Undercover with the Enemy

by Christine Michels

  She watched him walk haltingly across the room to the window then turn to study her. With the light at his back, his expression was in shadow.

  The maneuver was no accident. Court had learned long ago to use even the smallest advantage, and he did so instinctively. He was a cautious man; a man who trusted nobody. Now, he weighed the response of the woman before him. She was good at thinking on her feet; there was no doubt about that.

  “So then,” he asked finally, “why are you here?” He suspected his chances of hearing the truth were not good. No matter how perfectly Ms. Buchanan might fit the role of his physical therapist, her sudden appearance when another man had been expected was suspicious. And, in his business, caution was a way of life. It kept him alive.

  Heather drew a deep breath. “I need the work.”

  Simple response. Little chance of being caught in a lie there. “What are you going to do if I yell at you like I did your colleague?”

  “Yell back,” she said without hesitation. “I know my job, Mr. Gabriele, and I’m confident in my work.”

  His lips twitched, but he suppressed the urge to smile at her aura of supreme assurance. “Have you been with the Rockford Clinic long?” He was familiar with the clinic’s personnel, and knew that, if indeed she was with them at all, she would have to be a new addition. Still, he was interested in hearing how she’d explain that.

  “I just started with them actually, which is the reason I was available to come here. I don’t have my own client list yet.”

  The last Court had heard, the clinic was fully staffed. He’d have to do some checking. Aloud, he said, “I see.”

  Were the truth to be told, he intensely disliked the idea of having an untrained female around in a situation that could turn dangerous at any moment. But, if she was his only option in getting his leg healed quickly, then he wasn’t about to turn her away. At least not until he’d found a replacement for her.

  “I was with the Northwest up until a few days ago,” Heather continued. “You can check my record if you like.”

  “I’ll do that.” He studied her. Despite the loose fit of her jungle-print skirt and olive-green blouse, it was obvious to any man with eyes in his head that Heather Buchanan, if that was indeed her name, was an attractive woman. Some might even call her beautiful in a wholesome, natural way. Her russet-hued eyes sparkled in a way that made a man think of candlelight and wine. Her flame-tinged dark auburn hair flowed in tousled waves to the middle of her back in a manner that brought moonlight and rumpled sheets to mind. And her generous mouth with its pouty oh-so-kissable lips had a way of curving into the most innocent, and therefore sexiest, smile he’d seen in longer than he cared to admit. In fact, there was a virtuous aura about her that was enchanting. And that was a danger in itself. He didn’t need the distraction.

  Better the devil you know than the one you don’t. Court narrowed his eyes as the old adage echoed in his mind. It just might be good advice in this case.

  As though a sudden thought had occurred to him, he looked at her sharply. “Your employer did tell you that you’d be required to live in, didn’t he? I want to be able to grab a few minutes of therapy between clients, whenever possible. Also, I’m an insomniac, Ms. Buchanan. And if I decide that an evening therapy session is what I need to help me sleep, I want my therapist available. The goal here is the speediest recovery possible. It is not an option. It is essential. I may want as many as four sessions in a day. Are we clear?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded. “All right, Ms. Buchanan, you can stay. For now. But you should know that I’ll be putting in a request for a replacement. Someone more suitable to my situation.”

  She nodded. “Fine. I can accept that. At least I know where I stand.”

  “I’ll have Ernest show you to your room as soon as we’re finished this morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. And then, for the first time since making her acquaintance, he smiled. It was a courteous smile, more a baring of teeth than a gesture of warmth, but it packed a wallop. Heather stared in amazement as the aura of darkness that mantled Court Gabriele momentarily lifted, transforming him into a truly handsome man. “I’ll go and put on that pair of exercise shorts you recommended,” he said. “And then, Ms. Buchanan, since we’re obviously going to be working rather closely, I think we should move to a first-name basis. Don’t you?” The question seemed rhetorical because he didn’t give her time to respond before walking away.

  Heather didn’t know how long she stood staring after him, completely immobilized by the man’s halfhearted smile. Good, Lord! If the simple flash of a set of strong white teeth affected her this way, how on earth was she going to be able to function when she had to touch that very attractive and virile body? Court Gabriele was a threat to her in ways she had never expected.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. She had about five minutes to pull herself together. Five minutes to find her professional detachment and be prepared to do what was required of her.

  She’d think of Des, that’s what she’d do. She’d focus solely on her reason for being here, on the fact that Court Gabriele was in all likelihood a criminal of the worst sort. And she would most certainly not think about how long it had been since she had felt such interest in a man. Heaven only knew why, when she did finally feel the first faint stirring of attraction again, it had to be for a man like him. A man who lived in a world of violence. No matter which side of the law he was on, he was no different from Jay Caldwell in that respect. But she refused to think about Jay now. Her fiancé had been dead and gone for six years. There was nothing to be gained in living in the past.

  With a muffled groan, she turned and focused on getting her equipment ready. And then she realized that her initial plan to check Gabriele’s identification sometime during their workout had also been foiled. Damn! He would undoubtedly leave his wallet in his room with his trousers.

  Oh, well, at least she’d managed to get the job. But then failure hadn’t been an option—not in her situation. Neither would it be an option in accomplishing the tasks that still faced her. Somehow she’d have to finagle other opportunities to check out Mr. Gabriele.

  Purportedly, Gabriele was an influential Seattle lawyer. Unfortunately, his connection with Rick DiMona meant that he almost certainly operated on the fringes of legality. Either that, or—as DiMona himself had intimated at one point—it was possible that Gabriele was an undercover cop. But, whoever Court Gabriele was, the last thing Heather wanted him to discover was that she was working for DiMona. If he was of the same breed as DiMona, she’d probably wind up dead. If he was a cop, she’d be in jail for the rest of her life. Neither was an option she was willing to accept. Not with Des’s life hanging in the balance.

  Chapter 2

  Court frowned as he made his way along the wide, red-tiled corridor of his southwestern-style residence and opened the door to the master suite. He didn’t like the idea of having Heather Buchanan around. Or rather, considering the disturbing impulse he’d experienced to press his lips to that pounding pulse point in her throat, perhaps he liked the idea too much. He hadn’t been distracted like that in a long time. He didn’t need the distraction now. And he had little doubt that Heather Buchanan could prove to be one hell of a distraction.

  But she wouldn’t survive in his world. Not for long. An image of Heather strolling along a beach dressed in a tropical sari with a large white lotus blossom tucked behind her ear insinuated itself into his mind. That’s the kind of woman she gave the impression of being. A bit exotic, naturally sensual. The kind of woman who deserved to be made love to in the moonlight under a canopy of stars. Hell, she probably still believed in fairy-tale princes and magic kingdoms. And, unfortunately for her, he was not a white knight. Cynical DEA agents like Court Morgan, a.k.a. Court Gabriele, just weren’t white knight material. Which meant that he needed to get her back out of his world as quickly as possible.

  If he
wasn’t so desperate to get his leg working reliably again before everything went down, he’d be tempted to send her packing despite the probable expedience of keeping her where he could watch her. But current estimates suggested that he had six weeks, eight at the most, before he needed to be able to move around without the hindrance of an unreliable leg and a cane. With time constraints like that, he couldn’t afford to send her away. Not until he had a replacement for her.

  He had barely finished changing into a pair of black exercise shorts when the intercom buzzer sounded and the gritty voice belonging to his friend and DEA associate, Ernest Duke, demanded his attention. “Mr. Gabriele, Mr. Romano is here.”

  Court frowned. “We don’t have an appointment, do we?”

  “No, sir. But Mr. Romano says it will only take a few minutes.”

  He paused to think. “All right. Give me five minutes to get to my office. And you’d better inform Ms. Buchanan that our session will be postponed for about half an hour.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Court grimaced. Judging by the number of sirs suddenly peppering Ernest’s speech, Romano must be within earshot of the exchange. “Oh, and Ernest. You might as well show her to her room while I’m meeting with Marc.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Court looked down at himself and decided against changing back into his trousers. It might be a bit unprofessional to meet with Romano in exercise shorts and a T-shirt, but then Romano had arrived at his home without an appointment. Picking up his cane, Court made his way toward his office.

  A moment after he got to his study, Ernest knocked and opened the double mahogany doors to show in a tall, dark man. “Hello, Marc,” Court said as he moved forward to greet him, shaking his hand and clasping his elbow in the manner of a friendly business associate. The Colombian was dressed impeccably as always in a dove-grey business suit. He carried an expensive leather briefcase in his left hand. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Fine. Hey, how’s the leg? Not good, huh? You’re not back to the office yet.”

  Court shrugged and moved toward his desk. “It’s coming along. I was just about to have a therapy session.” He indicated one of the two large leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Romano set the briefcase down beside the chair, opened the bottom button on his suit jacket and sat.

  “So, how’s it going?” Court asked, seating himself at his desk. “How’s the wife? And, Mercedes, is she doing well in school?” He uttered the questions automatically, playing the courteous associate even as he studied Romano, seeking nuances in tone or expression that might explain the unexpected visit.

  Marc nodded. “Everyone’s fine. Mercedes—” he waved his hands and shrugged “—she is a teenager. What is there to say?”

  “I understand.” Flipping open the box of Cuban cigars on his desk—a gift from the Colombians— Court raised an eyebrow in question as he proffered the box to Romano.

  Romano waved it away with his thanks and tapped the briefcase at his side meaningfully. “I haven’t much time today, and I have some business to discuss with you.”

  “Of course.” Without any further discourse, Court turned on the stereo. Music flowed from six speakers spaced throughout the room. The interference the music provided to any directional mikes would be minimal at best given the recent advances in listening devices, but the gesture seemed to provide at least some assurance to his nervous clients. And Gabriele had worked hard to earn a reputation as a cautious man. He’d had to earn the trust of his associates. And that meant he had to keep their interests uppermost in his mind at all times.

  Now, Court nodded at Romano to continue.

  Marc Romano placed the briefcase on his lap, backward, and flipped it open briefly to reveal the contents. Court saw rows upon rows of greenbacks. Five-hundred thousand dollars easily. Illicit profits. Drug money. Money that Court Gabriele’s client needed to have laundered.

  Court lifted his eyes to Romano’s face. In any other place and time, if he had been unaware of Ro mano’s business, he would actually have liked the man. But here and now he could not forget that it was men like Romano who put poison onto the streets. Poison that killed kids and wrecked lives. Poison whose only purpose was to allow Romano and others like him to profit from human suffering. It was a man like Romano who had been responsible for the death of Court’s sister, Carly. And, it was Romano’s associates who had killed his best friend and partner, Brett Sanders.

  They’d used a woman to get to Brett, Court recalled. The memory had him vowing silently to be doubly wary of Ms. Buchanan until he knew for certain she was legitimate.

  Now, he met the dark-eyed gaze of the man seated across from him. There was nothing he wanted more than to see the Colombians pay for their crimes. When the shipment that everyone was awaiting finally arrived and the time came to move in, they would pay. They would all pay dearly. He’d promised himself that. Yet, for the moment, Court was forced to bury those feelings and focus on the execution of his job. “When do you need it?”

  “A couple of months. No longer.”

  “I’ll let you know where I set up the accounts.”

  “Fine,” Romano responded with another nod. Snapping the briefcase closed, he set it on the floor near his chair. “There is something else.”

  Court waved a hand in invitation, but said nothing.

  “I have a friend who would like to meet with you. Perhaps to do business. You interested?”

  “A friend?” Court quizzed.

  Romano hedged. “An acquaintance.”

  “Does this acquaintance have a name?”

  “Kostenka. Alek Kostenka.”

  Court concealed his surprise. He’d heard that the cartel was getting into bed with other crime organizations, but he hadn’t expected to encounter a connection himself. Interesting. Court needed to buy himself some time. “I’ll talk to him, but not until I’m back at the office.” His tone made it clear that, at this point, he was promising nothing more than a meeting. He’d pass Kostenka’s name on and see how exactly they wanted him to handle the situation.

  “Good enough.”

  Romano stood while Court notified Ernest that their guest was leaving. Then, grasping his cane, Court retrieved the briefcase, which he placed in the safe concealed behind the wood-paneled wall and turned to show Romano out. Before he had quite caught up with him, Marc opened the study door and stopped short. “Well, well. You’ve been holding out on me, Court,” he said. “Who is this?”

  Court was reasonably certain of the identity of the person who’d prompted the rather enthusiastic question from his client. Nevertheless, he stepped around the edge of the door to check.

  He was right.

  Heather Buchanan stood in the corridor looking ill at ease and much too attractive for her own good. Damn it! Why couldn’t she have stayed out of sight? If she was legitimate, the last thing he wanted was to bring her to the attention of people like Romano. Adjusting his tone to impart a distance he didn’t feel, he said, “Marc Romano this is Heather Buchanan. Ms. Buchanan, Marc Romano.” He met Romano’s questioning gaze. “Ms. Buchanan is my physical therapist…for the present.”

  “Ah.”

  Court waited while Marc extended a hand to Heather and they exchanged pleasantries. Then he asked, “Can I help you, Heather?”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine. I just went out to my car for a second. I’d forgotten one of my cases.” She lifted her hand to reveal a small black hard-sided case. Then, looking at Marc, she said, “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Romano.” Court thought her smile seemed a bit strained. Tense? Afraid?

  Why?

  Marc smiled. “The pleasure was mine, Ms. Buchanan, I assure you.” Then, before she could respond, he turned to Court. “No need for you to see me out with that leg of yours the way it is, Court,” he said. “I’m sure I can find the way.”

  Court nodded and offered his hand in farewell. “A pleasure doing business with you, Marc, as always. Ernest will get
the door.”

  He watched his client head down the hall, and then turned back to Ms. Buchanan. “Well, Heather, since we’re going in the same direction, allow me to carry the case for you.”

  “Oh, no, that’s all right. I’m used to it.”

  “I insist.” Taking the case from her fingers, he turned and began to walk in the direction of the gym leaving her no choice but to fall into step with him. With a slight frown on her forehead, she walked along at his side, staring at the floor. He wondered what she was thinking. Then, as the weight of the case tugged at his arm, he frowned. “What exactly are you carrying in here, Heather? Bricks?”

  “Naw, just my Uzi and my combat boots,” she muttered. The response was glib, automatic.

  That was original! Surprised, Court almost grinned. “Pardon me?” he couldn’t help asking.

  She started visibly at his question. Her head snapped up, her eyes widened and her freckles suddenly stood out with interesting clarity against the paleness of her complexion. Had his tone been that sharp? he wondered. Or did Ms. Buchanan have something to be worried about?

  “Just kidding!” She offered him a smile that looked a bit forced and laughed. “I’m asked that question so often—about my purse and my cases—that I’ve made a habit of just offering the same flippant response every time.”

  Court nodded, but wondered at the flash of apprehension he’d discerned in her eyes. “No need to apologize. I know a joke when I hear one.” What reason had Ms. Buchanan to fear that her offhand response would be taken for anything other than a wisecrack? What did she know, or think she knew?

  He didn’t like the implications involved here. And considering his own situation, he’d better get Edison checking her out as soon as possible.