by Maggie Price
Spurlock's gray eyes narrowed as he measured her and Alex with a long, assessing scrutiny. "Please give me a moment to speak privately with my employee," he said, his voice holding the same politeness it had as when he'd escorted them on a tour of his rose gardens. "I'm sure this is a misunderstanding that can be resolved if we all keep cool heads."
"Don't count on it," Alex grated, the muscles in his face looking hard and tense.
"Alex, I'm okay," she soothed. "I really am. We want to get along with our neighbors, so let's give Mr. Spurlock a few minutes."
Alex kept his murderous gaze locked on Colaneri. "If that's what you want, darling."
"It is."
Spurlock dipped his head. "I'll have Chan refresh your drinks while you're waiting." He moved with fluid grace toward the mansion, snapping his fingers when he reached Colaneri. Like a trained dog, the thug turned and limped after his master.
Morgan waited until the men disappeared through the French doors, then sagged against Alex. "Heaven help me, I need to sit down."
He prodded her into a chair, then settled on the one beside hers. He glanced at the door, then leaned in, his eyes glinting with fury. "You okay?"
"Barely. I didn't—"
"Darling." He snagged her hand, placed it over his watch. She felt the fluttering vibration against her palm. Spurlock had activated a listening device the instant he and Colaneri stepped indoors.
She kept her gaze locked with Alex's. "I didn't know what to do," she extemporized. "That gorilla had me shaking like a leaf. Thank goodness Bruno taught all of the girls who worked in his club self-defense."
"Yes," Alex agreed, and placed a hand against her cheek. "Thank goodness for Bruno."
* * *
Hours later Alex sat on the couch in the Donovans' darkened living room, reviewing the events of the night and wondering if Spurlock had truly bought Morgan's story.
When their host returned to the terrace after having a supposed talk with Colaneri, Spurlock had acted totally gracious. Apologetic. Effusive in his request that both Donovans forgive the rude behavior of his employee, who Spurlock assured would be disciplined.
Yeah, right, Alex thought.
Colaneri hadn't shown his face during dinner, or when Spurlock escorted his guests to their car.
To Alex it appeared Spurlock had bought the story he and Morgan had devised. If not, most likely Colaneri would have been on the evening's dinner guests like hot sweat.
Alex hoped to hell he was right, and that his and Morgan's cover was still intact. In this line of work, he could never be one hundred percent sure.
Dressed only in pajama bottoms, Alex leaned back on the couch and stared unseeingly across the room at the black-and-white war movie flickering on the big-screen TV. Working undercover was the equivalent of living in a world infected with murderers, thieves, drug pushers, addicts, pimps and whores. Some of who thought no more of killing someone than they would have of squashing a bug. The very nature of the work was loaded with danger. Over the years Alex had experienced numerous close calls, both for himself and his various partners.
Like tonight.
Closing his eyes, he raked a hand through his hair. He had known all along Morgan could take care of herself physically. That was one reason he had spent hours sitting in the gym at the academy, observing her during self-defense training. He knew she was every bit as capable of protecting herself as he was.
Tonight that knowledge hadn't seemed to matter. Not when he had wanted to rip out Colaneri's heart for what the scum had done to her. The bastard hadn't even touched her, and Alex wanted to kill him.
Even now, hours later, the urge was so strong it shocked him.
He could maybe get by with telling himself his reaction was normal. Write it off as a partner's instinct to protect. But he knew it was more, much more. This time, against all reason, against his considerable will, he found himself half-obsessed with a woman who happened to be his partner.
And that made him nearly as dangerous as the scum they were after.
He could continue to remind himself Morgan McCall was not his type, but that didn't stop him from wanting her. He could keep shoving thoughts of her into the back of his mind, but even then she continued to pull at him. She was a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman who had earned his respect, and he'd already had a taste of her. Even if he fooled himself into believing there was a place for her in his life, and he in hers, he knew she would not stay with him long.
And that was the problem.
Where all he had wanted since his divorce were brief sexual flings, he knew that wouldn't be enough for him this time. Not near enough, not with Morgan.
He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. She was upstairs in her bedroom. The instant they returned home, they had settled in the study—with the desk separating them—and she'd debriefed him on what had transpired between her and Colaneri. She had been totally calm, her voice level, her expression businesslike. Later she excused herself to go write her report on the incident. Alex figured by now the report was written, signed and efficiently filed with the other paperwork in the writing desk's hidden compartment.
If Morgan had been anyone else, he would go upstairs, knock on her bedroom door and assure her again she had handled the encounter with the goon just right. Then he would ask if she needed to talk things out again over a cup of coffee. Do whatever it took to make sure she was handling the aftereffects of the event okay.
But Morgan wasn't just anyone. Dealing with her involved a lot more complications than those that came with the job. So he would do them both a favor and stay on the couch, staring at the TV screen where tanks rolled across a snow-covered hill. While he was there, he would continue to remind himself that a cop seasoned in undercover work was damn well capable of suppressing his emotions and controlling his feelings.
Even if that knowledge did nothing to ease the tightness in his lower body.
* * *
When Alex opened his eyes the following morning, he was still sacked out on the couch, and the living room was bathed in sunlight.
He sat up stiffly and winced when pain shot up his neck and his head began aching like a fresh wound.
Narrowing his eyes against the glare coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he noted that a TV talk show with a bubbly redheaded hostess had replaced the black-and-white war flick. Snagging the remote off the coffee table, he aimed it at the TV and silenced Miss Perky.
He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw and winced when pain razored across his forehead. The last time he'd had a headache that was almost off the scale, it had been part of a well-deserved hangover.
All he'd had to drink last night was water.
"Damn," he muttered when he rose and got hit by a wave of light-headedness. Rubbing his temples, he headed for the kitchen, figuring a hit of Morgan's strong, fresh-ground coffee was what he needed to clear the thick, sticky cobwebs that had spun in his brain during the night.
He halted in front of the coffeepot and scowled. For the first time since they'd moved in, Morgan hadn't made coffee. Because he hadn't bothered learning how to operate the bean grinder, he was out of luck.
Still scowling, he turned and swept his gaze across the cooking island. He'd hoped to find a plate of fresh muffins, a basket of rolls, maybe a platter of just-baked bread. Nothing. Nor did the air hold the warm, spicy scent of cooking that had greeted him every morning.
He was aware now of the silence around him, broken only by the distant, low hum of the central air-conditioning system.
He'd left his watch on the coffee table in the living room, so he checked the clock over the range. It was after ten. Late even for him to sleep.
Morgan would have been up for hours. Should have been up.
His cop's sixth sense tightened his gut as he walked across the kitchen. He had activated the security system last night; now, the red light on the alarm's control panel glowed back at him. Morgan always turned off the system each morning before go
ing out for her run. If she'd acted according to habit this morning, the green light would be glowing, not the red.
Thinking she might have reset the alarm when she left to jog, Alex stabbed in the code to disarm the system, pulled open the French doors and walked out on the flagstone terrace. It was the first day of July; the air was still as death, already thick and hot. The water in the swimming pool sparkled like diamonds beneath the blazing morning sun.
He knew Morgan usually left a towel draped over one of the chairs so she could swim after finishing her run. Today there was no towel.
No Morgan.
A cold fist of apprehension tightened his chest. Something was wrong. Everything around him felt wrong.
Whipping around, he strode back into the kitchen while fresh pain knifed through his temples.
"Dammit," he hissed. He hadn't had any alcohol, so his problem wasn't a hangover. His stomach wasn't roiling, so he hadn't picked up a bug.
He paused just inside the kitchen, scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw and forced his aching brain to work. Could this heavy, lethargic feeling be the aftereffect of a drug? Had he been drugged? If so, when? Not at Spurlock's, he was almost sure. He'd been careful to drink only water from a bottle he'd opened himself. Morgan had sipped champagne poured from the same bottle from which Spurlock had served himself. The food had been served buffet-style and tasted fine. Neither he nor Morgan had experienced any aftereffects during the hours after they'd eaten.
All the logic in the world didn't hold back the familiar stab of awareness in Alex's gut that always warned him of danger. Had Spurlock not bought Morgan's story and somehow broken their cover? Had one of his thugs somehow bypassed the alarm system during the night, drugged him and gotten to Morgan?
Hurt her. Killed her.
Alex's jaw clamped tight against the possibility. He had to focus, he told himself, shoving back cold panic. He wouldn't—couldn't—let his mind start imagining the worst. Not until he knew for sure.
He closed the French doors and set the lock. Now the silence in the house seemed ominous. Overwhelming. He pulled open a drawer, withdrew a knife. He nestled the long blade against the inside of his right wrist to keep it out of sight, then moved silently out of the kitchen and down the hallway.
He passed through the living room where he'd spent the night, walked down another hallway past the study. Nothing looked out of place, he could see no surface signs that a search had been conducted. He stepped into the foyer, the marble floor cold against his bare feet.
He glanced at the hidden panel beneath the staircase that guarded the small room in which Wade Crawford had installed numerous monitors and VCRs. Alex would know for sure if someone other than Morgan and he had been inside the mansion by watching the tapes recorded from the cameras placed in various rooms. First, though, he had to find Morgan.
The sense of urgency, the brutal need to hurry intensified as he moved to the staircase. There, he glanced up, then froze. The red LED light in the smoke alarm Crawford had outfitted with a radio frequency detector strobed in two-second intervals. The flashing light signaled that at least one audio bug had been planted in the mansion.
Alex had checked the unit after he and Morgan returned from Spurlock's, and the light hadn't been flashing. Confirmation that someone had breeched the mansion's security system during the night brought Alex a rush of useless emotions—anger, outrage, a hated sense of vulnerability.
Had Colaneri been the person who'd been inside? The bastard was violent, vicious and had a grudge against Morgan.
Fighting for calm and logic, Alex told himself the bug had been planted so conversations between him and Morgan could be overheard. He sent up a prayer that she was alive to have those conversations.
He kept repeating the prayer, a tape-loop of reassurance against the dread curling in his gut.
Although he wanted to rush to find her, years of training forced him to pause at the top of the staircase. Holding his breath, he listened for movement, strained to hear any sound past the pounding ache in his head. He checked the long, carpeted hallway in both directions. All the doors stood open, except the one to the master bedroom—Morgan's room. Alex knew he needed to search the entire mansion to make sure whoever had gotten in was gone. He would do that, as soon as he found Morgan.
His lungs working overtime, he tightened his grip on the knife and edged along the hall, keeping his back to one wall. He paused at the door to the master bedroom, took a controlled breath to counteract the twisting in his stomach, then turned the knob.
His heart simply stopped when he saw Morgan sprawled facedown on the bed, a pool of crimson surrounding her.
Chapter 12
With his stomach encased in ice and his heart paralyzed, it took an instant for Alex to realize the crimson pooling over the bed wasn't blood. It was Morgan's robe.
That knowledge didn't stop the fear he felt for her from spiking inside him.
He did a quick crouch to make sure no one was hiding under the bed, then he rushed across the room, his gaze flicking toward the walk-in closet then to the adjoining bathroom. Although he didn't sense another presence, he knew whoever had broken in could be hiding in either location, waiting to ambush him.
Getting to Morgan first was a chance he had to take.
The minute he touched her, felt the heat in her skin, relief poured through him.
She was alive.
"Morgan?" He laid the knife on the nightstand, gripped her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. "Morgan."
When she didn't respond, he placed his fingertips against the pulse point of her throat and realized his hand was trembling.
Her pulse beat steadily, but when he brushed her long hair away from her cheeks her face looked too still, too white.
His breath came fast and harsh as he gripped her shoulders, pulled her up and gave her a gentle shake. "Morgan!"
Her eyes fluttered open, shut.
"Babe, wake up." Seeing the glazed look in her eyes confirmed his suspicions they'd both been drugged. But he had no idea how, or with what. If they both received the same dosage, her smaller build probably meant the drug had a deeper effect on her.
He had one moment of dread when he thought about the possibility she'd been raped by whoever planted the audio bugs. But her crimson robe was belted tight and her nightgown flowed to her ankles, both signs she hadn't been physically assaulted.
She groaned when he dragged her up against the pillows and tapped a hand against her cheek. "Morgan, open your eyes. Look at me."
Her hand flailed, knocking his away. "Leave…me alone." Her voice sounded weak and thready.
He grabbed the knife, again nestling the blade against the inside of his right wrist. He did a quick inspection of the bathroom and walk-in closet. They were clear.
He shut the bedroom door, locked it and moved back to the bed, sparing a look at the desk which, thankfully, appeared untouched. He considered retrieving their weapons from its hidden compartment, but decided against it. If audio bugs had been planted throughout the mansion, that left open the possibility a few wireless surveillance cameras had also been left behind. A camera could be filming them right now. The last thing he and Morgan needed was someone on the outside watching them conduct a police-type search of the place with their service weapons drawn.
Since they were both still alive, Alex figured their cover remained intact. He wasn't going to blow things now.
"Darling, wake up," he prodded, keeping his voice light for the benefit of anyone listening. When she tried to roll away, he slid an arm under her shoulders, his other under her knees and lifted her. "We both overslept," he added as he headed toward the bathroom.
He had to get her out of microphone range—he knew she would be disoriented when she came to, and might blurt something about being a cop. He also needed to tell her what happened so they could plan what to do next.
"A cold shower should help get our blood going, don't you think?" he asked. With her head pillowed
against his shoulder, he moved into the bathroom, shoved the door closed with one foot, then set the lock.
Somewhere in the hazy recesses of her mind, Morgan felt herself being carried as she drifted up toward consciousness and a painful pounding in her head. "No…"
"Darling, trust me, a cold shower is the way to go. For both of us."
Alex's voice sounded a great distance away, but how could that be when he was carrying her? Carrying her.
She forced her eyes open, tried to focus, but his face was wavy, like images in a mirage. She felt groggy, and searing pain was shooting up from the base of her skull. Even her tongue felt thick. "What…happened?"
Alex shifted her weight. "We overslept," he murmured against her ear as he used his free hand to pull open the door of the shower constructed of wavy glass blocks. He twisted knobs; water sprayed, echoing against the glass enclosure. "We've been drugged. At least I think we have."
His words sparked an instinctive sense of urgency at the edges of her awareness, but her entire body felt like a lead weight, and she didn't seem able to move. Couldn't think past the pain that now pulsed behind her eyes. She grimaced. "My head…"
"It'll clear," he said. "This ought to help us both," he added, then stepped under a spray of water that was as cold as winter.
Morgan yelped, her eyes popping open.
"My exact sentiments," Alex grated through clenched teeth, before sticking his own head under the spray.
"Christ," he muttered, giving his head a shake. He adjusted the knobs; seconds later the blasting spray heated.
"Someone broke in last night," he whispered over the hiss of the water and clouds of steam that began curling around them.
While water streamed over their bodies, Morgan forced herself to concentrate on Alex's voice, the meaning behind his grim words. Someone had somehow managed to drug them. He, she or they had gotten past the security system, planted audio bugs, maybe cameras inside the mansion.
Fear welled inside her as she used an unsteady hand to drag her wet hair away from her face. "He…they could…have killed us."