“Dee—”

“You said all I had to do was say yes,” she told him, wreathing her arms around his neck. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind already?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.” Chase settled his hands on her hips and turned, lifting her onto the kitchen counter.

She caressed his thick, wavy hair and guided his mouth toward hers. “What would you say?” she asked him.

“I’d say, what took you so long?”

Before she could respond, his mouth slanted over hers in a searing, toe-curling kiss.

“I want to feast on you,” he murmured against her skin.

“Hmm. Sounds…intense.”

“Do you like it…intense?”

“I like it hot,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper.

His fingers worked the buttons of her blouse. “Just hot?” His hands traced a slow trail along her skin, over her rib cage and upward to cup her breasts.

“The hotter, the better.”

Dear Reader,

Harlequin Blaze is a supersexy new series. If you like love stories with a strong sexual edge then this is the line for you! The books are fun and flirtatious, the heroes are hot and outrageous. Blaze is a series for the woman who wants more in her reading pleasure….

This month bestselling Harlequin Presents author Miranda Lee delivers #9 Just a Little Sex…about one night of passion that turns into much more! Rising star Jamie Denton says you need to break the rules in #10 Sleeping With the Enemy, a story with sizzling sexual tension and erotic love scenes. Talented Isabel Sharpe takes us to #11 The Wild Side, a fun, lusty tale about a good girl who decides bad might be better. Popular Janelle Denison rounds out the month with #12 Heat Waves, another SEXY CITY NIGHTS story set in fiery Chicago—where the heat definitely escalates after dark….

Look for four Blaze books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at eHarlequin.com and tryblaze.com.

Enjoy!

Birgit Davis-Todd

Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

Harlequin Blaze

Sleeping with the Enemy
Jamie Denton

For Birgit Davis-Todd and Ethan Ellenberg

Thank you for accompanying me and guiding me

through every step of this incredible journey.

As always,

Jamie

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR…

When I received the call from my editor asking me to become a part of the new Harlequin Blaze line, it was like a dream come true. Writing for Temptation has been, and still is, one of the highlights of my career, but here was an opportunity to be able to expand upon the sexy books I love to write and create a character who doesn’t exactly fit into the norm. The result of this exciting new endeavor is deep cover FBI agent Chase Bracken.

Chase is a loner, a trait that makes him the perfect man for the worst assignment the FBI has to offer—to bring in a fellow deep cover agent gone bad. But his only link to solving the case is the agent’s sister, Destiny “Dee” Romine. Dee has her own secrets, but Chase always gets his man…or woman, even if it means Sleeping With the Enemy.

I hope you enjoy Chase and Dee’s romance. Be sure to look for the sexy sequel, Seduced By the Enemy, coming in 2002 from Harlequin Blaze. You wouldn’t want to miss Jared Romine and Justice Department attorney Peyton Douglas’s rocky road to romance as they’re forced to work together to clear Jared’s name, provided they can work through their past.

I love to hear from readers! You can send me e-mail at jamie@jamiedenton.net or write me at P.O. Box 224, Mohall, North Dakota 58761.

Until next time,

Jamie Denton

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

THEY KNEW SHE WAS HIS ONLY weakness. They knew, and they hovered like vultures, waiting.

Dee clutched the single, bloodred rose to her chest, breathing in the intoxicating perfume while struggling against the instincts screaming inside her to stand up and search the crowd gathered beneath the sun-drenched southern California sky. She couldn’t. Not without risking his life. Not without letting the bastards know he was there. For her.

He should have known better than to come here. She could just imagine her brother’s determination, but the University of California at Los Angeles wasn’t some Podunk medical school. The governor would be addressing the graduates momentarily and security was tight, the campus literally crawling with federal agents and secret service men. Yet, somehow, someway, Jared Romine had taken a great risk to let his little sister know he was proud of her.

The valedictorian took the stage for his address to UCLA’s graduating class. The speech could have easily been hers, if she hadn’t intentionally thrown a couple of classes so as not to draw too much attention to herself for Jared’s sake. The Feds would’ve had a field day, she thought with an uncharacteristic flare of rebellion. And her brother would have loved the irony—rogue agent Jared Romine’s little sister, valedictorian.

She let out a slow even breath and looked in all the obscure places she possibly could without craning her neck or drawing attention to herself. Her brother wouldn’t be sitting in the crowd with the other family and friends of the graduates from one of the country’s top medical schools. No, Jared could be posing as anyone from building security to a janitor sweeping the walk, to the guy testing the sound equipment prior to commencement and no one, not even his fellow agents would know he’d been within their grasp until it was too late.

She was used to the silence from her brother. When he’d decided to join the FBI, he’d done so knowing his work in Naval Intelligence could very well place him in deep-cover assignments where contact with family and friends was as dangerous for the family as it was for the undercover agent. Other than one brief visit before she started med school, they hadn’t seen each other since parting ways in Washington all those years ago. Silence from her brother for three months at a time was still a bit unusual, albeit not completely unheard of, which was the only reason she hadn’t been alarmed by Jared’s lengthy absence. She’d figured him on an undercover assignment, until she returned from classes three months ago to find two agents waiting for her outside her dorm room.

She expected them to tell her Jared had been killed.

What they’d told her had been far worse.

Jared Romine was on the FBI’s most wanted list…as an agent-gone-bad, accused of murder. Of murdering one of his own and a top senatorial aid. The government claimed their evidence was rock-solid. Even though they wanted Jared and not her, until they had him in custody, they watched, they invaded her privacy and they waited.

Jared’s whereabouts were a mystery to her. From the work he did, she suspected he had numerous contacts, not all of them above the law. No doubt he was hiding out until it was safe for him to come forward and tell his side of the story. All she could do in the meantime was hope and pray he was safe. From the day her parents died, Jared had taken care of her and protected her. Now it was her opportunity to return the favor.

Her gaze landed on a rather spry elderly gentleman hanging out near the edge of the staging area. Dee’s heart fluttered behind her ribs, praying it was Jared dressed in a disguise of some sort. Her breath stilled as she willed the man to turn around, only to be let out in a disappointed huff when he did.

She secretly hoped the Feds would get tired of the chase, or that Jared had slipped into and assumed a new identity, starting a new life for himself. As much as she missed him, she’d rather have him safe and alive than…

The Feds wouldn’t let up, though. In the three months they’d been following and watching her, she learned just how relentless they could be. They picked her life apart, and the life of her brother who remained elusive to the government wanting to prosecute him. She was Jared’s only weakness. If it hadn’t been for the blank postcards that showed up occasionally, or the one extremely brief phone call where a scratchy, unfamiliar voice whispered he’d been framed and he had no choice but to go underground, the Feds might have left her alone. If it hadn’t been for the late-night calls with no one on the other end of the line every few weeks, they might have backed off. But Jared continued to take those small, meaningful risks just to let her know he was alive.

When their parents died, Jared had promised her she could depend on him. He’d done the best he knew how, and she loved him for it. Considering the example their parents had set, Jared’s care and support had been a vast improvement.

The day they’d gone their separate ways, Dee to Los Angeles to attend college on a partial academic scholarship and he to Quantico to work for the FBI, he’d given her a bus ticket and two hundred dollars. “To destiny,” he’d said, then handed her a single bloodred rose, told her he loved her…and drove away without looking back.

Because of the constant back-to-back deep-cover assignments, other than a weekend visit three years ago, she hadn’t seen her brother. Now under such dangerous conditions, he was close. She could feel it and wanted nothing more than to at least catch a glimpse of him. They’d be allowed nothing else. A hug would be as impossible as five minutes alone. All she’d have to carry her through, possibly even for the rest of her life, would be a quick smile or a surreptitious wink. Despite the danger, she needed that, needed just one small token other than the rose handed to her by a stranger to hold in her cherished memories of her brother.

The ceremony continued, and still Dee could find no sign of Jared. Frustration nudged her when she spotted two federal agents posted on either side of the stage where the graduates passed once their names were called to receive their diplomas. She walked slowly toward the stage, waiting as the dean called the graduates, shook their hands and congratulated them before handing them the piece of paper that declared them physicians.

Standing, she was able to scan the crowd. She desperately wanted that new imprint for her memory. But she knew the risks. Anything other than the rose with no note attached could cost her brother his freedom, maybe even his life.

The dean called her name, shook her hand and congratulated her before handing over her diploma. She clutched the document to her chest, along with the rose, and smiled brightly for the benefit of the agent waiting at the other end of the stage as she made her way down the steps. Moving slowly toward the rows of chairs to reclaim her seat until the end of the ceremony, she finally saw him.

Her brother stood toward the back of the crowd, dressed in a dark blue suit, with the bored, but alert look of a secret service agent, complete with an electronic communications device tucked in a nondescript manner behind his ear. He looked much older than his twenty-nine years, his face more lined than she expected and his rich sable hair lightly touched by gray at the temples. Despite his aging features, his body was still as fit as she remembered and his green eyes more watchful but just as mischievous. She glanced hastily around, hoping she wasn’t being watched, but when she looked back at her brother, the barely perceptible shake of his head told her otherwise.

For his sake, she had no choice but to return to her seat. All she wanted to do was run into Jared’s arms and weep for the injustice keeping them apart, and the future they might never be able to share. She knew in her heart by the time the ceremony ended the secret service agent would be gone as if he never existed.

Just as Jared Romine no longer existed.

Dee would stoically return to her small, furnished dormitory room following the graduation ceremony and ready herself for her job at the San Vicente Medical Center where she’d interned in the emergency room six days a week. Instead of the grand celebration most of her classmates would no doubt partake, surrounded by family and friends, her solo celebration would consist of a double shift in the E.R.

She’d shed not a single tear for the brother she might never see again. Lessons taught to a young girl were hard learned and not easily forgotten. And no one would know Special Agent Jared Romine’s only weakness would go on as if her heart did not lay tattered beneath her breast.

Two Years Later

CHASE BRACKEN DRUMMED HIS pen on the yellow legal pad, staring absently at the pile of banker’s boxes containing months of work that were stacked neatly against the wall of his Manhattan apartment. The list of men who had worked on the Romine case was long and distinguished. None, however, had managed to apprehend the elusive rogue agent.

Nor had they been able to gain an ounce of information from his only living relative.

Chase planned to rectify that little problem.

He tossed the pen on the table and tipped the chair back on two legs. Using the balls of his feet for balance, he rocked gently back and forth and folded his hands behind his head, a habit he’d developed despite his foster mother’s lectures that one day he’d fall and break something, more than likely his neck.

Jared Romine was the unresolved thorn in the backside of the Bureau. A degree in rocket science was hardly a necessity for Chase to understand why he’d been given the worst assignment the Bureau had to offer. Bend-the-Rules Bracken had screwed up, big time, and his pain-in-the-backside superior officer was determined the Romine case would have Chase turning in his shield. Or worse, his boss would try to pull him out of the field and make him ride a desk until retirement. And that was just a little too long for Chase Bracken to be cooped up inside an office.

He’d find a way to redeem himself in Pelham’s eyes. He’d been on the superior’s hit list before and he usually managed to find a way off by solving the next case with as little muss and fuss as possible. The less covering up the Bureau had to deal with, the better Pelham liked it. Except after the fiasco of his last case, Chase wasn’t so sure of his continued upward mobility within the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He had to admit he’d really made a mess of things this time, and the chance of him bringing in Romine was slim, making his likelihood of redemption in Pelham’s eyes even more scarce. But Chase had just enough arrogance to acknowledge he could be the agent to finally capture the rogue agent.

He let out a sigh and dropped the chair back on all fours. Arrogance was one thing, stupidity was quite another. Not to mention the small fragment of insecurity he’d never been able to completely conquer.

Years of combined on-the-job experience by some of the best men the Bureau had to offer hadn’t been able to capture the agent-gone-bad. What made him think he stood a chance at succeeding where others had failed?

His own damned ego, that’s what, he thought, shoving himself away from the table and heading into the kitchen. He poked his head in the fridge and winced at the barren shelves before snagging the last remaining imported beer. Leo Mitchell, his foster father, had always been fond of warning him that the bigger the man, the bigger target the man makes. Chase was a target of his own making, he decided, and bound to suffer the consequences of his own arrogance.

He swore mildly, then shoved the door closed with his hip. An unopened birthday card from his folks lay on the counter next to the registration renewal form for his Ford Expedition, both of which required his attention.

Chase picked up the colorful envelope, opened the card from his foster mother and read the handwritten note. A grin tugged his lips at the humor behind the birthday sentiment lamenting his thirtieth birthday. It’d be just like his mom to mark the day with humor instead of one of those sappy cards that made hormonal women cry and grown men shift uncomfortably. He was once again reminded of how lucky he’d been when Leo and Susan Mitchell came into his life. Yet, despite his good fortune of being raised in a loving, caring home, Chase had spent most of his life trying to prove something to someone. According to the Bureau shrink, the chip on his shoulder existed because his entrance into the world was highlighted by an addiction to his birth mother’s drug of choice. Consciously he understood he was good enough. The problem was good enough wasn’t always sufficient. For Chase, he always had to be better.

He dropped the card back on the counter and returned to the small dining area, twisting off the beer cap on his way. The Romine case was nothing short of a guaranteed failure. He knew he had only one option, to pull off what agents for the past thirty months could not—apprehend Special Agent Jared Romine, wanted for the murder of a fellow agent and the top aid to Senator Martin Phipps.

With a sigh of disgust, he dropped into the chair beside the oak table. As much as he would have liked to, he really couldn’t argue with Pelham. Not this time. He’d created a reputation for himself, and now he had to live with the consequences. It was common knowledge Chase Bracken didn’t play well with others. He took risks, calculated risks in his opinion, but still risks the Bureau had warned him about time and again. After his last assignment, Pelham had called him a cowboy. Funny how the superior officer seemed to conveniently forget Chase had the highest success rate in the New York office. At least until the Gleason case.

Psych had cleared him. So had I.A. Chase didn’t see a problem. In fact, in his opinion so long as he got the job done, there shouldn’t be a problem. Was it his fault things weren’t wrapped up all nice and tidy? He wasn’t the one who shot at innocent bystanders, even if Pelham did blame him for firing first at the perp in a less than perfect scenario. Usually by the time Chase wrapped up a case, there were fewer criminals roaming the street and the Gleason case was no exception. Because additional body bags had been involved this time didn’t mean he was getting careless or losing his edge…just that he was doing his job.

Psych and Internal Affairs had agreed with him, and that was all the confirmation he needed to continue onward under the status quo. Bend-the-Rules Bracken would still get the job done…his way.

He set his beer aside and flipped the lid off one of the boxes, pulling out the most recent file with the name Destiny Romine, M.D., printed across the tab. According to the surveillance reports, the good lady doctor was the only link to her brother.

From the first initial contact, no one had ever been able to trip her up. If she knew her brother’s location, she wasn’t talking.

A slow grin eased across Chase’s mouth. He always knew how to make them talk.

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.

The water stopped.

Chase muttered a curse, then started talking to his voice mail, asking the make-believe telephone company to please do whatever necessary to initiate service today. Yes, he could be reached at the high school after one o’clock.

He paused, and counted to ten.

Silence.

He felt like an idiot, but continued the one-sided dialogue anyway.

In the watch pocket of his blue jeans, he eased out two credit-card-thin silver discs, and wedged them inside the guts of the receiver. He slid the white plastic, protective covering back on the phone, then snapped it in place.

“Thank you,” he said into the mouthpiece, as the door to the bathroom swung open. “I’d really appreciate it.”

He turned, pressed the button to disconnect the call and mentally counted to ten before sliding his thumb over the six button, followed by two hits to the number one to erase the Bureau number from the redial memory. It wouldn’t do for Dr. Romine to become suspicious. The last thing he needed was for her to end up with the Bureau’s automated recording instead of the phone company he’d been pretending to call.

“Should be taken care of now,” he said, hanging up the telephone just as Dee walked into the kitchen.

“They’re usually pretty good about service,” she said, giving him the hint that occasionally the small regional phone company wasn’t as prompt as she’d sometimes like. “Someone probably just forgot to flip a switch somewhere.”

She’d brushed her hair, he noticed, and pulled the long silky strands into a ponytail, which swung over her shoulder when she bent to pull a teakettle from a low cabinet. Chase couldn’t help himself. He was a man. A man alone with a beautiful woman. When she bent over to look under the cabinet for the teakettle, his gaze landed right on her backside. A very curvy backside, too, he thought.

She moved to the sink to fill the kettle with water, then set it to boil on the stove. He reluctantly dragged his attention away from the curves beneath her robe and flashed her a grin when she looked his way.

“Sorry I can’t be more neighborly and offer you a cup of tea.” She lowered the flame under the kettle. “I really have to get to the clinic soon.”

“No problem.” He’d gotten luckier than he’d hoped by being able to place the dual transmitters in her telephone. He still couldn’t quite believe a woman who’d learned to be suspicious of just about everyone she came in contact with would leave him alone for any length of time in her apartment. “I better get going. More unpacking to do.”

The space between the stove and the sink was incredibly narrow. Whether she just didn’t think about the cramped space or she was playing some game of territorial one-upmanship he wasn’t privy to, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that she didn’t move and he’d have to touch her in order to pass. With no other choice but to squeeze between her and the speckled counter, his hand automatically landed on her hip as he attempted to ease his way around her.

Nothing could have prepared him for the electrical charge of sexual awareness that shot from the tips of his fingers straight to his groin. His fingers weren’t the only body parts that flexed, either. Telling himself she was the final piece of the puzzle to the whereabouts of her brother didn’t help. Pulling his hand back and putting some much needed physical distance between them was equally useless.

His body acknowledged hers with a fierce surge of good old-fashioned lust. He hoped like hell it’d just been a long time since he’d been with a woman. The instantaneous desire collided with his staunch denial there was nothing else to his physical reaction to Dee. She was a means to an end. The very nature of his job, his reason for even being in her apartment at ten in the morning on a late-summer day, forbade any emotional involvement with her whatsoever.

That didn’t stop the blood from pumping hard and fast through his veins.

“You work at the clinic?” he asked, putting more distance between them while attempting to redirect his thoughts.

She frowned. Had she felt it, too? he wondered.

“Yes,” she said, the note of awareness in her voice striking him right in the midsection with a ball of heat that burned, then shot lower and simmered.

Damn.

He edged out of the small kitchen into the living-room area. “So are you the one I call if I need an appointment to see the doc?” He already knew everything there was to know about her. Everything, he thought, except the way his body reacted to the nearness of hers. That had been a complete surprise.

“Are you asking me if I’m the receptionist?” she asked, settling her hands on the counter. Her hip, the one he swore he could still feel the imprint of against his fingers, tilted slightly to the side.

“I guess I was.”

A brief smile canted her mouth. “No. I’m not the receptionist.”

“Nurse?”

Her smile deepened. “Wrong again.”

He frowned, then lifted his eyebrows as if surprised. “You’re the town doctor?”

“And would you believe it? I went to school and everything,” she countered. An interesting light flashed in her gold-green eyes that matched the sass in her voice.

He grinned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I’m just a little tired this morning.”

She folded her arms in front of her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re going to have to excuse me. I really need to get ready for work.”

“How about you let me buy you lunch?” he asked quickly. Whether his invitation stemmed from his need to solve the case or something more interesting he had no intention of pursuing, he couldn’t say. He opted for case related. “It’s the least I could do since I woke you up to use your phone.”

She let out a puff of breath and padded across the bare floor to the door. “That’s not necessary,” she said, swinging it open in a silent, but pointed, invitation for him to get out.

“I insist,” he pushed, walking toward her. “I feel bad about waking you.”

She looked away as he passed in front of her. He stepped onto the front porch and turned around, his hopes climbing a notch at the regret in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I have to work.”

“You get a lunch break, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m really busy today. But thank you anyway.” She let the door swing closed. The rattle of the safety chain told him she wouldn’t be changing her mind anytime soon.

He let out a frustrated stream of breath. The morning hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d managed to get the transmitters placed in her telephone. All incoming or outgoing calls from that telephone would be recorded. While any information he learned would be inadmissible, he couldn’t risk a leak, which was a real possibility if he attempted the legal route by obtaining a court ordered tap. She didn’t own a cellular telephone, but she did have a beeper. He also hadn’t been able to determine whether or not she had another extension in her bedroom.

He reined in the baser thoughts that readily flowed through his mind when he considered the means by which to gain entrance to Dr. Romine’s bedroom.

Shoving his hand through his hair, he stepped off her porch into the bright morning sunlight and headed across the small concrete courtyard bordered with overgrown, neglected foliage to the stairs leading up to his apartment. He’d stretched the boundaries of the law before to suit his own ends and he wasn’t above doing so now. When it came to tracking down those on the FBI’s most wanted list, he wouldn’t hesitate to stretch the rules to the point of breaking. Every now and then, he’d even managed a few stress cracks, but never had he ever completely ignored the laws he’d sworn to uphold. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy a challenge, and the Romine case definitely qualified.

Except Chase Bend-the-Rules Bracken had a problem. A problem that consisted of his body’s reaction to his only lead in the case he had to solve, or he’d be donating his dark blue suits to the Goodwill.

With a sigh of self-disgust, he walked into his apartment and headed straight for the locked spare bedroom. He flipped on the light and crossed the room, ignoring the high-powered scope set up near the window. Without bothering to sit, he leaned over and punched a series of keys on the computer keyboard. In the recorder next to him, surveillance tapes whirred to life then paused until triggered by the subject’s telephone. The red lights on the recording devices glowed.

He was ready, in the preliminary sense. If Jared Romine contacted his sister by telephone, Chase would know about it. His gut told him the rogue agent wouldn’t be so careless; it wasn’t Romine’s style considering he’d been underground for almost three years without so much as a hint to his whereabouts. The Bureau knew that somehow Romine maintained contact with his sister. Chase needed to determine exactly how the murdering agent did it. Then and only then would he be able to track the suspect down.

He arrogantly figured within two weeks he’d know everything he needed to finally apprehend Jared Romine.

A slow smile spread across his face. He wouldn’t uncover the information by using any of the high-tech surveillance equipment lining the walls of the spare bedroom. He’d learn it the old-fashioned way, by interrogating the suspect’s sister, in ways Chase was positive would never be found in any reference manual.

LONG HOURS WEREN’T NEW to Dee. Nor were shifts that extended long beyond her scheduled twelve hours. She learned to survive the grueling pace by napping whenever possible and drinking as much strong black coffee as her stomach lining could tolerate.

After the weekend she’d spent at the county hospital, followed by the fourteen-hour labor and delivery of Erma Dalton’s sixth child, she should be exhausted, but serving her internship in a busy Los Angeles emergency room two years ago had conditioned her for the endless hours young physicians often handled in the beginning of their careers.

Every other weekend she served as an E.R. resident at the Berkeley County Hospital, but this past weekend had been particularly rough as she’d had to pull a double shift to cover for a colleague away on holiday. After that, she only had a four-hour break before starting her own second shift of the weekend. Sneaking what little sleep she could manage during the occasional lull, she’d made it through the roughest forty-eight hours she could remember since her early intern days. Her plans to sleep until noon, however, had been effectively derailed by her new upstairs neighbor.

Her very handsome and sexy new upstairs neighbor, with wavy black hair, eyes such an interesting shade of blue they looked almost lilac. Add in the sweet musky scent that clung to his skin, and her dormant feminine instincts had awakened from slumber.

Just what she didn’t need. Or want.

At first she’d tried to write off her physical reaction to the newcomer as nothing more than sheer exhaustion. So what if she’d experienced an accompanying thrum of anticipation when she’d first looked into his intense gaze. She’d had an extraordinarily busy weekend and probably only slept seven out of the last sixty hours. As dog-tired as she’d been, was it so unusual for her to feel a rush of longing when a tall, gorgeous stranger asked to borrow her phone?

For her, yes. He made her uneasy, in a man/woman, sexual desires running in high gear sort of way. As far as explanations went, she couldn’t find one worthy enough to rationalize the way her heart had ricocheted around in her chest when he’d laid his hand on her hip as he squeezed past her in the kitchen, or the way her thighs had tingled when he’d brushed against her.

No doubt about it. Coach Bracken made her hot.

Too bad a cool shower, followed up with a steaming cup of herbal tea and a crispy toasted bagel slathered with her favorite strawberry cream cheese, did nothing to alleviate the sneaking suspicion that sexual deprivation, not lack of sleep, was her problem.

At five minutes before noon, she pulled into the rear of the clinic and parked beneath the voluminous shade of an ancient elm. After locking her used Honda Civic, she followed the concrete path along the side of the building to the front door. There wouldn’t be any patients waiting for her, with the exception of Erma Dalton, whom she hoped to send home soon, which would give her time to get caught up on paperwork.

She climbed the wooden steps of the old Victorian where the Cole Harbor clinic was housed. The bottom floor had been converted to a medical office over sixty years before by the first Doc Claymore, with the living quarters taking up the two top floors. Three generations later, the clinic still existed, but the gruff old buzzard Dee put up with was the last of his line.

She pushed open the door and breathed in the sterile scent of disinfectant mingled with the more tantalizing aroma of the mulberry scented candle burning in the reception area. Netta, the clinic’s receptionist, was just pulling her oversize canvas bag from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

“Good afternoon, Netta. Any messages?”

Netta, who dressed like a twenty-two-year-old, although Dee and Lucille both swore she couldn’t be a day under thirty-five, dropped her bag on the desk. She gave the short hem of the black knit skirt hugging her ample bottom a tug, followed by a dramatic put-upon sigh. The receptionist’s job was to take messages and schedule appointments. In Dee’s opinion, they were lucky to get that much from the five-foot-two bottle blonde, and had learned early on anything more taxing than answering the phone was asking for trouble. If it was up to Dee, Netta Engels would be history and she’d hire a real front-end person capable of taking the administrative load off the shoulders of Lucille, the registered nurse who’d worked for Doc Claymore the last twenty-five years. The decision wasn’t Dee’s, however, and for reasons that defied common sense, cantankerous old Claymore liked Netta.

As did ninety-eight percent of the male population of Cole Harbor, Dee thought with disgust, certain Netta’s talents went far beyond the kind best put to use in an office.

Two more months, Dee told herself. Provided she came to a decision about where she wanted to practice medicine once her contractual obligation with the government ended. One thing she knew for certain, no matter which offer she accepted, it’d be in a very large metropolitan area where she’d just be another face in a very large crowd. She had managed to narrow her choices down and was seriously entertaining offers from Presbyterian Hospital in New York, Boston’s Massachusetts General and a rather lucrative offer from a private, smaller bed facility in Miami, which would include a gradual partnership buy-in with stock options. Since living on the Atlantic Coast, she decided she preferred the eastern coastal regions to those on the Pacific, and was even beginning to like the idea of a white Christmas, a feature which would effectively eliminate Miami from her list. So, she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to narrow her choices just yet.

Netta thrust a small stack of pink messages in front of her, then sashayed around the counter in an overpowering cloud of perfume. “I have a lunch date,” she said, her big brown eyes filled with impatience. She slipped out the door before Dee managed to flip through all the notes.

Nothing out of the ordinary, she decided, except no call from the lab at County with pathology results from the Dalton delivery.

Dee made a mental note to call for the results as the bell over the door rang again. She looked up from the messages in her hand. Her heart stuttered beneath her breast, then resumed at a pace worthy of a few concerned bleeps from a heart monitor. Everyone in Cole Harbor knew the clinic was closed from noon until two.

Everyone, that is, except its newest resident…the incredibly sexy Chase Bracken.

3

NOT IN A MILLION YEARS would Chase ever place surgical scrubs under the heading Erotic Attire. That is until he’d had the distinct pleasure of seeing firsthand how the burgundy cotton played hide-and-seek with his neighbor’s curves. Since he had more than a hint of just how curvy she was under the boxy top and drawstring cotton pants, he considered himself a minor authority on the subject.

She set the pink scraps of paper she’d been reading when he’d walked through the door facedown on the desk. “The clinic doesn’t open until two,” she said. Her delicately arched eyebrows pulled together over a distrustful gaze filled with just enough curiosity to keep him encouraged.

His own curiosity was also piqued, and it had little to do with the case. Thoughts of what those enticing curves would feel like beneath his fingertips, without the cotton barrier, had occupied his mind the past two hours. Fantasies, rather than focusing on his purpose for even being near her, occupied his mind.

Fantasies better left unexplored.

Fantasies that had his body in an aching state of awareness.

He flashed her a grin and held up a white paper sack. “I figured I owed you one. Just wanted to drop by and say thanks for being neighborly, neighbor.”

Distrustful, curious or just plain cautious, he couldn’t care less because interest resided at the top of the list. He didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the back of the secretarial chair as if she had to force herself to concentrate on something solid instead of…what? Him? The way his body had felt brushing along hers as he’d slipped behind her this morning? The way his fingers had pressed into her hip? The way his thighs had grazed her bottom?

She had plenty of reasons to be cautious of him, but instinct told him her apprehension had more to do with the sexual awareness arcing between them than any suspicion about what he was really doing in Cole Harbor. Still, he had to get close to her, and the best way to do that was to set every single one of her suspicions aside, one by one until nothing lay between them except naked trust.

“I really don’t have—”

“It’s okay,” he said, rounding the corner of the low partition standing between them. “I’m not staying. Where’s your office?”

She let go of the chair and shifted to face him. Clasping her hands behind her back, she drew the cotton fabric tight over her breasts. “You’re not staying?”

“’Fraid not, Doc.” It took every ounce of willpower to keep his gaze focused on hers when he really wanted to look his fill elsewhere. “I’d like to stick around and share lunch, but I need to be heading over to the high school for a faculty meeting.”

“I didn’t mean you weren’t welcome, it’s just that—”

“You’re busy,” he finished for her. “I know. I just wanted to say thanks for helping me out of a jam this morning.”

And had she ever, he thought. Especially since he was pretty sure she hadn’t a clue how much trouble it was to obtain a legal wire tap.

She made a sound that might have been a laugh, but he couldn’t be sure. She tilted her head slightly to the side, causing her unbound sable hair to skim over her right shoulder and tease the gentle slope of her breast. “Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, you did me a big favor this morning.” He held up the bag and wiggled it back and forth. The heavy aroma of fried burger and French fried potatoes wafted between them. “Office?”

A tentative smile curved her mouth before she reached up and gingerly took the bag from his hand, as if trying not to make physical contact. She almost reminded him of the stray dog he’d found one summer as a kid. The poor animal had been teased and tormented by the neighborhood bully and as a result, had grown fearful of a human’s touch. He’d worked for months trying to get the dog to trust him, and by the end of summer, he’d finally managed to win him over. For twelve years Hobo, as Chase’s foster mother had named the mutt, had taken up residence on the Mitchells’ back porch and had been Chase’s staunchest protector.

He hoped he’d be able to win over the pretty doctor just as thoroughly.

“I don’t have an office,” she admitted, then opened the bag and inhaled deeply.

She looked up at him and offered him a smile brighter than anything he’d seen in a very long time. Too long, but he rapidly quashed that stray thought. Unable to stop himself, a satisfied grin tugged his lips in response to the pure pleasure lighting her intriguing eyes.

“Really? You’re the town doc, and you don’t have an office?” Boy, wait until Pelham gets a load of this daily report, Chase thought smugly. He’d have Pelham and the rest of the superior bastards scratching their heads in wonder with the progress he was making after only two hours of initial contact with the subject. They’d think twice about stuffing him behind a desk for the duration.

“It’s a long story,” she said. She set the bag on the blotter protecting the wood grain surface of the desk. A wry grin eased across her sweet-looking mouth. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.” He’d read the files. There wasn’t a single detail about her he didn’t know.

No matter how much he wanted to stay and test the getting-to-know-you waters, he figured he’d better continue to play it smart and put some distance between them. He wanted to build trust, not spook her by coming on too strong.

“Enjoy your lunch,” he said. “And thanks again.” He cut across the reception area to the front door. There really was a faculty meeting scheduled for the coaching staff and he was already at risk of being late. Not quite the kind of first impression he wanted to make, even though he had a good feeling about the kind of impression he was making on the formerly illusive Dr. Destiny Romine.

He paused at the door, his hand on the knob and looked over his shoulder at her. “Oh, and for the record, Doc,” he said, not bothering to contain the cocky grin, “I’m certain there isn’t anything about you that would bore me.”

DEE CRUMPLED THE LAST of the lightly wax-coated paper and tossed it in the white bag. As much as she hated admitting it, her new neighbor’s thoughtful gesture was very much appreciated. How he knew she adored grilled onions on her cheeseburger was as much a mystery as to why, after years of practically ignoring the opposite sex, did he have to be the one to reawaken her dormant feminine senses.

Her insistent feminine senses, she thought.

From the number of charts stacked up on the corner of Netta’s immaculate desk, Dee had a slew of patients to see before the end of the day. A welcome distraction, she decided, from the more intriguing thoughts of her sexy new neighbor that had been battering her senses since she’d found him on her doorstep this morning. His parting shot hadn’t done a thing to help curb the more base thoughts demanding attention, either.

She shoved him from her mind. She had work to do and suspected Lucille was keeping watch over Erma Dalton and the newborn until Dee released them. She certainly didn’t want to perform an exam with something so offensive as onions on her breath.

After quickly perusing the charts and list of patients with scheduled appointments, she made her way into the staff’s private bathroom to brush her teeth then slipped into her white lab coat. Before she could head upstairs to see about discharging mother and child, the telephone rang. The stack of messages Netta had left her hadn’t included one from the County lab. She’d feel much more comfortable about discharging Erma and the baby after getting word that the path report was indeed clear.

She snagged the ringing telephone before the call rolled over to the answering service. “Cole Harbor Clinic.” She grabbed her pen and searched the surface of Netta’s desk for a scrap of paper.

Silence.

“Hello?” Dee frowned and slipped the pen into the pocket of her lab coat. “Is someone there?” she asked.

Nothing…until the distinct sound of a horn shattered the silence. She’d recalled a similar sound, but it only teased the fringes of her memory bank. A foghorn? she wondered, seconds before her heart slammed painfully into her ribs.

She pressed her hand over her exposed ear, shutting out the steady hum of the office machinery, listening as closely and carefully as possible for anything she might recognize—a sound, a voice, another blare of the foghorn. All she heard was the painful thud of her own heart and her blood racing through her veins as her endorphin levels skyrocketed.

Frantically she calculated the weeks since she’d last heard from her brother.

The foghorn sounded again, breaking the silence.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she asked again, unable to squelch the desperation from filtering into her voice. She knew it was Jared. Her pounding heart told her it was her brother.

She spun around to search the days on the big ninety-day calendar hanging on the far wall. It’d been late June, a little over eight weeks since the phone call with no one on the other end had woken her in the dead of night.

“Jared? Oh my God. Are you all right? Let me help—”

The line went dead. Dee let out a string of curses that would have had an entire ship of sailors blushing crimson if they’d heard her. She hung up the phone with a snap and balled her hands into fists. God, she wanted to scream from the frustration of it all.

She made a mental note to mark the day on the small calendar she kept in the drawer of her nightstand. A small red check mark next to the date as a reminder of the last time her brother had let her know he was still alive.

And still running for his life.

“YOU WANT ME TO TEACH WHAT?”

Chase glared when the defensive line coach, Charlie Harrison, snickered. “Senior sex,” Harrison blurted, then slapped his hand on the conference table and guffawed with the rest of the Cougar coaching staff.

Chase carefully set his pen on the table next to the yellow pad he’d been doodling on for the past hour. “No way,” he said, leaning back in the hard plastic chair, shifting his attention to the principal, Aaron Johnson. “Criminal justice and phys ed are all I’m qualified to teach. No way am I taking on a bunch of hormonal teenagers and talking about sex for forty-five minutes every day.”

The principal shot the coaches a look bordering on full-blown irritation. They’d been in the meeting for nearly an hour going over additional assignments. Chase being the new guy had definitely drawn the shortest, dirtiest straw. He knew a raw deal when he saw one and he’d just been dished up one hell of a stinker.

“We prefer Senior Health Issues, Mr. Bracken,” Principal Johnson said. His thick southern accent dripped with impatience that equaled the contempt for the coaching staff in his murky brown eyes. “Budget cutbacks have forced our faculty to double up their classload. It’s unfortunate that it extends to the coaching staff as well, but unless you want to see the football program completely shut down, then might I suggest you—”

“Bone up on sex,” Charlie Harrison interrupted.

“It won’t be so bad, Chase,” Walter Tompkins, the Cougars’ head coach told him, unsuccessfully hiding his grin at Charlie’s bad pun. “If it’s the only way we can afford to maintain our extracurricular programs without shortchanging the students, then we’ll just have to deal with it.”

“We all have to do it, Chase,” the offensive line coach, Sean Crawford added. “Consider yourself lucky. At least you didn’t get stuck with Home Ec.”

“Family and Consumer Studies, Mr. Crawford,” Johnson corrected.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Crawford rolled his eyes. “Look, Cole Harbor lives, eats and breathes football. They’d string up old Johnson here, along with the rest of the school board, in a hillbilly heartbeat if they dared cut the football program.”

“Damn straight,” added Coach Tompkins in his own thick southern drawl. He shot a threatening glance in the principal’s direction. “And I’d supply the rope.”

Johnson nervously shifted his attention to the schedule in front of him and wisely remained silent.

Chase glanced down at the class description then back at Johnson. “What do I know about Senior Health Issues?” he argued, not willing to give in to Johnson’s demands so readily. He knew two things and he knew them well—criminal justice and sports, primarily football. Even though he held a degree in criminal justice and a chipped hipbone from a bad hit to back up both claims, he still didn’t want to think about the strings the Bureau had pulled to land him this current undercover gig. No one, not even Johnson, knew Chase’s true identity or that teaching and coaching were the last items that should be listed on his curriculum vitae.

He couldn’t care less about the sexual habits of a bunch of oversexed teenagers. What he wanted to know was where in the hell Jared Romine was hiding.

His gut told him Dee Romine had the answer to that burning question, while his record-setting rise in testosterone levels told him the chances of him playing it out hard and fast to get that answer was good. Too good, he thought shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He knew without a doubt he’d definitely enjoy bending more than a few rules if it had the pretty lady doctor talking nice to him.

“You might want to contact Dr. Romine from the clinic,” Johnson continued, as if completely oblivious to Chase’s objections. “She’s come to speak to classes in the past about things like safe sex, condom application and other methods of birth control. All under proper parental consent of course.”

“Who?” he asked carefully, not certain he’d heard the principal correctly.

“Dr. Romine,” Johnson reiterated, then cleared his throat before looking at Chase, carefully avoiding the constant glare from the head coach. “Dr. Romine was extremely instrumental in the development of the curriculum two years ago. Mrs. Billings taught the class prior to her retirement and you’ll be our replacement.”

A grin tugged Chase’s lips. God, could this assignment get any easier? What could be more interesting than talking sex with Dee? Nothing, in his opinion, so long as she ended up telling him what he wanted to know about her brother.

He picked up the pen and wrote Dee’s name on the yellow pad, underlining it twice. Maybe teaching a course in Senior Health Issues wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all…especially if it gave him an excuse to get in closer contact with his prey.

Crawford elbowed Harrison in the ribs. “Uh-oh,” Crawford said, his voice laced with humor. “Looks like Bracken’s met the delectable Dr. Romine.”

Chase set the pen aside. “I’ve had the pleasure,” he answered carefully. Something in his chest tightened. Certainly not jealously for a lady he hardly knew. So why then did he have the sudden urge to give ol’ Charlie a poke in his large bulbous nose?

A wide grin split Charlie Harrison’s weathered face. Chase ground his teeth.

“You asked her out yet?” Harrison asked.

“What makes you think I’m interested?”

“Ain’t a man with a pulse in Cole Harbor who hasn’t been interested,” Harrison countered.

Forget the poke. A black eye would make him feel a whole lot better.

“Or shot down,” Crawford added.

That bit of knowledge gave Chase a surge of pleasure he didn’t dare examine too closely.

“Oh, yeah?” he mused unwisely, giving in to his overgrown ego.

Harrison chuckled while Crawford tossed him a knowing look.

It wasn’t the thrill of the chase, he told himself firmly. His interest in her was strictly professional.

Mostly.

CHASE WAS NO CLOSER TO DEE Romine the following Saturday than he’d been the day he’d arrived in Cole Harbor. He wouldn’t exactly say she went out of her way to avoid him, but he couldn’t help wondering if the sparks of sexual attraction between them had only been a conscious awareness of nothing more intriguing than the firing between synapse and neurotransmitter inside his own gray matter.

The accompanying state of semiarousal that occurred whenever he thought of her denied that hopeful musing.

With a grunt of disgust, he closed the file he’d been staring at for over an hour with a snap and tossed it carelessly on top of the open box containing more of the Romine case. He’d checked and rechecked the detailed schematic of her whereabouts and habits over the last twelve months until he knew them by heart. Since she’d worked the previous weekend at Berkeley County Hospital, she should’ve had the weekend off, but as Chase had learned from the bug he’d planted in her telephone, Friday morning she’d received a call from the hospital asking if she could work a couple of additional shifts over the weekend. She hadn’t hesitated and Chase wished she’d been asked to work the graveyard shift. That was something he could’ve used to his advantage. There was no way he could risk sneaking into her apartment during the light of day. The chances of someone spotting him were too great.

Twenty minutes later he knew if he didn’t get out and do something he’d go stir-crazy. He thought about heading off toward town, but this late on a Saturday afternoon, the few businesses that were open on the weekend had either already shut down or were preparing to close up shop. His options ranged from the D.Q. and the high-school crowd, the Surf & Turf Diner and the geriatric generation, or one of three local taverns. The latter appealed to him even less than his first two options. During his college days when drinking and carousing were practically a part of the curriculum, more often than not he’d assumed the role of designated driver. He had a hang-up about drugs and alcohol, but kept his opinions to himself lest he be forced into an explanation. Certain information was better kept buried in the past where it belonged, especially when he had no desire to admit to anyone his less than stellar beginnings.

He was bored, restless and blamed both emotions on the brunette downstairs who’d cost him six whole days of prime surveillance time by doing nothing more exciting than traveling to the clinic each morning and returning before sundown each evening. Her lights were consistently out before midnight and he hadn’t heard so much as a television in the background during the four unremarkable telephone calls she’d received since he’d set the tap.

The restlessness sprang from other, more personal emotions and the fact he could not stop thinking about Dee in a way that bothered him. As in hot and bothered. He let out a stream of breath. Had he really been too long without a woman? Must be, he thought, otherwise he’d be able to ignore the fantasies occupying his mind. A little physical exertion would be just the ticket to clear his head so he could start focusing on the job, and not the way her skin would feel when flushed with desire.

He found a few tools for the yard in a small shed at the rear of the triplex, along with an old push mower in serious need of oiling and blade sharpening.

Despite the heavy humidity pushing the heat index higher than normal for the area, for the next four hours Chase trimmed and box-shaped the hedge, then cleared the weeds from the fountain. Armed with a half-empty spray can of lubricant and a sharpening stone he’d found after searching a battered red toolbox in the corner of the shed, he sat on the wooden steps outside Dee’s unit beneath the shade provided by the overhang on her side of the wide front porch and started tearing down the mower.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing?”

Chase looked up, surprised to find Dee looking at him, curiosity banked in her eyes. In accordance with the climbing heat index and stifling humidity, she wore a pair of khaki walking shorts with a plain white top tucked into the narrow waistband. With one white sneaker propped on the bottom step and her hand wrapped around the wooden railing, she looked as if she’d been ready to bound up the stairs until she saw him.

Using the shirt he’d pulled off over an hour ago, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I thought the place could use a little work.”

“Mrs. England has a gardener, you know.”

“Then she should fire him because he does a lousy job.”

She shrugged, then hesitated long enough to have him wondering if she was debating whether or not she could trust him not to touch her if she passed by him.

As if every nerve in his body wasn’t poised for action, he gave the mower blade his attention once again. The sun had begun its descent over the western horizon, yet the air was still heavy with humidity, causing moisture to cling to just about every surface of his body. The moist heat would have been completely unbearable if not for the light sea breeze that occasionally teased his skin and gently stirred the fronds of the palmetto trees overhead.

She must’ve decided it was safe, because after a few ticks of the second hand on his wristwatch, she climbed the stairs to her apartment. The jangle of keys was followed by the click of the door and the faint whoosh of cool air from the central air conditioning that brushed against his skin.

The screened door snapped shut about the same time her front door closed. Well, now what? he wondered. He had been waiting for her to return, so now what did he do? The equipment was set to record if she received or made a telephone call. Maybe he could even come up with a plausible excuse to gain entrance into her apartment again. The “my phone is out” trick wouldn’t fly a second time, but he could always pull the lame borrow an egg or cup of sugar routine if he got desperate enough. There was the Senior Health class, but it wouldn’t make sense for him to contact her so soon about speaking to the class when school wouldn’t be in session for another two weeks.

Before he could conceive a viable plan, her door opened. “Are you drinking enough water to replenish what you’re losing?” she asked abruptly, keeping the screened door between them.

He detected a note of irritation in her voice, but finished his stroke along the mower blade before looking over his shoulder at her. Definitely irritation. Her sable eyebrows slanted into a frown. He couldn’t see her eyes clearly, but he easily imagined the gold highlights sparkling due to her annoyance. Annoyance he’d bet his badge was unwanted.

The question as to the cause of her aggravation held all sorts of interesting possibilities, and had him curious as hell. Because she didn’t want to care if he was running the risk of dehydration? Or did her attitude stem from some other, more base instinct? The same base instincts he’d been unable to stop thinking about since they’d touched that morning in her compact kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” he said, forcing himself to return to sharpening the mower blade and not try to see for himself if those gold highlights were indeed sparkling. He flicked his finger over the sharpened blade. Not bad. Satisfied, he started working the opposite side.

“By the way you’re sweating, I’d say you’re dangerously close to dehydration, unless you’re taking in plenty of water.”

A smile kicked into a grin when he glanced over his shoulder at her again. She’d been watching him. And paying attention. “Is that strictly your professional opinion?”

He couldn’t be sure, but he could’ve sworn her eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s an observation,” she said, the husky nuances of her voice conjuring plenty of images, but not a single one of them professional.

“So you’ve been observing, huh?”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. Damn, but he wished he could see her eyes clearly.

“It’s not what you’re thinking, it’s… Just drink plenty of water. And that is my professional opinion.” The sound of her door closing was followed by the slide of the safety chain.

He shrugged and went back to the mower blade. Not exactly the kind of conversation he’d envisioned, nor would it even remotely classify as a success as far as getting closer to her.

He slid the stone along the dulled blade. Considering his lack of progress all week, he supposed today’s encounter ranked right up there with mediocre success.

She noticed him. She noticed him and it bothered her. If that was the case, then Chase knew it’d only be a matter of time before he located the right combination to unlock the secrets that would lead him right to Jared Romine.

He heard the gentle glide of metal against metal again, followed by the jingle of the safety chain.

He looked up expectantly as her door opened one more time. She pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the covered porch. “Have you eaten?” The slight irritation he’d detected earlier hadn’t dissipated. The gold highlighting her green eyes intensified, almost flaring to life.

God, she had the most intriguing gaze. He couldn’t help wondering what they’d do when banked in passion.

He shrugged and shot for a casual attitude he was far from feeling. He was close, he could feel it, and he had to play it cool so he didn’t blow it. “Not since lunch, why?”

She slid her hands into the front pockets of her khaki walking shorts and frowned. “I have some halibut defrosted. It’s too much for just one person and it’d end up going to waste…”

“You inviting me to dinner, Doc?”

She let out a puff of breath. “I guess I am.”

He grinned, and set the blade and sharpening stone on the step beside him. “Then you got yourself a date,” he said rising.

“Uh, this isn’t, isn’t a date.”

Chase just grinned. He didn’t care what she was calling it. He’d just gotten closer, and that’s all that mattered. Almost all that mattered, he amended.

4

“IT’S NOT A TYPICALLY southern dish, but it’s healthy,” Dee said, hating that her voice trembled. She added a covered casserole dish filled with rice pilaf to the breakfast bar next to the salad and glazed carrots, and hoped he didn’t notice how her hands shook nervously.

He set the pan with the grilled halibut by the stove. “Then it should suit my Yankee taste buds,” he said, a teasing grin slanting his mouth in a way that had her heart thumping a few beats too fast.

He took the seat she indicated and poured them each a glass of wine. She added the halibut to their plates before climbing onto the bar stool kitty-corner from him. She’d changed the place settings a half-dozen times while he’d been grilling the fish on the little portable grill the previous tenant had left behind. Finally she’d aimed for the safest seating arrangement, one that would give her the most distance physically. There was enough awareness sizzling between them to send her into sensory overload. Sitting directly beside him where their thighs could brush, their knees lightly touch, or their feet tangle would be like flicking a lit match onto a bale of dried straw.

She cleared her throat, then offered him the plain glass bowl filled with glazed carrots. “So where are you from, Yankee?” He took the dish from her, his thick tanned fingers brushing against hers. She should’ve expected it, but the tingles rippling through her and landing right in the tips of her breasts still surprised, and annoyed her. Why now? Why did her well-trained and dormant hormones have to choose this time, this place, this man to become unruly and zing to life? Why, when she would be leaving the adorably quaint southern coastal town for a new life, did she finally find herself responding to the opposite sex?

Her feminine senses went haywire when he was around. They didn’t even fully function when he wasn’t around, either, and that was a very big problem. Especially when she took into consideration how she’d allowed herself to become distracted by his very kissable-looking mouth, imagining his kisses twice as intoxicating as his eyes when he looked at her that way. Like the way that said he knew every nuance, every curve, every aspect of her body as intimately as his own.

Impossible, but she couldn’t stop the wayward thoughts any more than she could stop the sun from shining.

There were times, she concluded, reaching for the dish of pilaf, when life just wasn’t fair.

“Ohio originally,” he said, drawing her attention back to his uniquely handsome face. His slightly crooked nose had been broken at least once in his life. But his eyes. Oh, a girl could really get lost in such an interesting shade of blue. That deep lilac color combined with the way he looked at her were just way too sexy. Factor in those long, dark lashes a tube of the highest quality mascara could never hope to duplicate on any woman, and her previously controlled hormones were history.

His mouth wasn’t so bad, either, she thought, absently cutting her fish with the edge of her fork. His lips, with the lower slightly fuller, could only be called sensual. Definitely sensual, she thought as she stared, watching them move as he spoke.

“Doc?”

His voice was sharp enough to snap her right back into reality. She forced her gaze from his lips back to his eyes. “Did you say something?” Well, of course he said something. His lips had been moving and she’d been staring at them like a love-struck schoolgirl for crying out loud.

He grinned while she struggled to regain her usual cool, calm composure. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“I asked where you were from,” he said.

She pushed her fork through her rice. She’d learned to mix the truth with the lies, but she’d always told the same story. She no longer had a family. At least none she could openly discuss. As far as anyone knew, she was Dee Romine, the only living surviving child of the late David and Ellen Romine. Her decision on exactly what to say when asked by anyone was based in fact, for the most part. Never the superstitious type, she still wouldn’t dare to tweak fate’s nose by saying that her brother had died as well, afraid if she did, she might be predisposing Jared’s fate. The lies weren’t something she cared for, so she simply never mentioned her brother.

“Washington state,” she said after a moment.

He reached for his wineglass. “That’s a long way from family.”

“I don’t have family.” The practiced lie slipped easily from her lips. Too easily. “What about you?” she asked, bringing the conversation back to him. “The Carolina coastline isn’t exactly a good stretch of the legs from Ohio, you know.”

He lifted the wineglass to his lips and drank slowly. “My folks are both retired,” he finally said, almost as if he was deciding how much to tell her, which was silly. She just had a guilty conscience is all.

He took another sip of wine before setting his glass aside. “My old man taught history and government at the local high school, and mom was the Home Ec teacher.”

“Is that why you went into teaching? Following in your parents’ footsteps?”

“Something like that I guess. Speaking of teaching, Johnson said I should contact you.”

She stopped with her fork poised in midair. “Principal Johnson? Contact me? Why?”

He pushed his near empty plate aside and rested his tanned forearms on the counter. “He’s punishing the coaching staff, and I got caught in the middle of the battle between him and the head coach,” he said with a wry grin. “I guess it could be worse, but I doubt it. I’ve been assigned one of those half-semester senior-seminar classes.”

“Let me guess. He’s taking it out on the coaches because he’d rather put money into academia than the sports programs right?”

“That about sums it up.”

“It’s been a long-standing battle around these parts,” she told him. “Don’t take it personally.” She polished off the last of her halibut before asking, “But what does it have to do with me?”

He let out a sigh and reached again for his wineglass. “Senior Sex.”

He had to be kidding. She’d assisted Ellen Billings with the curriculum when the older woman had been assigned the class two years ago. Dee had gone to speak to the students about the varying types of birth control available, stressing abstinence was the most acceptable form. Teens being teens, no matter what she told them, she knew peer pressure would often lead to sexual experimentation regardless of the dangers to their emotional and physical health. At least after her presentation the students were more than prepared, and had gone away with more than just a basic understanding of the concept of safe sex.

She set her fork on the plate. “You’re joking, right?” she asked, hopeful that he was in fact teasing her. The thought of showing the senior class the appropriate method of applying a condom, in front of the one man who’d managed to awaken her libido wasn’t exactly the most appealing.

“No joke, Doc,” he said, his voice tinged with humor. “So would you be willing to show the class how to put a condom on a banana?”

She reached for her glass, pausing before taking a long and much needed drink. “I use a cucumber actually,” she quipped. “It’s easier for the students. Contrasting colors and all that.”

He chuckled, the sound a low, sexy rumble. “Isn’t that just a little ambitious?”

“You were a teenage boy once. Wouldn’t you rather the girls saw you as a cucumber than a banana?”

His spontaneous burst of laughter brought a smile to her lips. It was no use, she suddenly realized. Fighting the sexual awareness buzzing between them was an effort in futility. Unless of course she was willing to pack up and move tomorrow to either Boston or New York, which she wasn’t. Besides, she knew he felt it as well. It was there, in his smile, in the sound of his laughter, but mostly in his eyes, a deeper shade of violet now and twice as intense when he looked at her.

“I didn’t realize cucumbers were more…anatomically correct.”

Her responding laughter was a tad too close to a nervous twitter. She set her glass aside. “Why are we having this conversation?”

He shrugged. “You started it, Doc.”

No, she didn’t. He did. “Let’s change the subject,” she suggested.

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“That you’d want to change the subject. I had the impression you wouldn’t mind discussing…anatomy.”

She stood and started clearing the bar with trembling fingers. “You take a lot for granted, Coach.” What did he expect her to do? Roll over on her back and yell, Take me now, stud?

“Chase.”

She turned to find him standing less than two feet away from her. That made her even more nervous since he blocked her only hope for an exit. “You take a lot for granted, Chase.”

He reached for her, but she pulled away before he could touch her, leaning back until the edge of the counter bit into her lower back.

“Do I?” he asked.

Her tactical temporary escape failed. Definitely not a smart move, because he inched closer, then leaned toward her. He planted his hands firmly on the edge of the counter, bracketing her within his strong tanned arms and the muscled wall of his chest. They weren’t even touching, but the charge between them was still powerfully electric.

By some miracle, she remembered to breathe, and all she got for her trouble was an intoxicating mix of freshly showered man and a hint of musk that teased her senses. “I’m not looking to get involved,” she told him, then wet her suddenly drier than dust lips with her tongue. “I was only being, uh, I was being neighborly.”

“Then why so nervous, Doc?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“Why are you so close?”

He lifted one eyebrow and shrugged his wide shoulders. “I dunno. It’d be kinda hard to kiss you from across the room.”

“Kiss me?” The words tangled up in her vocal cords and came out sounding like a husky whisper filled with invitation.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, in that same sexy rumble that had her insides quivering with sweet anticipation.

Before she could tell him he was wasting his time, that she didn’t have the time to get involved, his tongue brushed lightly across her lips.

Before she could think of the words to protest what was going to be the most promising moment of sexual awakening, he swept inside and tasted her deeply.

Before she could even summon her lost common sense and stop his gentle assault on her mouth, she tangled her tongue with his.

Moaning softly, she straightened. Her breasts barely brushed against his chest, but the contact had enough spark for hard peaks to form and rasp enticingly against her sensible cotton sports bra. Unable to resist the honeyed temptation of his mouth moving so provocatively, so seductively over hers, she wreathed her arms around his neck and just enjoyed the thrill racing through her veins.

Before she became completely swept away by the toe-curling kiss, he lifted his head and firmly set her away from him. The grin he gave her was filled with enough arrogance to let her know he hadn’t missed one iota of her body’s response.

“Thanks for the meal, Doc,” he said, then turned and walked away.

Her breath came in short pants as she watched him cross the living room to the front door. How could he just walk away after igniting sparks like that? She might have responded like a feline who’d snuck out the back door and made it into the alley, but he hadn’t exactly been unaffected, either.

“Where are you going?” she asked against her better judgment.

He swung the door open, then stopped in the threshold to look over his shoulder at her. “You’ve got an early day tomorrow. I’ll take you to dinner after your shift.”

He stepped through the door without answering her question, or waiting for a response to his invitation that hovered close to an arrogant demand. He was gone. Just like that, she thought with a snap of her fingers. He tipped her world upside down then left her, alone and feeling achingly frustrated. From a kiss!

There was more. A whole lot more and it all zeroed in on her growing sexual attraction to the new guy in town.

HE’D VERY NEARLY BLOWN IT. God, he couldn’t believe he could be so careless. Not with an investigation as important as the Romine case. And especially not with a case as important to his continued employment with the Bureau.

He stood on the forty-yard line with Crawford and Harrison, each with their feet braced for impact, their backs to the sun and each holding a blocking dummy gripped tightly in their hands. A red Cougars ball cap helped to shield Chase’s eyes from the brightness of the evening sun, but nothing could alleviate the thick humidity, except maybe a good summer storm. Between the heat, humidity and thoughts of Dee, his concentration on the Cougars’ practice was no more effective than what he’d had on the investigation Saturday evening.

Dee hadn’t mentioned her schedule to him once throughout the time they’d spent together four nights ago, and he’d gone off feeling damned cocky just because she’d responded to him. He’d been lucky he hadn’t blown the whole operation. But he’d covered. He decided some distance would be in his favor so he tacked a note to her door the next afternoon, telling her something had come up and he’d have to give her a rain check on that meal he’d promised. Then after making certain all the surveillance equipment was in top working order, he’d taken off to a neighboring town to a motel for the night. It’d been a risky choice, but he didn’t think he had any other option. Obviously his instincts had paid off, because he hadn’t seen nor heard from Dee in the past four days. By the time they did meet up again, he suspected she’d probably have forgotten the incident. At least he hoped so.

He muttered a curse as he took a rough hit from Jimmy Sanders, a defensive lineman tipping the scales at two-twenty. “Watch it, Sanders,” he complained. “You put that head down again, I’m gonna put my cleat on your backside.”

Sanders spit out his mouthpiece. “Sorry, Coach.”

Chase braced himself for the hit by the next player. After the way Dee had been sending him more signals than a faulty traffic light, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel, or do for that matter. What was he supposed to do when she kissed him like she wanted him? Wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He was a good agent, even if he wasn’t above taking risks, but he doubted even the director could keep his hands, or his mouth, off someone as delightfully sensual as Dee.

She’d gotten to him. There was no other explanation, no other excuse. She’d gotten to him good and driven him practically insane with her pretty mouth and witty conversation. Every ounce of his strength had been forcefully summoned in order for him to walk away from her when all he’d wanted to do was take that kiss one step further, and another, then another until they were both too sated and exhausted to move. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been affected so intensely by a sweet, dewy mouth capable of drawing out secrets he’d never shared with another living soul. What was a guy supposed to do when a perfectly matched pair of breasts were pressing against his chest or slim hips were cradled within his own so unconsciously and so naturally?

“Sanders, get your head up,” he yelled at Jimmy, who was charging straight for Crawford.

The defensive lineman hit the pad, head down. Chase swore and dropped his blocking dummy. Snagging Sanders by the face mask, he pulled the player toward him. He managed to shout a few oaths common on the football field, then threatened Sanders with a seat on the junior varsity bench for the season.

The kid started to say something, but Chase didn’t hear him. From out of nowhere, he took a direct hit. And that was the last thing he remembered before his world went dark.

“THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I’m fine.”

Dee offered Chase her best tolerant expression, the one she reserved for difficult patients, particularly the male population being as they were the ones more apt to complain about obeying doctor’s orders. Especially orders from a female doctor. Regardless of how great he kissed, Chase was a credit to his gender in the doctor/patient relationship area.

She slipped the otoscope back into the holder, before making a notation on the chart. “You were tackled, hit the ground and rendered unconscious.” She glanced up from the chart and graced him with a smile. “Be a good boy and let me do my job, Chase.”

He narrowed his gaze and glared at her from his seat on the edge of the exam table. “I’m fine.” The firmness of his voice held a determination that didn’t sway her in the least.

He probably was going to be perfectly fine, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. She never did when it came to her patients, and right now, Chase Bracken was her patient. “A CT scan will tell me if you’re fine or not. It’s just a precaution,” she added in the face of his deepening scowl.

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