Under The Covers

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BLAKE WAS CONVINCED all right. Convinced he’d been lured into the lioness’s den and had just been served up as the main course.

He followed Ronnie back to his place at a more sedate pace, needing time to rein in his runaway libido before he made another stupid mistake that had him sliding his hands over her lush curves and tasting the sweet perfection of her mouth. Instead of maintaining a keen awareness of their surroundings, he’d been consumed by her, something he couldn’t allow to happen again. Mistakes of any kind were unacceptable, and often met with fatal results. Losing control definitely qualified as a drastic error, and it had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the woman who’d just turned him inside out with need.

The kiss had been far from gentle, and filled with enough sizzling heat to scorch them both. He dreaded the thought of what could’ve happened if she hadn’t ended the kiss. Making love to Ronnie was a temptation tough to resist, but was about as smart as stepping onto the ledge of a high-rise during an ice storm.

Not a smart move, he thought watching the provocative sway of her hips as she climbed the wooden stairs. For the second time in a short period, he’d lost control of a situation, and that bothered him. First, the suspect he’d been ready to pulverize, and now his reaction to Ronnie when she’d pressed her delectable body intimately against his.

He needed more than a vacation. He needed a reality check. A cold shower wouldn’t hurt, either.

By the time he stepped inside the condo, he’d managed to regain a semblance of composure, until he saw her bend over to place something inside her briefcase. He let out a long, slow breath that did little to cool the resumed height of his temperature. Best to avoid the situation completely, he thought, and walked into the kitchen to place a call to the local deli for a couple of meatball sandwiches.

Thankfully, she kept her distance while he made himself scarce under the guise of slicing vegetables for a salad. They had a job to do, and he had no business blurring the lines because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. The department’s non-fraternization rules were in place for a reason. Sex was one monster of a distraction and had no business on the job.

Ten minutes later his prime distraction sauntered into the kitchen with a smile pasted on her sexy mouth. A mouth he wanted to taste again and to hell with policy.

“Can I help?” she asked, her sweet accent breaking into his thoughts.

He considered telling her she could help by getting herself removed from the case and letting the LAPD handle it, or better yet, find herself another partner.

“No, thanks,” he lied.

He didn’t like the idea of Ronnie spending two weeks alone with another man any more than he welcomed the twisting in his gut the image evoked. He shoved the thought aside and attempted to concentrate on the mushrooms he’d been slicing, until she eased up beside him and braced her elbows on the counter. He glanced down as she reached into the glass bowl and filched a halved cherry tomato, his gaze drawn to the way her cotton top dipped, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts.

He let out another long rush of air that had little effect on his simmering lust.

She snagged another cherry tomato and smiled up at him. “I used to get my hand smacked for doing this as a kid,” she admitted.

“Improper behavior for a Southern lady?” He pushed the bowl closer to her.

She laughed, a light sound that made him smile. “How ever did you guess?”

He finished with the mushrooms and started on the cucumber. “So is being a DEA agent.”

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Like I said, it’s a family legacy.”

He knew about legacies. He had his own he was determined not to fulfill, no matter how attracted he was to Ronnie. “So what do your prophetic instincts have to say about designer drugs being smuggled in and out of Catalina Island?” he asked, changing the subject…for now.

“We’re supposed to gather evidence to determine who is involved, confirm the smugglers are using the resort, and if Seaport Manor is knowingly involved.” She straightened and turned, resting her curvy bottom against the cabinet. Crossing her arms, she added, “From what I’ve studied so far, I’m seriously doubting there’s any knowledge on the part of the resort.”

“I called my lieutenant this afternoon,” he said, despite his curiosity about Ronnie’s past. “You know the resort’s a joint venture, right?”

“Right,” she said, looking suitably impressed that he’d done his homework. “But we’ve turned up nothing on any of the shareholders involved. They’re so clean they squeak.”

“Maybe all of them are legit,” he said, rinsing a handful of radishes. “Or one or two of the so-called partners could be buried so deep, unless you knew what you were looking for, you’d never find it.”

“Not a chance. The computers would have found something. Some link.”

He flashed her a grin and shrugged, clearly not buying her explanation.

Her lips twitched as she pushed off the counter. “You’re so doubting.”

“Doubt has nothing to do with it.”

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of iced tea. “No,” she said, refilling their glasses. “Then what does?”

“Experience.” He dumped the last of the vegetables in the bowl and set the knife aside. “Do you know how many of these corporations are local? Not just California-based, but L.A.-based? All of them,” he supplied without waiting for an answer.

“That’s not unusual. Big resorts are owned by major corporations all around the world.”

“Bingo.”

She slipped the pitcher back into the fridge. “You lost me.”

“The joint venture is a fake,” he said turning to face her. “One, maybe two or three individuals tops are connected to Seaport, and he, or they, are deeply buried beneath a series of dummy corporations.”

“That’s impossible,” she argued, shaking her head. “We’ve run each of those corporations through the computer systems and they all checked out. Believe me, if there were any links whatsoever, the system would have picked it up. The only connection is the joint-venture ownership of Seaport Manor. Period.”

“You’ll have to trust me on this one,” he said as the doorbell rang. “I can feel it. We’re looking for one person.”

He left her alone in the kitchen and went to the door, returning a few seconds later with their meal.

“You’re wrong,” she said, taking the sandwiches from him.

He opened the cabinet for plates and place mats and laid them on the counter. “Avalon is filled with exclusive resorts. Over the last few years the place has turned into a corporate landowner’s paradise. Every one of them are joint ventures or singularly owned by Fortune 500 types. All of them, except Seaport Manor, has the backing of big-name corporate dollars. What I don’t like is the fact that Seaport is exclusively local.”

She leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Okay, I’ll grant that it’s not common, but you’re forgetting a little thing called free enterprise. Our Constitution says it’s okay for locally owned corporations to own a resort in the same town as the conglomerates on the New York Stock Exchange.”

He set the meatball sandwiches on a serving tray with the salad bowl and dressings and led the way onto the deck. He should have his head examined for bringing them back into a romantic setting, but the June evening was warm, and taking his meals on the deck was a habit he enjoyed.

“This isn’t about free enterprise, Ronnie. It’s about a small phony band of investors, strictly local investors, using Seaport Manor as a front for a drug smuggling operation.”

“We don’t know that for certain. It took us a long time to get a strong enough line on what was happening on Catalina to even justify this operation.” She leaned over the table to set out the place mats. “In everything I’ve read, there hasn’t been one red flag on any of those corporations. Not so much as a single lawsuit pending, no SEC violations, not even a request for filing a late corporate tax return. Nothing.”

He waited for her to sit before he joined her at the table. “That alone should be cause for suspicion.”

“They’re clean, Blake.”

“They’re too clean. It makes me cautious.”

“I don’t agree. Once the agency got wind of the smuggling, we sent out a few agents, and it still took them months to determine the drugs were even being filtered through the island. Like I said, we don’t even know for certain the resort’s involved.”

“Then why did your operatives narrow it down to Seaport?” he asked, serving their meal.

“There’s no other resort with its own private launch and water taxi,” she said. She set a napkin in her lap, then poured a ladle of dressing over her salad. “The others have been watched closely, and turned up nothing. The problem is we haven’t been able to get close enough to the private launch to set up an effective surveillance to know for certain.”

He took the salad dressing from her, forcing his mind on their conversation and not the way her eyes shone in the early-evening moonlight, or how the light sea breeze ruffled her wispy bangs across her forehead. “What makes you think we’ll have any more luck than your other operatives?”

She flashed him a grin filled with impudence. “Because one of their best honeymoon suites, bungalow number one, is less than a hundred feet from the launch, and has a perfect view of the surrounding beach. We’ll be setting up a video camera so we can see exactly what comes in and what goes out, even when we’re out of the room.”

He braced his arms on the table. “Won’t work,” he said. “You’re forgetting about housekeeping. That ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign won’t be effective forever.”

A becoming blush stained her cheeks and she cleared her throat. “One of our agents is working in housekeeping,” she explained in a prim, finishing-school voice. “The other is a bartender.”

“Not bad,” he admitted with a grin. “What about days off?”

“We stow the equipment and break out the high-powered binoculars and 35 mm cameras.”

“It’s a start. Surveillance can tell us of any strange movement, but don’t think it’ll tell us who’s involved.”

“Of course it will. We’d have them on camera.”

He leaned back in the deck chair and studied her momentarily. She was so dainty, so delicate. Too damn beautiful to be carrying a weapon and flashing around a badge. She also had tunnel vision, something he hoped to cure. “You surprise me, Carmichael.”

She set her fork on the edge of her plate and let out a sigh before looking at him. “Somehow I don’t think this is going to be a compliment.”

He grinned at the caution in her voice. “For a DEA agent, you’re thinking small.”

She looked at him as if he couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag with directions. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It just means I thought DEA didn’t waste their precious collars on small-timers.”

The narrowing of her eyes didn’t detract one iota from the electrifying sparks of frustration flaring in her turquoise depths. “My assignment is to determine who and how the drugs are moving through the island. If we capture one of the people behind the smuggling, then the assignment is considered a success.”

“Like I said, small time.”

“I resent that.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said lazily. “But wouldn’t a commendation for stopping whoever is behind the smuggling look a lot nicer in your service record? I know it would in mine.”

“This isn’t your case.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, sugar. My sandbox, my rules. Remember? And my rules say we don’t spend precious taxpayer dollars on grunts when we can bring down the key player behind the scenes, and send the whole operation into a crash and burn.”

She tossed her napkin on the table. The sea breeze picked up, pulling more silky, sable strands free from their imprisoning band to caress her cheek. She angrily shoved them away. “First off,” she said, a trace of genteel steel in her voice, “you don’t know if there is a big player involved. And more importantly, this is a D—”

“DEA operation and you’re in charge,” he finished before biting into his sandwich. Fine. Let her think the winds of command were blowing in from her direction. He had a hunch. He always trusted his hunches.

“It’s a good thing we’re not really married,” he said after a minute.

She folded her arms and tossed him another one of her irritated expressions. “Why?”

Damn, but she looked gorgeous when her feminine feathers were all ruffled. Her eyes sparkled, and the way she pursed her mouth had that dimple winking at him again. He wanted to kiss her. He decided to irritate her instead.

“Because sometimes, sugar, the man likes to be on top.”

4

“ENJOY YOUR STAY at Seaport Manor, Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire.” The desk clerk solemnly handed the leather-bound key holder to the bellman. “George will escort you to your bungalow.”

Blake nodded his thanks and glanced down at Ronnie, noting the flash of what he could only term as strong trepidation in her brilliant eyes. He settled his hand on the small of her back to gently guide her after the bellman, who was already across the marble floor toward the rear of the lobby. Since they’d stepped off the water taxi, she’d been absolutely silent. While she might have suddenly lost her ability for speech, based on the perfectly straight line of her spine and the tension in her shoulders, she obviously hadn’t lost her ability to stiffen whenever he touched her. He’d hoped after last night those telltale signs wouldn’t continue to be a problem.

He’d been wrong.

On an assignment like this, he couldn’t afford to be wrong. So what if his ego climbed a notch every time she flinched, stiffened or her intriguing gaze widened with wonder when he touched her. That wasn’t the point. They had a job to do, and he swore before they took one step outside their bungalow, he’d make damned sure she had no misconceptions about her undercover role…as his loving bride.

They followed the bellman outside into a manufactured tropical world of romantic make-believe. He’d studied the additional photographs and video surveillance Ronnie had left with him last night, but even he had to admit the photos and video didn’t do the place justice. Avalon hosted its own natural elegance and quaint simplicity, but the tropical additions by the resort designers made the reality of a drug smuggling operation almost surreal. Who would suspect something so devious in a location one step shy of paradise? No one, he thought cynically, which made Seaport Manor an almost perfect cover.