by Dana Marton
She gave it a quick check and took a few pictures with her camera ring before moving on. She poked her head out the door. If someone saw her, she could pretend she had snuck into the mansion to seek out Cavanaugh. With Cavanaugh’s interest in a wide variety of women, her presence wouldn’t require any further explanation for his staff.
But the hallway was empty. She stepped outside.
There were motion sensors in the corner of the ceiling, but they had figured the system wouldn’t be turned on until the fun for the day ended and the guests were settled into their bungalows for the night. Since the room she’d breached was at the end of the hallway, she had only one way to go: forward. Two doors stood on her right, one on her left. She cracked each as she passed by. One was a home gym, one a bathroom, another a cleaning closet.
The hallway came out to an open area with cathedral ceilings and a view to a sprawling living room below that she remembered from her earlier visit. She stayed near the wall so she wouldn’t be seen if someone walked in downstairs.
She put her hand on the next door and tried to push it open. She couldn’t. This is it. The place wouldn’t be locked if Cavanaugh wasn’t hiding something here. She pulled out the micro tool kit that had been hidden in the ostentatious, shell-covered barrette in her hair.
The door had two locks, one built into the doorknob and one at about eye level. Trickier than what she had been used to when she had lived on the streets and had, at times, been forced to break the law for food. Or while in foster care, when she’d had to break out of the various rooms, basements, attics and toolsheds she’d been locked inside. The fancy tool kit felt foreign, too, although she had been practicing.
She was fairly certain she’d gotten the top lock open, but she wasn’t getting anywhere with the one on the bottom. Something was clicking. She had to be on the right track. Then it hit her. Both pegs had to be turned at the same time.
And then she was in, careful to open the door only a few inches should there be motion sensors inside. She put her eye to the crack.
The room was windowless, pitch-dark other than the light filtering through the small opening of the door. She could make out a desk with a computer, filing cabinets against the walls, a couple of fax machines and a giant shredder. A red laser light cut through the darkness less than an inch from the door’s edge.
She could see only half the room like this, but to open the door enough to stick her head inside would set off the alarm. It was a miracle she hadn’t set if off already.
She took a small step back just as the sound of feet drumming on stairs hit her ears.
Chapter Three
Even with her heart doing backflips in her throat, she had enough presence of mind to lock the door behind her exactly as she had found it. Then she took off down the hallway. She didn’t make it to the end room.
As Sam turned back, she could see the tops of the heads of the men who were coming up. The cleaning closet seemed her only option. She practically hurled herself inside.
The space was dark and tight, smelling like bleach and citrus-scented cleaning solution. She stayed still, not daring to make any noise. The door didn’t block much. She could hear everything the two men were saying.
“Saw the blonde? Man, she’s stacked. Wouldn’t mind if she tripped and fell on top of me.”
“What’s stopping you from tripping and falling on top of her?” The other one laughed.
“Her husband is here.”
“I bet Philippe had her already.”
“So what?” The first guy sounded annoyed. “He’s the boss. He always gets what he wants.”
Dissent in the ranks? She stored the information for later. They never knew what could come in handy down the road.
A door opened and closed, then she could no longer hear the men. How long should she wait? Would they stay wherever they’d gone, or would they be coming back in a few seconds? She was prepared to act like an Oscar winner if she was caught, but it would have been much better for her and the mission if she made her way out of the mansion unseen.
Sam emerged from her hiding place with caution. The hallway was empty. She made her way to the back bedroom as fast as she could.
She pushed the door open and whispered, “Philippe,” to play out her role of hussy-in-search-of-illicit-pleasure, but nobody was in there. Looked like the men had gone to the gym. She let out the breath she’d been holding, then she was through the room and out on the balcony, lowering herself into Reese’s waiting arms.
“Everything okay?” He didn’t look pleased at having had to stay behind.
“Found his office. I’ll have to get back in there again.”
“He’s right. Enough is enough.” A stranger’s voice came from around the corner. The next second, one of Philippe’s men, Roberto, rounded the building, talking on his cell.
She pressed against Reese and lifted her mouth to his, keeping her eyes open only enough to see the guy slow in her peripheral vision.
Reese didn’t miss a beat. He let his lips linger. She was getting familiar with the feel of them, not exactly at ease but not scared stiff, either. He got hold of her hand and moved forward, pulling her behind him. They went only as far as the nearest hammock, where he fell back into the comfort of the ropes and pulled her on top of him.
Oh.
She held on as they swayed, feeling awkward, the urge to flee coming on.
He must have felt her body stiffen because he went completely still. “So this stepfather of yours, he’s still alive?” he whispered, his voice low and tight.
What did it matter? “No.” Her lawyer had told her that. Since she’d been underage at the time of her arrest, the court had attempted to reach her mother and the man she was still married to on paper. Her stepfather was gone. Her mother couldn’t bother to come to her arraignment or her trial, even though a parent who pledged to resume supervision could have eased her sentence.
A few silent moments passed, then he ran a calming hand down the back of her arm, adjusting his body to balance them, to make her more comfortable. “Is Cavanaugh’s goon still here?” The way they were positioned, he couldn’t see for himself.
She looked from the corner of her eye. “Standing and staring.”
“Might as well relax. We could be here for a while.”
He linked his arms behind her waist. Oddly, it didn’t make her freeze in terror. She was getting used to him, to his touch, to his scent, beginning to accept the idea he meant no harm. That she was able to relax around him, something she hadn’t been able to say about another man for nearly a decade, took her by surprise each and every time.
He was different from any guy she had ever known. She didn’t want to think about that, wasn’t ready to consider the implications.
“I didn’t get far,” she whispered, needing to return her thoughts to the job. She’d mapped a single hallway—didn’t even get to search the office, nor go downstairs to those doors Cavanaugh hadn’t shown her earlier.
“Yeah, but you hit pay dirt. I’m guessing we’ll find some interesting things in Philippe’s desk when we get the chance. We know where it is now. We know what’s in the room, the layout.”
“I saw two guys who were up there to use Cavanaugh’s private gym. Can’t remember seeing them before, but we probably haven’t seen all his goons yet. They seem to be working in shifts.”
“Glad they didn’t see you.” His hot breath tickled her ear, so she shifted position, setting the hammock swinging again. Shoes crunched gravel underfoot. Roberto was moving on.
He seemed to be an important member of Cavanaugh’s security team. He was always visible, always watching, making his rounds. He seemed to take himself as seriously as if he were part of the Secret Service.
Sam lifted her head and looked around. “Should I try to get back in now?”
“Not tonight.” Reese sat with her. “It might look too suspicious if we got caught loitering this close to the house twice in the same night. We have the w
hole week to get what we want. Let’s not blow anything the first day.”
She slipped out of the hammock and he came after her, looped his arms around her waist. She made herself relax against him and held the pose, allowing him time to check for any danger.
None of Cavanaugh’s men were in sight.
“Let’s go down to the beach,” he said as he broke away and took her hand. “We’ll see what we can find out about Philippe from his friends.”
REESE LEANED against the windowsill of the bedroom he shared with Sam, squinting against the sun, thinking about what Sam had seen at the mansion the day before. All good information, but not enough. He hated operating without knowing the parameters.
Who the hell was this guy Philippe? Some big-time businessman the FBI was working on bringing down for some reason or other—that was all Reese had been told by his brother and two other men he’d met over the phone and never seen face-to-face.
His mission with Sam was the information-gathering sort. He was familiar with reconnaissance. He was familiar with the need-to-know basis for dissemination of information. It ticked him off that whoever ran this operation didn’t think he needed to know more than the threadbare report he’d been given.
He would have never sent any of his men blindly into a situation.
He watched from behind the curtains as Sam tanned herself next to Philippe on the sand. The man was on his side, supported by an elbow, feasting his eyes on her from head to toe as they chatted. Sam had her eyes closed against the sun, looking like she had that morning when Reese had watched her sleep. As part of their cover they had to share a bed, an inconvenience that both were professional enough to handle regardless of personal preference.
Philippe reached out and drew a finger along her arm. Her eyes popped open.
He expected her to slap the man’s hand away, recognized the strain in her body even from this far. Instead, she smiled up at Philippe in a way that made Reese tense.
Cavanaugh said something.
She responded, keeping the smile.
What were they talking about? He gripped the windowsill and took a deep breath. He was here to give Sam backup security. He had to allow her to conduct her mission.
Philippe’s finger reached her shoulder and crossed over to her collarbone, then down the middle of her chest until it hooked on to the string that held the cups of her bikini together.
A muscle twitched in Reese’s face.
Then Philippe sat up and so did Sam. And when the man started out toward the main house, Sam followed.
How long could she play along? Long enough, Reese thought. She would do it even if it killed her, to get the information her team so desperately seemed to need. She was tough like that, a quality he admired in her, even if at the moment he wished she had a little less of it. He wouldn’t have minded if she told Philippe she had some other pressing need just now and backed out from the guided tour of the man’s bedroom.
Reese crossed the suite and jogged down the stairs, hating that all he could do was watch. He wanted to stay close to the mansion if they were going in there. In his line of work, he rescued people. He didn’t stand back and let them walk into danger.
This mission was going to drive him crazy before it was over.
He went as close as he could without looking suspicious and settled into a beach chair, angling it so that he had a full view of the mansion’s front door. Then he waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. He shifted in his seat. What was taking them so long? Twenty minutes ticked by. Was she in trouble? Did she need his help?
If he went in there now, looking for her, acting the jealous boyfriend, he could ruin whatever she was setting up.
He glanced at his watch then pulled his cell phone from his pocket, glancing around to confirm that none of the staff or the other guests were anywhere within hearing distance. He was willing to give Sam five more minutes. In the meantime, he had someone in mind to vent his frustration on.
“It’s me,” he said as soon as his brother, David, picked up.
“Everything okay?”
“What was the logic behind this? To blackmail some woman into using her body to get information from scum like Cavanaugh?” He was careful to keep his voice down.
“She isn’t being blackmailed,” David said calmly.
“Right. But if she doesn’t do what you want, she goes back to prison.”
“And she wasn’t asked to use her body,” David went on.
“She’s here based on her looks as much as anything else. Have you and your FBI buddies considered what this is doing to her?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Look, she lived on the street for years—”
That blew his fuse. “Oh, okay. That’s different then. So she’s likely been exploited before. It’s fine to do it again. You’re right.”
“Calm down. Let her do her work.”
“She’s twenty-two, for heaven’s sake.” Just turned a week ago. That had been in her file, too. “If you think I’m going to stand back and let her be raped—because that’s what it would be, with the FBI holding her down—you picked the wrong man for the job.” He slammed the phone closed as he pushed away from the chair and started out for the mansion.
THE GOOD NEWS WAS, she was in Cavanaugh’s bedroom, an arm’s length from his laptop on the nightstand. The bad news was, she was in Cavanaugh’s bedroom, an arm’s length from his bed.
And from the way he was looking at her, it was clear he expected her to end up in it.
Sam walked to the window, wishing she had on something more substantial than a bikini. “What a breathtaking view,” she said.
“You should see the sunrise from here.” He came up close behind her.
She turned her head, giving him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t think David would like it if I stayed that long.” She couldn’t outright reject him. She needed to stay at the mansion, at the party, as long as she could, find out as much information as she could. The team needed Cavanaugh to like her, like them all, to do business with them, to refer Tsernyakov to them eventually. He was their sole link to the man. They couldn’t afford to lose him.
And right now, it was all up to her. She could not say yes to the man, could not make herself do it regardless of what was at stake. But to say no might have a disastrous effect on the mission. Her job was to perform a very believable “maybe later.”
Cavanaugh put a hand on her shoulder. “What David doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt him, n’est-ce pas?”
“And your girlfriends?” She gestured toward the bathing beauties on the beach. She’d seen several in Cavanaugh’s company before.
“Just friends.” He shrugged. “Nobody serious.”
“Too much work and not enough time for love?” she asked jokingly.
He inclined his head. “Maybe that, too. A little bit. The truth is, it has been a long time since I’ve met anyone who intrigued me sufficiently. Until now.”
She only half listened as she surreptitiously scanned the room and caught a glimpse of a painting of a sailboat on the wall that didn’t quite lay flush. Was there something behind the picture? A safe?
Philippe’s hand slid to her lower back and traced her rose tattoo.
She held herself still against the impulse to escape.
“You are more than you seem at first glance,” he whispered. “You have passions and secrets and fears.”
Fear was on top at the moment. Fear that he might have seen too much on her face, that he sensed too much and knew she was here under false pretenses. She looked into his watery brown eyes and prepared to give the performance of her life.
“You overestimate me.” She did her best to look flirtatious while she said the words.
“I don’t think so.” He leaned in.
“You’re—” She stepped back, couldn’t help it.
“I’m what?”
She forced an embarrassed laugh. “Overwhelming,” she said. “I’ve never met anyone like you bef
ore.”
He was smiling then, too, his expression switching from disappointed to pleased. “Maybe I am.” He watched her. “Maybe you could get used to me.”
“Good things are easy to get used to. Isn’t that what they say?”
His response was preempted by sounds of an argument from below. She recognized Reese’s voice.
“I think David is looking for me.” She moved toward the door.
“Of course.” He got there first and opened it for her. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Reese stood at the bottom of the stairs, locked in a staring contest with one of Philippe’s men. Roberto, was it? Then he looked up, his eyes narrowing as he watched them descend the stairs.
“Is there a problem, David?” Cavanaugh asked cordially, playing the perfect host.
She smiled at Reese, wanting him to know that everything was okay, willing him not to start anything. He wasn’t supposed to come after her in the first place. What was he doing here?
“Just looking for my girl,” he said, and schooled his features into an expression a shade more polite than before.
“We’ve been talking about the views of the ocean from the house and I showed her my favorites.” Cavanaugh gestured toward the upstairs rooms. “Are you enjoying yourself here?”
Roberto was giving Sam an odd look. Was he mad at her because her boyfriend barged into the house? He’d just have to get over it. She turned her back on him and moved next to Reese, linking her arm with his, sending a silent message. Please behave.
“The place is amazing,” he said.
She held back her sigh of relief.
“I’m glad you like it.” Cavanaugh nodded, dismissing them, moving on toward the back of the house where the kitchen was.
Reese tugged her gently toward the door and she followed. Their walk back to the bungalow was short and strained.
“What happened?” he asked as soon as they were inside.
“He has a laptop and possibly a wall safe in his bedroom,” she said.
Instead of being pleased at the discovery, his expression turned dark. “In his bedroom? Is that where you’ve been?”