Her Private Treasure

by Wendy Etherington

  “I guess you were first-string.”

  “Of course.”

  From any other man, that admission would be bragging at best, pretentious at worst. In the capable, elegant hands of Carr Hamilton, it was charming.

  Paige returned at that moment with a silver tray, holding a pitcher, mugs and tiny silver spoons.

  She set the service on Hamilton’s desk, then turned and left the room. As he poured the coffee, Malina took a moment to let her gaze roam the office, noting the dark wood floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with volumes, a few pictures and knickknacks. A wide-screen laptop sat on the left side of his desk. A sideboard served as a bar, displaying cut-crystal glasses and decanters filled with amber liquid.

  Class, style and old money permeated the room.

  “Cream and sugar?” the man across from her asked.

  She almost said yes simply to watch those graceful hands move. “No, thank you.”

  “Strong coffee for a strong woman.”

  Since she had no idea what to say to that statement without heading the conversation down a personal path, she sipped from her mug. The Kona was bold and flavorful, just as it should be.

  He looked amused as he settled back into his chair, no doubt realizing she was attracted to him. A man with his looks and style wouldn’t miss such an obvious detail.

  Despite the near certain futility and mundane nature of her task, she had to be careful not to take the wrong step with this man. He stirred something in her better left unturned. She had a singular goal and couldn’t afford any distraction.

  But she so hated being careful.

  “So, what do you think of my observations?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure what to think at this point. I’d like you to tell me what you saw in detail.” From her pocket, she pulled out a microrecorder, which she set on the desk in front of him. “For the record.” She recited the standard warning about testimony and giving false information to law enforcement, then settled back to listen.

  He gave a report as organized and detailed as any cop. He was careful not to speculate and left out personal feelings, as she would expect from a lawyer. From the file the SAC had given her, she’d read about his success litigating civil cases in a variety of antitrust suits, products liability and environmental issues. She could well imagine him living like a king on the proceeds of his powerful voice and structured mind.

  Still, the likelihood of an everyday citizen cracking a drug-smuggling operation was about as likely as her suddenly deciding to lay down her Glock and become a pole dancer.

  “Drugs are smuggled in coffee grounds,” he said in conclusion.

  “Twenty years ago,” she said drily as she turned off the recorder and returned it to her pocket. “Things have gotten a bit more sophisticated these days.”

  “I don’t envision Jack as a major drug kingpin. This is a small operation. Unsophisticated methods would suit them better.”

  Despite herself, she was impressed he’d thought through the conclusions of what he’d witnessed. “So why did you come to us? If Rafton is dealing drugs, this is a matter for the DEA.”

  “I have reason to believe he’s smuggling more than drugs.”

  “How?” she asked, though she suddenly knew.

  “I’ve been watching him.”

  She sighed heavily. Random citizens playing at being cops was a surefire way of getting somebody killed. “I’d prefer you leave this to the professionals.”

  “You mean the professionals who don’t believe anything illicit is going on?”

  “I haven’t come to any conclusions yet.”

  Clearly annoyed, he tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. His gaze locked with hers. “The FBI do investigate major thefts, don’t they?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “And art theft would still fall in that category?”

  “It would.”

  “Then I’ve come to the right agency.”

  It would still mean she’d have to give the DEA a heads-up, and interjurisdictional cooperation with those cowboys was one of her least favorite job requirements.

  Hamilton leaned forward. “I didn’t ask you here on a whim, Agent Blair. I’m not a panicked or bored islander looking for attention. There’s something to this case.”

  “It’s not a case yet.”

  Those elegant hands, linked and resting on the desk in front of him, clenched. “Why are you so skeptical of my information?”

  “Why do you think Jack Rafton’s stealing art?”

  “Because two nights ago, he unloaded a box shaped like a large painting.”

  She’d asked the obvious; she’d gotten the obvious answer. “Maybe he’s just buying art with his drug-smuggling proceeds.”

  “Maybe he is. Why are you so skeptical of my information?”

  Because the SAC would never, on purpose, give me anything with teeth.

  She bit back that response, though, and stated facts, which she was sure the sharp lawyer would appreciate. “Drug smuggling is an extremely risky and dangerous pastime. Only the very desperate or very foolish would choose that route. The drug kingpins are protective to the death of their product’s distribution and often disembowel those who cross them.

  “From the quick background check I did on Jack Rafton, summa cum laude graduate of the College of Charleston and longtime insurance broker of Palmer’s Island, I don’t see him blending well in that violent world.”

  Hamilton nodded. “True enough.”

  “Rafton also doesn’t drive an exotic car, which, if you’ll pardon the cliché, is a drug dealer’s biggest weakness.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  She shrugged. “The parking lot outside. There’s a well-used SUV that belongs to the family counselor. A fairly new but understated luxury sedan for the real estate agent, a pickup truck for the insurance guy and a perfectly restored Triumph Spitfire convertible painted British Racing Green.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Which I’m sure belongs to you.”

  “You ran the tags.”

  “Didn’t need to.”

  He said nothing for a long moment as he studied her. “Well, I suppose somebody at the Bureau is taking my suspicions seriously if they sent you.”

  She started to argue with him, to explain that the only reason she’d been sent was because he was friends with a powerful man. But admitting that would be admitting she had no influence and simply did as she was told. Plus, despite the urge not to be, she was flattered he recognized her investigative skills.

  “We appreciate the cooperation of concerned citizens and follow up on any tip that will lead to the arrest and conviction of anyone participating in criminal activity.”

  “Ah, the pat, politically correct answer. Not what I would have expected from a woman who risked her career by questioning Senator Grammer’s son.”

  Malina felt the blood drain from her head as humiliation washed over her. “Agent Clairmont told you.”

  Hamilton nodded. “As I’m sure he mentioned, we’re old friends. For what it’s worth, he considers you an asset to the Bureau. He also respects your willingness to do whatever it takes to see justice served, even if your methods are sometimes rash.”

  “That kid was guilty as sin,” she said, fighting to talk past her tight jaw, even as she felt a quick spurt of pleasure in hearing her boss respected her.

  “Sam thinks so, too. Power buys silence way too easily.”

  “Not with me.”

  “So noted. But I’m guessing a drug-and/or art-smuggling case could put a nice letter of commendation in your file. Not to mention I’m suddenly moved to make a generous campaign donation to whoever runs against that idiot Grammer in the next election.”

  Her gaze shot to his. “Surely you didn’t just attempt to bribe a government agent.”

  A wide, breath-stealing smile bloomed on his face. “Surely not.”

  She rose slowly to her feet. Who the hell was this guy?

  Smart, succ
essful and wealthy. A law-abiding citizen who took untold hours of his time to investigate a professional neighbor, then used a powerful association to see that his observations were taken seriously. Was he bored, curious or did he have a hidden agenda?

  Bracing her hands on his desk, she noted he’d stood when she had and now she was forced to look up at him. At five-seven, she wasn’t a tiny woman, but the height and breadth of him made her feel small and feminine in comparison. “I’m here to follow up on your information as ordered by my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Samuel Clairmont. Do you have anything further to add to your previous statements?”

  “I imagine you’d be interested in the storage garage Jack keeps under an assumed name in Charleston, which currently houses a brand-new Lotus Elise.”

  “How do you—” She stopped, shaking her head, irritated that he’d, yet again, managed to surprise her. “You followed him.”

  “I’d also like to point out that he chose Ardent Red instead of British Racing Green for the exterior paint.” He cocked his head. “Do you think that’s an indicator of law-abiding citizen versus master smuggler?”

  Temper brought heat to her cheeks. “Mr. Hamilton, I’m—”

  “Call me Carr.”

  “Mr. Hamilton, I’m advising—no,” she amended, “I’m ordering you to bring your amateur investigation to a halt. Do not question Mr. Rafton or his associates. Do not ask others about him and definitely do not follow him. The Bureau will look into your information and take things from here.”

  “But you don’t really believe me.”

  “I do, in fact. I trust that you saw what you say you have. What those observations mean is an entirely different subject.” She reached into her pocket for a business card, which she laid on his desk to avoid touching him again. It seemed imperative that she get away from this man as fast as possible. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.” She turned, then paused and glanced back. “Or if you find Jimmy Hoffa.”

  With that parting shot, she headed toward the door, longing to run when she sensed him following her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, a blend of sandalwood and amber, as warm and enticing as the man himself.

  Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke. “Professional considerations aside, I’d like to take you to dinner sometime.”

  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Sorry. You’re a witness. I’m not allowed.”

  “But you’re not even certain a crime has been committed.”

  Despite what she’d told him and the sheer unlikelihood of anything significant happening on Palmer’s Island, she knew there was. Her instincts were buzzing, and they hadn’t steered her wrong yet.

  Well, except for that senatorial questioning thing.

  “I’m investigating,” she said shortly, hoping to further discourage him.

  Either he didn’t get the signal or he didn’t care, since he reached out, sliding his fingertip along her jaw, sending waves of heat racing down her body. “And I imagine you don’t give a damn about what’s allowed.”

  Her breath caught. She didn’t. At least she never had.

  And look where that attitude had led you.

  Opening the door, she stepped out of his reach. “I also don’t have time to get involved. I’m going to close as many cases as I can and get back to D.C., where I belong, as soon as possible.”

  Disappointment moved across his handsome face. He slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Thanks for coming.”

  She regretted her abrupt tone but didn’t see how she could change what was. “One last thing about Rafton.” Though she already knew the answer, caution demanded she ask. “This isn’t personal, right? Rafton didn’t hit your car or steal your girlfriend?”

  “No. And I don’t have a girlfriend.” His dark eyes gleamed with power and possession. “If I did, neither Jack Rafton nor any other man would take her.”

  2

  AS CARR SIPPED his whiskey at The Night Heron bar, he watched out the back windows as boats docked and launched for sunset cruises down the Intracoastal Waterway, then rounded the tip of the island and out into the Atlantic.

  Had he finally spent too much time slowing down and reflecting?

  Observation had become a staple. Watching other people do interesting things.

  For so many years, he’d been on the fast track. He’d spent every waking moment establishing a lucrative practice in Manhattan, fighting for clients with prospects for big payoffs, dismissing others he might have helped but whose cases weren’t as profitable.

  He’d dispassionately profited from suffering and built a fortune and fierce reputation by doing so.

  He hadn’t paused to notice small, everyday things. To stroll the beaches he’d grown up on. To appreciate love and friendship. To watch the birds glide across the night sky.

  It had taken the death of his uncle and mentor to jolt him.

  Uncle Clinton had departed his life respected, rich and bitterly alone. He’d coldly extracted every penny from every case he’d taken on. He’d corrupted idealistic law school graduates with promises of wealth and power. Few, other than the descendants who inherited his money, had mourned him.

  As Carr had watched heaps of fertile earth drop onto his uncle’s casket, he knew he was destined for the same end. And he knew he had to find another path.

  That had been two years ago, and while he didn’t regret finding his roots again and settling on quiet Palmer’s Island, the sparks of need for excitement came more frequently these days.

  Dear heaven, did he have to fade into tedium? Was that his penance? “Hel-lo, gorgeous.”

  Certain he wasn’t being addressed, Carr nevertheless glanced at Jimmy, The Heron’s weekday bartender, and noted his gaze locked on the door behind Carr. “What hot blonde are you fixated on tonight?”

  “Brunette,” he returned, his eyes following the subject in question.

  Carr didn’t bother to turn. Being barely twenty-one, Jimmy’s taste inevitably skewed young. At thirty-five, Carr wasn’t even remotely swimming in the same pool.

  Instead, he stared at his whiskey.

  “What are you doing here?” a familiar voice asked seconds later.

  Raising his head, Carr blinked, but Special Agent Malina Blair was still sliding onto the bar stool next to him, changing his evening from watchful boredom to stimulating possibility in a matter of seconds.

  “Drinking.” He raised his glass as he absorbed her lovely features. “Join me?”

  Her exotic turquoise gaze slid from his face to his glass and back again. “Why the hell not?”

  He only had to lift his finger to get Jimmy assembling her drink. “I like you a lot better when you’re speaking your mind instead of spouting Bureau platitudes.” Not that he hadn’t liked her then as well. His fingers tingled with the urge to pull her silky-looking dark hair from the restraining ponytail secured at the base of her neck. “How’s the investigation progressing?”

  “I would like you a lot better if you’d stay out of my case,” she said as Jimmy set the drink before her.

  “So now it’s a case?”

  She rolled her shoulders. “It is.”

  He’d had faith in her sense of justice, but he was relieved to have the instinct confirmed. Sam had been right in that she was the agent for the job.

  Did his good deed erase one of the black marks next to his name?

  He wasn’t sure—especially since his greatest desire was to seduce her into compromising her professional code of ethics and sleeping with him.

  She sipped her drink, never wincing.

  Though he considered his brand of imported whiskey smooth, he knew plenty of people who found it too bracing. Women mostly. But then Malina Blair was tougher than the exotic island beauty she appeared to be.

  “You like whiskey?” he asked her, fascinated by the way her pillowy lips cupped the crystal.

  “Not especially.” She rattled the
ice in her glass. “This is nice, though. Stop me if I lose my senses and have the urge to shoot somebody.”

  “I’m here to serve. Lousy day?”

  “Lousy month.”

  “I imagine so. But do you define yourself completely by your job?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  That path led nowhere, as Carr well knew. She’d be so much happier if she fell into bed with him. He wondered how long it would take him to manage it.

  Certainly the key to this lady’s heart wouldn’t be found in candy, flowers and suggestive compliments. “So I assume you’ve spent the last thirty-six hours pursuing the case. What have you learned?”

  “That boat captains on small islands like to gossip, and your friend Jack Rafton is well liked, even if he has been coming and going at odd hours lately.”

  “Which you already knew by talking to me.”

  She shrugged. “Corroboration was necessary.”

  He was dying to watch that cool nonchalance fall away with the right touch. Because beneath the frustrated heat under her staid, navy-blue suit, the fire of a passionate woman lurked.

  With effort, he managed to focus on their conversation. “If you need more details, you might talk to the harbormaster, Albert Duffy. He knows everything about everyone. Though you’d do better to charm him than flash your badge.”

  She looked at him, then glanced at her watch with a sigh. “I have a meeting with Albert Duffy in twenty minutes.”

  Carr tracked his gaze slowly down her body. “Not that I don’t think you look amazing—and I believe Jimmy is impressed as well—you’d do better showing Al a little leg.”

  She bared her teeth. “I could always show him the wrong side of a federal interrogation room.”

  He leaned toward her, lowering his voice several pitches. “Subtlety often works better than force.”

  Her gaze moved to his and held. Desire lingered in the depth of her eyes, clear as the tropical water they mimicked. Her beautiful lips parted, and for a moment, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he thought she was going to give in to the need so obviously pulsing between them.