by Cindy Dees
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. This was the craziest conversation she’d ever had while sitting on someone’s chest. “You’re nuts.”
She rocked onto the balls of her feet and stood up. She stepped aside lightly and held a hand down to him to help him up. He was tall enough—and she was short enough—that he didn’t have to sit all the way up to grasp her hand. He gave a swift yank, and before she knew it, she was sprawled on her stomach across his big body, her face inches from him.
“See, I knew you’d fall for me sooner or later,” he murmured.
Oh, my. He smelled good. “Let me up,” she demanded.
“Gotta say please. It’s important to teach our kids good manners, you know. And we have to set the example for them.”
She contemplated fighting him for her freedom, but in this position, his strength would work to her disadvantage. Part of being a warrior of the way was knowing when to back down, too. She sighed. “Pretty please?”
“Pretty, am I?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re pretty, too. Beyond pretty. Perfect, in fact.”
He thought she was perfect? A rush of warmth shot through her before she knew what had hit her. Then hard, cold reality set in. It didn’t matter what he thought of her. They were coworkers. Colleagues. Professional acquaintances. Nothing more. And she had neither the time nor the inclination to allow a man into her life.
His hand, splayed intimately on her lower back, began moving in small, slow circles, expertly massaging away her tension. Her entire lower body turned to jelly right there on the spot. Oh, Lord, that felt good. Coworkers, darn it!
She stiffened reluctantly.
He sighed. “Okay, baby. We can go back to work. For now. But tonight, I’m taking you out for a romantic, candlelit dinner.”
He turned her loose without warning. His magic touch was gone, and she felt…bereft.
What in the hell was he doing to her?
Jeff climbed cautiously to his feet, watching the woman who’d not once but twice dropped him with an ease that was breathtaking. This tiny little thing—she didn’t even reach his chin, for crying out loud—had absolutely manhandled him. Of course, maybe he was just so damned distracted by her he wasn’t thinking straight. But, Cupid’s Bolt or not, he had a hard time believing that decades of finely honed fighting skills had deserted him at the sight of a pretty face.
Although, pretty didn’t quite cover it. She was mesmerizing. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Everything about her was as he’d declared. Perfect. Her skin was flawless—all shades of ivory and cherry blossom pink. Her glossy, black hair was smoothed back into a ponytail with not a single hair daring to stray out of place. And her body—in that wet-dry suit, not a whole hell of a lot was left to the imagination, and every inch of it was exquisite.
To his consternation, she took the chair across from his desk in the gray suit and seemed in no great hurry to get out of it. Maybe she knew the effect it had on him and was using it to throw him off balance. It was working, whether she intended it or not.
He opened the file sitting in the middle of his desk. He didn’t actually need it; he knew every fact in it by heart. But it gave him something to look at other than her hypnotic beauty. He cleared his throat. Work. Concentrate on work. “A string of robberies have taken place over the past several months in Barbados along a stretch of real estate known as the Golden Mile. Are you familiar with it?”
“No.”
Her voice reminded him of wind chimes. Work, dammit. “It’s a string of mega-mansion getaways for the super-rich, lining several beachfront miles. A who’s who of the world’s richest people own these places. And that leads to a healthy dose of one-upmanship in the homes and their decorations.”
A faint smile flickered in her eyes, but her features otherwise remained impassive. So self-contained, she was. Made him wonder what was going on behind that still façade of hers.
“Recently, it has become the vogue to cram these winter hideaways with art. But not just any art. The most expensive art the collectors can find and flaunt.”
She replied, “And now this collection has attracted the finest art thieves the world has to offer. Don’t these places have pretty outrageous security? The owners can afford it.”
Intelligent. She’d already made the next logical leap ahead of his narrative. He nodded. “Go on. Continue your line of thought.”
“The U.S. government has been asked to help catch this guy. Which means the local police have failed. I’d guess some influential Americans have been robbed, and they’re raising a stink with their congressmen golfing buddies. In a smashing display of not understanding the limitations under which various government agencies operate, said congressmen have had their aides call the FBI, who threw up their hands and declared it outside their jurisdiction. Compounding their blunder, the aides called the CIA and possibly even Interpol. Eventually, their complaints ended up in the Pentagon’s lap, and the whole mess has rolled downhill and landed on your desk.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “That’s so accurate it’s frightening.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been in the Spec Ops community a while. I’ve seen a few ops get hosed from above.”
He grimaced and didn’t bother to reply. They both knew precisely what she was talking about. The bane of the Special Forces world—bureaucratic intervention from desk jockeys thousands of miles from the field of battle.
She looked him square in the eye. “So why am I here? What do you need from me?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. He answered dryly, “The possible answers to that question beggar the mind. Let’s start by reviewing the robberies. I have a few theories about how our thief is pulling off the jobs, but I’d like to hear your thoughts before I share mine.”
They put their heads together over all the information he’d painstakingly gathered: police reports, blueprints of homes, schematics of security systems. It took them several hours to sort through all the data. Kat didn’t say much. She asked occasional questions, but mostly she just absorbed it all. He dumped a ton of information on her, yet several times near the end, she asked pointed questions about details he’d mentioned briefly, hours earlier. Yup, definitely some extra chocolate chips in this smart cookie.
Finally, she leaned back, staring at nothing in particular. He could all but hear her mind humming as she processed the briefing. He didn’t disturb her. Besides, it gave him a chance to study Kat more closely.
She had small ears. Her fingernails were almond shaped, done in one of those pink-and-white manicures. Her skin was satin smooth, noticeably devoid of body hair. The veins in her hands and neck, faintly visible beneath the transparency of her skin were well-defined for a woman’s. Runner’s veins.
After the past few hours, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she was exactly who and what she said she was. He didn’t know whether to be dismayed, appalled, or impressed to death that a woman had managed to breach the testosterone fortress of Special Ops.
“You hungry?” he blurted.
She blinked, called back from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “Umm, yes. I guess so.”
“Let’s go topside. I know a little place on the beach…under the palm trees, drippy candles…the best seafood you ever tasted.”
Was that alarm flickering through her gaze? She was so damn hard to read.
She said quietly, “I didn’t know we could go to the surface.”
“Most of the staff is assigned two-week periods yearly to go topside and act like tourists visiting the island. A few staff members get to pose as people living here, and they can go topside anytime they want.”
“Which are you?”
“I’m in the first week of a two-week ‘vacation’ to the island. I can go up anytime I like. Because you’re only here temporarily, you can go up, too.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re having dinner at your little place on the beach.”
Hot damn. And he hadn�
�t even had to let her take him down to get her to agree.
Chapter 3
Jeff hadn’t exaggerated the romantic atmosphere of this place. Kat couldn’t help but relax and enjoy the ambience of the beachside restaurant. Their table sat under a private tent on the sand. White gauze curtains fluttered around them, and the sounds of silverware on china and clinking glass blended with the rolling crash and retreat of the ocean only a few dozen yards away.
She had to admit he looked…amazing. He wore a charcoal turtleneck, its sleeves pushed up to reveal muscular, tanned forearms. He didn’t appear remotely dangerous, even though she knew him to be so. He was elegant. Urbane. Some chameleon.
Of course, he was probably thinking the same thing about her. The Medusas included girly clothes and makeup in their standard operating equipment. Sometimes their best disguise during a mission was to look as feminine and harmless as possible. Hey—sex worked. Get a target thinking about maneuvering you into the sack, and a pistol in your purse or a microphone down your bra was the last thing on his mind.
Tonight she wore a plum silk dress with a high hem and a low neck. Spaghetti straps held up the whisper-soft fabric.
“This spot is beautiful.” She sighed appreciatively.
Jeff smiled. “I’m glad you approve. I thought it would be a good place for a beginning between us.” He picked up his wineglass. “A toast.”
Was he still hung up on that Cupid’s Bolt thing? Alarmed, she picked up her crystal stem.
“Here’s to a long and fruitful relationship between us,” he murmured.
Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about catching the Ghost. She took a sip of the crisp Chardonnay he’d ordered for them and, setting down her glass, said, “Tell me about the stolen art.”
“It’s an interesting assortment. All the pieces are by masters. Various schools of art, though. A Holbein, a Turner, a Cézanne, a Brecht.”
“How valuable?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to place a price tag on these high-end pieces unless you actually take them to auction and see what the collectors are willing to pay. But we’re talking two to ten million apiece.”
“Why haven’t these thefts been all over the news?”
“Shockingly enough, these aren’t particularly large thefts. Pieces worth a hundred million or more have been stolen. Those make the network news shows.”
“I can’t imagine any painting being worth that much,” she confessed.
“It’s all about covetousness. Having something famous and beautiful all to yourself. You get to look at it and nobody else.” He reached out to where her left hand lay on the white linen tablecloth and twined his fingertips with hers. His voice went low and husky. “It’s a lot like possessing a beautiful woman. Except a painting transcends time. People the world over, for decades or centuries, have coveted that piece, and now it’s yours.”
She replied wryly, “Plus, there’s the added advantage that a painting won’t get PMS and act bitchy or divorce you and take all your money.”
He chuckled and released her hand. “There is that.”
Odd. She was faintly disappointed that he’d let go. The feel of his fingers had been nice. “Personally, I’m not crazy about the notion of being possessed by some man.”
His smile ran as lazy as a river on a hot summer day. “Then the right man has never possessed you, darlin’. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not about owning another human being, body or soul. It’s about cherishing her. Savoring her, doing anything for her. Making her feel like the most special woman in the world.”
Wow. She’d never imagined any man might actually want to treat a woman like that, let alone imagined finding one for herself. Uncomfortable, she retorted lightly, “I dunno. Sounds almost creepy.”
He gave her a reproachful look. “There’s no need to be evasive with me. If the idea of being loved that deeply scares you, you can tell me. I’ll still love you even if you have a human weakness or two under your superhero skin.”
She had to catch her jaw to keep it from sagging. First, she was stunned that he’d read her that well. Nobody ever saw past the impassive mask she’d been trained from earliest childhood to show the world. Second, he’d pegged her as superhero material? Granted, she’d tossed him around and employed an old ninja climbing trick, but he’d put his finger on her most closely guarded secret within a few hours of meeting her. She couldn’t count the number of times Hidoshi had told her through the years never, ever, to let anyone know what she was truly capable of. He’d warned over and over, “If you show them your skill, they will insist upon testing it.”
He was so right. She’d gotten distracted by Jeff’s sex appeal in the gym and let down her guard for an instant. A single, simple takedown of the man, and already he’d tested her reflexes twice more—once with a gun. She’d bet the men who’d seen her drop Jeff were just waiting for their chance to have a go at her, too.
As usual, Hidoshi’s advice was spot on. Too bad he’d never given her any advice on how to react to a gorgeous lunatic who was convinced she was destined to be his.
The rhythmic crash of the ocean gradually soothed her inner turmoil. As she neared the end of her scallops in cream sauce, she asked, “What do the stolen paintings have in common?”
“None of them are particularly famous, but they’re all excellently executed. Perhaps most notable is the fact that all of the pieces have been held by private collectors for most or all their existences.”
Kat frowned. “And that’s significant why?”
“Museums publish extensive catalogs and prints, and publicly display paintings. Which is to say, museum pieces are vastly more identifiable than privately held pieces.”
“Ergo, the privately held piece can be stolen and hung on a new owner’s wall with less chance of being recognized as a stolen work.”
“Exactly. If a shady collector wanted to flaunt his trophies, he’d need to acquire little-known pieces.”
“Is the thief stealing on behalf of a specific collector, or is he stealing pieces he can fence more easily because they’re less well-known?”
Jeff smiled broadly. “Well done. That is, indeed, the sixy-four-thousand-dollar question. For a newcomer to the art world, you’ve put your finger on the heart of the matter astoundingly quickly.”
“And you’re not a newcomer to it?” she asked in surprise.
“My family has owned an art gallery in New Orleans for over a hundred years.”
“Did you work in the business to have learned so much about the art world?”
He winced. “Not entirely. I—” He paused, embarrassed. “—majored in art history in college.”
She stared. “How in the world did you end up—” Aware of other ears nearby, she finished circumspectly, “—in our line of work?”
“Easy. Art history majors don’t get the hot chicks.”
She laughed, startled. “You got into the biz to pick up women? And how’s that working out for you?”
His gaze took on a heat that stole her breath away. “So far so good, if I had to make an initial assessment.”
“Oh, really?” she asked lightly, butterflies flitting in her stomach. “What makes you think that?”
He tipped the wineglass in his hand slightly in her direction. “The lady’s wearing a sexy dress for me. I’d say that’s an excellent start.”
She shrugged. “It’s just what happened to be in my gear bag.”
“You haul around sexy little numbers like that in your work gear?” he blurted.
She nodded casually, studying the remnants of her meal. No sense telling him she had several other dresses to choose from and this one had been the sexiest of the bunch. His ego was already big enough. She glanced up to find him staring at her in open consternation.
“What?” she demanded.
“What exactly do you ladies do in your line of work?”
“The same thing you do. Why?”
“Is that all you do?”
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nbsp; She laid her fork down very gently. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Neither do I,” he replied grimly.
She leaned forward and spoke with quietly intensity. “I’ll say this once and once only. The Medusas have never been asked to nor have they done anything remotely like what you’re thinking in the execution of their job. Understood?”
“Loud and clear, darlin’. And may I say, I’m relieved to hear it. I’d hate to have to ask you to choose between me and your work.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, once we’re officially together, I’m not going to be a fan of sharing you with anyone else, particularly some hostile target you’ve been ordered to romance.”
“Jeff. We are not together. Not that I’d personally be comfortable romancing a hostile anyway, but that would be my decision to make—not yours. My job. My career. My decision.”
He looked pained. “I never thought I’d end up with a career woman, especially a military one. I wasn’t planning on facing these sorts of issues.”
“Gee. I’m sorry to have fouled up your grand plan for a nineteenth-century marriage—or did you have something more fourteenth century in mind?”
He grinned. “I have to say, now that I’ve found you, I’m surprisingly okay with you having a career. Even the one you have.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks so much for giving me permission to do my job.”
His grin widened unrepentantly.
Now that he’d found her? He said that like he’d been looking for her. Those pesky butterflies were knocking around her stomach again. “For what it’s worth, most of the men who’ve gotten involved with my teammates seem to have struggled initially to accept the danger we place ourselves in.”
He frowned. “What sorts of ops do you run?”
Thankfully, the wind had picked up, pushing the waves more noisily onto the beach. With one eye trained on the nearest tents, she replied, “Exactly the same kind you do. Only exception: The missions are profiled to include less heavy lifting and fewer long-distance ingresses and egresses. We’re the first to admit that we can’t begin to match the strength and stamina of a male team. Our job is to work around that limitation.”
