Sure Bet

by Maggie Price

  While Crawford showed Morgan the items implanted with microcameras spread across the island, Alex studied her, his brows drawn together, the annoyance he felt self-directed.

  When he'd carried her into the mansion, she had fit perfectly into his arms. She had felt right. Felt as if she belonged there.

  And when he'd gotten her inside, he had held on because it had been a long time since he'd had a woman in his arms. Longer still since he'd held one he hadn't wanted to let go.

  Hell.

  The image of him sliding his arms around her again came through entirely too clear and too appealing. They were on the job, dammit. She was his partner. He had no business thinking about her in any other terms. No business wondering how her red-glossed mouth would taste. Or her flesh.

  He forced himself to focus on the legal pad she held in the crook of one arm. She'd made another list. He just bet the measurements she took of each flower bed would be exact to a millionth of an inch. And he knew once she entered those dimensions into her laptop, she would come up with a mountain of lists, color charts and graphs to mull over and analyze. The woman was a superachiever. He still carried the scars that proved an ambitious woman didn't stay satisfied long with a man who had no aspirations to add more stripes to his uniform sleeves.

  Still, that knowledge didn't dull the ache of need Morgan's presence had lodged inside his gut.

  Standing there, Alex could almost feel himself sinking into an oozing black pit without anything to grab hold of.

  "…unless you need me in here?"

  He realized Morgan had spoken to him, but he couldn't pull his mind back fast enough. "Sorry, I was thinking about something else."

  The diamond ring he'd placed on her finger that morning glinted as she swept her hand toward the cooking island. "I said I'll put off going outside to huddle with Sara if you need my help placing these cameras."

  "I'd rather have you in view of Spurlock's cameras." Alex glanced again toward the window. From the angle he stood, he could see a sliver of the flagstone terrace and a corner of the swimming pool, its water shimmering a dozen shades of blue beneath the June sun. Far beyond was the brick wall that hid any glimpse of Spurlock's estate. "Be sure to engage the sensor in your watch to check for audio surveillance. And let me know if you see any sign of the neighbor on the other side of that wall."

  Lifting a brow, Morgan moved to the glass-fronted cooler angled in one corner. "I think I've got that part of my job figured out," she said before snagging one of the plastic water bottles she'd placed there when she unloaded her grocery bags.

  Pausing at the back door, she slid on her sunglasses, then sent Crawford a smile. "Nice to meet you, Wade."

  "My pleasure." He gave her a long, intense look. "Morgan McCall, I will see you again."

  Crawford tracked her until she was out the door, then turned toward Alex, appreciation glinting in his dark eyes. "Nothing like a gorgeous blonde with legs up to her ears to get a man's system running on high voltage. I could go into a serious case of the want-tos over that woman."

  "Put a lid on it, Crawford."

  The Vice cop slanted Alex a quick, searching glance. "You got designs on her, Blade?"

  "Hell, no," Alex snapped, irritated with himself because designs were apparently what he did have. "We have a job to do and I want it done right. Morgan's fresh out of the academy, she has enough to deal with right now without you sniffing around. Bottom line, this is my operation and I don't want her distracted."

  "I've got no problem with that," Crawford said, then looked back at the door. "I'll just wait to distract her until after you finish this job." Turning toward the island, he picked up the coffeemaker, held it eye level to check the lens on the camera installed inside. "Want to start with this?"

  "Yeah. Fine."

  * * *

  With the water bottle and legal pad tucked beneath one arm, Morgan traversed the flagstone terrace, infusing a sway into her hips for the sake of any surveillance cameras aimed her way. She skirted the swimming pool, its dark-blue-tiled sides and bottom making it look endlessly deep. Beyond the pool, she took the path that led to the brick storage building, its double doors standing open.

  She stepped inside just as Sara Rackowitz stowed a plastic container of swimming pool chemicals on a built-in shelf. To the right of the shelf sat a riding lawn mower, edger and leaf blower. Even with both doors standing wide open, the building's interior was dim, the hot air thick with humidity. Although she'd been outside only a few minutes, Morgan could feel a trickle of sweat between her breasts.

  "How's it going, Sara?"

  The federal agent turned. After hours working in the sun, her tan shorts and black T-shirt were rumpled, dirt streaked and damp with perspiration. Her dark hair was shoved up under a baseball cap; her nose and cheeks held the flush of a sunburn. "Afternoon, Mrs. Donovan."

  "I thought something cold might taste good about now," Morgan said, offering the bottle.

  "Yes, ma'am. Thanks."

  While Sara took long, slow swallows, Morgan clicked the stem of her watch. A small green light glowed, then flashed off. The light confirmed there were no active surreptitious audio surveillance devices in the vicinity. If one came on, the watch would begin to vibrate discreetly.

  "It's okay to talk."

  "I haven't seen any activity next door yet," Sara said, screwing the lid on the bottle. She angled her head toward the open door. "How's it going inside the big house?"

  "So far Alex and I have stashed our clothes and toiletries in a closet and bathroom big enough to rent out. I've unpacked my groceries in a kitchen I would kill to have in my own house. To top things off, I just received a massive dose of charm from Sergeant Wade Crawford."

  "I just bet you did," Sara said, giving Morgan's red halter and cutoffs an appraising look. "Crawford sure knows how to say things that stir up a woman. If I wasn't married, I'd let him stir me up."

  "He's got a silver tongue, all right."

  Sara grinned. "You interested in letting that sweet-talking Louisiana man have his way with you?"

  "No." Her insides were already revving, and it wasn't due to Wade Crawford's charm.

  Morgan's mind conjured Alex's image as he'd stood in the kitchen, listening to the Vice cop give her a rundown of the items in which he'd implanted cameras. At one point she'd slid a look at Alex from beneath her lashes and discovered his gaze locked on her. His dark eyes had been unreadable, his mouth clamped in a grim line. He had looked more than dangerous at that moment. He had looked fatal. Tempting.

  Then as now, the tug of desire curling in her belly made her feel as tense as an unshot arrow. She knew all too well that getting churned up over a man could lead to trouble. The jerky kick her heart gave whenever she got close to Alex warned her she might already be headed that way. That was a side trip she had no intention of taking.

  "Last thing I want right now is to get involved in a relationship," she said, as much for her own benefit as Sara's. "I do better concentrating on one thing at a time. For now, that's the job."

  To prove her point, Morgan angled the pad into the crook of one arm and got down to business. "I started a list of things I want to buy to get the flower beds, lawn and soil back into shape." She pulled a pencil from the back pocket of her cutoffs while adding, "I'll include whatever pool supplies you decide we need."

  Sara blotted the back of her hand against her forehead. "How about I make a list first thing in the morning?"

  "That's fine. Do you have time before you leave to help measure the flower beds?"

  "I'm the hired help, Mrs. Donovan. I work for you. My time is yours."

  "Right." Morgan shoved an errant tendril off her cheek. "I wonder if I'll ever get a handle on this type of assignment."

  "It takes time. Experience." Sara drained the remaining water from her bottle, then tossed it toward a nearby trash can. The bottle landed inside with a dull thunk. "It's your good fortune you're dealing with Alex Blade. He's the best at undercover w
ork I've ever seen. Watch him, Morgan. Learn from him. Doing that, I guarantee you'll get the hang of things."

  "Sooner than later, I hope," Morgan said, then stepped out the doorway into the glaring late-afternoon sun. While Sara closed and locked the doors, Morgan slipped on her sunglasses, then glanced at the cameras mounted on top of the brick wall. Her skin prickled as though a hundred eyes watched her. Were Carlton Spurlock's among them?

  An hour later she and Sara had finished measuring all flower beds in the backyard and on both sides of the mansion, and had moved into the front yard. Standing with her back to the street, Morgan jotted the dimensions of the flower bed that ran parallel between the driveway and Spurlock's high brick wall.

  As she began sketching the flower bed, a sudden chill ran up the nape of Morgan's neck. The pencil stilled in her hand while instinct told her something was off. She just wasn't sure what.

  Behind the dark lenses of her glasses, her gaze swept up toward Spurlock's security cameras just as Sara stepped closer.

  "Don't turn around," the FBI agent murmured. Using an index finger, she pretended interest in a set of measurements on the pad.

  Morgan angled her chin away from the cameras so her lips couldn't be read. "What's going on?"

  "A black stretch limo rolled out of Spurlock's driveway a few seconds ago," Sara explained. "Right now the limo is stopped in the street behind you. It's just sitting there, idling."

  Concentrating, Morgan caught the sound of an engine's soft hum. She continued sketching. "Can you see who's inside?"

  "Not through the tinted windows. But I'd bet my next paycheck our target is sitting in the back seat, getting his fill of Mrs. Donovan."

  A sense of unease crawled along Morgan's spine. Sara was right—it was almost a given that Carlton Spurlock, a man behind the killings of at least six people, sat in that limo yards away, his gaze crawling over her.

  Not her, she reminded herself. Morgan Donovan. That's who she was now. Needed to be. It was Mrs. Donovan's job to get the man's attention.

  As Alex had taught her, Morgan closed her eyes, pictured what the former Las Vegas cocktail waitress who wore tight, curve-hugging clothes and poofed her hair would do to accomplish that goal. It took only a split second for the image to gel in her mind.

  Mouth curving, Morgan handed Sara the pad, pencil and measuring tape. "It's show time."

  Giving no indication she was aware of the limo's presence, Morgan sauntered to the nearest flower bed, infusing a look-at-me-boys swing in her walk. With a cock of one hip, she leaned to examine an ailing azalea and felt her cutoffs ride up her thighs. Get an eyeful, Spurlock. The sooner you get friendly with your new neighbors, the sooner we get inside your place and find the evidence to take you down.

  A moment later the soft idle of the limo's engine transformed into a purr as the driver changed gears. While pinching off dead azalea leaves, Morgan shifted her stance and watched the limo out of the corner of her eye. Shining like a black pearl beneath the sun, the big car glided down the street, then disappeared around the corner.

  "All clear," Sara said, keeping her back toward the ever-present cameras.

  Straightening, Morgan turned from the azalea. Her gaze swept the now empty street while she swallowed around the knot of nerves that had settled in her throat.

  "You sure gave whoever was in that limo something to look at," Sara commented. "Nice work."

  "Thanks." Morgan ran her damp palms down the front of her cutoffs and glanced toward the mansion. "I need to tell Alex about the limo."

  "Yeah." Sara returned the pad, pencil and measuring tape, then tapped a finger against the brim of her baseball cap. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Donovan."

  Chapter 6

  Pictures did not do the woman justice, Carlton Spurlock concluded.

  His tall, elegant frame clad in a raven-black tuxedo, he sat in a wing chair covered with needlepoint roses, a snifter of brandy cradled in one palm. The silver wings flowing back from his temples into thick black hair enhanced his air of distinction. Across the spacious bedroom sat an enormous television, its screen displaying the silent images his security cameras had recorded that day.

  With his attention focused on the television, Spurlock barely acknowledged the soft strains of his favorite Mozart opera drifting through the vast room.

  On tape, the sloe-eyed blonde looked interesting. She was beautifully built—tall, busty, yet slim as a dancer. From the way she moved, it appeared she was very, very agile.

  Physically she was the type of woman who appealed to him. One who would catch his eye simply by walking into a room.

  No, this one didn't walk, he mused. His mouth curved as he rolled a slim cigar between long, manicured fingers. His new neighbor sashayed, like a streetwalker advertising her wares.

  That confident prance was another thing holding immense appeal for him.

  Setting his snifter on the antique table beside the chair, he retrieved the remote, hit the rewind button. While smoke from his cigar curled toward the ceiling, he again watched her move across the cobblestone driveway, the blond hair piled on her head glinting like gold beneath the sun, hips churning under the tight cutoffs, breasts straining against the red halter.

  The press of another button froze her image midstep. Yes, on tape the woman looked interesting.

  In the flesh she delivered a sharp, swift, hotly erotic punch to a man's system. He knew, because he had felt that lascivious blow only hours ago.

  Gray eyes as hard as icy chips narrowed on her image, just as they had while he studied her from the back seat of his limousine. Everything about her brought sex instantly to mind. Wild, uninhibited, casually available sex.

  Which was the kind that suited him. The only kind.

  Too bad Krystelle Vander had chosen to ignore that fact.

  Even now the thought of the bitch's treachery flamed his fury to white-hot intensity. He had lavished money, gifts and time on her. Had denied her nothing, save his name. Her resentment over that one denial had transformed the woman into a revenge-seeking shrew. Her threat to go to the police, to tell all she had learned while living with him sealed her fate. As well as that of the retired cop to whom she ran for protection.

  Betrayal, Spurlock believed, deserved quick punishment.

  He retrieved his brandy, drained the snifter. Drawing on the slim cigar, he studied through a haze of smoke what had been his beloved grandmother's bedroom. His gaze slid over the English walnut-and-leather campaign bed clad in luxurious linens. His grandmother's jewel-colored bottles and boxes still lined the bureau. The gold silk robe she had favored lay across the crimson velvet settee.

  Setting the cuffs on his formal white studded shirt, he shifted his gaze to the Waterford vase on the nightstand. A sense of satisfaction welled up inside him at the sight of the golden buds just beginning to part their tender petals. He had bred the Rosea Midas Touch in honor of his grandmother. In full bloom, the blossoms would be exquisite.

  Every other day, fresh roses replaced the ones in the crystal vase. Beside it sat the telephone and answering machine, and his grandmother's leather-bound appointment book. Other than the roses, everything in the room was just as it had been on the day she died.

  Turning back toward the table, Spurlock stubbed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. He retrieved the remote, hit the play button. His new neighbor sauntered across the television screen, the diamond on her left hand flashing in the sun.

  Intrigued, he angled his chin. The ring had surprised him when he first noticed it. She didn't look like a wife. More to the point, she looked like an expensive whore. Yet she didn't have the rapacious, calculating look of a whore. Nor did any woman he knew who routinely used her body as a commodity spend hours in the intense heat measuring and sketching flower beds, as she had done this afternoon.

  A tap on the door drew his attention from the television screen. He turned his head. "What is it?"

  "Sorry to bother you, boss," Peter Colaneri said after swinging open
the door. "Just got a call from the gatehouse. The first guests have arrived. You said to let you know."

  "Yes. Thank you, Peter."

  The man who acted as both chauffeur and bodyguard remained in the doorway, his wiry, muscular build looking unobtrusive in a discreet black suit. The scars around his eyebrows, and the nose that didn't quite line up with the center of his mouth, bespoke a violent past.

  Spurlock glanced at the gold watch he'd accepted from a vascular surgeon as down payment on a gambling debt. He felt a tug of regret at having to abandon the surveillance tapes, but he had no choice. Tonight, as chairman of a charity that funded heart disease research, he was hosting a dinner for twenty couples. Later, they would move en masse to the cabana he had remodeled as a casino. There they would enjoy after-dinner aperitifs, cigars, cigarettes and gambling.

  Tonight, all activity in the cabana would fall well within legal guidelines.

  Guests would make a donation in order to receive tokens to play blackjack, roulette or craps. By evening's end, the heart charity's treasurer would have a tidy check tucked into his pocket that included all of the guests' winnings.

  "Who are the first to arrive?" Spurlock asked.

  "Judge Philben and his wife," Colaneri advised.

  "Lovely couple." Several years ago, bad investments left the judge unable to pay for his daughter's schooling. Simultaneously, Spurlock Land Development was the defendant in a multimillion-dollar lawsuit over which the judge presided. At his employer's direction, Colaneri had approached Philben with an offer. The judge accepted money and granted the defense a verdict in its favor. Spurlock found it convenient to have as many judges as possible in his pocket.

  He gestured toward the television. "Come in a moment, Peter. I have a job for you."

  Colaneri crossed the ocean of dove-gray carpet. The instant he glimpsed the screen, his mouth formed an arrogant curve. "The new neighbor. Great legs, awesome ass."

  Spurlock let the crude remark pass. He expected nothing less from a man who paid prostitutes to engage in sadistic sex, and had committed his first murder when he was barely fifteen. He kept Colaneri on his payroll precisely because he was a conscienceless, experienced killer who enjoyed inflicting pain.