by Maggie Price
Nodding, Morgan met his gaze. "Seeing these, seeing what he did, especially to the woman, it would be hard to forget." She watched Alex slide photos back into the manila envelope. "Do you think Spurlock is the one who pulled the trigger? Poisoned the FBI agents? Set his accountant, Tool, on fire?"
"Those questions are some of the unknowns we're dealing with in this case. What I do know is when it comes to bad guys, the more money one makes in his criminal endeavors, the less likely he is to be violent, directly at least. In other words, the man at the top may have people working for him who break arms and legs, but he, in creating his own illusion of respectability, usually doesn't get his own hands dirty."
Alex clipped the envelope shut. "That's another factor I added to the equation when I pegged you for this assignment, instead of a more seasoned cop. We're not dealing with some fried-brain doper who might pull a gun if you look at him wrong. Spurlock is at the top of the heap when it comes to the dregs of society. He rubs elbows with some of this city's elite, even a few politicians. He'll think long and hard before he gets his own hands dirty."
"But he will if he needs to," she said quietly.
"Count on it. A cop works undercover long enough, he'll eventually find someone he thought of as a pussycat suddenly turn into a lion."
"And he has to deal with that lion without a script."
"Exactly."
She met his steady gaze, uneasiness drifting through her. "I think I understand why you chose me. But nothing changes the fact I'm an inexperienced rookie. That means there's more chance I might make a mistake."
"If this assignment required you to do technical things like fill out paperwork for search warrants or even read someone their rights and interrogate them, I would have made other arrangements." He raised a palm. "This job doesn't call for you to have a seasoned cop's technical expertise. It requires you to have certain physical characteristics and know about plants. You can do this, Morgan."
She gave him a slight smile. "I hope you're right."
"I am. You just have to trust me. Trust that I won't let you go into this unprepared. That's why I had you create Morgan Donovan's biography. Doing so is the only way I have ever found to train a cop to convincingly portray a character. You've got her in your mind now. That's the first hurdle."
"What's the second?"
"You become her. Mrs. Alexander Donovan can't be someone you just think about when you're with me. You have to give birth to her, be her."
Morgan shook her head. "I don't know the best way to do that. If you'll explain how…"
"You're wanting me to give you a set of instructions from a textbook. Forget it. It all has to do with emotions, feelings."
"Emotions and feelings," she murmured.
"Right. You start by getting used to having me around." He settled his hands on her board-stiff shoulders. "Relax," he said quietly, kneading at the tension he felt there. "You're Morgan Donovan now. The guy touching you is your husband. You jump every time he gets within a few inches of you, Spurlock is going to wonder why."
"You're right. I know you're right."
"Close your eyes."
She gave him a wary look. "Why?"
"Because I'm your husband and I give the orders. You follow them."
Her expression instantly went from apprehensive to derisive. "That unsavory character flaw isn't in Mrs. Donovan's profile."
"No kidding." Kneading her shoulders, Alex grinned. "Just go with me here, Morgan. Close your eyes."
"Fine."
"Yesterday I showed you photos of the mansion we're moving into," he said when she complied. "You studied them. All the furnishings, appliances, even the pots and pans got included in the bankruptcy. You've seen how each room will look when we move in."
"Yes."
"Picture the master bedroom."
In his own mind he saw the image of the sumptuously attired room with vanilla-colored wallpaper sprawling with pale flowers and soft coral tinted carpet. The massive four-poster bed sitting opposite the green-marbled fireplace was the size of a small lake. Its thick mahogany headboard matched the chest of drawers, dresser and nightstands.
"See it?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Now, picture yourself there as Morgan Donovan. It's early in the morning. You're still in that big bed, just waking up." Wanting to enhance the image, he matched his voice to the lazy kneading of his fingers against her shoulders. "You stretch like a cat, maybe even consider going back to sleep. What, if anything, is Morgan Donovan wearing? How does she feel? Did she do something last night to make her feel that way?"
The instant the words were out, a vision stabbed through Alex's brain of Morgan lying in the expansive bed beneath him, her warm, lush body moving in sync with his, those long legs wrapped around his. For the first time in years, he felt his blood move for a woman. This woman who sat inches away, her golden lashes feathering her cheeks, her unpainted mouth looking soft and moist. Ripe.
He became aware of how quiet the house was, how the two of them were alone, how the heat of her flesh rose through her T-shirt into his palms. He could smell only her now, the tang of lemony soap that clung to her skin. Clean, fresh and simple. The raw hot churning inside him wiped his brain of all thought of what was supposed to come next during this lesson.
When Morgan felt his fingers go still, then tighten on her shoulders, she opened her eyes. Alex's unshaven face and black, shaggy hair lent him the air of a buccaneer. Still, it wasn't his appearance that shot a ripple up her spine. It was the realization his dark, unreadable gaze had focused on her mouth.
Her throat went dry.
How could the mere feel of a man's hands on her shoulders—not even her bare shoulders—spark an inferno inside her? Good Lord, they were working. He was trying to teach her how to stay alive during an undercover operation, and her system was revving like an overloaded blender. Sitting this close, it was impossible not to feel the heat of his body, not to breathe in his spicy male scent. It had been a very long time since a man had put his hands on her.
She didn't need this kind of distraction, she thought, gritting her teeth. Had made certain she would never again let herself get distracted. She'd gotten her life back on track by taking step A, making sure it lead to step B, and so on until she had every aspect under control. She was in control, she assured herself. Not her emotions.
"Is…" She cleared her throat to rid her voice of a sudden huskiness. "Is that all?"
His gaze skimmed up from her mouth to meet hers. Something flicked in his dark eyes, then was gone. "Not by a long shot. Close your eyes again."
Angling her spine a little straighter, she complied, thinking this training exercise would be far easier if he took his hands off her shoulders. Moved to the far side of the kitchen. Maybe down the hallway. Yelled at her from a nice, safe distance what she needed to know about assuming her undercover persona.
"Picture how Morgan Donovan gets out of bed each morning," he said.
Concentrate, Morgan told herself. Think about the operation. "Okay."
"How does she walk? Brush her teeth? Does she come downstairs and grind beans and bake muffins? Or maybe she prefers instant coffee and a bowl of granola?"
Maybe she skips breakfast and jumps your bones first thing.
The unbidden thought had Morgan's eyes shooting open. In a lightning move she sprang off the stool.
"What the hell?" Alex rose, took a step toward her just as the door connecting the kitchen to the garage swung open.
"Well, good morning."
"Carrie." As she struggled to settle her pulse, Morgan didn't have to wonder if the heat pooling in her cheeks had turned into a flush. She saw verification in the arch of one of her sister's perfectly plucked eyebrows. Mouth pursed, Carrie flicked her gaze between the two people she had just walked in on.
Doing nothing wrong, Morgan added. The only thing wrong was the crazed direction her thoughts had taken about Alex Blade. She set her jaw. Her hormones were
mistaken if they thought she was game to take another wild ride with a man who could make her pulse pound just by walking into a room. Not after the misery she'd put herself—and her family—through last time. She had dug herself out of one pit. She had no intention of winding up in another.
Shoving her hands into the pockets of her shorts, she fisted them. She noted Alex looked totally at ease in his worn jeans and white T-shirt with one hip leaned against the butcher-block island while sipping his coffee. Of course he looked totally unaffected, she told herself. He was used to preparing partners to work undercover. He was only doing his job. Working.
"Carrie, this is Sergeant Alex Blade. I told you I'll be working with him. I don't know if you two have met." Morgan could hear the edge in her voice, but she couldn't help it. Any more than she could stop from adding, "We're working. He's giving me pointers on how to get into my undercover persona."
"They must be doozies," Carrie murmured before moving across the kitchen. Even though she was just coming off working the graveyard shift, she looked wide-eyed and rested. As usual, her stunning auburn hair was a mass of long, silky waves, her makeup flawless, her snug shorts and cotton top pristine. Even the uniform pants and shirt she'd changed out of at the briefing station looked wrinkle free, draped over one of her forearms.
Her mouth curving, Carrie held out a hand to Alex. "We haven't met, but I've heard a lot about you."
He dipped his head as he shook her hand. "Try not to hold it against me."
"It was all good. In fact, Grace and I breathed a sigh of relief when Morgan said it was you she's assigned to work with. We won't worry near as much about her."
"Glad to hear it," he replied.
Carrie lifted her chin, sniffed. "Morgan, tell me you've baked something decadent I can indulge in before I catch some shut-eye."
Morgan let out the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. "Orange-glazed muffins." Relieved to have something to do with her hands, she retrieved a saucer from a cabinet. "Take two upstairs with you," she said, sliding muffins onto the plate. "Do you want coffee?"
"More than anything. But if I drink it, I'll never get my beauty sleep." Carrie glanced at the clock on the stove's panel. "Is our shopping trip with Grace still on for this evening?"
"Yes, we're meeting her at the mall at six."
After Carrie disappeared down the hallway, Morgan met Alex's gaze. "You told me I could give my sisters a vague idea of my assignment. I did. They're both more into fashion than I am, especially Carrie. She's the clothes horse. We're shopping tonight for my undercover wardrobe."
"Fine." Watching her, he settled back onto the stool. "Morgan, is it this assignment or me that has you wound up like a junkie late for a fix? Or both?"
She studied the sharply defined planes and angles of the face that gave no indication of what he was thinking. For as long as she could remember, she'd wanted to become a cop. And she'd done it. Maybe she hadn't been there to graduate with her recruit class, or wear the badge she now carried tucked in her purse, but that didn't make her any less of a police officer. She'd proven the one tumble she'd taken in college over a man didn't mean she couldn't pull herself back up.
In an unconscious move she fingered the nearly invisible scar near her right temple. Her bad judgment in men had led to a car wreck that almost killed her. She had finally paid back every cent her parents had spent on her medical bills their insurance hadn't covered. She'd carefully budgeted her city paycheck so she could make quick repayment of the student loan she'd taken out when she'd adopted her party-hearty boyfriend's lifestyle and lost her full-ride academic scholarship.
Now, just as she was getting her life back on to the course she'd always intended it to be on, here was Alex Blade, stirring her senses as only one other man in her life had. The emotional scars from that encounter had penetrated far deeper than the physical ones.
Which was good, she thought perversely. Remembering the pain, the suffering she'd endured was all the reminder she—and her hormones—needed to keep her mind off the man and on the job.
"I'm tense because this assignment was so unexpected," she said truthfully. "I thought I would graduate from the academy, and ride the streets for the next six months with a field training officer. Instead, I'm working undercover." With you.
"Being a cop, you can't take for granted what you'll be doing next. Where you'll be assigned. Or who you'll be working for or with. None of that is up to you."
"Every cop in my family clued me into that a long time ago." Slowly she relaxed her shoulders, her arms, her hands. She had to get used to this man. Loosen up. "I understand the point you made about Morgan Donovan."
Keeping his eyes on her, he sipped his coffee. "What point?"
"I can't just think about her. I have to become her. Get out of bed like her." She moistened her lips as he continued watching her, saying nothing. "I have to brush my teeth the way she does. Eat like her. Think like her. Think of you as she would her husband."
"That's right," he said after a moment. "Morgan, I need you to level with me. Do you think you can pull it off? Our lives may depend on it."
"You don't need to worry. I know my assignment. Spurlock is a killer. We have to take him down. I'll do what it takes to do that."
"Good." Alex shifted his gaze from her face to the pad of paper on which she'd compiled notes. "Ready to get back to work?"
"Ready."
Chapter 4
Days later, Alex steered a shiny black Lincoln into the drive behind a nondescript two-story brick house. The Lincoln had been the pampered baby of an Atlanta drug dealer until his conviction. Atlanta PD had acquired the Lincoln and a white BMW convertible through an asset forfeiture program. To cut down on chances of the distinctive vehicles getting recognized by other local bad guys, APD had swapped the cars for two primo pimp-owned Cadillacs the OCPD vice squad had seized.
Alex braked the Lincoln behind the BMW convertible that gleamed like a milky pearl in the morning sun. The Beemer drove like a bullet and was the perfect vehicle for the new bride of Alexander Donovan, a man with money to burn, a newly purchased mansion in Hampton Hills and one felony gambling conviction on record.
He turned off the Lincoln's engine, then paused as he stared out the windshield. He couldn't quite picture Morgan McCall sitting behind the sassy convertible's wheel, not dressed in the loose-fitting clothes she habitually wore and her blond hair slicked back or piled carelessly on top of her head. The image just wouldn't gel. He hoped to hell he'd been right to trust her to buy the right outfits for the job during the two shopping trips she and her sisters had embarked on.
His mouth formed a caustic curve at the thought of the list Morgan had made of the clothes and other items she planned to buy. Making a list wasn't so bad—showed she was organized. Problem was, he remembered another woman who made a list or chart or graph for everything. Anything. Even one to document the time line she expected his move up the PD's ranks to take. Too bad Paula never bothered asking if moving up was something he wanted.
"Hell," he muttered as he climbed out of the Lincoln. It was just his bad luck the perfect woman for his present assignment might have been cloned from his ex.
The narrow wood steps leading up to the house's back porch creaked as he took them two at a time. He crossed toward the door while nudging back the French cuff of his starched white shirt to check the time on the solid-gold designer watch he'd strapped on that morning. One of the FBI's whiz-boys had inserted a few handy microchips inside the watch, one being a bug detector. After two consecutive clicks on the stem, Alex would instantly know if any surreptitious audio surveillance devices were in his and Morgan's vicinity. A different sequence of clicks would transmit an SOS to a pager worn by their control officer.
He knocked twice on the door, paused, then rapped four times in quick succession. The code told the cop inside that Alex belonged there and, if he had someone with him, he hadn't been coerced into bringing them there.
When the doo
r swung open, he tipped his head at the trim, attractive federal agent clad in tan shorts and a black T-shirt. "Morning, Rackowitz."
"Back at ya, Blade."
He had worked with Sara Rackowitz several times on joint federal and local law enforcement operations, and was pleased she'd been pegged to act as his and Morgan's control officer. A smart, capable cop, Rackowitz was blissfully married with two rambunctious sons.
"Things go okay this morning?" Alex asked as he stepped into the small kitchen with its faded wallpaper, chipped counters and yellowed linoleum. The safe house had gone unused by the department for the past couple of months, lending it an empty feel.
"Like clockwork." Rackowitz tucked her dark, straight hair behind her ears. "I picked up McCall, her luggage and about ten sacks of groceries from her house a couple of hours ago."
"Ten sacks?"
"Yeah, she said you had the freezer at the mansion stocked with frozen food, which isn't exactly her idea of fine dining. So she got up early this morning and went to the store. The groceries and all but one suitcase are now stashed in the BMW. McCall took the remaining one upstairs. She's still there, transforming herself into your wife."
Alex hid a wince, thinking of the mental comparison he'd just made between Morgan and his ex. "Were any of her neighbors out when you picked her up?"
"Didn't see a soul."
"Good." The Donovans' cover was that they were new in town, so he hadn't wanted Morgan's neighbors spotting her leaving her house in the guise of her undercover persona. Nor did he want her seen driving the BMW convertible before she transformed into Mrs. Donovan. All little details, but they were ones that could turn an operation dicey if the wrong person saw her. This assignment was his one chance to take down Carlton Spurlock for six murders. George Jackson's murder. Alex didn't intend to leave anything to chance.
"The moving van got to the mansion around eight-thirty," Rackowitz reported.
