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“You’re going to be my partner?” he asked carefully.
“I hope you don’t have a problem taking orders from a woman,” she said, a saccharine smile curving her lips.
“Taking orders?” he asked incredulously. “There must be a page missing from my script. Would you mind starting from the top?”
She turned to face him fully, settling her gaze on him with a level stare. “Make no mistake, Detective. This is strictly a DEA operation. We’re calling the shots. As my superiors have explained to your Lieutenant, the LAPD is being brought into this investigation merely to appease the local jurisdictional issues. Your presence is merely a token offering of cooperation.”
“Now wait a minute, Agent Carmichael,” Blake started irritably. Maybe if he wasn’t close to burnout, he wouldn’t have taken offense to her tone and haughty attitude. But he was tired, cranky and his fourteen glorious days in Hawaii had been preempted so he could baby-sit the DEA.
He took a step toward her. She didn’t so much as widen her gaze in alarm. “I’m nobody’s token anything,” he said, reluctantly admiring her attempt to establish territorial boundaries early in the game. “You’re in my sandbox now, honey. That means we play by my rules.”
“The name is Special Agent Carmichael. You may call me Veronica, but I prefer Ronnie,” she said, slipping a length of bobbed, sable hair behind her ear to reveal a pair of small gold, heart-shaped earrings. “In the future, I suggest you select one as a form of address as opposed to honey, sweetheart, doll or babe. If remembering my name is too difficult for you, then might I suggest you simply refer to me as Special Agent in Charge. It’d be a shame to have your sterling record besmirched with a sexual harassment complaint.”
Blake glared at the sexy half-pint agent and counted to ten. Then kept going until he hit thirty-five. He’d never been prone to losing his temper. His skill for sweet-talking the toughest suspects into giving him the goods was legendary in the department. He’d always had a way with women, and the fact that the Southern belle in a badge seemed immune to his equally legendary charm, chafed. Nothing would have given him more satisfaction than to tell the department brass what they could do with their half-baked ideas about partnering him with an arrogant little DEA agent with more sass than smarts. The only thing that kept him from following through was the she-put-you-in-your-place smirk on Forbes’s face. That and, despite being in need of a long vacation, he loved his job.
“I was just starting to fill Blake in on the case,” Forbes said, motioning to the chairs in front of his desk.
Blake waited for Ronnie to sit before taking the remaining chair for himself. She gave him a bland look, then sat primly on the edge of the cracked vinyl. She placed the file beside her then smoothed her delicate, manicured hands over her skirt. Then, crossing her feet at the ankles and tucking them to the side in a perfect display of ladylike, finishing-school training, she turned that interesting gaze his way.
“Our preliminary investigation has revealed the primary activity to be in one of the island’s most exclusive resorts,” she said, folding her hands demurely in her lap. “For the past six weeks, we’ve had two agents in place working as employees of the resort.”
Blake propped his foot over his knee and leaned back into the chair, still bristling over her haughty I’m-in-charge speech. “Why the need for another agent?” he asked. Avalon wasn’t a large island, and in his experience with the DEA, they liked to do things their way, and without the assistance of other law enforcement agencies.
The phone on Forbes’s desk rang and he picked it up, waving at them to continue.
“We know where the drugs are being manufactured and suspect the resort as a means of transportation,” Ronnie said quietly, reaching for the folder. She pulled out a half-dozen glossy black-and-white photos and handed them to him. “We don’t know who is involved. Unfortunately, our agents’ positions in housekeeping and the resort bar haven’t allowed them to develop any concrete evidence.”
“And that’s where I come in,” Blake finished, examining the photographs. He didn’t recognize any of the suspects’ names or faces, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have records, something he planned to look into as soon as this meeting was called to an end. “I assume we’ll be going in to obtain that evidence,” he said, handing her the photographs.
Her smile was brief, causing that adorable dimple to wink at him again. “Exactly. Agents Anderson and McCall are working full shifts as employees so their time has been limited. Unfortunately, this particular resort plays to high-profile types and, as I mentioned, is very exclusive. They operate under a strict policy that doesn’t allow employees to frequent the resort during non-work hours. Because of that, Anderson’s and McCall’s activities have been severely disabled.”
“What makes you think we’ll have any better luck?” he asked her.
Forbes hung up the phone and smiled pleasantly at Ronnie. “If you’ll excuse me, Special Agent Carmichael, I have a meeting upstairs to attend.”
Blake frowned. None of the detectives in his squad would ever call the lieutenant a touchy-feely kind of guy, and the kind, grandfatherly smile he cast in the pint-sized agent’s direction struck Blake as almost comical. “Feel free to use my office for as long you like.”
Ronnie slipped the photographs back into the file and flashed Forbes a charming grin. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
After crossing the room and opening the door, Forbes turned his attention to Blake. “Be prepared to depart for the island tomorrow morning,” he said, using that commanding “I’m the boss” voice Blake was used to hearing. “Carmichael will fill you in on the rest.”
The door closed and they were alone. Ronnie cleared her throat, making Blake wonder if she was more nervous than she appeared. Not that her demeanor would so much as hint at anything but ladylike calm, he thought. A more erotic image tripped through his mind, one that would have Ronnie Carmichael’s cultured Southern charm slipping…right into his arms.
“The agency needs someone inside and allowed free rein of the island,” she said, dragging his thoughts out of the bedroom and back to their conversation. “Our primary objective is to determine how the drugs are being moved through the island, as well as ascertain the key players.”
“I understand DEA wanting to avoid jurisdiction problems, but you’ve already got two agents on-site hampered by resort policy. What makes you think we’ll have any more luck?”
She lowered her gaze, her dark sable lashes sweeping downward. “Because we’ll be going in undercover,” she said, without looking at him. “Only not as employees.”
The knot of tension returned and tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck to help ease it. “But why me?” he asked, his voice filled with caution.
She smoothed her skirt again. “Your lieutenant explained you were the only officer he could spare…that fit the profile.”
Blake frowned again. That twisting in his gut made a return visit, too, causing a riot among his insides. “Profile?” he asked, slowly lowering his hand. “What profile?”
Ronnie sighed and looked at him, her turquoise gaze intense. “I’ve read your file, Detective. Your experience in this area is well documented, and while there were other detectives with more experience, you are available and you fit the profile.”
His frown deepened. “What profile?” he demanded a second time.
“You’re thirty-one, right?”
“So? What does age have to do with an interdepartmental investigation?”
She tilted her head to the side, and regarded him skeptically. “Your lieutenant didn’t tell you, did he?”
The churning increased, igniting a ball of fire in his gut that had him reaching into his pocket for the roll of Tums he’d starting carrying two weeks ago. “Tell me what?”
She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Detective, the resort under surveillance is Seaport Manor.”
He shrugged and reached into his pocket. The name meant nothing to him.
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hesitation had his suspicion mounting. “Seaport Manor is a honeymoon retreat.”
His hand slipped over the roll of antacids. “I’m still not following you,” he said, refusing to jump to the wrong conclusion.
“We’re going undercover, Detective. Tomorrow morning we board the Island Express, a water taxi which will take us to the quaint island resort and deliver us directly to the private dock of Seaport Manor, where we have two weeks to gather as much evidence as possible. We are registered under the name St. Claire, one of Savannah, Georgia’s oldest and most prominent families.”
His hand tightened over the roll of Tums. “We are registered?”
“That’s right, Detective,” she said with a brisk nod. “Blake and Veronica St. Claire will be spending the next two weeks at Seaport Manor as newlyweds.” She flashed him a saucy grin, and a victorious light brightened her turquoise eyes. “Welcome to Operation Honeymoon. Babe.”
2
RONNIE FLASHED the too-polished and too-gorgeous-to-be-real detective a grin filled with satisfaction as his arrogance faded. Her own grin dimmed when his raven-black eyebrows collided over narrowed, pale gray eyes.
“Find yourself another cop to play house,” he said, angrily pushing out of the chair. “I’m not interested.”
Her smile disappeared completely. There was no other cop, and she had her assignment. Because of jurisdiction, she’d been forced to partner herself with the LAPD, rather than one of her own, for which she was secretly grateful. The last thing she wanted was to play loving wife to the very men who’d made her life a living hell the past three years. A fact that confirmed she should’ve followed her own dreams rather than attempted to fulfill a prophecy she’d never asked for, nor wanted.
She shifted in the chair as he reached for the door. “I’m afraid you have no choice,” she said, grateful when the firm tone she tried managed to stop him from leaving. “While your department has been more than cooperative, you know as well as I do that deep budget cuts have left your division operating with the bare minimum. You’re the only officer available. And I’ve been guaranteed—”
He spun to face her, his frustration-filled gaze connecting with hers. “I really don’t give a damn what you’ve been guaranteed.”
“Look, I’m sorry you’re not happy about the assignment, but there isn’t any other way.” She didn’t like him glowering down at her, so she stood and rested her backside against the desk. If he’d been standing in front of her, he’d still tower over her by a good ten inches, but at least she’d equaled the playing field…somewhat. “With employees being banned from Seaport Manor during their off-hours, we need undercover operatives on the inside that have the freedom to come and go as they please. And it is a honeymoon resort. If we went in as singles, we’d be suspect from the moment we stepped off the launch.”
He let out a long breath filled with impatience. “You really think people are going to believe we’re newlyweds?”
She gave him a brief smile, in hopes of placating him since they hadn’t exactly started out on the best of terms. “From what I’ve read about you, Detective, you’re very good at what you do. I’m sure you’ll provide a convincing performance.”
Something in his gaze shifted, sending a ripple of alarm skirting down her spine. His soft gray eyes filled with purpose as he crossed the cramped office, closing the distance between them. With every ounce of willpower in her arsenal, she held her ground instead of darting behind the desk like the little warning voice in her head was shouting for her to do.
He stopped mere inches away, invading her personal space, and close enough for her to breathe in the alluring scent of cologne and man. She cursed her rotten luck. Why couldn’t they have found her a more middle-aged, less virile cop to play one half of the happy couple for the next week or two? Living in close quarters, in a ridiculously expensive and lavish honeymoon suite no less, with a man she found dangerously attractive held little appeal.
Or maybe too much appeal, her conscience taunted.
Definitely way too appealing, she thought. Since she knew the type so well, she could protect herself. Couldn’t she? Forewarned was supposed to mean forearmed, not an invitation to lose control. Considering she’d once fallen victim to a guy with all the right words, all the right moves and all the wrong answers she’d been too blind to see, she’d just have to be extremely careful not to lose her head. She could never, for one second, forget Blake was merely a means to an end that would finally give her the chance to follow her own dreams for a change.
Oh, yes, she knew Blake Hammond’s type all right. Cocky swagger and confident, killer smile, the kind capable of reducing any living, breathing female to a tongue-tied idiot. Soft, sexy bedroom eyes, combined with a deep velvety smooth voice warm enough to melt the iciest resistance. Throw in a body, hard in all the right places, yielding in even better places, and he fit the type to perfection. She’d sworn to stay away from that kind of guy, no matter how irresistibly charming. One momentary lapse of common sense was more than enough to last her a lifetime, thank you very much.
She shook the thoughts from her mind and concentrated instead on the tiny lines of fatigue bracketing Blake’s eyes. She struggled to ignore the way her pulse revved when his gaze dipped momentarily to her mouth.
She would not make the same mistake twice, no matter how much her hormones clamored for male attention. Just to prove it to herself, she pulled in a steady breath. Almost.
“You’ve already threatened me with sexual harassment,” he said, his voice filled with a calm she suspected was tightly controlled. “How are we supposed to behave like newlyweds with a threat like that hanging over my head?”
His meaning wasn’t lost on her. Newlyweds not only spoke in endearing terms to each other, they touched, caressed and kissed…long deep kisses. Toe-curling kisses. Kisses that generated heat and fire and spelled trouble.
He shifted closer still.
She pulled back.
He followed.
She caught his tangy scent and nearly sighed.
“Newlyweds are in love and they act like it, Special Agent in Charge,” he said, his deep voice soft and gentle like the touches, caresses and kisses he’d implied. “You gonna file a complaint every time I have to do this, even if it means keeping us alive?”
He lifted his hand and cupped the back of her neck in his warm palm. Her breath stilled. His fingers sifted through her hair and sent a series of delightful tingles running over her skin. Reflexively, she placed her hand against his chest to hold him at bay.
Oh, big mistake, she thought, curling her fingers into a fist against the heat burning her palm. Surrounded by a solid wall of masculinity, damn if her feminine senses didn’t go haywire. He was as solid as he looked, and the thought of peeling his neatly pressed shirt away to expose all that dark, male skin shocked her clear to the toes of her sensible beige pumps.
She was supposed to be past this silly kind of juvenile behavior. Lust had nearly gotten her killed. Lust along with misplaced trust in an agent operating on the wrong side of the law, something she’d discovered after it was too late. Big deal if Internal Affairs had cleared her of any wrongdoing. Her service record might not have been damaged because of her stupidity, but that didn’t mean her heart and mind hadn’t been banged up more than a little.
“I have my orders, Detective,” she said with false bravado, despite the awareness shimmering between them. She fought hard to forget about bared skin and touching that glorious male body for the next two weeks. The thought of telling her family she planned to quit the agency and follow her own dreams would be far simpler in comparison. No matter how silly anyone thought those dreams might be. “And so do you,” she added.
“Do my orders include kissing my ‘bride’ in public?”
She sucked in a sharp breath as the image of Blake’s mouth pressing evocatively against hers flashed through her mind. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to make this bust, Detective. If it means a kiss or two with my temporary partner to maintain our cover, then I will do my job.”
He grinned, his devilishly handsome mouth filled with enough promise that her knees went weak in spite of her firm reminders. A mouth she’d be tasting soon enough considering their assignment.
“What about touching?” he asked, his voice low, like a whispered endearment.
“If I have to suffer through a few touches to keep us alive, then I’ll do it. It’s all part of the job.”
“Suffer?” A sexy little smile tipped his mouth as he released his gentle hold. “I can’t say a woman’s ever told me she’s suffered from my touch.”
Ronnie seriously doubted the experience would be a painful one, and that was part of her problem. From the crazy way her heart was pounding, she had no trouble imagining all sorts of sensual delights his touch could bring. “There’s a first time for everything,” she countered, hoping to convince him, or maybe herself, she was immune to his devastating charm.
He stepped back and gave her some much-needed breathing room that did little to still the rapid cadence of her heart. Trading barbs with Blake Hammond definitely qualified as stimulating. Too bad other types of stimulation sounded equally intriguing.
He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck again. Ah, stress. Now there was something she could easily understand.
“I’m going home, Carmichael,” he said. “I haven’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, and I’m beat. You’re right. I don’t have a choice, but before we go anywhere, there’s one thing I want to make crystal clear.”
She braced her hands behind her on the desk, hoping she looked more calm, assured and a whole lot more collected than she was feeling. “Which is?” she asked, arching her brow.
“I’ll play, but we’re playing my way. You can take it or leave it.”
“You don’t know anything about the case.”
He shrugged and walked to the door. “That’s why you’re going to brief me. Tonight.”
“Tonight? But—” She needed time to regain control. Something only distance would provide since she was nearly panting after Blake and all that incredible sex appeal.
“Tonight,” he said, his tone as uncompromising as the flinty steel filling his eyes. “Be at my place by seven. It’s in the file. I’ll even spring for dinner.”
She weighed her options, and couldn’t find a single professional argument. He’d have to be brought up to speed, and she’d rather have him rested and attentive. Personally, the idea of being alone with him terrified her.
“Fine, Detective,” she reluctantly agreed. “I’ll see you at seven.”
He gave her one last look, shook his head, then left her alone in the small office. She watched him through the open miniblinds as he stopped to say something to one of the other detectives before leaving.
Slowly, she moved to the chair and sat, willing her legs to stop trembling, wondering how she was ever going to survive a week, maybe two, pretending to be filled with lust for the sexiest man she’d ever met. Especially when the lines between pretense and reality had already begun to merge.
BLAKE TAPPED THE RAZOR on the side of the sink, silently cursing fate, and his lieutenant. The much-needed sleep did little to improve his mood, but considering his long-awaited and much anticipated vacation had been preempted, he figured he was entitled to a little crabbiness.
“Newlyweds,” he muttered, scraping the razor along his cheek. He was no stranger to undercover operations. He’d been a detective long enough to have dealt with his fair share of assignments, good and bad, but none had ever evoked erotic images strong enough to haunt his dreams. Dreams casting a sassy, diminutive DEA agent with eyes the color of the sea, hair softer than down and skin as smooth and sleek as Egyptian cotton in the starring role.
Under normal circumstances, he’d never consider spending fourteen days in a romantic setting with a sexy, intriguing woman a hardship. Spending those days alone with a Southern belle with a badge and an attitude hardly qualified as an erotic fantasy. Agent Carmichael was a sexual harassment allegation waiting to happen, especially since he’d come dangerously close to kissing her this morning. Thank heaven his common sense had overruled his baser intentions.
Women and the badge weren’t compatible. His parents’ divorce when he was ten confirmed it. He had his own experience to quantify that knowledge, as well, not to mention more than half the cops on the force were either divorced or close to it. The divorce rate among the detective squad was even higher. Only a very special woman could handle being married to a cop. Not many understood the long hours, or how a disappearing act for days at a time when an undercover assignment came along was all part of the motto, To Protect and Serve. It took a strong woman to be able to deal with the reality that every time she kissed her badge-carrying husband goodbye in the morning, it could very well be the last time she ever saw him alive. In his experience, women like that were far and few between, one of the reasons why, at thirty-one, he’d never married. There’d been a close call once, but that was a lifetime ago.
He shoved those unpleasant thoughts aside as the doorbell rang. Rinsing away the remnants of shaving cream, he buried his face in a fluffy towel before heading to the front door of his beachfront condo.
He’d hoped his reaction when he’d first seen Ronnie Carmichael this morning had been a result of lack of sleep and extreme frustration. Those hopes crumbled when he swung open the door and his heart began to pound again.
She looked ready for a day of relaxing under the warmth of the southern California sun, even if she did have a briefcase in her hands. Her silky hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, a few stray strands teasing the curve of her jaw. Khaki walking shorts showed off her lightly tanned legs, and a teal cotton top with a scoop neck hugged her full breasts and emphasized her curves.
“Either you’re independently wealthy or on the take,” she said with a gentle smile, breezing past him. He caught the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume and breathed in, imagining the pulse points where she’d dabbed the fragrance.
He frowned and closed the door. “That’s a hell of a greeting.”
“You’ve got a nice place,” she said, a bare hint of a smile flirting around the edges of her very kissable mouth. “I didn’t know LAPD paid their detectives so well.”
“They don’t,” he said, ushering her into the sunken living room overlooking the Pacific. “My mother’s family has money and I bought this place a couple of years ago when I came into a trust. Not that it’s any of your business.”
She set her briefcase beside the glass-topped cocktail table and shrugged. “It’s not, but I’d rather not be involved with a cop on the take.”
