Tempting trouble, p.22
Tempting Trouble, page 22
“I’ll pass along your message,” Dan said, “but they’ll still want her brought in.”
Lance’s hand fisted by his side.
Dan sat through the stony silence. As he reached their destination, he casually commented, “She’s got to you, hasn’t she?”
There was a pause, then Lance sighed and admitted, “Yeah, she’s got to me and if I don’t have her soon, I’ll probably cancel her myself.”
“Interesting phenomena.” Dan grinned at the younger man, as he got out of his car.
“What is?”
“The downfall of a tracker. Miss O’Connor has my utmost respect.”
Lance snorted in mild disgust.
***
“Do you think she was successful?” Ed quietly asked as he drove Sandy home. The Charity Invitational had been an exciting mix of politics and celebrity, with insiders mingling with the movers and shakers. He found it interesting so many would attend for the good of those in need, and yet wouldn’t leave without first making sure their own private interests were taken care of too, but that was how life was in the Beltway.
“I don’t know,” Sandra answered. “She disappeared soon after the Chinese delegation arrived, but I’ll bet she’d planned everything down to a ‘T’. I know she studied blueprints and floor plans of the place yesterday. I’m confident she got what she wanted.”
“Too dangerous.” Ed’s mouth was a thin line. “She flirts with danger like a child’s trip to the candy store.”
“What does that mean?”
“Our Grace has a sweet tooth,” he wryly explained, “so every trip to the candy store is like an adventure to her. What’s she going to buy next? Which sweet should she try this time?”
Sandra laughed. “Cute,” she said.
“That’s the problem.” Ed was enchanted with her laughter. He wanted to hear her laugh like that more often. “She doesn’t take things seriously enough. It isn’t an adventure, Sandy.”
“There’s where I think you’re wrong.” She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Grace is serious about what she wants. It’s her demeanor that throws everybody off. Don’t assume just because she acts nonchalant she isn’t deadly serious. And obstinate too,” she added, as an afterthought.
Ed supposed if anybody could understand Grace, it would be Sandy. They both thrived on the chase and the impulse of the moment. He liked being methodical. Things got done faster and more accurately when details had been carefully planned beforehand. He was successful because he never missed any details and always stayed prepared for the next step. Glancing at Sandy’s profile, it suddenly struck him maybe he’d allowed too much rigidity in his life, that his need to oversee every angle made him inflexible. By focusing only on the big picture, hadn’t he once missed the most significant detail in his life, and thus, was unprepared for its loss?
“Maybe you’re right,” he softly said.
Sandra glanced at him sharply. When had he ever taken the side of impulse over planning? Hadn’t he condemned and refused to listen to her explanations precisely because she’d acted on emotions and not thought? She hadn’t blamed his anger. She had absorbed and remembered it, and when she had chosen to be alone three years ago, she’d told herself thought, and not emotion, would be her guide. Now, he left her speechless by even considering one didn’t need every detail lined up and considered before venturing forth. That wasn’t Ed at all, and certainly not the Maddux philosophy after which she’d dedicated her new life.
“What did you find out tonight?” He wanted to add she looked beautiful this evening, but kept his opinion to himself. She had done her hair in a different chignon, one less severe in style, twisted alluringly low on her nape. His fingers ached with the temptation to pull it loose. He had wanted to kiss her again when he picked her up earlier; she looked sophisticated in her soft while backless culotte, her eyes smiling back at him. The retro style suited her with a cool charm. Instead of pulling her into his arms, he’d given her some homegrown roses, and watched the tint of pleasure bloom in her face.
“I have several links who passed on some interesting information,” Sandra told him. “COS Command has a double agent playing havoc inside. I think Lance Mercy was brought in to clean up the situation. Perhaps that’s why he needed Grace to ghost for him. He can’t trust many within this particular mission.”
“So there’s a rat inside COS,” Ed said thoughtfully.
“It makes sense the double agent is after the missing scholar for more than what our senator seeks.”
“Everyone is after the Chinese man. He’s certainly gotten my curiosity now. I hope Grace will find out for me exactly what this man knows.”
“She’ll get good commission from this one.” Sandra nodded in approval, pleased her gamble earlier with providing Grace with more access was paying off. “Sounds like more than two groups are after the information.”
“If she’s ghosting for Mercy, wouldn’t he get to know her information first?” Ed knew that he was treading water here. He had no wish to summon any memory of Sandy’s ghosting experiences.
She shook her head. “Grace knows the rules. She is first and foremost bound to the institute. There is a strong sense of loyalty in her, and I know she will abide by them. There is a reason why they call us ghosts, you know, Ed.” She paused, her head tilted toward him, as if to gauge his mood. “Ghosts in the literary sense just reveal enough clues to point the way to solve a mystery, letting the hero be the hero.”
“I think I understand. Ghosts are like Level Three work. Grace will reveal only what she chooses to reveal.”
“Or sell,” Sandra reminded him. “GNE is a giant ghost.”
She did see the big picture, Ed realized. And she did understand the need for detail, only that she chose not to reveal everything. He could learn to accept that. “If I were Lance Mercy,” he said, “I’d better be very nice to Grace when I see her.”
Sandra smiled as they reached her house. He hadn’t pushed, nor had he questioned. It was difficult, she knew, to stop being a field operative, to stay out of the action, especially for a man like Ed. “Would you like to come in for coffee?” she asked, stepping out of the car. She, too, could stop controlling for a while.
Ed paused before closing the door for her. There were many ways to coax a rose bush to bloom, but when an obstinate plant, unaided, surprised one with an unexpected bud, the pleasure was doubled. Such a flower was a lot more precious to him, like a gift freely given. He wanted to savor this particular bud opening to him.
“I would like that,” he replied simply.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In a way, Grace was thankful about the arrival of the storm. That ought to drive away the animals, those wild beasts growling outside her apartment. She shook her head indignantly. That was all she needed, helping Mary Tucker earn her next paycheck.
Rubbing at the beginning of a headache, she wandered into the kitchen, making a face when she reached the refrigerator. How could she have thought those magnetic strips a brilliant idea? Trust him to notice them. She muttered something rude about men in general and opened it to get something to drink. Reaching for her ever-present supply of orange juice, she paused, changed her mind, and pulled out one of the bottles of champagne instead. She might as well celebrate her hard night’s work by herself. He certainly wasn’t going to drink any of this tonight.
She decided she liked champagne. She enjoyed the way the bubbles tickled her nose and how it went down smooth and tangy, like Lance’s kisses. Several glasses later, she sighed contentedly. Maybe she should learn how to drink, after all, she grinned, as she savored the slow heat in her tummy. What headache, right?
Picking up her beaded bag, she pulled out the blood-splattered tissue paper and carefully unfolded it. She wasn’t sure yet what to do with what the Chinese man gave her, but she was sure they were important. Sipping on another glass of champagne, she held them up in the light, squinting at them, but the alcohol was already making its effect known. Her sight seemed a little lopsided, and she tilted her head first one way, then another. She didn’t think she had a chance of finding out anything until tomorrow at the office, anyway. She was tired; it’d been a really full day, even for her. Suppressing a yawn, she carefully rewrapped the objects and hid them away.
Hmm. Why not? One last glass. There was a rumble of thunder, rattling the glass door that led to the back balcony. She stood and watched the rain for a minute. Lifting her glass for a toast, she tossed down the drink with enthusiasm. Here’s to you and good riddance, Mr. Big Cat. Here’s to you and goodbye, Tim Halliday. Here’s to David Cheng’s two false teeth, and good luck in solving the mystery, Grace O’Connor. The champagne tasted like confidence, sharp and delicious. She would deal with all three problems tomorrow.
***
Rain wasn’t a deterrent when Lance Mercy had his target in sight. He was used to storms, the kind that poured down in one big sheet or the kind that lingered for days. They made the hunt more exciting, the sound of thunder and lightning muffled by the canopy of Asian flora. Although there wasn’t any jungle right now, the feeling was the same. This was his own mission, without any red tape to untangle, talking heads to climb over, or silly disguises behind doubletalk. Everything was in black and white, as it should be, as he was used to. It was the law of the jungle that ruled him, where political one upmanship was replaced by skill and determination. There was only him and his target.
The lights were still on in the little hellcat’s apartment. He wondered whether she was alone. He shrugged in the darkness of her balcony as he lifted the sliding glass door easily out of its tracks. It didn’t matter. In the jungle, he would just eliminate anything that got in his way.
He knew his present savage mood wasn’t suitable for this moonlit city of D.C., but he was tired of their kind of games. He’d gotten them their scholar, alive, or at least, still breathing, and now he wanted to let loose and be himself. It was his turn to play.
He clicked the sliding door back in place, shut out the rain, and strolled dripping wet into the lit-up living room. Seeing his bottle of champagne lying empty on the table didn’t soothe his growing fury. Somehow, he hadn’t thought her so callous as to share his drink with her lover boy. She was going to regret that.
The bedroom light was on. Might as well, he sardonically sneered, since he was going to interrupt their love nest anyhow. He hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do when he walked in there. Right now, he felt murderous. Somebody had intruded in his territory, and he stalked around the apartment, putting off the inevitable confrontation. Unexpected jealousy blurred his usually cool logic, and he was surprised at the sense of betrayal invading him.
Her responses to him weren’t fake. Her attraction to him was real. Yet she dared to ignore the obvious to return to the arms of a young toothless pup like—he couldn’t stand it any longer. He could either leave right now and not look back, or go on in there and proceed with her punishment. He chose the latter. Lance Mercy did not relinquish what was his easily. He pushed the door open.
The wave of relief that hit him in the gut almost buckled his knees. She was alone.
And fully dressed.
In fact, she had on exactly what she wore to the function. Sprawled face down on her bed, she hadn’t even bothered to even pull down the covers. An arm cradled the right side of her face that was turned toward the door; the other dangled carelessly off the bed. An empty glass lay right beneath her lax fingers. Her maroon outfit was hiked up, like she had tried to stretch in her sleep, revealing black garters holding the top of her sheer stockings. She hadn’t even bothered to take her heels off. One was half on still, its heel against the bed sheets with her foot nestled inside the toe end.
Lance slowly walked toward her sleeping figure, feeling his pulse returning to a manageable rate. She was alone. Had been alone. A slow smile formed on his lips—he didn’t care to analyze whether it was more out of relief than amusement. The little witch had drunk herself to sleep.
He bent his wet body over her prone one, and bit her earlobe. She still smelled sexy, even though she looked like she’d crawled under some cars tonight, which—his eyes narrowed as he took in dirty smudges and tears on her dress—she probably had. He bit down harder.
“Ouch,” she mumbled. “Stupid lion.”
“Stupid lion?” he whispered, nonplussed.
“You foul breathed, stupid lion,” she said, her lips pouting obstinately, her eyes still shut.
Lance grinned. Dreaming, was she? He pressed his wet body on hers, letting his soggy clothes soak through her ruined ones, then growled gently into her ear. She moved restlessly, trying to get away.
“You don’t scare me, you wild beast! You can’t have me yet, so quit slobbering on me.”
“But I do have you,” Lance whispered into her ear.
Grace moaned. Something was doing horribly erotic things to her ear, darting in and out, exploring, swirling, seducing. She tried to twist away from its sexual probing, but found she couldn’t move. Hands moved over her body, lips seared her skin. He was good, she thought, fighting off sleep, so clever with that tongue, so strong and tender and—she let out a scream—horribly wet. Cold water dripped down her back and legs. She forced her eyes open, still half asleep, expecting to confront some nightmarish creature frothing at the mouth, dripping all over her.
She was close. It was Lance Mercy in her bed, on her, holding her down. And he was wet from head to toe. His eyes were blazing like those of a wild beast on the attack.
Grace closed her eyes and opened them again, willing her nightmare to go away. It wasn’t one. He was still there in person. She shrieked again, trying to sit up. “How did you get in here?” Her panicked voice was hushed, husky from alcohol and sleep.
Lance sat astride her, studying her wakening horror with renewed amusement. He did like getting back at her for making him feel jealous. “Some doors can’t be dead-bolted, sweetheart,” he drawled.
She frowned, then remembered her sliding door. She called him an extremely unflattering name.
“Tsk, tsk, such language from that pretty mouth,” he chided.
“You’re wet!” She squirmed. “Get off, you…oaf!”
“I’m sorry. Here, let me get out of these wet clothes.”
Grace’s eyes widened, as she slowly comprehended his meaning. Her mouth tasted like cotton as she watched him pull his wet shirt off and toss it carelessly over his shoulder. His chest muscles were taut, revealing his mood, the movement of his bare arms tense and deliberate. She started to tremble when his hands reached for the buttons of his pants. She tried to speak but her tongue seemed to have disappeared, her eyes wildly following his hands. Finally, she just shook her head at him.
But Lance wasn’t in the mood. “You got wet from my clothes, sweetheart. Let me help you take them off.” He held on to the front of her maroon outfit and with one savage tug, tore it down almost to her waist.
Grace came alive, rearing up and catching him by surprise, pushed him off. Rolling off the bed, she scrambled out of the room, almost killing herself with only one high heel on. He hopped off and followed closely.
“Don’t think you’re going to come in here and find me soft and pliant after the way you acted out there!” Grace fumed, hobbling backwards from him.
“You didn’t expect me to be in the best of moods after the act you pulled at the function, did you?” He stalked her as she used the sofa as a buffer between them. “Did you?”
“Did I do anything you told me not to?” she challenged.
“Yes!” he hissed, walking around the sofa. She half-ran, half-stumbled to the nearby chaise lounge. “I told you not to interfere.”
“You told me to stay out of the way,” she corrected, “which I did. I kept my bloody word, so stop glaring at me! What, do you have any complaints? Didn’t you accomplish your mission?”
Using one arm, Lance vaulted over the sofa. Grace hastily retreated away from the chaise, trying to think of a way to calm a savage beast. Half-naked, his hair darkened by the rain, eyes blazing, he didn’t look anything like the suave deputy advisor to the Council of Asian Trade. Her heart thumped against her throat at the dangerous look in his eyes.
“You’re right, I did accomplish my mission,” he informed her, his eyes level, “and now I’ve come to accomplish my other one.”
She swallowed. “What’s that?” She stared at him as he kept advancing.
“I told you we would celebrate tonight.” He indicated the empty bottle on the coffee table. “Seems like you started without me.”
Grace’s back bumped into the sliding door that led to the balcony. “I wanted to be alone,” she told him, still defiant.
“And I told you I would be back later.” He was close enough to grab her. “Did you have any doubts I would?”
“Yes! I don’t want you here!”
She turned, slid open the glass door, and ran out into the rain. Too late, she realized her blunder. She was dead meat. Lance followed her, cornering her against the banister. Rain half-blinded her as he twined his fingers in her wet hair, pulling her face up to meet his.
“You have a hearing problem, love. I also told you,” he said over the drumming of the rain around them, “game time is over, Grace. I meant it.”
He was sleek and slippery, all male under her pushing hands. His dark pants clung to him, unbuttoned and clinging open low on his hips, revealing his flat hard stomach and the tantalizing triangle in the V-shaped gap beneath. Unyielding and powerful, he loomed over her own soggy, tattered body, pulling her toward him even as she tried to pull away. His eyes held hers prisoner and she knew, no matter how much she tried to evade him, he was going to kiss her. And then she’d be lost because she wanted it too. Slowly, his head came down, and his lips captured hers.
She tasted of rain and champagne, a heady combination that shot to his brain. He didn’t want her pliant, hadn’t expected pliancy, but he wasn’t prepared for this need in him. He took her mouth urgently, telling himself he would get her out of his system once he had her. But she was like an addictive drug. The more he kissed her, the more he wanted.
