Undercover with the Enemy

by Christine Michels

  Finally, in a neutral tone, he said, “Friends like that are hard to come by.”

  “Yes,” Heather agreed a little too breathlessly. She cleared her throat. “Yes, they are.” When he still didn’t move away, she began to sidle past him. “Well, I’d better get my shopping done.”

  He nodded and turned slightly, allowing her to pass. But when Heather looked out the window of the store a moment later, she noted that he was still there. Watching her. He suspects something, her mind screamed. Taking a deep breath, hoping against hope that he would leave and go about his business, she ignored him and began shopping for articles she didn’t need. Hardly even conscious of her choices, she resisted the urge to look toward him again…for a while. Finally, she could stand the suspense no longer.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. He was gone!

  At five o’clock, Ernest drove Court into the parking garage of a downtown shopping complex. After taking a quick but thorough look around, Court made his way toward the elevator while Ernest stayed with the car. Within seconds, another man exited a vehicle some distance away and began converging on the lift as well.

  Court gave him a casual glance.

  Entering the elevator, Court pressed the button for the main level, then politely held the door for the other man to enter. He was a blond man of average height and looks with kind but astute green eyes. He nodded his thanks and pressed the button for the upper level.

  The elevator door closed. “Edison,” Court greeted him. “I need some information.”

  “Good to see you too, Court. Always wonderful talking to you.”

  “Yeah, you, too. Now let’s get to the point.”

  “Sure. What do you need to know?”

  “Everything there is to know about Heather Buchanan, a resident of Seattle. Physical therapist. Says she just started working for the Rockford Clinic, but worked at the Northwest Hospital before that. And, I need it yesterday.”

  Edison shrugged. “You got it. May I ask why?”

  “That guy, Miguel, that was supposed to show up at my place, never showed. She’s there in his place, and my gut tells me there’s something not quite right about her.”

  Edison frowned. “Okay, I’m on it. I’ll have preliminary info for you tonight if you can get away.”

  Court nodded. “Ten-thirty at Mario’s.” Mario’s was a small, but exclusive club that he frequented. “I’ve got a name for you, too. A Russian connection. Wants to meet with me.”

  Edison’s expression didn’t alter. He’d be deadly at poker. “What’s the name?” he asked.

  “Alek Kostenka.”

  He nodded. “I’ll pass it on.”

  “Any news for me?” Court asked.

  Edison shook his head. “Nothing’s changed so far. Channing misses his house.”

  Court smiled with grim satisfaction. “I don’t blame him. It’s a nice place. Tell him I’m enjoying it.”

  Parker Channing was the crooked lawyer whose home and practice Court had taken over. Since the lawyer’s home would have been surrendered under the laws of forfeiture anyway, the DEA had managed to convince him to cooperate in exchange for a second chance with a new identity. The Colombians had, of course, been suspicious of Channing’s death and Gabriele’s sudden appearance. But, careful planning had ensured that there’d been nothing for them to find to confirm their suspicions. Then, Court had simply waited for them to approach him with the same kind of deal they’d offered Channing. It had taken time, but finally the plan had begun to work.

  Edison nodded. “I’ll do that. I’m sure it will ease his mind.”

  “Right,” Court drawled as the elevator stopped. He exited, going directly to a men’s wear store where he browsed for a minute, purchased a tie and then left. His thoughts returned to Heather Buchanan. He hated waiting to find out what it was about her that had his instincts clamoring, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  None of the family pictures on the wall in the living room had Court in them. How odd!

  Heather began another thorough perusal of the wall of photographs she’d discovered, just to be sure. No mistake. Although there were a few pictures of children, none of them bore the slightest resemblance to her host. The pictures were primarily of an older couple that Heather assumed to be Court’s parents taken in varying locations from cityscapes to country with one tropical setting. Perhaps Hawaii. Some of the photos included other people. Aunts and uncles, perhaps. One included a much older couple. Grandparents? But nowhere was there a picture of Court.

  “Are you a photography buff?”

  Court’s voice startled her and she whirled to see him lounging in the doorway. His relaxed stance suggested he’d been observing her for some time.

  “No. No, but I’m a bit of a genealogist, and I like to see a moment in someone’s family history captured forever in a picture. Are these your parents?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Are you in any of these pictures?” she asked, trying to be tactful although she was virtually positive of the answer.

  He shook his head. “Those were all taken before I was born. The ones that include me are over here.” He indicated a small alcove that Heather hadn’t noticed.

  “Oh. Do you mind if I look?”

  “Of course not.”

  Heather stepped into the alcove. It was more of a narrow hallway actually with a glass wall overlooking the solarium and the pool. The alcove contained an antique Spanish-looking chest draped with an equally aged throw rug, a number of potted plants, and a wall of photographs. Yes, Court was definitely in some of these. She sighed inwardly. One more thing on DiMona’s list that she could confirm.

  Lord, she hated this…this subterfuge.

  Suddenly, as she moved along the wall scanning the pictures, one of them seemed to reach out to halt her. It was a school picture of Court. He looked happy and mischievous. The shadows that lurked in his eyes now hadn’t existed yet. Then, his golden eyes had danced with the playful light of youth.

  She looked at him where he leaned silently against the doorway, simply watching her. “How old were you here?”

  He glanced at the photo. “Seven, I think. Why?”

  She shrugged. “You look like you were a little devil.”

  He raised a brow. “A bit of a prankster perhaps.”

  Heather smiled and concluded, “A handful.”

  The corners of his mouth curved slightly. “Maybe,” he allowed. Then, checking his watch, he added. “Well, I guess it’s time I got ready for dinner. I’ll leave you to your pictorial history studies.”

  Heather watched him go. She sensed that there were more layers to Court Gabriele than an onion. Was that what DiMona perceived? she wondered. And now, it was her job to peel away the layers until she discovered the core of the man within. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure she was up to the task.

  Court arrived in the kitchen for dinner to find Heather already present and chatting comfortably with his housekeeper, Elizabeth Kaiser. Liz Kaiser was a slightly overweight, motherly-looking woman in her mid to late forties whom no one would suspect of having DEA affiliations. In addition, her situation as a widow with grown children, made her an ideal candidate for her current post. There was nobody to complain if she was away from home for a while.

  Heather, apparently having offered to help, placed a plate of fresh rolls on the table and then turned to study the circular nook area with its huge bank of windows. “The view from here must be absolutely incredible in the daylight,” she commented.

  “Yes, it is,” Liz responded. “The house is high enough to have a nice view of the ocean as well as a portion of the city. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as the view of Seattle at night from the pool area, though.”

  Heather turned toward her right, taking in the partial view of a million sparkling city lights. “It is beautiful but…I don’t know. Somehow, cityscapes at night always make me feel lonely.”

  “Do you live alone?” Court
asked from the doorway.

  Heather jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. “Yes,” she said, turning to face him. “Yes, I live alone.”

  The slight hesitation, the tone of her voice, made him suspect that she was being less than truthful. Interesting. He wondered whom she lived with. A boyfriend? A roommate? And why would she feel it necessary to lie?

  Liz looked at Court and smiled. “Good evening, Court. Dinner will be on shortly if you want to have a seat. I’ve left the wine to breathe.” She indicated a bottle of white wine chilling in an ice bucket on the table.

  “Thank you, Liz. What’s on the menu?”

  “Salmon steak and Caesar salad.”

  “Sounds great,” Court murmured, but the comment was automatic for, in truth, he’d barely ab sorbed Liz’s response before his attention had returned to Heather.

  Wearing a cream-colored outfit in some layered, gauzy fabric, she stood in profile, silhouetted against the night-blackened windows of the breakfast nook. She looked pensive and…somehow vulnerable. Court felt a stirring of masculine protectiveness that he had not expected to feel. Shaking his head slightly as though to displace the image and the emotion, he looked away and crossed the room to the table. The last thing he needed was to be sucker punched by sentiment.

  As he hooked his cane over the back of his chair, the slight clatter disturbed Heather and she turned toward him. For an instant, just an instant, naked, unguarded emotion shone from her eyes, intense but impossible to interpret. And then it was gone, cloaked by a forced smile.

  Keeping the knee of his injured leg carefully locked so that it wouldn’t fail on him, Court walked around the table without his cane to pull out her chair. “Have a seat, Heather,” he invited.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she complied.

  She sat there with her hands folded in her lap wondering what she could possibly accomplish when she couldn’t even look at Court Gabriele without her stomach fluttering like a schoolgirl’s. Which, when she thought about it, didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. She’d seen men who were more handsome—she’d even worked with some of them—and none of them had affected her in the least. So why did Court Gabriele wreak such havoc on her senses?

  Forcing herself to focus on her reason for being there, Heather took a slow deep breath and attempted to invoke a calmness she didn’t feel. She needed to draw him out and find out all there was to know about him. She needed to be sophisticated and inquisitive while giving the impression of being only casually interested in his responses. But most of all, she needed to be immune to whatever it was about him that sent her senses into chaos.

  “Is something wrong, Heather?” he asked.

  Her gaze flew up to meet his and she found herself pinned by his too perceptive predator’s eyes. “Wrong? No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “You seem a bit pensive. Wine?” he asked, changing tack so quickly she was left floundering.

  “Oh…um, yes. Thank you.” She waited while he poured, using the time to marshal her resources. “So, how long have you lived in Seattle?”

  “Not long actually, although I guess it’s going on two years now. Just since my friend, Parker Channing, passed away. He wanted me to take over his legal practice, and he left the house to me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Heather frowned thoughtfully, sipping her wine, and then asked, “Isn’t it unusual for a lawyer to leave his practice to someone who’s not a partner?”

  “We were partners out East at one time. And, he’d been in the process of talking me into moving out here and joining his firm when he was killed.”

  “I see.” Heather sipped her wine again. “Did you say he was killed?”

  “Yes. In a boating accident.”

  “Oh.” At least he wasn’t shot, she mused—which was what she more than half feared she might hear. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Yeah.” Court cleared his throat. “Me, too.” And so the evening went. After Liz Kaiser had served their dinner and retired to her room, Heather learned little more to complete her picture of just who Court Gabriele was. A few tidbits, none of which seemed significant. She’d learned that Court had inherited Channing’s junior partner—a young man named Doug Grey—and that Mr. Grey was handling the day-to-day operations of the law firm downtown while Court recuperated. She’d learned that Court had been working for a large law firm in New York prior to coming here, but was not a partner. And, she’d learned that Court was an outdoor sports enthusiast but that he’d never really enjoyed team sports, other than football. Not much information. Certainly not enough to satisfy DiMona.

  She was racking her brain to try to figure out another course to take when Court spoke. “That therapeutic massage you mentioned earlier…will it help with insomnia?”

  Heather set down her glass, studying his face carefully. “Has your leg been bothering you at night?”

  He shook his head. “No. It did initially. I had to sleep with it propped on a pillow. But now I think it’s just that I have a lot on my mind. Tension.”

  She nodded. “If tension is the problem, then a massage should definitely be helpful.” For him anyway. She couldn’t say what giving him a massage was going to do for her own attempts to sleep.

  She lingered over her meal and then insisted on loading the dishwasher, but finally Court’s promised therapeutic massage could be put off no longer. Perhaps she’d find the means to check his identification during the massage.

  If there was anything more compelling than Court Gabriele in suit pants and a T-shirt, it was Court Gabriele nearly nude. Heather stared at the man lying on his stomach on the table before her wearing only a small white towel draped over his narrow hips, and, beneath that, a pair of briefs. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed reflexively, trying to dredge up some moisture.

  Physically, he was gorgeous. There was simply no other word for it. He’d kept himself in superb condition with weight-lifting and exercise. His shoulders were wide, his torso tanned and muscular, his waist narrow. He’s a criminal, Heather. Remember that, she told herself.

  He could be a cop, another part of her brain argued.

  Turning away from him, she concentrated on completing the preparation of the oils she planned to use. Cops are no better, she continued the internal argument with herself. They get themselves killed. There was no argument for that, and she was able to turn back to the man on the table with her professional reserve once more firmly in place.

  But in winning the argument, she’d removed the barricade from memories that now refused to be caged. Memories of Jay. The man who’d taken both her and Des under his wing ten years ago when they’d had no one else in the world to help them. The man who’d taught her how to achieve her in dependence. The man who’d given her love and made her fall in love with him only to get himself killed three weeks before they were to have been married. Lord, she still missed him.

  “What’s that smell?” Court’s voice startled her from her thoughts.

  “Smell?” Heather cleared her throat, buying time to organize her thoughts. “Let’s see. I’ve used sandalwood, cypress and a touch of apricot kernel in a base of sweet almond oil.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Yes. Let me just get a bit of cinnamon oil to set out, and we’ll begin.”

  “Sure.” His response was lazy. Almost sleepy. Taking a deep breath, she girded herself to do what she had to do.

  Keeping her gaze on him, she moved across the room to check the pockets of the casual khaki trousers he’d removed. Empty. Damn. He must have left his ID in his room. Okay, so she’d simply have to get into his room. Soon!

  Chapter 4

  “Ready?” Heather asked as the essence of cinnamon began to compliment the other scents in the room.

  “Mm-hm,” Court responded. He’d been lying there trying to think of a way to draw Heather out, but, thus far, inspiration had deserted him so he decided to simply enjoy the massage while he worked on the problem. />
  Time lagged. As Heather’s magic hands eased tension from his neck, shoulders and back, he found himself relaxing beneath her adept ministrations to the point that he almost fell asleep. Damn! It felt good. Real good. Too good. But he had a job to do. The last thing he needed was to allow Ms. Buchanan to lull him into complacency.

  She began to massage the soles of his feet, and he barely stifled a groan of ecstasy. A man could get used to having hands like that at his disposal.

  The thought, when it occurred, was completely innocent, but in an instant some wicked part of himself turned it over and began to weave an intriguing fantasy around it. His body responded, forcing him to shift slightly into a more comfortable position, and he made a noise of self-disgust. Thank God, he was lying on his stomach.

  “Did I hurt you?” Heather’s throaty voice, soft and innocent, drew him back to the here and now.

  “No. Are we about done?” His tone was more abrupt than he’d intended.

  Her hands stilled. “I thought you wanted a massage.”

  “I did, but I have some things to do.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t rush a massage and still do it properly. Next time, you’ll have to ensure that you’ve set aside enough time.”

  “Right. So, how much longer?”

  “We’re almost finished. Five, maybe ten minutes.”

  Five or ten minutes of pure sensual torture…or bliss depending on your point of view. Court nodded and focused his attention where it ought to be: on business.

  Before dinner, he’d taken a couple of minutes to call the clinic and ask the administrator just what had happened to the man that they’d said they would send. He was told that Miguel had taken an extended vacation. A scheduled vacation? No, it was rather sudden. They’d assumed that perhaps he’d had a family emergency. Court had then placed an order for a male therapist to replace Ms. Buchanan as soon as possible. Is there a problem with her, sir? No, he just didn’t want a woman around, especially a young one. It tended to provoke problems in his relationships. That was a lie, since he didn’t have a relationship at present, but he couldn’t very well tell the administrator that he didn’t like the idea of putting an untrained female in possible peril, no matter how remote the possibility might be. The administrator said that, of course, he understood, and they’d terminated the conversation.