Code Name: Bikini

Angry, he bit back a curse and moved away, banking the heat. Trying to bank the heat.

She looked at her friend. “Andreas, why don’t you go check out the room? No surprises, please.”

“Sure thing, boss. I’ll take this with me.” The man deftly removed one of the packages from Trace’s hands and left.

“I’ll take the other box now.”

Trace looked down, feeling stupid as he gripped the white cardboard. “Must be something pretty important in here.”

Her smile felt like pure, distilled summer pouring over his skin. The force of it made him forget the cars racing past and the appointment creeping closer.

“You bet it is. You’re holding a little piece of my heart in that box.”

“Maybe I should keep it then.” His voice was gravelly. Hell, what had made him say something lame like that?

“News flash—men want sex, not women’s hearts.” She straightened her big, colorful sweater and shoved more cinnamon hair out of her eyes, then stared across the street. “Oops. My defensive, bitchy side is showing.”

Trace heard old wounds and bad memories rather than bitchiness. “What’s so important in here?” He raised the box, rattled it slightly.

She lunged, panic sweeping her face. “No. If you drop that, I’m dead.”

Trace simply smiled. He handled high explosives and deadly biotoxins regularly with complete confidence. Steady hands and split-second reaction times were part of his skill set. “Relax, your box isn’t going anywhere. You still haven’t told me why it’s so important.”

“I need to go. I can’t be late.”

Before she could answer, his cell phone vibrated against his belt with unavoidable force, yanking Trace back to earth. He muffled a curse as he realized the pocket was out of reach.

He started to hand over the box, but she leaned down and slid a hand into his pocket. His gaze never left her face as she pulled out the phone.

“Least I can do,” she murmured, opening the phone. Frowning, she stared at the complex screen of Trace’s new government prototype. “How do you—”

“Top left. I’ll take it.”

Instead of giving him the phone, she pressed the button he’d indicated and held the phone up to this ear.

Trace had seen the caller’s number. Wolfe was probably upstairs waiting for him. Still, he didn’t like anyone listening in to the call. “Look, I need to—”

“Take the call. I can see that your shoulder hurts, so as soon as you’re done, I’ll get going.”

Shoulder?

How the hell had she known that?

Another twinge of suspicion made him study her warily.

But the phone was already at his ear, and he heard Wolfe’s voice.

“O’Halloran, are you at the hotel?”

“Right outside, sir.”

“I got held up on a conference call. I’m at least ten minutes away. Go in and press some flesh until I get there.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead and she closed the phone, returning it to his pocket.

Their skin brushed. He smelled her perfume, a faint mix of oranges and lilac. As gentle as a memory, it slid over his senses, leaving him restless for things he didn’t have a name for.

She turned and lifted the white box. “It’s a cake, by the way. I’m giving a class upstairs in thirty minutes.”

“A cake?”

“Don’t look so surprised. I worked five hours on that thing.”

“On a cake?” Trace repeated.

“It’s special. Ganache icing, spun-sugar flowers.” She glanced at his dress uniform and the row of medals. “Impressive jewelry you’ve got there.”

Trace was still trying to get his mind around the idea of a cake that took five hours to finish. In his world you ate whatever appeared on your plate, as long as it didn’t move, and even that rule got broken sometimes.

He shrugged off her compliment. “No big deal. Just doing the job.”

“That kind of hardware doesn’t come easy. Something tells me there’s a story behind each one.” She tensed and nearly dropped her box as another skateboarder shot past close enough to bump her leg. “Damn.”

Trace caught her with one arm and steadied the cake with his other hand. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

A delicate wash of color filled her face. She didn’t pull away, only tilted her head, looking up at him over the box. “You’re fast with your hands.”

“Fast enough. What did you mean about my shoulder?” He kept the question casual, watching her face for any sign of calculation.

She shrugged. “You favor your right side. When our boxes went flying, you caught them on the left. So what happened? Gunshot wound? Training accident?”

The explanation was plausible. “Nothing very interesting.” He’d died, that’s all. He sure as hell wasn’t going to discuss that with her.

He crossed his arms. “Are you doing anything later?” At least they could have a drink before he left. Trace didn’t have to be at the cruise dock until the following morning.

She cradled her cake, and then her fingers tightened. “No.” There was an edge in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “I’m sorry, but there’s really no point.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Believe me.”

Trace watched her shift her box, then move off into the flow of messengers, workers and tourists.

Great legs. Strange encounter. She’d probably forgotten him already.

He shrugged off a sense of regret. He had a cocktail party to attend and lobbyists to charm.

DAMN.

Abso-freaking—damn.