Undercover with the Enemy

by Christine Michels

  “Shall we go?” he asked. The small diamond stud he wore in his earlobe winked in the light.

  She nodded, and he grasped her elbow to lead her out to the car. Ernest was driving, so she and Court got into the rear seat. It wasn’t a limo, but the luxurious interior certainly made it feel like one.

  Once they were under way, Heather tried to force herself to relax. She found Court’s presence at her side oddly comforting as the blackness of the night enfolded them, but she still didn’t know how she was going to get through this dinner without falling apart. She dreaded her first sight of Herrera and DiMona, with his soulless eyes.

  As though he sensed her turmoil, Court reached across the chaste amount of space separating them to enclose her icy fingers in his large warm hand. “Nervous?” he asked. Was his tone subtly mocking? Or was it her imagination?

  Heather looked at him, but the harsh planes of his face remained characteristically expressionless, revealing nothing in the muted light. She took a breath, reaching for calm. “A bit,” she acknowledged. She refused to fall into the trap of trying to explain. Besides, anybody would be entitled to a little nervousness on a first date, wouldn’t they?

  Thirty minutes later, the car turned into a wide gated drive, and, after the briefest of stops, was waved through. The house they approached was an enormous English Tudor, complete with circular turret on one corner. A stone balustrade, echoing the stone on the house’s facade, surrounded a tiled front patio that led up to a pair of cedar doors. The place was absolutely stunning, but Heather found herself incapable of awe at the moment.

  As Court grasped her arm to lead her toward the house, her stomach knotted into a fist and refused to ease.

  “Heather—” Court said in a low voice.

  She looked at him. “Yes?”

  “You’re as white as a sheet. Is something wrong?” This time there was no mistaking the slightly taunting inflection to his question.

  Heather’s spine stiffened. Did he suspect something? “Of course not.” She shook her head and swallowed as she racked her brain for a believable explanation. “Just nerves. I—I’m not used to this kind of thing. If they go in for tons of silverware, I may not even know what fork to use.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

  “You do?” She looked at him in surprise.

  “Mm-hm,” he returned without elaborating. “Just relax and follow my lead. I won’t abandon you.”

  Yeah, right! The knot in her stomach didn’t ease.

  “And I promise I won’t let anybody eat you,” he assured her.

  Heather stared up into his oh-so-serious face and realized that he was actually teasing her. She forced a smile to her lips. “I’m completely reassured.”

  “Ah, yes. I can tell.”

  The minute they entered the house, Court noticed DiMona standing off to one side observing the guests. He saw DiMona’s gaze flick over the almost nonexistent bulge in his jacket, taking note of the shoulder holster he wore before dismissing him and turning his attention elsewhere.

  It was interesting to watch the Colombian’s counterintelligence man at work. Exquisitely beautiful women rated scarcely a glance from him, unless they made an abrupt move that attracted his attention. The drone of conversation went unheeded, unless a loud or angry word caught DiMona’s notice. Yet, he took inventory of every perfectly tailored suit jacket with a telltale bulge signifying a shoulder holster, and noted every booted foot that might conceal a knife. Nothing escaped the man. Part of that was no doubt due to his training as a cop, but part of it was pure instinct.

  The fact that DiMona was aware that Court was armed didn’t bother him. Romano had once told him that they’d run into stockbrokers and lawyers in the past who suddenly took to carrying guns when they began associating with Aponte’s people. He’d laughed about it, saying that if push came to shove and they ever actually drew their weapon, they were usually shaking so badly they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. And, since DiMona had never seen Court draw his gun, as far as the Colombians were concerned Court was just another lawyer carrying a gun to give himself courage. It was what he wanted them to think.

  Snagging a couple of appetizers from a tray presented by a passing waiter, Court guided Heather around the room stopping to chat here and there as he, too, used his powers of observation. His instincts told him that it was going to be an interesting evening.

  The dinner was interminable. As luck would have it, Heather found herself seated directly across from DiMona. She kept wondering when he would approach her. She was positive that he would: tonight was the night she was supposed to have called him with the information she’d garnered on Court anyway. And she had nothing to tell him.

  Well, not nothing, exactly. But she sensed that what she’d learned was not the kind of information DiMona was looking for.

  “You’re not eating.”

  She started slightly at the male voice so close to her ear and met Court’s observant gaze. “I—I’m really not hungry.”

  “So it would seem. I don’t think you’ve taken a bite.”

  Heather didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She could feel DiMona’s interested scrutiny on her, and her skin crawled.

  “You should try it, Ms. Buchanan,” DiMona said. He smiled, revealing far too many teeth, reminding Heather once again of a shark. Everything about the man was cold, mechanical and deadly. “The prime rib is excellent.”

  Heather nodded and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I will. Thank you.” She barely managed to suppress a heartfelt sigh of relief when a man farther down the table spoke to DiMona, drawing his attention.

  She wondered who the man was. A drug dealer? A killer? Or a simple businessman? Would DiMona and his kind actually associate with people who had no idea what they were behind the facade? Probably—if it suited their purposes. She still didn’t even know what Court did for them.

  Oh, Lord, what was she doing here with these people who wore masks of civility like Halloween costumes? She’d almost allowed herself to forget who Court Gabriele was, and what kind of world he inhabited. He was a compelling man, handsome on the rare occasions when he smiled. He’d treated her well, thus far, and he was certainly an excellent kisser if one could judge by the single kiss they’d shared. But, he was also a man involved with Colombian drug dealers. Who’d even brought her into the home of one of them. And now, she sat across the table from the man who threatened her brother’s life.

  She glanced at DiMona again, to find him observing her almost expectantly. What would she tell him? Would it be enough? If not, where did that leave Des? She lowered her eyes to her plate again.

  As though he sensed her distress, Court reached over to take her hand in his, to stroke her fingers absently while he continued his discussion with Marc Romano across the table. She was startled. Both by his touch and by the way DiMona’s gaze flicked to their clasped hands as though reading some meaning into it. Damn it! What was Court doing?

  But, despite herself, despite the harrowing situation in which she found herself, his touch sent awareness rocketing through every fiber of her being.

  DiMona gave her a sharp look and panic shot through Heather hard on the heels of the awareness, making her heart race. Tugging her fingers from Court’s grasp, she forced a few bites of food past her wooden lips. Oh, no. DiMona wouldn’t hurt Des if he thought she was interested in Court, would he? Or would he think she couldn’t be trusted? Her throat closed at the thought, and she almost choked.

  Des. She couldn’t allow anyone to hurt him.

  Eventually, the dinner ended and Mr. Aponte’s guests congregated by the pool, talking and laughing like guests at a party anywhere.

  Desperately seeking a few moments of solitude and silence, Heather excused herself and made her way to the washroom. She stayed there as long as she dared, but when a pair of laughing and joking women seemed to be waiting outside the door, she left. Nodding to the women, she began to make
her way back to the pool area where she’d last seen Court.

  She’d just passed a grouping of potted palms in a quiet area of the house, when someone grasped her arm.

  Stifling a gasp of surprise as she recognized DiMona, battling the instinct that told her to flee at any cost, she allowed him to tug her into the shadows.

  “So, what do you have for me?”

  Not quite daring to tell him nothing, she summarized what she had learned about Court’s condition.

  “So, he can walk without the cane if necessary?”

  She nodded, feeling terrible about violating patient confidentiality. “Yes, but his leg is quite numb, and the strength unreliable.”

  DiMona nodded. “What else?”

  Heather swallowed, wracking her brain for any tidbit while she dug in her evening bag for the small scrap of paper onto which she’d copied the information she’d found in Court’s room. “I copied this from an address book I found.”

  DiMona nodded, scanning the information, and stuffed it into his pocket. “Anything more? Any strange phone calls, or curious conversations with his staff?”

  Heather shook her head. “None that I heard.”

  “What about your searches? Did you turn up anything?”

  “There are some family pictures on a wall in the living room. They seem to confirm that he’s an only child.” She frowned. “Nothing more than the address book in his bedroom.”

  “What about his office?”

  “I haven’t been able to get into it yet.”

  “Computers?”

  Heather shook her head.

  DiMona stared at her. “You’re going to have to do better, Heather.”

  “I know that, but I’m not a spy, damn it. It’s going to take me some time to figure out how to go about this.”

  “It had better not take too long.” He smiled his cold sharklike smile. “And in the meantime, I’ll drop by the rehab center and take Des some flowers.” He began to turn away, dismissing her.

  Heather grabbed his arm. “You stay away from Des. Do you hear me? Just leave him alone.”

  Taking her hand from his arm, DiMona held it casually in his. “You hear me, little lady. Get close to Gabriele any way you can and find out everything there is to know about him. Keep a diary of his comings and goings, who he meets or talks to, what he says to his staff. Hell, I want to know what he eats for breakfast. You understand?”

  “I’m not his secretary. I only see him for his therapy sessions and at dinner.”

  DiMona looked her up and down and then smirked. “I’m sure an intelligent lady like you can figure out how to get closer to him than that.” Releasing her hand, he stepped away. “If you don’t want me to pay a visit to young Desmond, then you’d better get me something I can use. Meet me at the zoo at 4:00 p.m. in five days’ time. The monkey cage. You got that?”

  Heather nodded and watched DiMona stride away. Then, on shaking legs she made her way back to the party and Court. The man she was supposed to spy on. The only man with whom she felt safe in this den of criminals.

  Chapter 8

  “Join me for a nightcap in the solarium, will you?” Court asked as they entered the house upon their return home. Although phrased as a question, just barely, it wasn’t one.

  Court could tell by her expression that she wanted to refuse, but something stayed her. Nodding, she allowed him to lead her into the solarium where the only illumination was moonlight and muted underwater lighting.

  One thing he was reasonably certain of was that if Heather was working for the Colombians, she was not doing it by choice. He’d caught her expression in a couple of unguarded moments when she looked at DiMona, and he had seen fear reflected there. She’d known exactly what kind of person DiMona was. Of that, Court had no doubt. And that lent more credence to his belief that DiMona was blackmailing her. But how? And even more importantly, to him at least, was why? What did DiMona suspect?

  Court watched her as he poured them each a glass of wine. She appeared pale and fragile in the moonlight. And once again he felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. Which was absurd. For all he knew, once her machinations were complete, he might be the one who needed protecting. Still…

  Somehow, since he couldn’t get rid of her, he had to get close to her. Close enough that she’d confide in him and tell him what was going on. And in that moment, he realized that he was going to do his best to seduce her. Not a hardship certainly. But risky.

  Turning to the stereo behind the bar, he put on some music. The slow-dance kind. Then, as the rich sounds began to flow from the speakers installed throughout the solarium, he carried the glasses of wine over to where Heather stood staring pensively out at the city lights again.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she accepted the glass.

  He studied her. “You’re not very talkative, are you?”

  She offered him a half smile and sipped her wine before responding. “Actually, I think it’s just that I don’t know you well, and I don’t know what you like to talk about, because when I’m with friends I’m told I sometimes talk too much.”

  He looked into her eyes, holding her gaze for a moment, seeking evidence of duplicity. He detected none. “I’d like to become one of your friends, Heather,” he said quietly.

  She caught her breath as though his words had taken her by surprise and then stared up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  He smiled slightly. “Can you use another friend? Or are you up to quota?”

  “I think one can always use more friends,” she murmured. “If they’re the right kind.”

  “And what’s the right kind?”

  She looked at him for the longest time as though weighing her words, and then she simply said, “The kind that don’t hurt you. A true friend.”

  “They are not the same thing, Heather. A true friend will sometimes hurt you in order to save you. Like a man who forces his buddy to face the truth and admit that he’s an alcoholic.”

  Heather turned slightly to stare out at the city lights once more. Then she shrugged slightly. “I suppose you’re right.” Her attitude said that she had dismissed the topic.

  So much for philosophical discussions. He’d have to try another tack. “Will you dance with me, Heather?”

  She whipped around to stare at him. “But, your leg…”

  “My leg will be fine. I’ll keep the knee locked.”

  She continued to stare at him doubtfully. “I guess it would be all right.”

  She made no move to set down her wineglass so he took it from her nerveless fingers and, moving to a nearby patio table, set down both it and his own glass. Then, after propping his cane up against a chair and abandoning it, he extended a hand to her. Once again he saw reluctance in her eyes, but some thing must have been goading her on because, after only a second of hesitation, she accepted his hand and moved into the circle of his arms.

  He held her loosely, knowing that to rush things would only frighten her. It took time for a woman to become accustomed to a man’s touch. Gentleness to keep her from bolting. The problem was that Court wasn’t sure how much time he could afford to spend on this particular seduction.

  The music swirled around them, and even with his rigid leg, he managed a fairly smooth approximation of a waltz. The scent of Heather’s perfume, a slightly exotic gingery scent combined with the more heady scent of jasmine, rose to entice him. He felt the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her gown. Saw the throbbing pulse in her throat that betrayed her nervousness. Sensed her insecurity, her innocence, in the way she avoided meeting his gaze. And he knew that, whatever her reason for being here, Ms. Heather Buchanan was way out of her league.

  But he couldn’t let that stop him. Not with almost two years of work and countless man-hours invested in their current operation. And so, as the music swirled almost magically around them, as moonlight bathed them in its cool, silvery radiance, Court lifted her chin with his fing
er and looked into her eyes. “You’re very beautiful, Heather.”

  Her eyes slid away. “Thank you,” she murmured in a rather perfunctory manner. He recognized the tactic. She was trying to keep an emotional distance. And that was something he couldn’t allow her to do.

  Lifting her chin once more, he studied her face and then slowly lowered his head to capture her lips with his. Soft, full, clinging lips, as succulent as ripe fruit. She didn’t exactly respond to his overture, but she didn’t pull away, either, so he pressed his advantage, increasing the pressure on her mouth, running his tongue over her lips until she opened to him.

  And an instant later, as he basked in her innocent surrender, he forgot why he was doing this. He forgot everything but the blood thrumming through his veins and the desire pulsing in his loins. She really was beautiful.

  The kiss ended, and he surfaced to realize that the music had stopped while the stereo moved to the next CD. It was Heather who reminded him of his purpose. “You’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?” she asked, her tone breathless.

  He stared at her a moment, startled by her directness. “What makes you ask that?”

  She studied him a moment and then said, “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel as though I’m dancing with the devil in disguise.”

  Court watched her expression, wondering what she knew or suspected, but he couldn’t ask. Not without giving himself away. “Perhaps I’ve got a bit of the devil in me,” he suggested. “Most people do, don’t you think?”

  She nodded. “I suppose so.” She was silent for a moment, then added, “Some more than others.”

  The music resumed and Court swept her into a dance again before she could protest. “I’m attracted to you. I won’t pretend I’m not.”

  A blush crept up her cheeks. She was obviously discomfited by the conversation.

  Dancing with the devil. What a strange expression for her to use. And yet, in a way, Court understood exactly what she meant. He’d been dancing with the devil for years. That’s what you did in undercover work. You danced with the devil and prayed that you didn’t get burned. The problem was that the devil wore a lot of masks. Sometimes you didn’t recognize him until it was too late.