, the plan forming even as she opened her mouth. “That’s right. Teague’s an unknown quantity, and I don’t like unknowns. Too messy. Is he friend or foe? We need to know who he works for. Hell, we need to know if he works for anyone at all.”
“And how do you propose to find that out?” Brandon asked, amusement lacing his voice. “Hidden cameras? Listening devices? A hypodermic filled with truth serum.”
“Last resorts,” she said, meeting his smile. “First, I’m going to simply get close to Mr. Phineus Teague.”
