Prince Joe

by Suzanne Brockmann

  It was her. It was Veronica.

  Over his earphone, Joe could hear Cowboy. "Whoo-ee, boss, babe alert at eleven o'clock!"

  Sweet God! Veronica looked... out of this world. The dress she was wearing was black and long, made of a soft silky fabric that clung to her every curve. Two triangles of black barely covered her breasts, and were held up by two thin strips of fabric that crossed her shoulders and met between her shoulder blades, at the cutaway back of the dress. There was a slit up the side of the skirt, all the way up to the top of her thigh, that revealed flashes of her incredible legs. Her shoes were black, with high, narrow heels that were a polar opposite to the clunky-heeled pumps she normally wore.

  She was wearing her hair up, piled almost haphazardly on top of her head, with stray curls exploding around her face.

  "Tell me, Your Majesty, does Veronique know how you feel?" Talandra whispered into his ear.

  Startled, he glanced at her. "Excuse me?"

  She just smiled knowingly and crossed the room toward Veronica.

  "Yeah, Your Majesty," Harvard said over Joe's earphone as Joe watched Veronica greet her old friend with a warm hug and kiss. "You might want to keep that royal tongue inside your royal mouth, do you copy that?"

  Joe couldn't see Cowboy or Harvard, but he knew that wherever they were, they could see him. But what exactly did they see? And what had Talandra seen in his face that made her make that very personal comment?

  Was he that transparent? Or was this just the way being in love was? Was it impossible to hide? And if so, could Veronica see it just as easily? If so, he was in big trouble here.

  Veronica turned her head, about to glance in his direction, and he abruptly turned away. He'd have to stay far, far away from her. He'd already revealed way too much this afternoon, when he'd talked to her on the phone. And damn it, he was trying hard not to be in love with her. How tough could it be? After all, he'd spent nearly his entire life not in love with Veronica. It shouldn't be too difficult to get back to that state.

  What was love, anyway, but a mutated form of lust? And he'd easily walked away from women he'd lusted after before. Why, then, did his legs feel as if they were caught in molasses when he tried to walk away from Veronica?

  Because love wasn't lust, and love wasn't something a man could turn off and on like a faucet. And he was crazy in love with this woman, no matter that he tried to convince himself otherwise.

  And God, if she found out, her gentle pity would kill him.

  "Hell, boss," Cowboy said. "She's heading straight toward you, and you're running a way?"

  "You've got it backward, Cat," Harvard chimed in. "A woman like that walks in your direction, you stand very, very still."

  Blue's south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line accent made his voice sound gentle over Joe's earphone, but his words were anything but. "You boys gonna enjoy explaining to Admiral Forrest how you got Joe Cat killed while you were watchin' women instead of watchin' for T's?"

  Cowboy and Harvard were noticeably silent as Joe moved around the corner into an enormous room with a hardwood floor.

  It was the ballroom—not that he'd ever been in a ballroom in a private house before. But it was pretty damn unmistakable. A jazz trio was playing in one corner, the furniture was placed around the edges of the room and people were out in the middle of the floor, dancing. This had to be the ballroom. It sure as hell wasn't the bathroom or the kitchen.

  Joe headed for a small bar set up in the far corner, across from the band. The bartender greeted him with a bow.

  "Your Highness," the young man said. "What can I get for you?"

  Whiskey, straight up. "Better make it a ginger ale," Joe said instead. "Easy on the ice."

  "I'll have the same," said a familiar voice behind him. It was Veronica.

  Joe didn't want to turn around. Looking at her from a distance had been hard enough. Up close, that dress just might have the power to do him in.

  He closed his eyes briefly, imagining himself falling to his knees in front of her, begging her to... what? To marry him? Yeah, right. Dream on, Catalanotto.

  He forced a smile and made himself turn. "Ms. St. John," he said, greeting her formally.

  She smiled up at him. Light gleamed off her reddish gold hair, and her eyes seemed to sparkle and dance. She was unbelievably beautiful. Joe couldn't imagine that at one time he'd thought her less than gorgeous.

  She lifted her hand, and he took it automatically, bringing it halfway to his lips before he realized what he was doing. God Almighty, all those hands he'd pretended to kiss over the past few days... But this time, he wasn't going to have to pretend. He brought Veronica's hand to his mouth and brushed his lips lightly across her delicate knuckles.

  He heard her soft intake of breath, and when he glanced up, he could see that her smile had faded. Her blue eyes were enormous, but she didn't pull her hand away.

  Joe stood there, like an idiot, staring into eyes the colour of the Caribbean Sea. Her gaze flickered down to his lips and then farther, to the pin he wore in his lapel—the pin that concealed the microphone that would broadcast everything they said to the surveillance truck, the FInCOM agents and the SEALs.

  Joe heard only silence over his earphone, and he knew they were all listening. All of them. Listening intently.

  "How are you, Your Majesty?" Veronica asked, her voice cool and controlled.

  Joe found his own voice. "I'm well, thanks," he said. Damn, he sounded hoarse, and not an awful lot like Prince Tedric. He cleared his throat, then moistened his dry lips, and realized that Veronica's eyes followed the movement of his tongue. God, was it possible that she wanted to kiss him...?

  Her eyes met his, and something flamed—-something hot, something molten, something that seared him to his very soul, something that made his already dry mouth turn into something resembling the floor of Death Valley.

  Veronica gently disengaged her hand from his and reached to take one of the glasses of ginger ale from the bar. "Have you met my friend Talandra?" she asked him.

  "Yeah," Joe said, catching himself and correcting himself by saying, "Yes. Yes, I have." He concentrated on doing the Ustanzian accent. But as he watched, she took a delicate sip of her soda and all he could think about were her lips. And the soft curves of her creamy skin, and of her breasts, exposed by the fabulous design of that dress. "She seems... nice."

  Their eyes met, and again, he was hit by a wave of heat so powerful it nearly knocked him over.

  Veronica nodded politely. "Yes, she is."

  What kind of game was this?

  She turned to watch the dancers, and her arm brushed against his. She smiled an apology and moved slightly away. But when it happened again, Joe knew damn well it was no accident. At least he hoped it was no accident. His pulse began to race with the implications.

  "I love to dance," she said, glancing at him.

  Oh yeah, he knew that. He'd seen her dance. It hadn't been like this—all stiff and polite and formal. When she'd danced, she'd moved with a sensuality and abandon that would've shocked the hell out of half of the people in this room.

  Veronica tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and Joe's heart began to pound.

  She was coming on to him.

  Not in any way that the video cameras and microphones could pick up, but she was coming on to him. It all made sense. The dress, the shoes, the fire she was letting him see in her eyes...

  He couldn't figure out why the sudden change of heart.

  Joe opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. What could he ask her? What could he say? Certainly nothing that he wanted broadcast over the entire security network.

  Instead, he put his hand over hers, covering her cool fingers with his. He gently stroked her smooth skin with his thumb.

  Veronica turned to look up at him, and Joe could see her desire in her eyes. No doubt about it—she was letting him see it. She wanted him, and she wanted him to know it.

  She smiled then—a beautiful, tr
emulous smile that brought his heart up into his throat. He wanted to kiss her so badly, he had to clench his teeth to keep from leaning toward her and caressing her lips with his own.

  "Your Majesty," she said very softly, as if she couldn't find the air to do more than whisper, "may I have this dance?"

  He could have her in his arms, right here, right now. Damn, wouldn't that be heaven?

  But then, from across the room, came an earsplitting crash.

  Joe reacted, pulling Veronica into his arms and shielding her with his body. What the hell was he thinking? What was he doing, standing here next to her like this, as if he weren't the target of assassins? She was close enough so that bullets meant for him could end her life in the beat of a heart.

  "It's all right, Cat." He heard Blue's voice over his earphone. "It's cool. Someone dropped a glass. We do not have a situation. Repeat, there is no situation."

  Joe pulled Veronica in even closer for a second, closing his eyes and pressing her tightly against him before he released her. Adrenaline was flooding his system and his entire body seemed to vibrate. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he'd never been so scared....

  Veronica touched his arm. "I guess we're all on edge," she said with a small smile. "Are you all right?"

  Joe looked wound tighter than a drum. There was a wildness in his eyes she'd never seen before and his hand actually trembled as he pushed his hair back, off his face.

  "No," he said curtly, not bothering to disguise his voice with Tedric's odd accent. "No, I'm not all right. Ronnie, I need you to stay the hell away from me."

  Veronica felt her smile fade. "I thought we were going to...dance."

  Joe let out a short burst of exasperated air. "No way," he said. "Absolutely not. No dancing."

  She looked down at the floor. "I see."

  As Joe watched, Veronica turned and started to walk away, unable to disguise the flash of hurt in her eyes. My God. She thought he was rejecting her. He tried to catch her arm, to stop her, but she was moving faster now.

  "No, you don't see," he called after her in a low voice.

  But she didn't stop walking. Joe started to follow.

  Damn! Short of breaking into a sprint, there was no way he could catch her. And although shouting "Yo, Ronnie!" was something Joe Catalanotto might not have hesitated to do even at a posh society party, Prince Tedric was not prone to raising his voice in public.

  When Joe rounded the corner into the front hall, Veronica was nowhere in sight. Damn! Double damn! How could he follow her if he didn't know where she went?

  He headed toward the living room and the spacious kitchen beyond, hearing the unmistakable sound of Talandra's laughter from that direction.

  But Talandra stood near a large stone fireplace, sipping champagne and talking with a group of elegantly dressed women—none of whom were Veronica. "Oh, here's the prince now," Talandra said, smiling at Joe.

  There was nothing he could do but go and greet the group of ladies as Talandra made introductions.

  "Code Red," came Cowboy's voice, loud and clear over Joe's earphone. "We have an open window on the third floor! Repeat, open window, third floor. Possible break-in. Joe, get the hell out of here. Double time! This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill!"

  Everything switched into slow motion.

  "Are you kidding?" Joe said into his microphone, pushing the door to the living room open an inch. "And leave all the fun to you guys?"

  Joe could see about ten FInCOM agents heading toward him. He swore under his breath and stepped back as they came through the door. They surrounded him instantly. West and Freeman were on either side of him, shielding him with their own bodies as they moved him toward the back door.

  There was a car idling outside the kitchen, waiting for exactly this type of emergency. The car door was thrown open, and West climbed into the back seat first, pulling Joe behind him. Freeman followed, and before the door was even closed, the driver took off, peeling out down the narrow alleyway and onto the dark city streets.

  West and Freeman were breathing hard as they both holstered their weapons. They watched without much surprise as Joe rested his own gun on his lap.

  "You're not supposed to be carrying," West commented.

  "Kevin Laughton would throw a hissy fit if he knew," Freeman said. "'Course, he doesn't have to know."

  "Imagine Kevin's shock," Joe said, "if he knew that I've got another gun in my boot and a knife hidden in my belt."

  "And probably another weapon hidden somewhere else that you're not telling us about," West said blandly.

  "Probably," Joe agreed.

  The car was moving faster now, catching green lights at all of the intersections as it headed downtown. Joe took out his earphone—they were out of range. He leaned forward and asked the driver, "Any word on the radio? What's happening back there? Any action?" He hated running away from his squad like this.

  The driver shook his head. "The word is it's mostly all clear," he said. "It's an alleged false alarm. One of the party guests claims she opened the window in the third-floor bathroom because she was feeling faint."

  Joe sat back in his seat. False alarm. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the nervous energy from his system. His guys were safe. Ronnie was safe. He was safe. He bolstered his gun and looked from Freeman to West. "You know, I had no idea you guys were willing to lay it on the line for me."

  West looked out one window, Freeman looked out the other. "Just doing our job, sir," West said, sounding bored.

  Joe knew better. It was odd, sitting here between two relative strangers—strangers who would have died for him today if they'd had to. It was odd, knowing that they cared.

  With a sudden flash, Joe remembered a pair of crystal blue eyes looking at him with enough heat to ignite a rocket engine.

  West and Freeman weren't the only ones who cared.

  Veronica St. John cared, too.

  Chapter 16

  Veronica stood at the window, looking out over downtown Boston. With all the city lights reflected in the Charles River, it was lovely. She could see the Esplanade and the Hatch Shell, where the Boston Pops played free concerts in the summer. She could see Back Bay and the Boston Common. And somewhere, down there, hidden by the trees of the common was Beacon Hill, where Talandra lived, and where there was a party going on right this very moment—without her.

  She took another sip of her rum and cola, feeling the sweet warmth of the rum spreading through her.

  Well, she'd certainly made a fool of herself tonight. Again. Veronica could see her wavery reflection in the window. She looked like someone else in this dress. Someone seductive and sexy. Someone who could snap her fingers and have dozens of men come running. Someone who wouldn't give a damn if some sailor didn't want her near him.

  She laughed aloud at her foolishness, but her laughter sounded harsh in the empty hotel suite. She'd gone to this party with every intention of seducing Joe Catalanotto. She'd planned it so perfectly. She'd wear this incredible dress. He would be stunned. They'd dance. She'd dance really close. He would be even more stunned. He would follow her back to the hotel. She'd ask him into her room under the pretense of briefing him for tomorrow. But he'd know better. He'd ask the FInCOM agents to wait outside, and once the hotel-room door closed, he would pull her into his arms and...

  It was perfect—except that she'd forgotten one small detail. Her plan would work only if Joe wanted her, too.

  She had thought she'd seen desire in his eyes when he looked at her tonight, but obviously, she'd been mistaken.

  Veronica took another sip of her drink and turned from the window, unable to bear the silence another minute.

  There was a radio attached to the television, and she turned it on. It was set to a soft-rock station—not her favourite kind of music, but she didn't care. Just as long as there was something to fill the deadly silence.

  She knew she ought to change out of her dress. It was only helping to remind her what a total imbecile she'
d been. She looked at herself again in the mirror that hung on the hotel-room wall. The dress was practically indecent. The silky fabric clung to her breasts, broadcasting the fact that she was wearing no bra, and the cut of the dress showed off all kinds of cleavage and skin and curves. Good grief, she might as well have gone topless. Whatever had possessed her to buy this dress, anyway? It was like wearing a nightgown in public.

  Veronica stared at herself in the mirror. She knew why she had bought the dress. It was to be an unspoken message to Joe. Here I am. I'm all yours. Come and sweep me off my feet.

  To which he'd responded quite clearly. Stay the hell away from me.

  She sighed, fighting the tears ready to spring into her eyes. She should change into something more sensible—her flannel nightie, perhaps—instead of standing here, feeling sorry for herself. She wasn't here, in Boston, to be either sexy or romantic. She was here to do her job. She wasn't looking for sex or romance or even friendship, with Joe Catalanotto. She was simply looking to get a job done well. Period, the end.

  "You are such a bloody liar," Veronica said aloud to her reflection, her voice thick with disgust.

  "You're not talking to me, 1 hope."

  Veronica spun around, nearly spilling her rum and cola down the front of her dress.

  Joe.

  He was standing no more than three feet away from her, leaning against the wall next to the mirror. He stepped forward and took the drink from her hand.

  Veronica's heart was pounding. "What are you doing here?" she gasped. "How did you get in?"

  There was no balcony this time. And she was positive that the room's single door had been securely locked. But of course, he had told her he was an expert at picking locks.

  Joe just smiled.

  He was still wearing his party clothes. He wore a navy blue military-style jacket that buttoned up both sides of his chest and ended at his trim waist. His pants were made of a khaki-coloured fabric that looked soft to the touch. They fit him like a second skin, clinging to his muscular thighs and perfect derriere. They were tucked into a pair of shiny black, knee-high boots. He wore a red sash around his waist, and the splash of colour completed the princely picture.