Undercover with the Enemy

by Christine Michels

  Heather stared at Court, seeing the forbidding frown that drew his thick black brows together, and felt her breath hitch in her throat. He looked positively murderous.

  Yet, even with that chilling expression on his face, there was no question in her mind that Court was one of the most magnetic and compelling men she had ever encountered. Despite her fear of him, of the situation, she found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  Even as she tried to will herself into indifference, her fingers twitched with the desire to test the texture of his ebony hair. Her lips tingled, as though anticipating the touch of his full, sensual mouth. But his eyes… His golden predator’s eyes were the most mesmerizing thing about him.

  She swallowed, wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was in worse trouble than she had ever imagined….

  Dear Reader,

  Once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments has rounded up six top-notch romances for your reading pleasure, starting with the finale of Ruth Langan’s fabulous new The Wildes of Wyoming—Ace takes the last of the Wilde men and matches him with a pool-playing spitfire who turns out to be just the right woman to fill his bed—and his heart.

  Linda Turner, a perennial reader favorite, continues THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES! with The Best Man, the story of sister Merry McBride’s discovery that love is not always found where you expect it. Award-winning Ruth Wind’s Beautiful Stranger features a heroine who was once an ugly duckling but is now the swan who wins the heart of a rugged “prince.” Readers have been enjoying Sally Tyler Hayes’ suspenseful tales of the men and women of DIVISION ONE, and Her Secret Guardian will not disappoint in its complex plot and emotional power. Christine Michels takes readers Undercover with the Enemy, and Vickie Taylor presents The Lawman’s Last Stand, to round out this month’s wonderful reading choices.

  And don’t miss a single Intimate Moments novel for the next three months, when the line takes center stage as part of the Silhouette 20th Anniversary celebration. Sharon Sala leads off A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, a new in-line continuity, in July; August brings the long-awaited reappearance of Linda Howard—and hero Chance Mackenzie—in A Game of Chance; and in September we reprise 36 HOURS, our successful freestanding continuity, in the Intimate Moments line. And that’s only a small taste of what lies ahead, so be here this month and every month, when Silhouette Intimate Moments proves that love and excitement go best when they’re hand in hand.

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  UNDERCOVER WITH THE ENEMY

  CHRISTINE MICHELS

  Dedicated to the memory of my nephew, Justine Stanley Byrt. July 3, 1985 to June 18, 1999.

  You left us much too soon, Justin. We’ll miss you.

  Books by Christine Michels

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  A Season of Miracles #900

  Undercover with the Enemy #1013

  CHRISTINE MICHELS

  is a chronic daydreamer with a vivid imagination. Since her day job as an accountant provided little outlet for her creative inclinations (creative accounting being frowned upon in professional circles), Christine turned to writing. She is now an award-winning author of futuristic, historical and contemporary romances. Christine lives in Alberta with her husband of over twenty years, their teenage son and a small menagerie of pets, consisting of a finicky Pomeranian, two imperious cats and a hedgehog with a prickly personality.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  “Take off your pants, Mr. Gabriele, and we’ll get started.” Heather glanced at the man she’d heard enter the room long enough to get an impression of dark handsomeness, but she didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t. Not yet.

  “What did you say?” Court Gabriele’s response was low, scarcely above a murmur, and infinitely cold.

  Heather prayed for courage. It’s only that he’d expected more in the way of idle chitchat before getting down to business, she told herself. Please let that be all it was! “I said, take off your pants.” She focused almost desperately on her own preparations. “I need to be able to see the functioning of the leg muscles while we work. You can put on a pair of exercise shorts, if you like. I have some with me if you don’t have your own.”

  There was a second of silence. “Not so fast.” The frostiness of his tone eradicated any hope she’d had that this might be easy. Court Gabriele’s voice was deep and rich—Heather had always perceived color in sound, and his voice brought to mind a luxurious burgundy. But at the moment, it was burgundy on ice.

  She wanted to run, to escape while she could.

  But DiMona’s words echoed in her mind once more, staying her with their sinister threat. Get into Gabriele’s house and find out what he’s up to. As long as you don’t hold out on me, your brother will be fine. You understand?

  Yes, she understood. Escape was out of the question. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the knot of terror that had been stuck in her throat for days. Somehow, she had to gird herself to face Mr. Court Gabriele. You can do this, Heather, she told herself for the millionth time. You have to. For Des. Her breath hitched and she sent a simple prayer winging heavenward. God, help me.

  Slowly, she turned to meet for the first time the man she’d been sent to spy on. She was terrified that he’d perceive the duplicitous nature of her presence in her expression. Terrified that any associate of Rick DiMona’s wouldn’t think twice about killing her if it was in his own best interests. Terrified that she was going to screw up and her brother would pay the price—with his life.

  She lifted her gaze to confront Gabriele and received a shock to her system that caused everything within her to go still. Her breath arrested in her throat. Her heart stuttered. And her eyes widened. Oh, no! She hadn’t prepared herself for this!

  Court Gabriele was one of the most intensely charismatic men she’d ever seen. Not handsome, but certainly compelling, he was fit and quite tall. Six feet, at least. He wore his midnight-black hair in a cut that just narrowly escaped being regulation military in its severity. A few soft waves that had escaped the clippers lay against the crown of his head as though longing to spring into life but not quite daring to defy the ruthlessness of the comb that had restrained them. The exacting style made the harsh masculine planes of Gabriele’s face—the firm square jawline, high cheekbones and bold blade of a nose—even more prominent, as though sculpted with an artist’s precision to imply admirable strength of character. A false implication no doubt, considering the identity of his associates.

  Stop gawking, Heather, she told herself. So what if Court Gabriele looked entirely too fit and self-confident to be the desk-bound professional that she’d expected. The last thing she wanted, or needed, was to notice Court Gabriele’s appeal. She needed all her wits about her. Any distraction could get her killed. Yet, despite what her conscious mind might dictate, her hormones had definitely taken notice.

  She drew a breath and reached desperately for normalcy. “Is there a problem?” For the first time, she noticed that he seemed to be leaning heavily on his cane, and her prior lack of perception irritated her. So much for professionalism; the man’s mere presence had blinded her to her first duty: to help a man who hurt. “Are you in pain?” she asked, gesturing to the can
e. Somehow, the badge of infirmity seemed more at odds with Court Gabriele than anyone she’d ever encountered.

  His eyes were chips of amber ice. “No. I am not in pain,” he said, his words clipped and abrupt. “But, yes, there is definitely a problem.”

  Heather nodded and left the ball in his court, studying him more closely for clues to his character while she waited for him to elaborate. He wore light-beige dress slacks that, judging from the way they draped his leanly muscled hips, appeared to have been crafted from linen, or perhaps raw silk, and a maroon T-shirt that hugged the muscular contours of his torso like a second skin. A small cell phone protruded from the breast pocket of the T-shirt. The unusual ensemble made a statement of casual elegance, and yet few men could have carried off the combination. Somehow, on Court Gabriele, the T-shirt looked as though it had been specifically designed to be worn with suit trousers.

  “Just what the hell are you doing here?” His tone remained quiet, almost conversational yet, to Heather’s ears, threat was inherent. Gabriele studied her with the most arresting golden topaz eyes she’d ever seen. The eyes of a predator waiting for a false move.

  Oh, Lord! What had she gotten herself into? She was in the lion’s den. An aura of darkness and danger clung to Court like a cape.

  She swallowed and forced herself to move forward to offer her hand in introduction. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. My name is Heather Bu chanan, Mr. Gabriele. The Rockford Clinic sent me.” She had no idea how DiMona had secured her current position at the clinic, and she hadn’t asked. She just hoped that when this was all over she would still have a job. Or, failing that, that she’d at least be able to return to her old position at the Northwest Hospital. “I’m your physical therapist.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “Ernest relayed what you told him when you arrived.” A spark of awareness raced through Heather as he accepted her hand, all but swallowing it in his own large, warm grasp. She stifled the sensation ruthlessly. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Ernest would be the burly doorman who had shown her in. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Gabriele. I was under the impression that you weren’t content with the therapy available at the clinic and had requested a personal therapist to aid you with intensive therapy in the hope of achieving a speedy recovery.”

  He scowled. “I specifically requested a male therapist, Ms. Buchanan. I was expecting a man named Miguel.”

  Heather stared at the forbidding frown that drew his thick black brows together and felt her breath hitch in her throat. He looked positively murderous. Well, maybe thunderous was a better description.

  She hoped.

  Yet, even with that chilling expression on his face, there was no question in her mind that Court Gabriele was one of the most magnetic and compelling men she had ever encountered. Despite her fear of him, of the situation, she found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. She just hoped she would emerge from the encounter in better shape than the moth. But even as she tried to will herself into indifference, her fingers twitched with the desire to test the texture of his ebony hair. Her lips tingled as though anticipating the touch of his full, sensual lips. And her pulse accelerated as she reluctantly acknowledged how sexy the whisker shadow lurking beneath the smooth-shaven tanned skin of his strong jawline truly was. Even the small diamond stud he wore in his left ear seemed to somehow magnify his dark attractiveness, and Heather had never before found a man who wore an earring attractive. But his eyes…his golden predator’s eyes were the most mesmerizing thing about him.

  She swallowed and couldn’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was in worse trouble than she had ever imagined.

  “Ms. Buchanan!”

  She started at the sharp tone of his voice, her gaze flying up to meet his. “Yes?”

  “Why isn’t Miguel here?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gabriele, I don’t know. Perhaps the clinic administrator can tell you.”

  Gabriele’s frown sharpened, if that was possible. “Well, you can just take yourself back out that door and tell your boss that he doesn’t need to bother sending me anyone until he has a decent male therapist available.”

  “A male—” Heather broke off, staring at him in shock. Of all the possibilities for failure that she’d imagined, a sexist attitude had not been among of them.

  “Mr. Gabriele, let me assure you that when it comes to physical therapy I am as accomplished, if not more so, than most of my male colleagues. I have a Masters degree in physical therapy, and I graduated among the top in my class. I’ve been working for years without any complaints from my clients. In addition, I am licensed in therapeutic massage and aromatherapy. However, if you prefer to languish around using a cane rather than hastening the healing process, you are perfectly welcome to do so.” Turning away, she began to throw her supplies haphazardly back into her case…and hesitated.

  Oh, Lord, what had she done? If the righteous indignation ploy didn’t reassure him, she’d left herself no recourse. And, she needed to be here. Des’s life depended on her presence here. On what she could find out. But now…

  “Just a moment,” Gabriele barked.

  Heather’s heart leapt in relief even as her palm itched to slam the lid of her case and escape. Court Gabriele terrified her on every level, from his cold arrogance to her own inexplicable physical response to him. But she could allow neither her temper nor her hormones to rule. So, keeping her expression carefully neutral, she slowly turned to face him.

  He studied her for a moment. Finally he said, “Your capabilities and intelligence are not in question, Ms. Buchanan.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He watched her in silence and with every passing second the knot in Heather’s stomach drew tighter until she was certain that the tension alone would make her vomit. Finally he said, “My reasons are personal, Ms. Buchanan.” Leaning slightly on his cane, Gabriele approached her, halting a scant three feet away. Even injured as he was, his was an imposing presence, and Heather would have liked nothing better than to run from his house and never return. “All right, Ms. Buchanan. You’ve convinced me to give you a chance. Tell me what you know about my condition,” Gabriele ordered in a hard tone.

  Heather felt her heart stutter. Now, knowing she could not afford to make a mistake, she responded carefully. “I was told to review your file in its entirety before coming, so I assume I know everything that you’ve told your therapist at the clinic.”

  “And that would be?” he prompted.

  “I know that about two-and-a-half weeks ago you were run off the road, into a ravine by a hit-and-run driver, and that you were trapped in your car until a passing motorist noticed the vehicle. During the almost three hours that you waited for rescue, something pressed down on your groin area crushing the femoral nerve to your right leg as well as seriously restricting the circulation to the leg through your femoral artery and vein. With the exception of a minor concussion and your leg injury, you were unhurt. You’re a lucky man.”

  “I don’t feel lucky.” With a sharp nod, he indicated that she should continue. “What’s the prognosis?”

  Heather weighed her words carefully. “Depending on the extent of the nerve damage, it may take considerable time for the feeling to return to your leg—particularly if the nerves have to regrow from the spine. And there is no guarantee that sensation will ever return completely. On the positive side, however, it’s probable that the muscular weakness could pass reasonably quickly if we can get the blood flow back to normal with a rigorous program of therapy.

  “Is the leg still cold to the touch?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. In the thigh area.”

  “The circulation problem is the first thing we have to address. Exercise will get the blood flowing to the leg more quickly and, hopefully, should get that crushed artery and the muscles functioning normally again.

  “Can you walk at all without the aid of a cane?”

  Gabri
ele stared at her in silence. “What did my file say?”

  Ignoring the tension in her stomach, Heather forced herself to meet his impassive golden-eyed gaze, to match him look for look. “I believe it said that you could walk, but not reliably. That if you fail to keep the knee in a locked position, your leg can collapse without warning. Is that correct?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “May I ask you a question, Mr. Gabriele?”

  He nodded, studying her with an inscrutable expression.

  “Well…I was just wondering why you hadn’t used your cell phone to call for help.”

  His lips twisted briefly in a wry expression. “Because, foolishly, I had forgotten to charge the battery.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes.” Gabriele’s gaze dropped to her throat, to the exact spot where Heather could feel her pulse pounding. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Ms. Buchanan?”

  What did the man want from her? But, if he could see her anxiety there was no sense in lying about it. “Yes, Mr. Gabriele, you do.”

  He studied her with a penetrating expression. “Why?”

  Oh, Lord. She understood now. He was suspicious of her, of what she might know about him. “I…” What could she say?

  “Don’t dissemble now, Ms. Buchanan. If there is one thing I appreciate it’s honesty. Especially from a woman.”

  What a strange sentiment to hear coming from the mouth of a man for whom subterfuge was undoubtedly a way of life!

  Heather nodded. “All right. Let’s just say that I’ve heard that you can be a bit intimidating.”

  He considered her with an unreadable gaze, revealing nothing of his thoughts, though for the first time she thought she might have detected a glint of humor in the depths of his eyes. “And where exactly did you hear that?”

  “From one of my associates at the clinic. I received the impression that you made her extremely nervous when you were in last.” That at least was the truth, although a bit of an understatement. Deb, the receptionist, had said that he’d almost had her in tears with his demands for intensive scheduling and intensive therapy that simply weren’t possible with their current patient load. Now, Heather faced the same man and waited for him to pronounce her ac ceptable or unacceptable. And that frightened her to death.