Читать книгу Under The Covers - Jamie Denton - Страница 10

“YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS.” Ronnie pushed away from him and stood. Before she could follow her instincts and bolt across the room, his hand snaked out and snagged her wrist.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his soft gray eyes filled with something unidentifiable that had her heart beating faster. “You’re no civilian, Ronnie. You know what can go wrong as well as I do. You want to end up in a body bag? Because that’s exactly where we’ll be if there’s so much as a hint we’re not legit.”

She wished he’d stop smoothing his thumb along the tender underside of her wrist. Didn’t he know that drove her crazy and made her skin quiver?

Gently, she tugged her hand, but his grip tightened. “I’m no rookie,” she told him.

“Great. Then you know we have to be damned convincing.”

“Of course I do,” she said irritably when he stood. Why was he doing this? Did he know the thought of kissing him had occupied her mind for the better part of the day? Was he aware of just how much she’d thought about slipping her arms around his neck and dragging his mouth down to hers the second he’d uttered that husky “kiss me” demand?

She hoped not, firmly reminding herself again that his presence on this case was nothing more than a means to an end. That’s all he ever could be to her, no matter how many times her heart rate accelerated or how much overtime her imagination put in whenever she thought about the next two weeks alone in a luxurious honeymoon resort with him. He was her temporary partner and held no more importance than a vital piece of equipment required to do the job. She would not, could not, get caught up in all that sex appeal.

More significantly, Blake Hammond was a cop. And after what she’d suffered because of her former partner, getting involved with any man in law enforcement was nothing short of emotional suicide. One dark-haired, silver-eyed detective with enough sexual magnetism to short circuit her central nervous system had to top her list of males in the danger zone. She refused to be that stupid again.

He slipped his free hand along the side of her neck and used his thumb to tilt her chin up so she had no choice but to look into the steely determination in his gaze. “Then kiss me,” he said, his voice a rough rumble of sound. “Kiss me and convince me I’m the only man in the world you want kissing you.”

Against her will, the rate of her pulse picked up speed and collided with the hammering of her heart. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said around the wedge of unease clogging her throat, “we don’t exactly have an audience.”

Without a word, he dropped his hand and gently tugged her wrist so she’d follow him.

“Where are we going?” she demanded when they reached the front door of his condo. She had no idea what kind of game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to go quietly.

He opened the door. “To find you an audience,” he said, continuing outside.

She hurried down the short flight of concrete steps in an attempt to keep up with him. “This is crazy. You’re crazy.”

He stopped at the base of the stairs and looked into the darkening horizon. “There’s nothing crazy about wanting to stay alive. This way.”

With a hefty sigh, she kept pace with him as he gently pulled her down a pathway toward a series of wooden steps leading to the beach. With his hand still wrapped around her wrist, they crossed the sand toward a strip of palm trees silhouetted against the murky skyline.

She peered into the darkness and spotted her audience. An elderly couple walked hand in hand along the shore, their bulky basset hound waddling and baying at the incoming waves, then romping down the wet sand after the receding water. Farther down the shoreline, a group of teens sat grouped around a fire pit. The scent of burning wood mingled with the salty tang of sea air, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of rap music from a portable stereo system, carried toward them on the evening breeze.

Blake stopped once they reached the palms, and backed her up until her spine grazed the rough bark. “Put your arms around me,” he demanded gently.

“I think you’re taking this a little too far,” she said, but slipped her arms around his neck just the same. While she didn’t care much for his high-handed attitude, she’d been an agent too long not to understand the validity of the point he was trying to make. Their very lives depended on whether or not everyone they came in contact with believed they were the happy couple. How could they possibly hope to convince anyone if she continually avoided his touch? She’d just have to be strong and remember it was all make-believe. An assignment. More importantly, if they did their jobs well enough, it’d also be her last.

He settled his hands on her hips, his fingers pressing against her backside. “Like you mean it, Ronnie.”

He wanted a convincing performance, then she’d give him one, she thought mutinously.

This was her duty, he was merely along for the ride, and if she didn’t establish herself as the head of this little undercover operation, she’d be playing second string to the sexy, arrogant detective for the remainder of the assignment. And that was something she refused to allow to happen to her again. She’d been acting like a good little girl for too many years, and what had it gotten her?

Nowhere that she wanted to be again.

She toyed with the silky hair at the nape of his neck and looked into his eyes. “Just don’t expect a declaration of love, Detective,” she said in what she hoped was a husky voice.

“Blake,” he said, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck.

She sucked in a sharp breath when his warm lips skirted along her jaw to her throat. She tipped her head back, not because what he was doing to her felt wonderfully delicious, but to provide a convincing performance.

Uh-huh. Sure, her pesky conscience taunted.

“Say it.” His voice was low, deep and dancing over her nerve endings, adding to the delicious sensations his lips were already stirring.

His hands roamed from her hips and up her sides. His thumbs rested just below the underside of her breasts and she closed her eyes, an action that did nothing to quell the slow heat winding through the pit of her stomach, or the way her breasts suddenly swelled against the smooth satin of her bra.

He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her ear and she couldn’t have formed a coherent sentence, let alone a hollow protest, if her life depended on it.

“Say it, Ronnie.”

Her fingers flexed and tangled in his raven black hair. “Say what?” she managed in a breathy whisper, turning her head to the side when his mouth trailed a line of heat down to her collarbone. Between his mouth and that musky man scent mingled with the sting of sea air, she couldn’t think straight.

“Blake. Say my name, Ronnie,” he demanded again, while pressing biting little kisses up her throat and along her jaw. “Say it.”

His mouth hovered over hers, his breath fanning her lips more intoxicating than she’d ever dreamed possible. Good heavens, she wanted him to kiss her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Feminine pride rose within her at the desire flaring in his gaze. “Is it really necessary?”

“It is if you want to stay alive. My name has to be second nature to you.”

She swallowed, knowing exactly why she was hesitating. Her mind might acknowledge it was only make-believe, but her body already had other ideas. Dangerous ideas. She knew he was absolutely right with every instinct she’d acquired since her first day on the job. Yet, somehow, speaking his name with his hands spanning her rib cage and his thumbs tracing lazy patterns beneath her breasts made saying his name far too intimate to be anything but real.

“Blake,” she whispered, then gave in to the desire by pressing her fingers against the back of his neck, urging his mouth over hers.

His lips moved in an erotic dance of seduction that sent tingles of sensation shooting to her toes. Heat curled in her belly and spread outward as his tongue swept over hers, tormenting her with lazy sweeps until she trembled in his arms. He tasted sweet, like the sugar in the tea she’d drunk earlier. He tasted hard, like a pillar of strength, immovable and sturdy. He tasted hot, like mind-blowing, sweat-slicked bodies and tangled-sheets sex.

His hand slid from her rib cage and chased down her back to settle on her bottom. A moan bubbled in her throat and she molded her body to his, reveling in the feel of crisp denim against her bare legs, of the feel of his wide, firm chest against her sensitive breasts. Desire thrummed through her, and thoughts of regaining the upper hand fled in favor of the soulful, silky glide of his tongue exploring her mouth. He’d reawakened the lustful beast inside her, hot and primitive, guided by the natural, most basic need to mate. A need that shook and rattled her practiced composure.

One hand roamed her back and held her close, while the other smoothed along her rib cage and upward, this time cupping her breast in his large, warm hand. The music faded and her desire climbed when his thumb traced the pebble hardness rasping enticingly against her bra. The waves crashing on the shore dimmed and fierce need swelled, tangling her in a seductive web.

She’d experienced need. She knew firsthand desire could be a powerful emotion and more addicting than the drugs she worked to keep off the streets. She hadn’t expected to be swamped with both by such a breath-stealing kiss that made her insides melt and her senses spin.

She slid her hands from his neck, over his wide shoulders and down the smooth cotton polo shirt to his firm, thick biceps, exploring the rough, male texture of his skin. She never wanted the kiss to end.

She pulled back anyway, silently cursing not only the instant loss of heat, but the fact that she desperately wanted nothing more than to slip back into his arms and finish what they’d started.

“Convincing enough for you…Blake?” she asked, surprised by the strength in her voice when the rest of her was trembling, as though she were a kitten facing down a Saint Bernard.

Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides. “Yeah,” he muttered with a roughness in his tone. “Plenty convincing.”

“Good.” She lifted her chin a notch and hoped for a satisfied expression. Stepping around him, she headed toward the condo, feeling anything but pleased, but hot and achy instead…and wishing like the devil for an icy shower.

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.”