by Judy Jarvie
“He cut his teeth with a camera, Kate. He’s assigned you to cover a special interview with the local crime boss. The kind that’s a serious scoop—he has connections via his dad. So less of the fluff and more ‘thank you for giving me a news gong’. You fly tonight. Go get organized.”
I feel something inside quiver and it doesn’t promise fun. Mostly because I really don’t want to go to Greece with the big guy and his annoying ‘hormones on high alert’ effect on me as my hand baggage.
This isn’t a story, it’s a set up.
Being partnered with a privileged playboy whose father holds the shares is a new league of challenge. I don’t do rich boys who pull strings—call it an old wound gone septic.
“Do I have any wiggle room, Mel? It’s really bad timing—personal stuff.”
Mel shakes her head and doesn’t answer, just as Dan glances up through the glass and his gaze spears mine.
Shit. Something shimmies inside me. Why does my body experience a frisson of awareness? Just because he has shares in personal shades of hotness does not mean my lady parts can have a party without permission. Right now they’re shaking their thang in my thong.
Dan still stares right at me. There is knowledge and enquiry in his gaze.
Double shit. And a litter of mismatched effing kittens to take away.
I maintain steady eye contact with Draven, not daring to even hint at weakness.
“So why did he ask for me specifically?” I say, seeing clearly there is zilch escape hatch on the plan no matter how many fake engagements I conjure up.
“He wants you and you are the best on my team. If you can’t stand the heat—keep out of Capri pants in your classes!”
Cornered reluctance is rising like a horror tsunami inside me. I have many reasons why Greece—especially this particular island—is a no-go. Santorini would be my least favorite destination. Me and that island share history and it isn’t pretty. With a nightmare travelling companion bonus it becomes hell squared.
“You can demonstrate why Your News Today Show is our flagship. And that we’re solid and don’t need cuts,” Mel elaborates.
“You’re sure he’s up to taking lead with a camera?”
“Want to see his CV and show reel? He’s brilliant.” Mel rummages in her drawer. Immediately a box of baby ibuprofen and two packets of baby biscuits jump out of the Mardi Gras of mess.
Mel slams it shut, looking frazzled. I sense the chink in her armor has appeared. “Kate, please don’t give me grief. Sophie’s teething and I was up half the night. Raising nightwalker babies and keeping a stressful job is living hell. My life’s like a Game of Thrones cast with merciless toddlers. Add a sex-crazed husband king who’s intent on us raising a tribe…my life’s no picnic. In fact, I come to work to rest.”
I sigh. How can I compete with that pity plea deluge? “We should be sending the boss to hard news. Not Santorini dating.”
“Only one thing matters, get Dan on-side.”
I shift in my seat to avoid staring at the man who’s managed an estrogen impact through glass, and who’s put me over a barrel of horse manure. Does Mel realize he turns my knees weak? Or that I’m off men. Totally—signed up Spinster-for-Life Subscription, printed and framed by the side of my bed. Plus I’m a crap judge. I denounce men. Forever. So all the signs are saying—don’t sodding go!
“I get that you have needs. But I’d rather fall on my sword than accept,” I offer as my out.
Mel, who might appear slender, blonde, fragile and gamine, but who is tough as a commando’s boots, spits me factoid bullets. “Half the women in the office would kill for this. Greece with a hot guy. Your News Today is not the team where an axe should be falling. I have a big mortgage and a loan for the extension we built for little Archie’s bedroom. We can’t be carved up. It’s only five days. You’re lead reporter. Deal.”
Discomfort trickles through me and mallet-smashes my confidence.
Then Mel winks. “He praised your hip wiggling. He’s single. You’re going to a honeymoon island, how hard can it ruddy be?”
What is she thinking? Is it helpful to slap her hard?
Five days on a hot Greek island might turn my abilities to crumbled feta.
I grab my pad and pen, my iPad and iPhone. I won’t argue more.
Dan breezes toward the conference room’s glass door, looking arresting in an expensive suit—tie loosened and shirt widened at the neck like sexy on the loose. He stalks to my desk.
“Kate. Can we talk?”
I rise from my seat and follow his well-tailored rear to the ‘meet and greet’ area of our newsroom. He motions for me to sit and I obey.
“Mel has briefed you?”
I nod. Then, recognizing he might think it’s churlish, I employ my voice. “Yes, Sir. Santorini.”
“Call me Dan.” He smiles lightly. “The travel piece is an entertainment item. The biggie is the Alex Katsaros interview. You know him, don’t you?”
Of course I know him. Everyone does, unless they’ve lived up the moon’s bum hole, evading crime news. A big crime boss con-man and rumored bank robber who’s slipped in and out of police clutches like a pickpocket in an eel outfit. He’s harder to pin something on than a greased dartboard smeared in KY Jelly.
“He’s living in Santorini in luxury. He’s agreed to talk about the jewel heist from the nineties. This interview will get us noticed.” Dan confides, “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you clothes.”
As if by magic—or perhaps telekinetic summoning—Lara, the PA from the penthouse suite, wheels a large titanium-esque case towards me. “Lara can change or add anything you require. There’s a little time to make alterations if needed.”
Wow. It’s a Pretty Woman moment. He clicks his fingers and a personal shopper gets to it! A part of me is hurt that I don’t have the wardrobe to suit his high-end needs—come to think of it, he’s right, and Pret A Primark is way more my style street, but I’m still entitled to pique.
And all I need now is for him to present me with a diamond necklace and for him to snap the box lid on my fingers to become the purist’s Richard Gere clone. I flip the catches on the case and check out folded neutrals that smack of cool in terms of fashion and price tag. I finger the items on top, and their gossamer-wing softness smacks of expensive. We’re talking personal shopper splurge supreme.
“All in your sizes. Lara took care to check and the store staff were very exacting,” he tells me.
I’d wondered why the recent HR questionnaire I’d filled in featured questions on my size and measurements info. Now I’m not sure whether to feel my privacy’s been invaded, or be impressed. “Thanks. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Can you arrange to get them to the airport?”
“Of course. Any other personal requests? I’m happy to give you whatever you need to feel assured in this important role.”
Except permission to pass.
I stare at him and Dan watches me hard. His eyes are a mesmerizing mix of smoky grays.
He inhales deeply. “Look, Katie, I sense that you have reservations. All I can do is ask you to bear with me and trust this is a big story for your career. I’m talking major league.” His US tones glide over me like warmed caramel.
Inside I’m raging, but I nod. It’s a fait accompli.
“I’d be grateful for one more thing,” I venture.
“Name it.” His gaze is so intense I swear my skin is searing like I’m being roasted in piri piri drizzle.
I stare him down. “Don’t call me Katie. It’s Kate.”
He nods. Then he raises an eyebrow. Touché. “Acknowledged—and call me Dan. I’ll see you at the airport. That workout—surprisingly taxing.” He nods and strides off.
I survey the staring office girls. Their dreamy expressions foretell he is more edible than chocolate ganache on nibble-sized biscuits. If you like high-risk, integrity-deficient, ruthless men as a snack between meals.
I return to my desk.
“Imagine that o
iled up in swim shorts,” says Mel.
“You need to up your meds. Been drinking too much from the crazy lake?”
But Mel’s bubble cannot be pricked. “Make sure your bikinis are skimpy over standard. It’s a honeymoon island—we don’t want his attention roving. Put it out there.” She winks.
But Mel doesn’t know I have a secret—that means bits of me stay hidden. I’ll be taking clothes that ensure the bits that matter are well covered, most especially when it comes to swimwear. I have to be ultra-careful about the swimsuits I choose.
She adds, “I wish I could be a fly on the wall on this assignment.”
Yeah. Not likely.
Yep. Super picnic. Put out the bunting, pimp my body and mount the boss on assignment.
As long as the show’s saved, nobody cares if I add Shag Tart to my résumé. Because when it comes to scruples, nobody gives a Santorini drizzled fig about the impact of any of this on me.
Chapter Two
Dan
Thirty minutes later than scheduled, Kate Joseph stalks though the Heathrow entrance door we’d arranged to meet near, like a riled wildcat with a grudge.
I’ve every right to be pissed at her delay, and hadn’t pegged her as that sloppy, but her concourse strut and curve-hugging pants suit nix the gripes. Is that heartburn, or maybe my lungs have seized?
If Lara picked this outfit, she needs a warning that she’s missed the work dress code by miles. Then I remember I checked the case—so the suit is Kate’s. Holy shit on a couture stick. My bar buddies back home would need winches to pull their tongues off the floor.
Her outfit causes stares from guys and girls alike. Right now, I’m commanding my dick to ignore the show Kate’s spray-on ladies wear advertises. These next five days will be the hardest assignment of my career. Hard being the operative word.
“Hey, Kate,” I say, surprised my voice still works.
“Hi there.” She draws her mini case to a skidding stop.
“Thought you’d stood me up. You always leave guys waiting?” I meant to tease, but my voice sounds rough.
Her forest-green gaze spears mine. “Transport hell—Heathrow gridlock. My cab bill racked up waiting and I would’ve called but I must’ve taken your number wrong. Sorry.”
There’s attitude bristling, and I feel the toxic waves. “You’re here now. Don’t sweat it.”
She scans me briefly—I figure she’s doing that chick thing about clothes. Trying to figure out if she picked the right outfit. But she makes me feel like something the cat wouldn’t sniff if it were starving.
If they were here, my bar buds would laugh until they choke. I’d watch ‘em with my arms crossed and no intention of undertaking Heimlichs to help ‘em.
“I don’t like looking bad in front of the boss,” she tells me flatly. “The one I’m here to impress so much my manager almost get a hoodie made, saying Dance to Mr. Draven’s Tune or You’re Fired.”
Shit. Unexpected. But total honesty rocks. A very good sign.
“Not that I’d wear a hoodie. I’d rather get my P45, frankly. So we’re clear.”
I stall. She’s primed—and I’m falling for her ballsy ‘tude.
“You can’t control everything.” My smile hits her wall. She’s clearly ready for a smackdown. Mine.
“I don’t usually do late,” she adds. “I also don’t do flimsy stories. I sincerely hope the Katsaros interview is fulfilled, Mr. Draven.”
“Dan, remember? We should adapt our assignment persona. Come on, let’s hit the check-in line. Oh, and trust me. I’ve got this handled.”
My gut tells me this might be a trickier assignment than I’ve banked on. I’d figured I could handle a hot chick. This perpetrator, however, is more sweet and sour toward me than a Chinatown street food stand.
I pick up gear and shoulder the bagged camera—I’ve undergone a crash course in camera ops that could fool any pro. Kate’s eyes are on me and I feel my jaw tick as if she’s rumbled me already. But I had to get her here, didn’t I?
My fingers twitch to hold her steady, make her take some breaths and quit trying to piss me off. Why does she make me react?
Gotta be my thing for brunettes. Okay, this one’s more mocha caramel, but the dark roots entice. I have a preference for dark, only my girls usually come from the wrong side of the tracks—and their work doesn’t involve straying far from their specialist boudoirs. If you catch my drift.
Princess Kate—yes, I’ve already heard her nickname—couldn’t be further from my type. I yank my thoughts back. I need my head on straight or I’ll screw up.
“So, let’s go fly to Santorini and nail this show.”
I was sure I had my dick under control until Kate placed her hand luggage on her case. Her ass speared my attention, giving my cock a lift. Shit. I’ll need more than one cold shower over the next five days.
Fortunately, the line moves as fast as my pulse rate. We check in and make our way through security to departures.
I kinda wish I hadn’t seen her in action at the Mambo class. While other airport passengers preen and pose, Kate is oblivious while turning male heads.
What the fuck are you thinking here, bro? Get your mind on the job.
So not easy.
Figures I’d balls up my undercover assignment before we’re even airborne.
* * * *
Kate disappeared into the Glam Diva boutique in Departures. God knew what she was buying, but I make my own needs plain on her return. “My throat’s dry as desert roadkill, Katie. Too long without java.”
A female agent would have enjoyed my road kill comment. Kate acts as if I’ve just passed gas. After Mexican food.
The distasteful grimace on her face gives me a kick, until I realize that I’m blowing my Manhattan tycoon cover. I can hear my former NYPD partner telling me to engage my brain.
“We can take a pit stop if we must.”
“I’ll dock your wages later for the shopping spree.” I feign checking my watch.
She scowls as she pushes her purchases into her bag. “I wasn’t expecting Greece to drop into my lap.”
I pause. “You need to take a trip to the light side, Katie.”
“It’s Kate. If you don’t mind.”
“Sorry. I have a friend called Katie—force of habit.” One of my girls—petite and perky. Though Kate here doesn’t need to know. Or that NYC Katie may be great as a stress reliever but her goose laugh gives me the jeebs.
“Can it, Danny Boy.” She’s even faking my accent badly. At least she has a humor chip—bonus. Kinda.
“Perhaps recall I pay the wages. The last person to get big ended up in a cast.”
Shit. Had to stop myself. I’d nearly said ‘cuffs’.
“I’m not going to dance around you to keep your ego straight. I’m surprised you’re so keen to get your nails dirty on this job.”
“Can the cute, sweetheart. Sucking up to me won’t cut any ice. You always grovel this much with your superiors?” I say, just to rile her. I high-five myself that it works and she shuts up.
But hello, Mr. Boner—you’re still listening. I’m watching her every move like a tongue-glued wuss.
“I’m man enough to get back to basics when the stakes demand it,” I answer.
“So what makes this trip high stakes? Sounded pretty dreary dull to me.”
My mouth dries. For a sassy sourpuss she ably sidelines in the ballsy factor. I sense I’m a primary target for it too.
“Exclusive news. The thing that keeps you in work.”
We stop at the info boards as a public address system voice interrupts. My attention is hijacked by the announcement that Flight 752 to Athens is delayed, departure time estimated two hours later.
“The late thing’s catching,” she says, knitting her eyebrows.
It gives me another window on Kate Joseph, who so far I’ve only known on paper. Vetted fully, I’ve seen the clearance reports, she’s clean as a very shiny whistle. With credentials that gleam.
Perfect. For a civilian to intrude on this classified mission, she’d have to be. She’s our hope of luring the guy we want to capture. Making Kate a key player. All will be revealed on her arrival in Oia.
Her body, no, her total presence continues causing male heads to swivel, clocking her as she glides. My inner caveman glowers at the gaze-groper men I feel a strong need to arrest. All over a woman who doesn’t like me, and that’s before she knows I’m a cop. One who is tasked expressly with nailing the bastards at the heart of the Operation Mountain Goat fraud ring. To bring them to justice, secure convictions and make them pay.
Yet I can’t help a certain frisson of thrill that, on this, I know more than her. Because I sense she’s a woman who’d hate it. Sometimes being an undercover cop has private Yay moments—this is one o’ mine.
Yay me. Yay Santorini crackdown. Yay hot woman with an ass that drives guys crazy.
Yay how ya like me now, sucker all the frickin’ way.
* * * *
After reaching the coffee lounge, I snag a table, then motion to the vacant seat opposite. Kate’s eyes are on mine briefly, then her mouth twist reads pissed, but she slides in without a quibble.
“Time for a drink, and I’m buying.”
“Hot water please. I have herbal teas with me.”
She’s hot water for me. Rolling boil and dangerous. I sense it from every pore.
“They’ll let you pay for water if you ask nicely so nobody gets in a bunch.”
“Cheap date,” I answer. Then I grin.
“In your dreams, Draven,” she answers. Then says, “Dan.”
The female barista has snapped to attention, waiting for my order. The NYC charm is not without benefits. Kate rolls her eyes as if I asked for it.
“Not every day I travel with the heir to a broadcasting dynasty as my elbow buddy. You always get this VIP attention?”
And suddenly I get to the root of her vibes. She’s pegged me as Big Bucks Golden Spoon Jackass. Has a thing against money and might. She’s opposed to catching something I carry. And I don’t mean my filming equipment—more like tycoon’s typhoid.
