Under The Covers

“You have a really low opinion of cops for someone who wears a badge.” He understood more than she believed, having his own experience with a good cop turning bad.

She slipped her slender hands into the side pockets of her walking shorts and turned her gaze to the picture window. Waves crashed on the sandy beach against a backdrop of red setting sun and dusky sky, perfect accompaniments for romance. Too bad Agent Carmichael was all business.

“I’ve seen a lot in the last few years,” she said quietly.

“Suspicion or experience.” Unfortunately, a cop turned bad wasn’t as uncommon as he’d once believed. A recent experience with one of their own walking on the wrong side of the law still left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Experience,” she admitted, then turned her attention back to him. “Nice view.”

“I thought we’d have dinner on the deck.” Her sable eyebrows pulled into a slight frown and suspicion filled her turquoise gaze. “We’re eating here?”

A note of panic filled her voice and he suppressed a smile. He’d suspected her interest this morning, but he’d written it off as his imagination since he’d been dead tired and feeling a little punchy. Perhaps his imagination hadn’t been working overtime after all. Could it be his temporary “bride” wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to believe?

“Unless you’d rather go to a more public place…where we could be overheard.”

She shook her head and sat on the edge of the plush sofa. “Here is fine.”

He headed into the kitchenette. “Something to drink?”

“Maybe later.”

“I was thinking iced tea. We are working.”

“Oh,” she said, a slight blush covering her cheeks. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

She pulled the briefcase onto the sofa beside her and snapped the latch. By the time he returned to the living room with their drinks, she had a series of photographs spread over the cocktail table.

He handed her the iced tea and sat next to her on the sofa. She stiffened, then pulled in a long, deep breath. A dead giveaway of her nervousness. No way was anyone going to believe they were newlyweds. Not with her telling actions every time he came within two feet of her.

He leaned forward and scanned the photos. “Where are you from, Carmichael?” he asked, attempting to set her at ease.

She sat primly on the edge of the sofa, her knees pressed together, the iced tea gripped in her slender hands, a perfectly manicured nail tapping rhythmically on the glass. He had difficulty imagining those hands drawing, let alone using a weapon, even if it meant keeping them alive.

“I grew up in Savannah, but I live in New York,” she said, “when I’m home. St. Claire is my mother’s maiden name, by the way.”

He set his glass on the table and used his neatly pressed jeans to swipe the condensation from his hands. “Tell me something.”

She kept her gaze riveted on the photos. “What do you want to know?”

“You don’t fit. Not DEA.”

She let out a puff of air. “It’s a long story,” she said, her voice filled with caution that heightened his curiosity.

She looked over at him and their gazes connected. “We’ve got all night,” he said quietly, unable to quash the erotic images filtering through his mind that statement evoked.

“Three generations of Carmichaels have been federal law enforcement officers, starting with my grandfather. Two of my uncles, four cousins and my father are all DEA. It was expected that I follow tradition.”

Two things struck him. First, her sweet, lyrical voice, devoid of emotion, as if her words were recited by rote. Second, the coldness that had entered her turquoise eyes. Both intrigued him, and made him wary. While he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his newest assignment, the last thing he needed was a partner filled with resentment.

He leaned toward her, and eased the glass from her hands. His fingers brushed hers and she flinched before folding her hands in her lap. “Sounds like a prophecy you didn’t want to fulfill,” he said.

She frowned. “I’m an agent, Detective, and a good—”

“Blake.”

Curiosity entered her gaze and her frown deepened. “Excuse me?”

“You’d better get used to calling me Blake if we’re going to be ‘married’ tomorrow. You wouldn’t want to blow our cover, would you?”

“Don’t worry, Blake,” she said. The smile canting her mouth failed to lessen his concern. “I’m very good at what I do.”

“I don’t doubt you are,” he said, and meant it. She’d come prepared to work, and that impressed him. “But this isn’t Sunday school, Ronnie. UC’s know and understand the danger.”

“I’ve been an undercover operative before. I know how to handle myself in a dangerous situation.”

“Good. Then you know as well as I do that drug runners can be extremely dangerous, especially if we’re talking millions of dollars that’ll be lost once they’re popped. People tend to get a little deadly when you threaten that kind of income, legitimate or otherwise. You keep flinching when I touch you or tapping your glass every time I get near you, how convincing do you think we’ll be?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve been watching you, Ronnie. I move a little closer, and you start tapping your glass.” To prove his point, he shifted closer. Bracing his hand on the back of the sofa, he leaned into her and glanced down at her hands. They were still clasped in her lap, tight enough to turn her knuckles white. “You’re a dead giveaway, Ronnie.”

She pulled back, as if to escape his nearness. He wasn’t about to let her go anywhere.

“I always tap my fingers,” she said primly. “It helps me think.”

He narrowed the distance between them. “Sure it does.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make those kind of judgments.”

“My hand brushes yours, or I touch you,” he said, settling his hand on her smooth-as-silk knee, “and you jump.”

“I didn’t expect you to touch me, that’s all.”

He noted the panic in her voice, but refused to stop pushing her. If he was going in, then he’d be damn sure his partner was up to the assignment. With his hand still on her leg, he brushed his thumb along the curve of her knee. He’d expected her skin to feel as soft as it looked, and wasn’t disappointed.

She pressed herself against the back of the sofa. With his other hand, he trailed his fingers along the curve of her neck and she trembled. “Tomorrow we’re newlyweds. That means we have to convince everyone we come in contact with that we’re in love and that includes touching.” He smoothed his hand over her leg. She trembled again, but not out of fear or nervousness. The quick flash in her eyes told him loud and clear that this time, awareness ranked high on the list.

“I—”

“And kissing,” he said, his mouth inches from hers. Her sweet breath fanned his lips. Only a will as strong as iron kept him from tasting her. “Once we hit the island, anyone we come in contact with has to believe we’re married.”

“But—”

“And intimate,” he added, his fingers pressing against her wildly beating pulse. “Our lives will depend on a convincing performance.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I can be very convincing,” she said, her accent more pronounced. Another revealing nuance to her intriguing personality.

“Then prove it,” he challenged.