by Maggie Price
The sudden burr of an engine cut through her thoughts. She took an unsteady step backward. Then another, forcing him to drop his hand from her throat.
He didn't, however, relinquish his hold on her hand.
"That's our new lawn person," he said casually as Agent Rackowitz steered a riding lawn mower into view. "Her name's Sara Jones." He shifted his gaze back to Morgan, rays of sunlight glancing off the mirrored tint of his glasses. "Sara had great references, so I hired her. She'll also clean and maintain the pool. If she can't take care of other odd jobs that need doing, she'll find us someone who can."
"Sounds like you're lucky to have found her."
"That's how I feel."
Morgan rubbed the spot on her throat where Alex's palm had lingered. Beneath her fingers, she felt her pulse race. Concentrate on the job, she told herself. The job, which she had snagged not just because of her looks, but also her knowledge of plants and flowers.
The game, she thought, had truly begun.
Squaring her shoulders, she diverted her gaze and gave the lawn a slow, appraising sweep. "Alex, our grass is a nightmare."
He glanced at the lawn. "It is?"
"Just look at it. It's starving." Easing her hand from his, she moved to the driveway's edge and nudged the toe of one stiletto into the ground. "This type of grass should be denser and a much deeper green. Three shades deeper. It needs a regimen of nutrients. Fertilizer. Not to mention water. A lot of water."
"I'll speak to Sara. You may need to give her specific instructions on…lawn nutrition."
"Count on it." Swiveling, Morgan turned her attention to the large flower beds on either side of the wide front porch. "Does no one from the bank realize it is June and ninety degrees in the shade?"
Alex crossed his arms over his chest, his gold cuff links glittering with the gesture. "The weather never came up during my dealings with the bankruptcy department."
"I guess it would have been too much to expect a bunch of bean counters to think about turning on the sprinkler system."
Tossing her head, she strode the length of the nearest flower bed that was thick with weeds and unidentifiable brown shriveled clumps. "All the flowers in this bed have died from lack of water. At least the azaleas, hydrangeas and peonies are still alive." She reached, fingered a curled, wilted leaf. "Barely." Hands fisted on her hips, she swiveled to face him. "I'll be lucky to save them."
"If you don't, I'm sure Sara can recommend some good nurseries in the area where you can buy more flowers."
Morgan flicked a wrist in disgust. "I have to deal with the soil first. It needs an acidifier. Badly."
"You're the expert." Alex strode toward her, extending his hand. "Why don't we discuss acidifiers later? I want to give you a tour of our new home. Like you said, pictures don't do it justice."
"Fine." Mindful of the cameras, Morgan gave a flirty dip of her head. It was a gesture she had seen Carrie use successfully around the unending stream of men who hovered around her sister. "It's not every woman whose husband gives her a mansion for a wedding gift."
"Not every woman deserves one." As he spoke, Alex's hands settled on her hips, slid up her bare midriff and paused just under her breasts. The desire zinging through her belly had her clenching her teeth.
"Alex—" Whatever it was she planned to say whooshed out when he swooped her off her feet. "I…can walk," she managed.
"Yes, and you do it quite well in those heels," he commented as he carried her across the cobblestone drive. "What kind of husband would I be if I didn't carry my new bride across the threshold?"
Only one other man had swept her off her feet, and she had vowed to never let that happen again. Balling her hand against Alex's shoulder, she resisted the urge to squirm. His reasons for whisking her into his arms were far different from those of the man who had sliced her heart years ago.
Alex advanced up the wide steps that led to the front porch. Several of the cops parading as movers glanced their way as they hefted the specially fitted antique writing desk across the porch. Some cops nodded; all kept their expressions bland as they continued hauling boxes out of the truck and into the house. Out on the grass, Sara Rackowitz, a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, steered the lawnmower, her total concentration centered on her task. Everyone stayed in character. The cops assigned to this operation were professionals, doing their job.
Knowing the same was expected of her, Morgan un-balled her fist and placed her palm against Alex's cheek. "You don't have to carry me. But you're sweet to have thought of this."
"I'm a real sweetheart," he murmured.
He carried her through the set of gaping double doors into a cavernous foyer where a Persian carpet pooled over cool pink marble. Although he halted at the base of the burgundy-carpeted staircase that curved up two floors, he made no move to put her down. "A lab guy who's presently hauling in boxes swept the house for bugs when they got here. It's clean. We can say whatever we need to indoors."
"Okay." She started to shift from his hold, but his grip remained firm.
"You meant all of that out there, didn't you?" The mirrored sunglasses might have hidden his eyes, but that didn't prevent her from feeling the intense scrutiny of his gaze.
She stopped squirming. "All of what?"
"The talk about the lawn. The plants, shrub and soil. You weren't faking it."
"I didn't have to. Everything's a disaster. All those shrubs on the brink of death. Just because the house and furnishing got swept up in a bankruptcy doesn't mean what's outside went into suspended animation. Somebody at the bank ought to be shot for not making arrangements to have the sprinkler system switched on."
"Shot?" His mouth twitched. "That's a little severe. But seeing as there's one or two lawyers working in the bankruptcy department, I'll see what I can arrange."
She gave him a narrow look. "My mother has spent her life nurturing things, making them grow. If she saw the grounds here, she'd wage war."
"I think her daughter is doing that for her."
"You don't grow up working in a nursery and not learn to respect plants, shrubs and flowers. They do a lot for people's well-being." She angled her chin. "Haven't you ever gotten pleasure just from the scent of a rose? Or seeing a vase of gorgeous flowers all grouped together?"
"I see flowers, mostly I think of funerals."
"What about weddings?"
"What about them?"
"They usually have as many flowers as funerals do."
"In my mind both events have a lot in common."
"Sounds like Mrs. Donovan had better tread lightly around her husband with an attitude like that," she said.
"Not necessary. At this point he's too blinded by love to have dark thoughts about the institution of marriage."
"Lucky her." One of his palms gripped her bare thigh; she could feel the firm length of each of his fingers against her flesh. Too warm, she thought. Too close. Too intimate.
Her nerves snapping, she placed her palms against his shoulders and eased back. "We're out of camera range, which means the Donovans are offstage. You can put me down."
"Point taken," he said easily. He settled her on her feet and stepped back. The gold band she'd placed on his left hand winked as he pulled off his sunglasses. "You did a good job out there, Morgan."
She ran her palms down the leather miniskirt. "Thanks." She felt as if her nerves were riding on the surface of her skin.
"I'll ask one of the men to bring our luggage upstairs and stow your groceries in the kitchen. Then I'll show you around."
She slid off her sunglasses, her gaze sweeping across the walls wrapped with pale-blue linen paper that rose from antique wood paneling. Several long-legged glossy tables nestled against the walls. Overhead, a small brass chandelier spilled light. "Judging just by the size of the foyer, that tour might take a while."
"It will. On the drive over, I got a call from Wade Crawford, the tech from the Vice detail who's assigned to get the security alarm up to snuff and install the came
ras and straight-line to the safe house. He had some sort of equipment snafu to deal with, so he won't be here for at least another hour." Alex checked his watch. "That gives us plenty of time for the tour," he added, his gaze skimming back to her. "The more we're together, Morgan, the more comfortable we'll feel around each other."
"I'm sure you're right." Judging by the way her heart was hammering against her ribs, she doubted that would ever happen. But he didn't need to know that.
He dipped his head. "I'll be back in a minute."
"Fine."
Standing in the cool quiet of the spectacular entry hall, she watched him turn and stride toward the door. When he stepped out of sight, she lowered onto the staircase's bottom step.
Her mouth was dry, her knees wobbly and the ache in her belly was pure longing. Dammit, she had to get a grip. Somehow find her balance.
Hormones, she reasoned. The desire to be held and touched, to feel, was a human one. That heat, gathering like a fireball in her lungs whenever Alex touched her, meant she was only human. A human experiencing nothing more than an inconvenient little hormonal tug.
A tug, she resolved, she could—and would—control with a strong dose of willpower.
Chapter 5
Dressed in a blue golf shirt and slacks, Alex walked into the kitchen late that afternoon. Centered amid cabinets topped with dark granite was an imposing cooking island with a built-in chopping block, small sink, six electric burners and a grill. A massive copper hood hung over the cooking area. A restaurant-size range sat against one wall; the motor on the nearby stainless-steel refrigerator purred like a contented cat.
Leaning against the island, Alex watched the OCPD Vice cop on the far side of the kitchen. A toolbox, its lid yawning open, sat near Sergeant Wade Crawford's booted feet. Beside the toolbox were coils of various-colored electrical wire.
The cop was in his early thirties, tall, lean and lanky. He wore his coal-black hair long enough to be considered antisocial; he'd spent enough time in the sun to turn his olive skin a shade darker. His eyes were brown and deep set, and his serious countenance was enhanced by heavy brows. Those eyes were presently focused on the wires spilling out of the small hole Crawford had cut in the wall near the door that led out to the terrace.
"How's it going, Crawford?"
"It's going, Blade."
"You sure this system is airtight?"
"Is a pig's butt pork?" the electronics guru asked in a drawl that held a faint trace of his native Louisiana. Glancing up from a grouping of wires he'd twisted together, Crawford sent Alex a grin that was pure confidence. "Blade, when I'm done here, this mansion'll have a security system almost as foolproof as the one at Fort Knox."
"Almost? You want to define almost for me?"
"Sure." Crawford pulled a rag out of the back pocket of his blue work pants and wiped his hands. His white shirt displayed the logo of a security company over one pocket. The logo matched the one on the van he'd parked in the mansion's driveway. "I said 'almost' because when I talk about alarm systems, I add a disclaimer." He jammed the rag back into his pocket and shifted his attention to the system's digital display while he punched numbers into the keypad. "After all, there are people on this planet capable of fooling most any security system."
"You being one of them."
"I do have the touch," Crawford agreed. "Hell, Blade, there's nothing complicated about most intrusion alarms." He punched in another set of numbers, gave a satisfied nod, then pulled a battery-operated screwdriver out of the black tool belt hitched low on his hips. "They're just metal, wires and integrated circuitry. A couple of microchips tossed in."
The screwdriver whirled noiselessly while Crawford installed a faceplate over the keypad. After dealing with the last screw, he gave the panel a pat. "This baby's solid. I've programmed in a fifteen-digit base numbering system and a forty-five-second delay."
"Meaning?"
"When the system is activated and someone opens an entry/exit door, that person has three-quarters of a minute to punch in the correct code. If they don't, the siren goes off. And I've reprogrammed it to shriek like a French Quarter hooker who's been offered a five-thousand-dollar trick."
Alex fought a smile. "I expect that's something."
"Pierce-your-eardrums loud. There's not much chance of someone who doesn't have the right access code turning off this system in time. Even if someone got through the door, unscrewed the face plate and hooked up an electronic counter to the keypad's wiring, they'd be out of luck."
"Are you talking about the same kind of counter the bad guys use to bust ATMs?"
"Exactly the same."
"From what I hear, they're pretty successful."
"You heard right." Crawford crouched and began stowing coils of wire in his toolbox. "A counter rams massive numbers of combinations into a recognition bank. It works on an ATM because a money machine is connected to the bank's megafast computer. A security alarm can't deal with info at anywhere near that speed. Plus, an alarm's got a ticking clock."
"In our case, the forty-five-second delay."
"Right. That isn't near long enough for an electronic counter to crunch the possible amount of number combos."
"That covers the doors. What about the windows?"
Crawford closed the toolbox and rose. "They're wired, too. So is the attic's trapdoor into the garage and the walk-through door that opens between the attic and the storage room where the moving guys stacked the empty boxes they carried in. There's also a battery backup. If someone shuts off the main circuit breaker, this monster of a house stays secure."
Alex glanced at the collection of household items Crawford had placed on the cooking island when he first arrived. The coffeemaker, desk lamp, VCR, mahogany mantel clock and pair of leather-bound books were equipped with microchip surveillance cameras. "Give me a rundown on how the video system works."
The Vice cop moved to the island. "Motion activates all cameras. Someone walks by, that person's image is trapped on tape in living color. View the tape later, you'll see a date and time stamp of when the activity occurred."
"What about lighting?" Alex had been on enough undercover ops to know that low light conditions posed a problem for surveillance, especially when using color video cameras.
"Lighting isn't a problem ever since the department replaced all microcameras with the newest 'smart' ones. Every camera we're using has sensors that automatically switch their settings from color to black-and-white when the light level gets too low."
"Good."
"Got something else for you," Crawford said as he plucked a smoke detector off the island.
"You stick a camera in there, too?"
"Nope. A radio frequency detector. Someone drops by and happens to leave an audio bug behind, the red LED light on the detector starts flashing. It'll keep the light show up for hours."
Alex nodded. "You need my help in the video room?" A small room accessible through a hidden panel had been created on the first floor beneath the staircase. Inside, Crawford had installed the video recorders programmed to tape everything the covert cameras picked up. The recorders and other equipment had been packed in boxes the movers carried in that morning.
"Yeah, I can use a hand." Crawford nodded at the items on the island. "I need you to place these in different rooms around the mansion. While you're doing that, I'll be in the video room, watching the monitors. I can tell you where in each room to place the camera, then at the angle that gives maximum view."
"How do we communicate while we're doing that?"
Crawford snagged a duffel bag, pulled two small radios from inside. "With these," he said, handing Alex a radio.
"Ready to get to work?" Alex asked, clipping the radio onto his belt. When Crawford didn't answer, Alex glanced up. The cop's eyes had widened and locked on the doorway. Alex turned his head in time to see Morgan step fully into view.
She had changed into a red halter top and a pair of cutoffs skimpy enough to showcase her long, tann
ed legs. Her red canvas tennis shoes matched the halter. She'd piled her blond hair on top of her head, with tendrils escaping here and there. One earpiece of her sunglasses was hooked in the halter's deep vee. Her mouth was full and wet and darkly red. If sex came packaged, this was it.
The kick of lust in Alex's gut had him scowling. As did the realization he had to remind himself to breathe. If his system survived this assignment, he could live through anything.
Gripping a legal pad and measuring tape in one hand, Morgan moved to the island, sliding a look from him, to Crawford, then back to Alex. "I've started a list of supplies we need for the flower beds and lawn. I'm going out to get Sara's input before she leaves for the day."
"Good idea." Taking a controlled breath, Alex nodded toward the window over the sink. "I spotted her going into the storage building a few minutes ago."
"While I'm outside, I'll measure and sketch all the flower beds. I can enter the dimensions into the software on my laptop and plan the exact amount of flowers and shrubs to buy."
"Fine." Alex was fully aware he wasn't the only male reacting to her presence. He could almost hear Crawford's testosterone level rocket into the red zone while the Vice cop gave Morgan a slow once-over.
"We haven't met." Hand extended, Crawford stepped around the island to where Morgan stood. "Sergeant Wade Crawford, Vice detail."
"Morgan McCall." She looked at Alex. "Also known as Donovan."
"I heard there was another McCall sister in the academy." Grinning, Crawford leaned in. "You, Carrie and Grace ought to thank your mama and daddy every night for making you so pretty."
Morgan laughed, a rippling, smoky sound that flowed across Alex's skin. His mouth went dry. His gut clenched. He realized he had never before heard her laugh…and, dammit, he liked the sound of it.
"I'll pass your compliment on to all involved, Sergeant Crawford," she said.
"Wade."
"Wade."
Alex noted that Crawford now had his hand wrapped around Morgan's. Where women were concerned, the Vice cop had a reputation for having perfected the art of smooth. Seeing him in action, Alex had to agree with that assessment.
