Her Last Chance

by Michele Albert

  Stuart Wilcox was the other tour guide—and, like Russ Noble, he was only a tour guide, not an operative masquerading as a guide.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We stayed up late last night going over plans for today, then headed to our rooms. When he didn’t come down for breakfast, I figured he’d overslept or wasn’t feeling well. I went to check his room, and he wasn’t there. I’ve looked all over for him, but he’s just gone. It doesn’t look like his bed was even slept in.”

  “Have you gone to the police?”

  “Yes, hours ago. They’re looking into it, but so far nothing’s turned up, and I have twenty-four people wondering what’s going on. What do you want me to do?”

  “Sit tight. I’ll get a replacement down there as soon as possible, along with a lawyer to make sure everyone’s taken care of.” Those tourists had paid very well for their privately guided trip; they needed to be kept happy. “What have you told your group about the delay?”

  “I told them that Stuart got sick and we took him to the hospital but that we wouldn’t be delayed long and the itinerary should remain unchanged. They don’t know he’s missing yet, but if the police don’t find him soon and this hits the local news, they will.”

  “All right, you’re doing good so far. Keep to your story, but tell them Stuart’s too sick and the company is sending a replacement; they’ll be reimbursed for any losses. That should keep them from getting too restless until the new guide arrives. After that, you just get back on schedule like nothing happened.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me informed if you hear anything else. I’ll give you my secretary’s direct number. Even if I’m out of the office, she’ll get a message to me right away.” Ben gave the guide Ellie’s main number, asked for the name and number of the police official who was handling Wilcox’s disappearance, and then hung up.

  “Goddammit.” With a sigh, Ben called Ron Levine’s cell. When he answered, Ben said, “We have trouble in Peru, and I need you down there right away.”

  A brief silence followed. “Good thing I haven’t unpacked from the last trip. What’s happened?”

  “One of my guides, Stuart Wilcox, has gone missing.”

  “Local trouble?”

  “Probably, but we need to get a replacement down there fast and soothe any feathers before they get ruffled. Do whatever’s necessary to keep the hikers happy. You’ll have to follow up with the police. Hopefully they’ve already alerted the U.S. authorities.”

  “Who’s going to contact the missing guide’s family?”

  Ben briefly closed his eyes, dreading the call. “Me.”

  “Power has its privileges and its price,” Levine said. “I take it I’ll get the private jet?”

  “Yes. Ellie will handle the travel details, but tracking down a replacement guide might take a little time.”

  “No problem,” Levine said. “It’ll give me a chance to brush up on Peruvian law. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of your hikers, and I’ll do everything I can to find Wilcox and get him back home. One way or another.”

  Dead or alive, in other words. “Keep me posted.”

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday evening, Philadelphia

  Claudia walked into the lobby bar fifteen minutes late. To her annoyance, she couldn’t make any kind of grand entrance because the place was packed with attendees from an art history convention. She had nothing against cutting loose and having a good time, but she wished they’d picked another weekend.

  If Vincent hadn’t found a table, would he have decided to stick around anyway? If he’d already left, she’d wasted her efforts to find the perfect SLBD—slinky little black dress—not to mention spent more time than she cared to admit on her hair and makeup. Why she’d gone to such trouble, she didn’t know. He’d probably show up in his usual work suit, all black and white, severe and faintly rumpled.

  All the things that perversely drew her to him.

  Moving through the crowd of chatting conference goers, smiling politely at the compliments sent her way by tongues loosened with booze, she searched for Vincent and finally glimpsed him. Relief rushed through her, then satisfaction at the prospect of making him squirm for arresting her. Yes, she’d broken a law, but it was a stupid law when it came to people like her, and he knew it.

  As Claudia threaded her way past the bodies, a hand landed too close to her ass to be accidental and a man’s laughing voice said, “Honey, that’s some dress!” She gritted her teeth and kept moving, resisting the urge to slug the creep. She managed to go only a few more feet before someone bumped into her from behind forcefully enough to knock her forward, and she nearly fell.

  Holding on to her temper—and a string of profanity—she turned to see a woman with dark mahogany hair stumble past her, too drunk to notice what she’d done. The woman wore a red dress that played up her long legs. Helluva tall girl.

  As Claudia turned away, the tall woman was joined by a petite, dark-haired woman in polka dots, who shrugged and flashed a smile as if apologizing for her companion’s clumsiness. At least someone in this mob still had manners.

  Claudia finally reached Vincent without any spilled drink adventures, additional grabby hands, or high-heeled contact sport. He didn’t notice her approach and she took the opportunity to soak him in shamelessly.

  It never failed to make her heart beat faster, all that lean, sleek darkness; all that tense, restless energy escaping through the long fingers turning his beer bottle in circles; and the tips of those polished black shoes tapping against the barstool footrest.

  What would it take from her to release all that tension and energy until he lay languid and smiling?

  Hmmm . . . her plans to make him squirm were turning more lustful than vengeful. Stupid hormones; they short-circuited her righteous ire with this man every damn time.

  Claudia smoothed her dress, shook back her hair, put a smile on her face, and then squeezed between Vincent and the overweight man in a suit beside him. She couldn’t avoid brushing her breasts against Vincent’s arm; it was either that or her ass brushing against the hefty guy.

  Vincent’s eyes widened a fraction when he saw her, focusing temporarily on her cleavage before moving upward. His rueful smile tickled a heat deep inside her.

  “Hey,” he said in greeting.

  “Hey, yourself. You’re actually here. I expected you to stand me up.”

  “Same thought occurred to me.”

  “Really? This from the guy who accused me of trying to tempt him to the dark side the other night? You know, that made me feel like . . . Lex Luthor or something. Which is okay, because I liked Lex. Superman’s a boring little prick, but Batman—now, I can relate to the Bat.”

  Uh-oh; not good . . . she was already babbling!

  Vincent’s smile widened to a grin. “Somehow I’m not shocked that vigilantes are more your type.”

  She shrugged and watched as his fascinated gaze dropped to her breasts again. Exactly the effect she wanted. She intended to maintain control in this encounter, no matter what.

  “So the vigilantes weren’t your type?” she asked.

  “I liked Batman comics when I was a kid.”

  “I’m having a hard time imagining you as a kid, Vincent.” A lie; she knew without a doubt he’d been a cute little brat. If nothing else, those long, curling lashes would’ve looked less out of place on a boy than they did on her all-grown-up FBI Man. She had fantasies about those lashes, imagined them tickling along her skin as he kissed his way down her body. “Were you this competitive and humorless even back then?”

  He took a swig of his beer, brow raised. “I can’t imagine you as a little girl, either. I figure you came out of the womb with stiletto heels and a sneer.”

  Claudia winced. “Ouch.”

  “Nice dress,” he said, with a predatory grin and a gleam in his eyes. “What little there is of it.”

  “Why, thank you. Coming from you, that’s almost sweet.
” His reaction amused her, yet it stirred surprise and unease. It was so easy to hit a verbal rhythm with this man, and she was liking it far too much. “Had a few beers while you were waiting, huh?”

  “Yeah. Come to think of it, I’ve been spending a lot of time in bars this week.”

  “Is this a bad thing?”

  Vincent seemed to consider the question, absently twirling his bottle. “Depends on the bar and the company.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, too.” She helped herself to a swig from his beer, then licked her lips, gratified when his face went slack with purely male appreciation. “By the way, Vincent, I notice you’re avoiding most of my questions.”

  “You’re also avoiding most of mine.”

  “True. At the rate we’re going, we’ll exhaust ourselves with small talk long before we get to the fun stuff.”

  He turned slightly to face her—and squeezed so closely together, Claudia found the full force of his dark gaze unnerving. He did not, however, rise to the bait.

  Well, the night was young, and “fun” with Vincent DeLuca covered a helluva lot of territory.

  “Sooo,” Claudia said after a moment, drawing out the word. “Why are you here? You made it clear the other night that amoral trash like me aren’t up to your White Knight standards.”

  “Going straight for blood, as always.”

  “It saves time,” she said, then grimaced as an elbow hit her in the back. “Maybe we should take this conversation elsewhere.”

  “Did you have someplace in mind?”

  Most certainly, probably the exact place he was thinking of, even though it might be a very bad idea. Instead, she said, “The dance floor.”

  “FBI agents don’t dance. We just lurk and glower.”

  She laughed. “Okay, finish your beer, DeLuca. To preserve the dignity of the Bureau, we’ll talk in my room.”

  “You sure you don’t want something to drink? I’ll buy.” He tipped his head to one side. “Looks like you went to a lot of trouble to dress up for this, and unless you have somewhere else to be tonight, there’s no rush.”

  “Is that a subtle way of asking if I have a date later?”

  “No, that was my obtuse way of saying you look nice.”

  “Oh.” Taken by surprise, she needed a moment to register his faintly expectant smile. She cleared her throat. “Thanks. To answer your question, I’ll pass on the drink. There’s too many people here. Someone’s either gonna spill their drink down my cleavage or cop another cheap feel, and I’m not sure I’d even notice.”

  Vincent shifted for a better look at the big guy next to her. “I see the problem.”

  Going to her room was a practical alternative. It was quiet and close by. Dinner was only a room-service call away. The room had a minibar and a table and two chairs. Even if the focal point was the king-size bed.

  The odds were good that they’d end up in that bed. She’d been playing with the possibility on and off for four long months, and judging by the signals Vincent had sent her way, he shared her thoughts.

  Did she want to go there? A rush of heat and an aching need were her answer.

  As they moved through the packed bodies, Vincent’s hand settled on the small of her back, and Claudia barely held off a shiver. If he could do that to her with just a polite touch, what would it be like when he was inside her?

  She wore nothing beneath the dress except a black thong. Easy access for him to slip one of those long fingers under the silky band along her hip, move down along the inside of her thigh, and—

  Whoa, whoa; slow down! She wanted him, and she’d have him—but she had work to do first, and indulging in fantasies wasn’t helping her focus.

  The reminder of work brought another problem to mind. Sleeping with the enemy was off-limits, unless it was part of an assignment, and even then Ben left the decision to the operative. While not shy about using her looks to her advantage, Claudia had never gone that far, and no way could she explain this as anything but self-indulgence.

  Still, Sheridan was just the man who employed her; she had the right to hit the sheets with anyone she wanted.

  Except . . . if not for Ben Sheridan, her grandparents might never have had a chance to become legal. He’d taken care of their situation simply as a courtesy toward her, changing the lives of her family overnight with casual ease. For that alone, Sheridan had her loyalty. Not to mention providing her a last chance to get it right after her career careened out of control in Dallas.

  “Must be some heavy-duty thinking going on up there.” Vincent’s quiet voice broke through her thoughts as they crossed the lobby. “Anything that means trouble coming my way?”

  “What do you know about my boss?” Claudia asked abruptly.

  Surprise flashed in his eyes; then he dropped his hand from her back as he moved up beside her. “Enough to know I don’t like him.”

  “A word of warning, Vincent. That feeling is mutual.”

  “Ben Sheridan doesn’t scare me.”

  “He should. If he puts his mind to it, he can be very unpleasant. Just keep that in mind; that’s all I’m saying.” God, she hated being caught between her loyalty and her own desires again. “Come on. The elevator’s this way.”

  The elevator was packed with conference goers, ending further conversation. She had no choice but to press against Vincent, close enough that she could feel him breathing, feel his heart beating. His heat surrounded her, his belt buckle pressed against the small of her back—and something else pushed against her bottom.

  As Claudia glanced around the elevator, checking to see if anyone had picked up on the lust she swore must be zinging in the air, she met the gaze of a woman about her age.

  “Your dress is gorgeous. I wish I had the body to wear something like that. And the nerve.” The woman’s eyes met Vincent’s, and she smiled knowingly. “I sure hope he appreciates your efforts.”

  “He does.”

  Claudia didn’t turn to look at Vincent, but she heard the amusement in his voice, and, to her amazement, heat suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t blushed like this since her quinceañero, in her frothy white gown and twinkling tiara, dancing with Papi as her mami dabbed away proud tears. She’d felt as beautiful as any princess, finally a grown-up woman, spinning wild dreams all through the night . . .

  So many years had gone by, so much had happened. She no longer recognized that girl in herself, and had stopped looking for her a long, long time ago.

  The elevator lurched to a stop on every floor from the lobby to the eighth, her floor. Whenever the door opened with a soft chime, people shuffled and squeezed as a few wiggled out and others wiggled in; while she wasn’t deliberately teasing Vincent by pressing against him, the end result was pretty much the same.

  It was a miracle that neither of them combusted right there.

  Finally, the door chimed on her floor and she snaked her way out, Vincent close behind her for obvious reasons. Imagining what might be going through his mind right now made it difficult not to smile. Tonight’s dress had served its purpose well.

  He stepped aside as she ran the card through her door slot, and then they were inside in the cool darkness. Claudia felt around for the light switch, filling the room with a pale glow.

  “Much better! Philadelphia in the summer, the city of conventions. I should’ve arranged to meet you elsewhere.”

  Vincent, hands in his pockets, followed her farther inside. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m used to crowds.”

  “Really?” Claudia debated where to sit and finally leaned against the bureau. With the mirror behind her, he could have an unobstructed view of front and back. It also kept him in plain sight, exactly where she wanted him. “I would’ve pegged you for the crowd-avoidance type.”

  “I get along great with people. I even give talks and seminars at conventions, universities, and museums. We Art Squad guys make nice with the general public. Unlike your people.”

  Ah, yes. Back to that. “Vincent, be
fore we go any further, you really need to answer my question. When I asked to work with you, you turned me down flat. The reason you gave basically comes down to I’m working for the spawn of Satan. So what’s with the big change of heart, and why should I believe you aren’t just making nice so you can screw me over?”

  Perhaps not the best choice of words. An awkward moment passed before she added, “By that, I mean take my work and use it for yourself. The other kind of screwing isn’t likely to piss me off. Not if you do it right, anyway.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m no stranger to blunt women, but you take the prize. And you’re right. I owe you an answer.”

  “Yeah, and an apology wouldn’t be such a bad idea, either.”

  Loudly blowing out a breath, Vincent said, “I’m not going to apologize for my belief in basic ethics, or for trying to hold on to it as best I can in a world that doesn’t seem to care much about anything.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that. I never would. All I want is for you to add a little more gray to that black-and-white view of yours.”

  He leaned against the wall opposite her. “Fair enough. And, in the spirit of fairness, I apologize for acting as if what I did was for any other reason than to prove a point.”

  “Which would be that you’re the one with the genuine, USA-government-approved power and authority.” When he shrugged, still obviously uncomfortable, Claudia sighed. “I know what I am, Vincent, and I have no illusions that what I do doesn’t skirt the edge of legalities and ethics.”

  “And what you do is something I can’t support. No, wait. Let me finish.” He raised his hand. “I’m still working through this in my head, but I admit I haven’t been straight with you. Maybe I can’t fully support your methods, but I’m trying to accept that your way of working is part of a reality, even if it’s a reality I don’t want to see.”

  The honesty stirred her sympathy, and what little anger still lingered, faded. “Avalon wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t a need for it. There’s been a need for it for a very long time.”