The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Karen Leabo

  She could always tell Neil McCormick the truth about his hotshot Special Agent Nichols, maybe arrange for Clint and Jimmy to share a cell. That would fix Clint’s little red wagon.

  But even that wasn’t personal enough. She quickly stripped off her clothes and eased into the steaming water with a sigh of pure, contradictory delight. She supposed what she really wanted was to get even with Clint by making him feel as used and inconsequential as he’d made her feel, to let him know that their idiotic, incredible lovemaking in the laundry room hadn’t meant diddly to her.

  Then again, she was lying in a scented bubble bath in a luxury hotel, contemplating a lobster dinner. It was hard to stay bent out of shape under those circumstances. After all, she could be the one sharing jail space with Jimmy. At least they hadn’t arrested her, even if they were severely hampering her constitutional freedoms.

  As for Clint’s cavalier treatment of her … hell, he was a man on a mission. He’d needed to secure her loyalty, and she knew enough about human nature to realize that the easiest way for a man to bind a woman to him was through sex. Maybe he hadn’t seduced her with that purpose in mind, but it had worked, hadn’t it? She’d helped him get his evidence, and she’d protected him from his own people, all because she’d forged a bond with him. Or so she’d thought.

  She had to face the fact that her adventure was over now, or very nearly so. Despite her best intentions, she had strong feelings for Clint. Perhaps he wasn’t devoid of some fondness for her himself. But how improbable could one relationship be?

  She’d seen it, the silent apology, in the set of his mouth, and the way he wouldn’t quite meet her inquiring gaze. She’d seen that look before. The “I-don’t-want-to-hurt-you, but” look.

  Very well, she thought as she pulled the drain stopper and reluctantly let her dreamy bath slip away. She’d pretend she wasn’t hurt, even though she was. It was hard to let a man like Clint slip through her fingers as if she didn’t care, but it would be harder still to admit her true feelings when she knew how impossible the situation was.

  She made up her mind to try to relax and enjoy the evening. By the next morning, if she could believe what Clint had told her, she could return to her normal life.

  Marissa took her time getting dressed. After the last two days of slapdash grooming, it felt wonderful to brush her teeth, comb conditioner through her hair, rub lotion into every square inch of her skin. Whoever had packed her bag hadn’t included makeup, but just about any other kind of cosmetic she could dream of was there—even a nail file and cotton swabs.

  She was pawing through the plastic cosmetics bag, wondering if there might be any dental floss, when she froze. It couldn’t be.… But yes, the red plastic packet she’d stumbled across was indeed a condom.

  Who had packed this bag, anyway, and on whose orders? she wondered suspiciously.

  Marissa put on the surprisingly fancy underwear, rose pink with touches of black lace, then stepped into the ridiculous dress. It fit as if it had been tailor-made for her, the midnight satin hugging her breasts, waist, and hips like a lover’s caress.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured as she inspected herself. The provocative image in the mirror wasn’t what she really wanted to present to Clint. But she had little choice. It was the dress, or the clothes she’d been wearing for two days.

  She tossed her head. What the hell. Give Clint an eyeful of the sultry vixen he was so willing to use and toss aside, she thought with a saucy smile.

  When she opened the bathroom door, it was Marissa who got an eyeful—Clint in a tux with a wine-colored tie and cummerbund. He was shaved, and his hair was combed. He looked more like a Monte Carlo high-stakes gambler than the rugged, rough-around-the-edges renegade she’d come to know and—and love.

  She savagely pushed that thought aside. It was ridiculous. How could she love someone she’d known only a couple of days? And even if she did, what could she do about it?

  Clint looked over at her and did a double take. “Damn.” His eyes practically bored holes in her.

  She felt suddenly less brazen as his gaze roved over her without the slightest hesitation. “Who packed that suitcase, anyway, Strumpets R Us?”

  “I’m not sure who packed the suitcases, but remind me to thank them.”

  She could feel her face flushing. “I can’t go out in public like this, Clint. This isn’t exactly my usual style.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not going out, then.”

  “But—”

  “I called room service. Neil thinks we should keep a low profile.”

  “We’re a little overdressed for room service,” she said, perching gingerly on the edge of the bed. “But maybe it’s just as well. I didn’t find any dress shoes in my bag.” Which struck her as odd, now that she thought about it. The Bureau had remembered condoms but forgotten shoes?

  Clint could hardly believe his eyes. He’d known Marissa was beautiful, but in that black dress she was a temptress, a seductive witch.

  Maybe Neil was behind the oddly packed suitcases. Hell, maybe he’d even put Marissa up to a seduction, to keep Clint pleasantly occupied over the next few hours.

  Clint, however, refused to let himself be sucked in. Sure, she aroused him. Sure, he could easily lay her down right there and make love to her the way it should have been done in the first place, slowly, with sweet words and lingering kisses. Sure, he could slip those skinny little straps off her shoulders and bury his face in the lush softness of her breasts—

  “Is something wrong?” Marissa asked.

  “What?” He’d been staring at her, probably with his tongue hanging out.

  “You were looking at me as if something was wrong. I thought maybe I had a tag showing.”

  “No, you’re perfect.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so husky, so adoring. “You look fine,” he amended. “How about a glass of wine?” He gestured toward an ice bucket, where a bottle of Chablis nested in ice cubes, waiting to be opened. “It arrived while you were in the tub.”

  Marissa’s eyebrows shot up. “Someone went out of their way to keep us happy and settled firmly in this room tonight. What is the Bureau afraid we’ll do?”

  He saw no reason not to tell her. “I’ve been ordered to stay away from the bust tonight.”

  “Oh, I see.” She swung her bare feet onto the bed and stacked the two pillows behind her back. “Why would you want to be there? I mean, really. It’ll be dangerous.”

  Clint fumbled as he tried to uncork the wine. He was so flustered by the sight of Marissa reclining on the bed that he couldn’t perform even the simplest task. “For eight months I’ve been living and breathing this case. I spearheaded it. I organized the task force. I orchestrated every move we made. And now Neil is cutting me out of the conclusion.”

  “You could be killed,” she said softly.

  “Do you think I care about that?”

  She sighed and looked so sad, it made his throat tight. “Apparently not. I’ll take that wine now.”

  He poured two glasses half full of the golden liquid, then carried them across the room to where Marissa reclined. She appeared relaxed, but there was a certain giveaway tightness around her mouth. He handed her one goblet, then sat on the edge of the bed. Neither of them drank.

  “I need some closure.” If he was going to quit the Bureau, he wanted to go out with a bang. And he’d pretty much decided he needed to quit. He was burned out, over the edge. What he’d done to Marissa had proved that.

  “You’re going anyway,” she said, each word a sharp spear of accusation. “Despite orders.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Figures,” she muttered under her breath. Then she held her glass aloft. “Here’s to testosterone.” She took a long sip of her wine.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  When she answered, it was with an intensity that startled Clint. “You don’t need closure. That’s a bunch of bull. You just want to run around, waving you
r gun and being a big shot. You’re afraid you won’t get credit for all your hard work if you’re not in the middle of the action, risking your life when it’s totally unnecessary.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand. Whether you’re a cop or a gangster, the motivation is the same. You all like to play your little-boy games, only you play for real. People get hurt. You think you’re invincible, but bullets and bombs will break you apart as easily as a bad guy.

  “Why can’t you leave it alone?” Her eyes were shiny with tears. She set her wineglass aside and rubbed angrily at one eye with the heel of her hand.

  Clint set his glass down, too, and took both her hands in his. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  She looked back at him defiantly. “That’s exactly what my father said to me. There’d been phone calls, death threats. I answered the phone one day. It scared me. Papa told me not to worry—that he was a big man, much more important and smarter than the men making the phone calls. We were going to church. I ran back inside to get my money for the collection basket, and there was an explosion, and I never saw my parents again except in very small pieces. So don’t tell me nothing will happen to you. You don’t know that.”

  Clint felt the pain, so poignant even after all these years. He brushed one of her tears away with his thumb, but more followed. “When it comes right down to it, none of us knows when we’ll leave this planet.”

  “But we don’t have to run around doing things to hasten that moment,” she argued. “Oh, never mind. You’ll never listen to me, or anyone else who tells you what you don’t want to hear.”

  “Marissa.” He hated to have her dismiss him so harshly. “Do you really think I’m beyond redemption?”

  “If you go to that bust tonight, if you deliberately put yourself in danger for nothing more than a thrill, then you’re beyond redemption. Or at least beyond anything I can comprehend.”

  Or anyone she could love. She hadn’t said it, but the implication was unmistakable. She was asking him to choose.

  Was she right? Was it purely his ego that drove him to participate in the night’s operation?

  No, came the gut answer. He needed to be there for a reason. He had a feeling, a cop’s sixth sense, that his presence was an essential factor. He also had a feeling—and it didn’t take a genius to figure this one out—that if he and Marissa made love, it would be the last time.

  He touched her face again, wetting his fingers with her tears. She didn’t shy away from his hand, as he’d expected her to do. Instead she turned her head and kissed his palm.

  “Marissa …” He wanted to warn her not to push him too far, but he couldn’t find the right words.

  She held his hand against her face. “Nothing I’ve said has changed your mind?”

  He couldn’t answer her. For the first time he felt a prickle of uncertainty. What was really important, anyway? Was it that crucial to finish what he’d started? A part of him needed to know what had happened, where he’d gone so wrong with Rachelle. But all that sordidness represented his past.

  With a flash of insight, he realized that Marissa was his future. “All right. I’ll stay.”

  She flashed him a smile so brilliant, it almost blinded him, but it quickly faded.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just that … well, I should have learned by now that I can’t reform people, shape them to my satisfaction. It didn’t work with Jimmy.”

  “People do change. It happens.”

  “People change when they truly want to, for themselves. Maybe I’m the one who needs to do some changing.”

  He couldn’t imagine why. She was damn near perfect, as far as he was concerned.

  “Never mind,” she said when he started to point out her perfection. “Will you kiss me?”

  He’d meant to avoid any further sexual contact with her. But there were some invitations a man couldn’t turn down. He leaned closer, eliminating the few inches between them, and captured her smooth, pink lips with his.

  He meant it to be a sweet kiss, a seal of his agreement to stay with her instead of crashing the bust. But it quickly escalated. He tasted the salt of her tears combined with the mellowness of the wine she’d sipped.

  She reached for him and held him fast against her, and suddenly his hands were all over her, trailing against the slick silk of her dress.

  Her breasts were soft, except where her pebbled nipples strained against the bodice. He grazed one of them with his thumb. Her response rippled through the entire length of her body.

  He toyed with the spaghetti straps, thinking that he would do exactly as he’d imagined earlier—slip them off her shoulders and bury his face against the softness of her breasts.

  He never got the chance. Someone knocked at the door. He froze, and Marissa stiffened.

  “Room service,” he whispered. “If we’re very quiet, they’ll go away.”

  “Coming!” Marissa trilled out, then whispered, “Uh-uh, you’re not cheating me out of dinner, no matter how badly I want you out of that tux.”

  TWELVE

  Whew, Marissa thought as a waiter rolled a cart into the room. Without the interruption, she’d have been a goner. Now, at least, she had a few minutes to organize her thoughts and decide whether she really wanted to make love to Clint a second time.

  The waiter put a white cloth on a small table in the corner of the room, quickly adding china, silver, and even a crystal vase with a red rose. Then he began filling the plates, uncovering dish after dish, sending delectable odors wafting through the room.

  Marissa came over to inspect the elegantly appointed table. “You really did order lobster,” she said to Clint.

  “Of course. That was the deal we had.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket to tip the waiter, who nodded discreetly and disappeared.

  Moments later, Clint came up behind her with their wineglasses, reaching around her to set them on the table. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin satin of her dress. When he scooped her hair aside and planted a warm kiss at her neck, she thought her knees would give way. It was a good thing he stopped and pulled a chair out for her. She sat down.

  He claimed the other chair. “Does dinner meet with your satisfaction?”

  “You know it does.” Lobster tail and a petite fillet, rice pilaf with mushrooms, a cup of seafood bisque, a tomato and basil salad, and chocolate-strawberry cheesecake. It was enough to feed a third-world village. “This all seems so civilized. Hard to believe it was only yesterday morning I was handcuffed to a bed in a cheap motel, threatening to emasculate you.” She dug in, using her tiny, three-pronged fork to free a succulent piece of lobster from the shell. She dipped it in melted butter and popped it into her mouth.

  Clint was staring at her. “I’m not feeling all that civilized, myself,” he muttered, savagely cutting into his medium-rare steak.

  Marissa sampled a bit of everything. The velvety bisque was to die for, so she finished it, then picked at everything else until she was full. She drained her glass of wine, and Clint automatically refilled it.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, her fingertips touching his as she took back the glass. She noticed that he’d spent more time watching her eat than eating himself. She tried not to let it unnerve her, but she had the distinct impression she was being stalked. He leaned back in his chair and stared. She stared back, a deer frozen in headlights.

  All right, so she’d forced him to make a difficult decision. It would be excruciating for him to watch the clock, waiting for eleven o’clock, knowing he was missing the action.

  She almost owed it to him to distract him, right?

  It sounded like as good a rationalization as any for what she was about to do. She delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin, then stood and stretched. And with Clint watching her expectantly, she slowly lowered the zipper on her dress. It whispered down her body into a pool of black at her feet, leaving her wearing only the pink pantie
s.

  Clint’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my.”

  He’d think “oh my” when she got through with him. She would kick out the stops and put to use the full power of her seductive abilities. If a panicked coupling in a laundry room could bring them ecstasy, she shivered to imagine what heights they could reach if they worked at it. They might not ever see each other again after the night was over. But, by heavens, she intended to make it a night neither one of them would ever forget.

  She walked over to him, bent down, and untied his shoes, then removed them. She ran her hands up his pants’ legs. He gasped when she reached his hips. She skimmed over them, then up the front of his shirt to the bow tie. She started to untie it, then changed her mind and stood. With her hands propped on the arms of Clint’s chair, she leaned forward, gripped the tie with her teeth, and yanked it untied.

  “I sense a warming trend in this room,” Clint said, his voice unsteady.

  “Mmm, why do you think I took my clothes off?” Marissa asked as she pulled the tie free of his collar and tossed it aside. “Why don’t you stand up so I can undress you?”

  He nearly toppled the chair in his haste to obey her.

  Marissa wasn’t sure where her temptress persona came from. She’d never acted this way before. But somehow she managed to keep her cool as she dispensed with Clint’s jacket, then reached around him, pressing her breasts against the crisp pleats of his shirt as she undid the cummerbund.

  Clint’s hands fluttered at her shoulders, but he dropped them to his sides again as she went to work on his shirt studs. It felt like an eternity passed while she struggled with the stubborn studs, but he didn’t help her. He simply stood there, breathing in and out.

  His shirt fell to the floor, followed by his belt. When she went for the button on his tuxedo pants, he grasped both her wrists in his. “Marissa. Just one thing.” His voice was thick, husky. “We did this once already without protection. I don’t want—”

  “Mmm, it’s a good thing your friends at the Bureau are psychic. They prepared us for any eventuality.”

  “You’re kidding.”