Intimate Knowledge

by Julie Miller

  Her watch already registered 9:15 a.m. She was late, to boot. She leaned back and double-checked that she did, indeed, have the right address before knocking again. Then she used those few moments of time to bemoan that she had natural curl in her hair, and that no matter how many products Miguel recommended she use, it was going to kink up into an unruly mess until the humidity dropped below fifty percent.

  If only she hadn’t spent so much time on her hair this morning. If only she’d gotten up sooner. If only she’d been able to get a decent night’s sleep.

  But no, images of Logan’s steely-gray eyes had haunted her dreams, laughing at her at first, then looking at her in ways she didn’t fully understand. She’d woken up more than once with her mouth open, panting hard, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers. The unique taste of his lips, hard and soft, hot and sweet, all at once.

  And once, near three o’clock in the morning, she found herself wrapped around her pillow, rubbing against it, squeezing it tight between her thighs, her body straining for the memory of something it had never found.

  She’d gotten up and showered then, but quickly discovered that the warm pinpricks of water reminded her too much of the fiery scrape of Logan’s whiskers across her skin. Sensitizing her, seducing her.

  His body seemed to be hard wherever hers was soft. And the shape of him had been completely different from hers. Enticingly male, while she’d felt, oh, so terribly, wonderfully female.

  But she hadn’t known what to do. She hadn’t known what he wanted from her. She scarcely knew what she wanted for herself.

  Only that she shouldn’t want it.

  This distracting, confusing, consuming obsession with Logan had to stop. Or she’d never get any work done.

  That meant she’d never capture Harris Mitchell. She’d never earn the respect she deserved. She’d never get a second chance to bring down a user who was so much like those men who had abused her mother’s trusting heart.

  As a child, she hadn’t been able to help Mimsey. But she could now. She could help all the innocents who’d been taken advantage of by greedy, self-serving egomaniacs. If she didn’t do this, she’d always be frumpy Grace Lockhart, spinster computer geek, second-rate shadow of her halfway-famous mother.

  It was a mighty sad epitaph.

  But ten life-changing lessons from Logan could turn her into a knowledgeable woman of the world who understood how to use her body as well as her brain to lure Harris Mitchell into her clutches, and straight to prison.

  She hated depending on anyone else though. Any other project, she could take a class or read a book, make herself the expert she needed to be. But not this sexy thing.

  She needed a man to learn that.

  She needed Logan.

  But, oh, Lord, she didn’t want to need him. For her work or her fantasies.

  Fantasies?

  Rule number five in the ladies’ dressing room last night had nearly undone her.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered out loud as her body heated all over again at the very thought of what lessons six through ten on Logan’s list might entail.

  Grace breathed in deeply, desperate now to regain some semblance of decorum. The hot, moist air didn’t help cool the frustration broiling within her.

  She raised her fist to pound at the door once more. “Damn you, Logan Pierce.”

  Her fist never hit the wood. Instead, she got caught in the quick reflexes of Logan’s hand, mere inches from his naked chest. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “I might have known you’d oversleep.” There. She sounded justifiably ticked off. Dignified even.

  If only she’d quit staring at the broad expanse of skin lightly dusted with coffee-dark hair that curled over well-defined muscles and faded into a narrow vee before veering in a straight line down beneath the unhooked snap of his jeans.

  Maybe then she could manage to look a little dignified, too.

  Grace tugged her hand away, more angry with herself for her adolescent gawking than for any tardiness on his part. But anger was an easy emotion to latch on to. Far easier than trying to decipher the tightening of unseen muscles low in her belly.

  “We’re down to four days of training. I thought we’d agreed to an early start.”

  “I’m coming off forty-eight hours without any sleep. I needed to catch up.” He turned away and walked on into the house, expecting her to follow. “If your highness can spare me another fifteen minutes, I’ll hit the shower and grab some breakfast.”

  As he walked away from her, she noticed he had a shape remarkably similar to that of a lean, muscular T-bone steak. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, narrow hips.

  Men and women were so utterly different, she observed.

  And Logan was different from any man she’d known.

  Maybe only because he was giving her a chance to do research with him, to study those differences in details. Straight lines and rounded curves…

  “Coming?”

  Fine-tuning her powers of observation, she also noted that his deep voice lacked any trace of the indulgent patience and charm he’d had in such abundant supply yesterday.

  Grace shut the door and hurried after him. “Is everything all right?”

  She backpedaled to avoid plowing into him when he suddenly stopped and spun around.

  “First, no conversation before coffee in the morning.”

  He turned and headed up a half flight of stairs, leaving Grace standing at the bottom. “What’s the second thing?” she called after him.

  He disappeared around the corner and a door slammed shut.

  “Logan?”

  The sound of running water provided her only answer.

  So where was the irresistible lady-killer who had kissed her senseless and haunted her dreams? Where was the legendary agent who brought down smuggling rings almost single-handedly?

  Who was this sexy, rumpled grumpy-butt who refused to even talk to her?

  Four days and counting. Maybe infiltrating Harris Mitchell’s ladies-only workforce was an impossible mission, after all.

  Left alone without any direction, Grace gave herself a tour of the main floor of the town house. As far as housekeeping went, Logan was the one who could use some training. And the place was sparsely furnished to the point of being ascetic. A leather couch and maple entertainment center with a TV and VCR were the only furniture in the main room. He didn’t even have a lamp to read by.

  She dropped her attaché onto the couch beside a pile of laundry and, needing something to do to pass the time, began to fold. The towels were easy. Then came the jeans.

  It felt almost naughty to straighten and fold the soft denim. Smoothing the wrinkles out of the considerable length of leg. Pressing her hand over the rear pockets and running her fingers along the same material that cupped his buttocks. Zipping up the front where…

  Grace cleared her throat and snatched her hands away, feeling as embarrassed as if she’d been caught snooping through his things. She set the last pair on top of the pile and moved on to the safer territory of the kitchen.

  “Yeesh.” Apparently secret-agent school didn’t include any classes on health codes. Stacks of takeout trash, from flat pizza boxes to folding Chinese food cartons, littered the countertops.

  She went to the first box and pried a fork from the graying contents. Hadn’t Logan said he’d been away on an assignment? Surely he hadn’t left these things sitting here all that time. And wouldn’t a man who had as many conquests as he reportedly did have at least one woman willing to clean up after him?

  Scrounging a garbage bag from under the sink, Grace made quick work of all the trash. She had coffee brewing in a freshly scrubbed pot, and utensils running in the dishwasher by the time Logan walked into the kitchen.

  She rinsed her hands in the sink and was drying them with a towel before either of them spoke.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Just cleaning up a bit. I didn’t know how long you’d be. I waited
until your shower was done before turning on the dishwasher.” She noted his clean-shaven jaw, exposing an angular stretch of tanned, smooth skin. Idly she wondered how it would feel against her cheek compared to yesterday’s more dangerous look.

  “This is all a little too domestic for me.” He already had his black leather holster strapped across his shoulders. He tucked in his New York Yankees T-shirt and scanned the kitchen. “Is that real coffee there?”

  Grace nodded. “I found some in the cabinet. It’s past its expiration date, but I don’t think—”

  Any explanation proved superfluous. Logan pulled a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup, even before it finished brewing. The dripping coffee popped and sizzled as it hit the hot plate and spattered onto the counter.

  She picked up the dishcloth and moved toward the mess. “I just cleaned that—”

  “Not a word.” He carried the mug to his lips and savored the first sip.

  “I was just helping out. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Are you here to catch a crook or to play house?”

  Grace absorbed his rudeness by transforming it into sarcasm. “Sor-ry. I thought you might appreciate some civilized behavior since you seem to be in such short supply yourself.” She slapped the dishcloth in the sink and left the room. In a way, she was glad he’d been so curt with her. It made it a hell of a lot easier to knock him off that obsessive fantasy pedestal she’d elevated him to last night.

  Some sexy man-god. He could be as rude and ungrateful as any of her mother’s lovers had been.

  She picked up her attaché and slung the strap over her shoulder. Grumpy, she could handle. She’d even forgive him for not appreciating her help.

  But to question her commitment to this case?

  Grace was fuming by the time she reached the door. She flung it open, eager to welcome the heat and humidity outside. It would be a damn sight cooler than the resentment building up inside her right now.

  A vise clamped around her wrist. Logan pulled her back inside and slammed the door shut. She whipped around, fist raised, her heel aimed at the instep of his foot. He shuffled his feet and avoided her punch, pinning her to the door in a deft move that made her feel like an amateur.

  His big hands pressed her shoulders into the wood behind her as he threw her off balance by wedging one leg between both of hers—a mockery of the embrace they’d shared last night.

  Trapped in this position, with her breasts thrusting out toward his chest, and that ultrasensitive feminine spot at the juncture of her thighs balanced like a fulcrum atop his knee, she felt exposed and vulnerable. The layers of blouse and suit she wore didn’t help. His heated gaze swept across her breasts like the caress of his hands, and that feminine spot tingled in response.

  But his moody silence demanded she ignore both her self-conscious fears and her body’s unexpected reaction to their brief struggle. She looked up into those deep gray eyes, darkened now to the color of fierce summer storm clouds. “Let’s start this conversation again. Only this time, you tell me why you’re so upset.”

  “Upset?” He laughed. But it was an unpleasant sound that rasped deep in his throat. “‘Teach me how to seduce a man.’ Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

  The crisp line of his mouth moved with damning precision. But his soft, dark voice caused her more confusion than fear.

  She kept her own voice hushed and even when she answered. “I’m going after Harris Mitchell. You tried to change my mind yesterday and it didn’t work. It won’t work today, either.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He eyed her a moment longer, held her prisoner in the same arms that had held her so tenderly the night before. And then he released her. Her heels hit the floor. She adjusted her clothes against her sensitized skin before following his determined stride at a more cautious pace.

  On the way to the kitchen, Logan pulled a large envelope from the entertainment console and plunked it down on the table. “This was delivered earlier this morning.”

  She recognized the courier’s logo, and the return address of Commander Carmody’s office. So she hadn’t been the first to awaken him. “What is it?” she asked.

  “What the hell are you thinking, going after this guy? He’s a freak.”

  Grace reached for her glasses in an unconscious habit. But her nervous fingers brushed against an unadorned cheek. “Excuse me?”

  “Harris Mitchell.” He thumbed through the dossier on Mitchell’s background. Pages and pages of allegations. Eye-witness testimony that had been tossed out of court because the eye witnesses kept disappearing or recanting their stories. It had taken her weeks to pull all that information together. He’d read through it in a single morning?

  She dropped her attaché into a chair and stood straight, defending her hard work. “If you’ve read his file, then you can see why he has to be stopped. He runs a multimillion-dollar money-laundering business. He’s strengthening the positions of several different mob factions and bypassing the entire Internal Revenue system. You understand why we have to do this, don’t you?”

  “Understand?” He jabbed the stack of papers, then he pointed that same finger at her. “Look, Gracie, I thought we were playing a game here. Teaching you a few tricks so you could go after a standard-issue hoodlum. But Mitchell’s serious business.”

  “I know that. Don’t call me Gracie—”

  “The man’s nickname is Mr. Clean. And it’s not because he showers twice a day. His loose ends wind up in the city dump, which is where you’ll be if he even suspects you’re an undercover agent. And I haven’t even started on all the kinky stuff in his file.”

  Grace planted her hands on her hips and swelled with indignant fury. She wasn’t an idiot. She had no delusions about Harris Mitchell being an easy case. “So he’s a dangerous man. The FBI doesn’t put pool hustlers on their Most Wanted list. I’ll be careful.”

  “You’ll be dead. You’re a rookie. A walking disaster waiting to happen. This guy is slick and smart and expecting trouble. Carmody must be out of his mind to send you after him.”

  “Disaster?” Defensive anger swelled inside her, pushing its way past the self-doubts, past the need to prove herself to a world that refused to take her seriously. “I earned this assignment. I came up with the plan. It’s my computer program that’s going to find his second set of books and flush out all his contacts. It’s my strategy. I’ve done my homework.”

  “On paper.” He plowed his fingers through his short-cropped hair and paced the kitchen, shaking his head as if the idea of her succeeding was incomprehensible. “Sure, your numbers look good. You can download his files and corrupt his system so all his little minions come out of the woodwork to find him. Well guess what, sweetheart? He doesn’t want that to happen.” He stopped abruptly and faced off over the table, leaning toward her in a way that made her curl her toes inside her pumps to keep from retreating.

  “If he finds out you’re a Fed, you’re dead.”

  Grace resisted the self-preserving need to look away from the accusatory gleam in those piercing silver eyes. “Then it’s up to you to make sure I don’t screw up.”

  “You’re not going.”

  “I’m not Roy Silverton. And sticking me behind a desk won’t bring him back.”

  Logan froze as if she had slapped him. His cheeks flushed with color. It was a cruel reminder, she knew, but she had enough obstacles of her own to overcome without having to compete with the memory of a dead man.

  She gentled her voice to reason with Logan. “It didn’t matter that Roy was on his first field assignment. You couldn’t have foreseen what was waiting for him on that dock. I’m sorry. But a seasoned agent would have been slain, too.”

  “And that’s supposed to reassure me?” Logan stood straight and tall again, dismissing her argument. And her compassion. “I’ll take this up with Carmody. If anyone’s going after Mitchell, it’s going to be me.”

  Logan strode from the kitchen.
He pulled on his leather jacket, expecting her to obey his pronouncement like a good little girl.

  Grace did one better. She grabbed her bag and circled the room, blocking his path before he reached the door. The man couldn’t argue with cold, hard logic.

  “Afraid you can’t do that, Agent Pierce. You lack the necessary credentials for the job.”

  “Credentials? Like what?”

  She looked down at her chest, which he had studied so thoroughly only minutes ago, then back up at him. “Forty, twenty-eight, thirty-eight.”

  “Take your forty, twenty-eight, thirty-eight and get in the damn car.”

  NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME in his life, Logan wished he’d spent more time practicing his diplomacy skills. Sam Carmody held up his hand like some magic talisman and demanded the room be still. Then he lined himself up at a forty-five-degree angle to his putter and knocked the tiny golf ball across the plush carpet into a green mechanical cup.

  Logan bit down on his protest, grinding his teeth on the silence until his jaw ached. A red light blinked on the cup, signaling victory. When the ball spit back out, Logan was released from the spell.

  He marched up to Carmody’s elbow. “Look, I’ll admit I thought this was doable at first. But now I’m up to speed on the particulars of this case. You don’t send an untested agent out on an assignment this big to bring down a creep like Mitchell.”

  Grace approached from the other side. Though her cheeks blazed with suppressed emotion, her tone held the same bureaucratic detachment as Carmody’s. Suckup. “I deserve this break. I worked hard for it. You yourself said you’d never seen a program like mine.”

  The commander tilted his putter toward the ceiling and examined his grip. “It is pretty ingenious. Have you seen it, Pierce?”

  “She’ll never get a chance to use it.” The very idea of sending this novice into a den of murdering thieves who dealt with traitors as casually as they dealt with annoying insects violated his sense of justice. It violated common sense. He thought he’d been training her to catch the eye of some computer hack, not to become the right-hand woman of a man wanted for capital crimes in fourteen different states. “Mitchell’s got too many weird hang-ups to guard against. If she blows her cover, he’ll blow her head off.”