Sleeping With The Enemy

He opened the first file and spread the surveillance photographs over the table. Something deep in his gut twisted at the forlorn expression captured in Dr. Romine’s eyes in several of the FBI photographs. Still, even the hint of sadness surrounding her failed to detract from her natural beauty. Her driver’s license photo said she was a green-eyed, five-foot-seven brunette. The Bureau photographs depicted a rich cascade of sable hair that hung halfway down her slender back. The photographer managed to capture Dr. Romine right at a moment when she appeared to be staring directly into the camera. Her eyes, an intriguing shade of green mixed with pale gold, momentarily held him spellbound.

He shoved the glossy color photograph of the subject back into the file. For the next forty-eight hours, Destiny Romine, M.D., was the least of his problems. He had a series of meetings scheduled with various Bureau officials regarding his new assignment. There was one way to catch Romine, and Chase was positive that meant getting close to Baby Sister. And in order to do that, he needed to come up with a damned convincing cover.

He opened the file and looked at the photo again. She didn’t look like the sister of a murdering FBI agent. She did look like a woman with secrets.

Secrets that Bend-the-Rules Bracken had every intention of learning, using whatever means at his disposal.

Three Weeks Later

DEE RELUCTANTLY FORCED herself out from under the downy softness of the comforter she hadn’t bothered to remove from her double bed before climbing between the silky, cool sheets. She’d barely managed to keep her eyes open long enough to shower before dropping into a dead sleep.

It had better be good, she thought, tossing back the comforter as the doorbell chimed a second time.

She slipped into her robe. It couldn’t be an emergency, or else her phone would have been ringing instead of her doorbell. Especially following the difficult breach delivery of Cole Harbor, South Carolina’s newest resident. She’d placed the baby boy into the exhausted arms of his parents only three hours ago and if some complication had arose, Lucille, the clinic’s nurse, would have called her. The birth had been long and difficult, and Dee had very nearly had to perform an emergency cesarean section right there in cranky old Doc Claymore’s clinic. However, by using a few techniques shouted at her by her crabby nemesis, she’d managed to turn the baby enough to perform a vaginal birth.

The bell rang again by the time she reached the living room of her small triplex apartment. “I’m coming,” she grumbled, managing to avoid the rented sofa and cocktail table without jamming her bare foot as she so often did.

She had no idea who could be standing on her doorstep so blasted early on a Monday morning, but she suspected it was nothing life threatening. Since Doc Claymore’s semiretirement, she was the only physician on-call for the quaint seaside town nestled between Georgetown and Charleston on the Carolina coast. The ringing doorbell rather than a frantic phone call from George, Cole Harbor’s answer to law enforcement, or Ed the ambulance driver, meant a fishhook was more than likely the reason for her interrupted, and desperately needed, slumber.

She tied the sash on her pale blue cotton robe. Cole Harbor was probably one of the safest places she’d ever lived, but that didn’t stop her from latching her door or having a peephole installed. Crime wasn’t her concern. No, it was the alleged good guys that had her worried.

She peered through the lens in the center of the door to determine the identification of the visitor. She wasn’t sure what or whom she thought she’d find on the other side of her door, but the last thing she expected was the gorgeous sight awaiting her.

Even through the distortion of the peephole, she had no trouble classifying the man standing on her doorstep as more handsome than sin. Tall and powerfully built, he had wavy hair blacker than midnight that was a fraction too long for a label like clean-cut. The soft sea breeze teased the rebel strands brushing the collar of a navy polo shirt he wore tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Jeans she was positive would be faded to a well-worn white in all the right, interesting places. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, and before she could stop herself from being silly, she had the fleeting hope they were blue. She’d always had a weak spot for dark hair and blue eyes, especially when they came in a package as athletically fit and so well put together as the gloriously handsome stranger ringing her bell.

The last vestiges of sleep were nudged aside by the return of her customary common sense. The gorgeous male specimen was probably her new upstairs neighbor. She’d recalled seeing a moving van two days ago, but although she’d been too busy at the clinic all day Friday, she recalled hearing Netta and a couple of the younger, single Cole Harbor residents speculating on the social, and marital, availability of the Cougars’ new football coach.

Still, she hesitated and did another quick once-over as he turned around, his back to the door. He didn’t have that spit-and-polished FBI look, she decided. At least not through the fish-eye lens of the peephole he didn’t. In the flesh could be a different story.

She ran her hands through her hair in a vain attempt to smooth the tangles, then opened the door. The peephole didn’t do him justice. As up close and personal as the safety chain allowed, she couldn’t help noticing his blue jeans were exactly as she’d imagined them, hugging a masculine posterior she found way too intriguing to be written off as her professional medical opinion.

“Can I help you?” she asked, managing to keep her tone cool and remote. The last thing she needed was for him to suspect she considered him a mouthwatering example of masculine perfection.

He turned around and locked the clearest, most startling gaze she’d ever seen on her. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but she could swear this man, a total stranger, with the sexiest pair of lilac eyes she’d ever had the pleasure of gazing into, could see clear down to her soul.

Dangerous, she thought the second he flashed her a breathtaking grin. Way too dangerous, especially for a woman with something to hide.

2

AT FIRST GLANCE, SHE WAS exactly what Chase expected. Dr. Destiny Romine had the look of an upper-middle-class professional from an upper-middle-class family, the only surviving daughter of a brilliant neurosurgeon and world-renowned psychologist, both dead before their time. She did not look like the Bureau’s last hope to bring down a murdering agent. Even dressed in a thin cotton robe and peering at him through the small gap in the door allowed by the safety latch, there was something about her that exuded elegance.

And not just elegance, class, he thought, unable to take his eyes off her. Sex appeal. Lots of it, too.

“Can I help you?” she asked again, pulling his thoughts away from a very interesting and far too dangerous path for a guy in his position.

Despite the slightest hint of irritation, her voice was even more silky-smooth than he’d imagined.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” he said, taking advantage of the chance for a closer second look. The FBI photos hadn’t come close to capturing an earthy beauty that belied her privileged upbringing. Nor had the photographer managed to seize the exact way her green eyes flared with color in the early morning sunlight or how tiny flecks of gold highlighted her irises. “I was hoping I could use your phone.”

She flicked that intriguing gaze over him, as if he was nothing more interesting to her than a lab specimen. He wondered what she’d think if she knew she was simply a means to an end for him.

“My phone?”

“Mine’s out,” he lied easily. The first of many, he suspected. “It was supposed to be hooked up last week before I moved in, but it looks like it didn’t happen.” How many more lies would he tell to this woman until she finally gave him what he wanted?

Chase knew the answer…as many as necessary.

Her gaze slipped away, darted around the area, then zeroed in on him again. “And you are?” she asked, her sable eyebrows lifting quizzically.

He extended his hand, but she continued to stare at him through the small opened space between the door and the jamb. What he could see of her expression gave absolutely nothing away. She didn’t so much as budge the safety catch, either.

He shrugged and dropped his hand. “Your new neighbor,” he said, hooking his thumb upward to the apartment over hers. “I’m the new defensive back coach for the Cougars.”

His second quasi lie. He was the Cougars’ new coach, and no one, not even the administration at Cole Harbor High knew his true identity, or his reason for being in town.

Small towns put a lot of stock in gossip. He was counting on Cole Harbor fitting the stereotype of down-home southern hospitality, even if it was part of the Atlantic coastal region where the people tended to be slightly more cautious than their inland counterparts.

A wry twist transformed her mouth into the semblance of a brief grin a half second before she closed the door. Relief shot through him at the rattle of the chain sliding off the security rail.

First rule of undercover work, sell your cover.

And she’d just bought his.

“Come on in.” She swung the door wide and stepped back to let him into her unit. “You’re Coach Bracken.”

He nodded. “Call me Chase,” he said, stepping into her apartment. “And you are…?”

He let his voice trail off, while his eyes took in everything, mentally cataloging the layout of her unit, which was similar to his own but smaller. Dr. Romine’s apartment hosted only a single bedroom while his larger upstairs unit held two bedrooms and a minuscule dining area in the kitchen visible from his living room. From the look of things, the good lady doctor took her meals at the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and small living area. Thanks to the building plans tucked inside his closet, he knew the remaining unoccupied unit next door to Dr. Romine’s was identical, only reversed.

Her gaze slid to the red digits on the VCR’s clock—it was a few minutes past ten—then back to him. “Dee. And shouldn’t you be at football practice at this hour? I thought it was Hell Week.” She remained near the door, her hands disappearing into the side pockets of her robe.

Cursory interior surveillance achieved. He turned and gave her a smile. “Next week,” he supplied. “The Cougars are just starting to condition in gear this afternoon.”

Upon entering her living room, he’d immediately surveyed most of her uninspired kitchen, her equally sterile bathroom and a portion of her bedroom with only a rumpled double bed visible. He didn’t have to look again to recall that the tangled sheets of the bed had been the only sign that a living, breathing person resided in the downstairs apartment. From what he’d seen already, not so much as a decorative throw rug covered the hardwood floors. Serviceable off-white miniblinds, rather than frilly, feminine lace curtains covered the windows; the blinds blocked out the hazy morning sun. There weren’t any boxes stacked along the walls to indicate she was moving.

She’d lived here a long time. Where were all the normal trappings a person carried with them from place to place, the ridiculous souvenirs people collected and displayed? There wasn’t so much as a cheap framed print from the local five-and-dime hanging over the institutional-looking sofa. The walls were as bare and vacant as the unit next door.

The reports indicated Destiny Romine had resided in Cole Harbor a little over two years after finishing her residency in L.A. She’d played it smart and had taken the government up on their offer to forgive a large portion of her student loans in exchange for practicing medicine in the small seaside town for two and a half years. According to the bank statements he’d reviewed, she also worked two weekend shifts a month at the Berkeley County Hospital for extra cash. He also knew that at the age of fifteen she’d been left virtually penniless when her parents died and that her then eighteen-year-old brother, Jared, had raised her. It was that bond, the one forged between Dee and her brother when they’d had no one but each other to depend on following the unexpected death of their parents, that practically guaranteed Chase would be the agent to stamp a big red Closed on the Bureau’s most frustrating, not to mention embarrassing, case.

One thing he could say for Destiny Romine: she was a survivor. He admired survivors as much as he admired intelligence, even in the criminals he busted. She was a smooth one though, and she’d talk. They always talked when Bend-the-Rules Bracken finished with them.

“There’s a wall phone in the kitchen,” she said. “By the window.”

“Thanks.” He headed into the kitchen, his sneakers silent on the bare wood floor. A faded half-moon rug with colorful berries lay in front of the sink, the only personal touch in the place.

He waited for her to follow him, but instead he heard the distinct click of a door. Unable to believe his luck, he peered around the corner. The bathroom door was shut, probably to afford him the illusion of privacy.

He dialed the 800 number to the Bureau, waited for the automated response, then quickly punched in his voice mail number. Water ran in the background as he waited to hear his own voice instruct him to leave a message. He didn’t have much time. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a pocketknife, then used it to pry the face off of the telephone receiver.