Nobody Does It Better

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNIFER LABRECQUE

After a varied career path that included waitress, corporate number cruncher and bug-business maven, Jennifer LaBrecque found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA® Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta with her husband, an active daughter, one really bad cat, two precocious greyhounds and a chihuahua who runs the whole show.

Dear Reader,

I was thrilled to get a chance to set a love story in what I consider one of the most hauntingly romantic cities in the world, Venice. And, of course, a special city demanded a special hero. Enter Gage carswell, British agent – tall, dark, sexy and as elegantly sophisticated as Venice itself – who’s assigned to stop an international threat. What kind of heroine finds herself in Venice? Enter Holly Smith, a rather ordinary schoolteacher from Atlanta, Georgia, in search of her long-lost mother. Stir the pot with a case of mistaken identity and a generous splash of espionage and you’ve got Nobody Does It Better.

While writing this story I laughed, cried and fell in love with a beautiful city all over again, even as I watched Gage and Holly fall in love. I’ve taken licence to create fictional streets, restaurants and businesses just because it’s easier that way and as the writer, well, I can. I hope you enjoy the result.

I’d love to hear from you. Drop by my website at www.jenniferlabrecque.com to check out my daily blog and www.soapboxqueens.com where Rhonda Nelson, Vicki Lewis Thompson and I blog about this, that and the other.

Happy reading…

Jennifer LaBrecque

To the guys and gals who show up at the Soapbox Queens blog (www.soapboxqueens.com).

Y’all are the best.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

1

“IT LOOKS AS IF WE’LL BE flying with clear skies tonight out of Atlanta and across the pond. We expect to have you in London by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, their time.”

Holly Smith relaxed her grip on the armrest. She was flying. Yes, indeed. Maybe she shouldn’t have ordered that third glass of wine at the airport bar, but she had a pleasant buzz going and she wouldn’t be nearly as relaxed otherwise. So far, flying wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined it might be.

Despite what her ex-boyfriend Greg had said, she was not a neurotic mess. So she had some quirks. Who didn’t? Who cared if she checked her silverware for cleanliness in a restaurant before she used it, and had brought along her own blow-up travel pillow and blanket so she wouldn’t have to use the airline’s? And, she was careful with her money. But cheap? She thought not.

A neurotic mess? Hardly. A mess was just ugly. A person couldn’t be a mess, spilt milk was a mess. Screw him. She nearly laughed aloud. Nope, she wouldn’t be doing that anymore. And hadn’t he been surprised to hear it?

She’d known they were in a go-nowhere relationship. Ending that had been the first step in her new plan to make all aspects of her life proactive rather than reactive.

It was rather funny how such a life-changing event had started out so innocuously. Three months ago, she’d been waiting in the hair salon to be called back for a wash and trim. She’d been thumbing through a magazine when she’d stumbled across an article. Usually, she never read those pseudo-self-help pieces, but she’d found herself sucked into this one. The article focused on being the change you wanted in your life rather than waiting for someone to change it for you. It had been an aha, scales-falling-from-her-eyes moment.

She took charge in so many other aspects of her life. She’d deliberately pursued a high school teaching career that focused on working with gifted students. She’d set a goal and achieved it. Buying her condo? Same thing.

The “aha” had come in the relationship department. It was as if she’d discovered thousands of dollars of therapy between the covers of one glossy magazine.

She’d realized she was the queen of reactive relationships because…drumroll…she didn’t trust herself. She’d known she and Greg were going nowhere but she would’ve waited on him to end it. Her breaking up with him had been huge. It’d been like getting to base camp on a Mount Everest climb—an important first step.

She reached overhead to direct the stream of cool air from the vent more directly in her face. That felt good. She just wouldn’t think about all the germs that were probably in all that recycled air. So far, so good on flying. Of course, they weren’t there yet. She exhaled, trying to release the anxiety that suddenly welled up within her. When she got really upset she threw up. And throwing up right now…not good.

“A little nervous about flying?” the woman in the window seat next to her asked, a note of sympathy in the question.

“Just a little,” Holly said. She dug into her backpack and pulled out the inflatable pillow and a small travel blanket. “I’ve never flown before.”

“You picked a long flight for a first timer.”

Holly grinned. “Only because the boat takes too long to get from Atlanta to Venice.” There was a kernel of truth in her humor. Three quick breaths and the neck pillow was done. She fumbled with the plug for a second, but then got it.

“If you don’t mind me asking, I have to know what or who is so important in Venice that you’re willing to take such a long first trip?” The woman chuckled. “Sorry. Don’t answer that if it’s too personal. I’m a writer and I always want to know stuff. My husband says I’m nosy. I consider it research.”

“A writer? No kidding?” Wow. “What do you write?”

“I’m Martina Larson. Call me Marty. I write romance novels.”

Holly read her fair share of romance novels. Who in the world didn’t love a happy ending? The woman’s name was vaguely familiar. “I think I’ve read a couple of your books before. They’re very…sensual.” If they were the ones she thought they were, they were quite spicy. Just the kind of sex she wished she was having. But not trusting herself in a relationship also translated to not trusting herself to indulge in some of her more explicit fantasies.

Marty laughed. “My books go way beyond sensual. I’m on my way to a writers’ retreat with a couple of friends. We’ll be staying in a sixteenth-century castle a few hours north of London.” She paused. “You never said why you’re going to Venice.”

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful.” And that was true.

“It is. And it shouldn’t be too crowded at this time of year, at least not as crowded as in the summer. Short of going to the Venetian in Vegas, there’s no mistaking Venice for anywhere else. My husband and I spent a couple of days there several years ago.”

Had Marty abandoned her family, left behind a husband and two children, and stayed in Venice? Had she gone on a business trip and then virtually dropped off the face of the earth? No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, no appearance at high school or college graduation, no contact for twenty-seven years. Holly’s wild guess was probably not.

“I want to see it for myself,” she said.

“Are you meeting a friend there?”

“No. I’m going solo. But I have arranged for a tour guide, since I have an abysmal sense of direction.” This was her mission, her quest, her confrontation. She wanted a firsthand reckoning with the woman who’d birthed her and then abandoned her.

She thought she’d put it behind her, the Mother’s Day Tea in kindergarten when the teaching assistant had sat with her because she’d been alone. Being thirteen and having to get up the nerve to approach her father and tell him she needed sanitary napkins. Unlike her friends, she didn’t have a mother to prepare her. She’d told herself she couldn’t miss what she’d never known. And since Julia, as Holly mentally referred to her, had skipped town when Holly was three, she had no recollection of a time when she’d had a mother.

But that wasn’t exactly true. Deep inside, for as long as she could remember, she’d been waiting—nurturing a secret hope that one day the phone would ring, a letter would arrive in the mail, that Julia would show up on her doorstep. Her father had finally started to date last year and remarried this year. And Holly had figured it out. Dumping Greg was base camp. Finding Julia was Everest.

“You’ll love it,” Marty said.

“I think it’ll change my life.”

Marty eyed her with a mix of speculation and curiosity, as if she knew there was more to the story than Holly was telling. But they were interrupted when the flight attendant announced the upcoming in-flight movie, a romantic comedy.

“Oh, I’ve been dying to see this. I missed it at the movies,” Marty said.

After all the anticipation and anxiety—and probably the wine—exhaustion overwhelmed Holly. She settled the pillow around her neck and unfolded the blanket, tucking it over her shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap. If it looks like we’re going to crash, please don’t wake me.”

She closed her eyes and tried to relax beneath the blanket. She was only partially kidding.

“WE SPOTTED HER ENTERING London under the name Holly Smith.” Gage Carswell leaned forward for a better look at the blurry photo enlarged from the airport-security camera as Mason continued his briefing. “She’s catching a connector to Venice. We’ll delay the flight out of London, which should give you ample time to get in place. We ran her schedule. She’s booked a room off of San Marco for a week. You’re going to be in the room next door. She’s arranged for a private tour guide, requesting an off-the-beaten-path experience. Your cover will be as that guide. Monitor her twenty-four/seven. We want to know where she goes, whom she sees, what she does. We need contact information. Names. Numbers.” Mason shrugged. “Set a honey trap.”

Ten years in the spook business and Gage still found all of the spy lingo amusing. Why the hell didn’t his handler just say don’t kill her, seduce her. He was not, however, amused at being tagged for a honey-trap assignment. Bloody bother, that. He didn’t mask his annoyance.

Mason’s clipped chuckle lacked any warmth. Sadistic bastard. “I know the seduction routine isn’t your preferred MO, but Eros is currently undercover.”

The legendary agent Eros who had never met a woman he couldn’t seduce to get what—or whom—he wanted. Kazbekistan? Poor sot. At least the food would be better in Venice.

Gage settled back in his chair in the windowless office. Paranoia and caution went with the job of managing covert operations, but it would drive Gage nutters to spend every day in this box, even if it was in London. However, windows meant the other side could use a telephoto lens or other high-tech methods of gleaning information on a desk or computer screen that didn’t want gleaning. Give him his field-operative position any day.

He glanced again at the photo of the woman Mason had included in his briefing papers. The Gorgon, aka Holly Smith. Five foot six. Weight listed at one-forty, but Gage figured that contained a fifteen-pound lie. Women couldn’t resist shaving down the number. Chin-length brown hair, and startling aquamarine eyes in an otherwise average face. From what he ascertained from the photo, she wasn’t a beauty, but she wouldn’t set small children off screaming, either.

“Why would she book a tour?” Gage asked. It didn’t make sense.

“As a cover?” Mason shrugged. “To be unpredictable? Because she’s a bloody female?”

Not for the first time, Gage thought Mason was something of a misogynist, but that wasn’t his problem. “There’s a tour itinerary?”

Mason flicked his wrist toward the file. “It’s in there, as dictated by the client.”

“It’s a private tour group? Isn’t there an office?”

“No. Your Way Tours is an Internet operation touted as being more low-key and personalized than trolling along with the blue-hairs. Consider it your lucky day that you won’t have to wear a natty polyester suit coat, too.”

“You’re sure she’s the one?” Gage ran a finger along the edge of the photo. He’d heard of the woman code-named the Gorgon. Dealing in black-market uranium, she’d proven to be an elusive target for years. But they’d been getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time. One slipup, and they’d have her.

Mason steepled his fingers and regarded Gage across the expanse of desktop separating them, his pale green eyes cold despite his smile. “Holly Smith is either an alias or a stolen identity.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s her.” Mason shook his head. “She might as well have a tattoo across her forehead with those aqua eyes. They’re unique—her one identifying mark. She could easily mask them with colored contacts but she won’t. Female vanity. True, she’s never operated in Venice before, but if it looks like a Gorgon, walks like a Gorgon, smells like a Gorgon…”

“It’s a Gorgon,” Gage finished for him.

“There’s been some chatter indicating a substantial deal impending. With the Gorgon’s arrival in Europe, it appears imminent. We could be looking at a drop.” Did Mason always have to sound as if he had a stick up his arse? “If so, it’s imperative we intercept the package. By the way, you’re going in as an illegal. The Italians don’t like us poaching on their territory.”

“Not a problem.” It seemed a bit of overkill for a simple watch-and-monitor situation, but he’d gone in without diplomatic immunity before. If he was caught out, he was on his own.

“Unbeknownst to the ubiquitous Ms. Smith, her travel case has been misplaced at Heathrow. Pity that. It didn’t manage to make the connecting flight to Venice.”

“We’ve examined it?”

“We will soon enough. If there’s a package, we’ll find it. Even so, we’ll still want contacts. Holly Smith is being monitored now, but once she steps off the plane in Italy, she’s yours. You’re to initiate contact at 9:00 a.m. at her hotel tomorrow morning. Her tour includes three meals. She specifically requested a Venetian native, a middle-aged female preferred. Her assigned guide, Signora Ciavelli, however, has developed a sudden and most unfortunate gastric problem and you’re to be her substitute. You’re not a native but you lived there immediately following university.”

It’d require finesse to tail the Gorgon from the airport to the hotel. Even a glimpse of him could give away the game. Familiar anticipation surged through him. He looked forward to outfoxing his new opponent.

“Are we tipping our hand with the missing luggage and the suddenly sick guide?”

“We’ve calculated the risk,” Mason assured him. “We couldn’t chance the luggage going through. The most obvious place to hide something is right in front of one’s nose. And we need you with her constantly. Unfortunately, I’m not convinced your charm is such that you could sweep her off her feet. And if you try and fail to sweep her off her feet, then you’ll simply appear to be a nutter. Inserting you as the guide was a safer bet. She’ll be stuck with you.”

Gage took the insult in stride. Surveillance, not charm, was his forte. “That works.”

A brusque nod and Mason continued, “You’re the mate of a mate who owns the guide service. Given your flexible schedule as a gallery owner, you help out in a pinch.”

One of the first lessons in spook training—stick as close to the truth as possible. One was less likely to trip oneself up when one put forth the least amount of lies. Actually, owning an art gallery was not only financially lucrative for Gage, it also offered him the flexibility to extend the range of his spy activities, chiefly because Agnes, his second in command, was a paragon of efficiency and organization.

It amused Gage that spy novels and films often showed an agent simply rushing about, being an agent, whereas in actuality, a legitimate career offered the perfect cover and a measure of interest between assignments.

“And when I get the information?” It was only a matter of when, not if. What he lacked in charm, he made up for in determination and skill. He wasn’t arrogant, just sure of his capabilities.

And he knew he’d never have to worry about getting personally involved. There was a void inside him, the detachment that was a curse for him as a man but a godsend as a spy. He’d never cultivated the detachment. It’d never been a conscious decision not to let another human being touch him emotionally. It’d simply transpired. He’d lost his parents to an auto accident and been sent to live with a grandfather who wanted nothing to do with a nine-year-old lad in mourning. Within weeks, he’d been shipped off to boarding school. From that time forward, there’d always been a distance inside him that buffered him from everyone else, that kept him slightly removed, apart. It served him well in this business.

“Once you’ve verified the information, let her go and we’ll continue to watch her. Just make sure you’re not compromised.”

He didn’t need the reminder of what being compromised entailed. All operative positions were not created equal. His position demanded anonymity. For him, compromise meant, at worst, termination by the enemy or, at best, “retirement” by his agency.

Gage glanced down at the photo of the woman and tamped back a faint tinge of relief that he didn’t have to terminate the Gorgon afterward.

Maybe he was getting soft, but he hated it when that happened.

2

HOLLY STOOD WITH HER FEET braced in the vaporetto, Venice’s water bus, and stared ahead at the city etched against a star-scattered backdrop, enchanted by the centuries-old spires and domes that punctuated the skyline. She resisted the urge to pinch herself. She’d finally arrived, albeit several hours late.

Cool air whipped her hair behind her and she tugged her jacket more firmly around her middle. Her entire body tingled, as if caught up in an awakening. It was the oddest thing, but the sensation had started when she’d exited the Venice airport.

“It’s almost surreal, isn’t it?”

She turned to the young couple at the rail beside her. She’d met them while waiting to clear Italian Customs, much the same as when you struck up a conversation with someone in the grocery line. She knew they were art-history grad students from Boston who’d just married and were honeymooning in Venice, but she didn’t know their names. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“Was it worth it?” the young woman asked with a smile.

“Probably. When I’ve had a little distance from this day.”

“You’ve had the trip from hell, haven’t you?” the new husband said with an earnest grimace. “Sitting three hours on the tarmac at Heathrow and then learning that your luggage didn’t make it to Venice.”

“The trip from hell about sums it up.” When Holly had finally figured out her suitcase was a no-show at Venice’s Marco Polo Airport, the woman behind the counter assured her it would be delivered to her hotel by early morning. It was frustrating, but if they’d deliver her bag bright and early tomorrow morning, it wouldn’t be too bad.

In the interim, Holly had no clean underwear, no clean clothes and no makeup. At least she had her travel toothbrush with her. No toothpaste, mind you, but a toothbrush. Cup half-full, cup half-full, she reminded herself.

She shrugged. “I’m looking on the bright side. The plane didn’t crash.”

“There’s always the trip back,” the young man quipped with a laugh.

His new wife elbowed him. “Mark! That’s a terrible thing to say.” Nonetheless, she giggled and wrapped an adoring arm around his waist.

God, they were so young and so in love. They barely looked older than the sixteen-year-olds that came through Holly’s classroom. Or maybe she was just getting old. Mark murmured something low and intimate into his wife’s ear and Holly looked away from what had become a private moment between the two.

Had she ever felt that way about anyone? Had she ever gazed at anyone with stars in her eyes? Uh, no. Did she want to? Despite Greg’s accusations to the contrary, of course she did, didn’t she? Well, not necessarily with stars in her eyes. It felt too much like being blinded, and that certainly wasn’t good. Her parents had been blinded and she knew how well that had worked out.

The vaporetto, much larger than many of the smaller craft they’d passed, slowed and navigated toward the landing. Her heart thumped harder in her chest as the boat docked with a slight jar.

Holly was literally awestruck. No travel guide, no video could have prepared her for this. The city was an entity unto itself. Elegant and beautiful with an air of mystery and sadness. Was this how her mother had felt all those years ago? Enchanted? Seduced by a place to the point that a husband and children back home became meaningless? Holly shook her head. That’s why she was here. She wanted answers. No more wondering. No more supposition.

She wrapped her fingers around the leather straps of her backpack-like purse. This was her stop. She’d memorized it, worried she’d miss it and wind up taking the scenic tour of Venice via vaporetto because she didn’t get off when she should. She considered herself very capable, but she had to admit, her sense of direction left a lot to be desired. It was the running family joke that Holly could get lost going from one room to the other in a two-room house. It wasn’t that far off the mark.

In a flurry of activity, several passengers exited the boat to the stone quay and Holly found herself in a momentary crush. Her breath caught in her throat as she gained her footing on the worn, slightly uneven stone. She could be standing in the same spot Marco Polo had once stood, perhaps one of the powerful doges, a beautiful courtesan, or one of the countless servants to the wealthy families that had ruled this city of power and intrigue. Lyrical Italian floated around her and she thought the young family to her left was speaking German, but it was English she heard spoken at her elbow.

“Where’s your hotel again?” Mark, the Bostonian newlywed, asked as he retrieved a folded map of Venice from his backpack.

Holly rattled off the address of the modestly priced Pensione Armand. She’d forsaken amenities for price while maintaining a location central to the Grand Canal and San Marco square.

“Our hotel isn’t far from yours. Want to walk together?” he said.

Holly knew from their earlier conversation that the couple was scrimping on day-to-day expenses so they could splurge on a gondola ride. Holly had silently suppressed a shudder and kept her opinion to herself. True, the gondola was the quintessential symbol of Venice and purportedly the ultimate romantic experience, but they were welcome to it.

Yuck. God only knew what kind of germs thrived in the Venetian canals. The vaporetto was one thing—there was plenty of boat between her and the water. However, she had no interest in getting in a gondola, which would put her in alarmingly close contact with the water. Thanks, but no thanks. She’d admire the graceful black boats with their attendant striped-shirt gondoliers from a distance.

And if the newlyweds wanted to walk now she was more than happy to go with them. She could have been deposited at her pensione canal-side, but her budget didn’t include an expensive water taxi. And on the map, it hadn’t looked like a long walk from the vaporetto stop. But she wouldn’t mind the company. While she had some neuroses, she’d never been paranoid. However, ever since she’d landed in London, she’d felt as if she was being watched.

“Sure. I’d love to walk.”

The three of them set off. Staged lights bathed some of the buildings, gilding them with gold. The streets were busy. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Outdoor cafés hummed with conversation and music. Holly was surprised by how many people were out, but it made sense considering that Venice was a pedestrian-only city.

Mark and his bride easily kept her pace, and conversation between her and the young couple waned. They had obviously succumbed to the soft spring night in the exotically romantic setting. And judging by the looks passing between them, they were several hormones beyond sightseeing and small talk.

Holly was sure the newlyweds were eager to reach their hotel and get their honeymoon in full swing. Venice was made for lovers. As if punctuating the thought, a man and a woman stood silhouetted, sharing a kiss, on one of the picturesque stone bridges spanning the canal.

A wave of sensual longing washed over her. She missed the company of a man. It would be nice to explore the city with a special someone, to feel the warmth of his fingers at her waist, to meet his promising glance, to steal a kiss and have one stolen beneath the lamplight’s glow.

She bit back a sigh. At heart she was a romantic, and those were the things a true romantic yearned for. But life had taught her that being practical and pragmatic took one much further. She knew she was too quick to fall into relationships, and inevitably, she was disappointed.

She pushed aside the faint tingle of awareness and longing that had danced along her skin since clearing customs. An alarming thought came to her and she quickened her pace. Her room. What if it was gone? She was hours late for check-in.

Late. Luggage-less. And hungry. Finding herself room-less would cap a spectacularly draining day.

GAGE TAILED THE THREESOME from a distance. He’d managed to overhear most of the conversation on the vaporetto by positioning himself behind them. And on exiting the craft, he’d brushed against her, planting a nearly nondiscernible audio bug on her knapsack.

Although he had yet to actually see the Gorgon face-to-face, because it’d been crucial she not glimpse him, he could now pick her out of any crowd from a distance. Her distinctive walk combined a straight-forward stride with a sensual slight hip roll.

Gage turned left and followed them down the narrow winding street that branched off of the square, dropping back even farther as pedestrian traffic thinned.

Spy technology had enjoyed some impressive advances since he’d joined the business. Now, even though he was a few hundred meters behind them, he could clearly hear their conversation, that is, were they to actually engage in it.

His listening device replicated one of the hands-free mobile phone devices worn in the ear, but this one was custom-made for him. A couple of years ago, if someone had stolen the device, they would’ve been able to hear whatever he was hearing. But now, the piece only transmitted from the listening device if it recognized the shape of his ear, which was, in effect, the pass code for the piece to function as a listening device. Otherwise it was simply another mobile phone earpiece.

Bloody brilliant it was. He loved all the toys that came with his assignments. Prior to the Gorgon’s landing, he’d bugged both her room and the loo with audio and video. Her every move would be recorded. And if anyone were to leave a package in her room in her absence, he’d know. Were she to send or receive a text message, he’d know. Before the week’s end, he’d be privy to all of the Gorgon’s secrets. One way or another.

They’d almost reached the pensione. Gage darted down an alley shortcut, barely big enough for two, that would put him at the hotel ahead of them. His gut told him the couple wasn’t a contact. Gage excelled at discerning body language and coded glances. He’d guess the Gorgon had befriended them as a cover…or perhaps, as a sexual conquest.

Rumor had it that while the Gorgon might look like the girl next door, she had a penchant for a casual ménage a trois now and then. Would she issue an invitation or was she merely initiating contact before the seduction?

“It should be just ahead,” the bloke said.

“Thank you, both. It was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll run into one another again?”

“That’d be nice,” the woman said. “We’re just…what, Mark…two streets over?”

“More like one and a half.”

For someone with the Gorgon’s skills, tracking them again would prove easy, Gage thought to himself. She’d invite them to meet her for drinks. One, perhaps two, bottles of Valpolicella later, the wife would visit the loo and the Gorgon would make her move.

She’d lean in close and in her honeyed, slightly smoky, Southern tone, she’d ask if he’d ever had two women at once. She’d murmur of the pleasure to be had by two eager mouths to suck, nibble and kiss all around his world, four skillful hands to stroke and knead him, two of everything intent on pleasuring him. For one night, wouldn’t he like to be the center of attention of two women? No one knew them here. No one would know afterward. It would be their secret pleasure. Maybe she’d slide her hand over his thigh, brush her fingers against his cock, and Mark would convince his bride to play because there wasn’t a man alive, despite what he might tell his wife or girlfriend to the contrary, who wouldn’t want that.

But that would come later. Now the Gorgon merely shared pleasantries. Gage entered the lobby as the trio turned onto the street and quickly mounted the stairs. It would be interesting to discover what contact she’d make once she gained the privacy of her room.

SHE HAD A ROOM. YAY. One potential disaster averted. Holly couldn’t stop smiling as she climbed the wooden stairs behind the proprietress.

It had sounded as if she said her name was Signora Provolone. Holly was certain it was her horrible ear for foreign languages, combined with hunger that had her thinking the woman’s surname was a type of cheese.

After putting in hours studying Italian language tapes, Holly could manage. Proficient, however, was a stretch.

She followed Mrs. Cheese up a third flight of stairs. Despite her exhaustion, Holly was pleased with the hotel. Like everything else she’d seen since arriving, it struck her as enchanting and romantic. There was a faint shabbiness in the threadbare upholstery of the chairs in the lobby, but it suited Holly far more than one of the opulent palazzo hotels would have.

Simple, yet clean. She welcomed the underlying antiseptic aroma of cleaner and wood polish. She also appreciated the old-world courtesy of the woman showing her to her room rather than handing off a key and sending her on her merry way.

Using a skeleton key with a room tag hanging off the end, the other woman unlocked the door at the end of the short hallway off of the top of the landing. No encoded door cards at the Pensione Armand. She handed Holly the key and ushered her into her sparsely furnished, immaculate quarters.

The room itself was narrow with tall ceilings. An arched shuttered window stood opposite the door. Ochre plaster walls warmed the space under the glow of a vintage glass-globed bedside lamp. Hanging above the standard double bed with its simple counterpane, was an oil rendering of the Grand Canal choked with gondolas and other craft in a regatta. A small writing table and chair sat next to a chifforobe. No television. No phone. Lovely.

“Bathroom?”

Signora Provolone beamed and indicated the door next to the chifforobe.

While Holly had booked one of the least-expensive hotels, she’d splurged for a room with private facilities. The idea of a communal bathroom hoisted her germaphobe flag.

The woman’s fast Italian was lost on Holly, but it was easy enough to follow her to the door tucked in the corner. Signora opened the door and stepped back. A sink, toilet and an unenclosed shower—showerhead on the wall with drain in the floor, no shower curtain or glass walls—seemed as clean as the rest of the hotel. Holly’s relief, however, faded at the door opposite the one she stood in.

“This is a private bathroom, right?” What was the word? “Solo? Uno?”

“No, no, no.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out from the proprietress’s hand gestures that Holly would be sharing the room with another guest. The woman brushed past Holly and explained in heavily accented English with more accompanying gestures. The setup was sort of a Jack-n-Jill deal—her interpretation, not Mrs. Provolone’s. When she wanted to use the facility, she was to lock the door leading to the other room from the bathroom. When she was finished and the bathroom was available, she was to unlock the door from inside, close her door behind her and then lock her door from inside her room. Signora Cheese finished her instructions and beamed hopefully at Holly. “Yes?”

Howling in frustration seemed unlikely to get her anywhere other than tossed out. Thank goodness she’d packed a full supply of antiseptic towelettes. Packed. In her luggage. Which wasn’t here. Never mind.

She pasted on what she hoped passed for a smile. “Yes. Grazi.”

The woman left and Holly stood in the center of the room, rolling her head on her neck slowly to release tension. After nearly thirty hours of traveling, thanks to time changes and flight delays, she welcomed the room’s peace and quiet.

She longed for a hot shower, but first things first. She might be pushing the backside of thirty, but her father and her newly minted stepmother, Marcia, had insisted she call once she was safely ensconced in her hotel room. She and her father had always been close, but her decision to find Julia had strained their relationship, particularly once her father realized he couldn’t talk her out of going. Holly thought it was a combination of him not wanting her to get hurt, as well as his feeling as if her determination to find Julia was an insult to him.

She turned on the cell phone reserved for occasional use, thanks to the exorbitant prices per minute charged. Her dad answered on the second ring.

“I’m here. Finally.” No need to mention the lost luggage.

“Thank God. Have you talked to your guide yet?”

“No. Not until tomorrow. The flight delay didn’t affect that.”

“No trouble getting to the hotel?” her father asked.

“I had some help,” she admitted, crossing to open the shuttered window and look out onto the curved street. She almost felt as if she were dreaming.

“Be careful.” Her father was a little on the overprotective side. Most likely from being a single parent all these years, and the fact that she was the youngest and a girl. He definitely wasn’t this way with her brother, Kyle.

“I’m always careful.”

“Just remember, you’re in a foreign country.”

“I’ll be extra careful.” The conversation felt awkward, but then, things had been awkward for a few weeks now. Her father had nearly come unglued at Holly’s decision to find her mother. And when he’d grudgingly confessed that he knew precisely where Julia was because he’d kept up with her whereabouts all these years but never shared the information with her or Kyle, things had definitely been tense.

Actually, tense was an understatement. Kyle had been pissed off that Daddy had left them in the dark all this time. Even Sherrie, Kyle’s sweet wife, who always gave people the benefit of the doubt, had thought it was a crappy thing for their father to do.

Once Daddy had divulged that Julia was still in Venice after twenty-seven years—and saved Holly a ton of search time—she’d declared her intent to travel to Venice, which yet again polarized the family, this time along gender lines.

Kyle thought her spending the time, money and effort to travel to Venice to find Julia was, as he so charmingly put it, “bullshit.” Her father was also dead-set against it.

Her stepmother, however, had supported Holly’s decision. Marcia saw it as a means for Holly to balance her heart chakra. Holly wasn’t sure she bought into the whole chakra thing, but she appreciated Marcia’s support. Sherrie had also thrown her towel into the “Julia meet-’n’-greet” arena, sending school photos of Holly’s niece and nephew and a Wal-Mart family portrait of Kyle, Sherrie and the kids for Holly to share with Julia. Even her cousin Josephine, who had been raised by their grandmother after rebel African soldiers killed her missionary parents, and who was often standoffish and prickly, had jumped in to support Holly’s decision. Josephine, a veteran traveler, was the one who suggested Your Way Travel, a private tour guide operation, given Venice’s winding, confusing streets and Holly’s terrible sense of direction.

Holly found it ironic that Julia had ripped their family apart at the seams years ago and was still tearing at their familial fabric even now. It would’ve been so much easier if Holly had simply abandoned her plans for the sake of maintaining family peace, but scaling this mountain was too important to her.

She had all kinds of conflicting emotions about Julia and what she wanted the outcome of this meeting to be, but in a weird way, the outcome was almost secondary. It was the doing that was so important. It was Holly taking a proactive stance and not waiting on the elusive “one day” when her mother might contact her.

“Are you going to see her tomorrow?” her father asked. Maybe if Holly hadn’t known him so well, she might’ve missed the quiet yearning, the silent heartbreak underlying his question. She hoped Marcia was in another room and couldn’t hear the same thing Holly did.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet when I’m going to…” What? March up to her door? Introduce herself as Julia’s long-lost daughter, one who’d been deliberately lost? “…initiate contact.” Ah, that had a vague, euphemistic feel to it.

“I still think you should call her first.”

“I’m not calling.” They’d had this discussion countless times, as well. He’d nagged her to call, send a letter, something before she hopped on a plane and traveled across the Atlantic. She was equally adamant she wouldn’t. Celeste McKinney, one of the teachers at her school, had discovered she was adopted and spent years tracking down her birth mother. She’d called first, to give her mother time to adjust to the idea of meeting her daughter, and the mother had flat-out refused, informing Celeste in no uncertain terms it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. It had crushed Celeste. Holly was determined to face Julia one on one. She wasn’t giving her mother the opportunity to turn her down.

Her father’s heavy sigh echoed over the phone. “How about you just call us after you’ve seen her.”

“Fine. Does this time work for you?”

“Whenever you want to call is fine.”

She leaned against the window casing and tamped back a flash of homesickness. Venice was beautiful, but home was home. If she’d been home, she’d be in her chair with a book, with Ming curled up on the ottoman. She could do with a little kitty company right about now. And her own nice clean bathroom.

“You’re picking up Ming tomorrow?” She’d left her seal-point Siamese rescue at home with plenty of food, water and fresh litter. Dad and Marcia had offered to pick him up and baby-sit him at their house. She knew Marcia was behind the peace offering. “Be careful, he’s sneaky. He’ll get out if you’re not careful.”

“We’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. I’m not buying trouble.” The second the words left her mouth she recognized her mistake. She closed the shutters and latched them, propping the cell phone awkwardly between her shoulder and head.

“You bought trouble when you purchased your ticket and got on that plane.” Censure marked her father’s gruff voice. They’d had this discussion umpteen times since she’d made her decision. She was here and she certainly didn’t plan to enter yet another futile argument.

She hurried the call to an end and tossed the cell phone onto the bed. A shower, a good night’s sleep and her suitcase should be here tomorrow morning.

Glass half full.

3

THE LOCK CLICKED INTO PLACE on the other side of his door leading to the washroom, and Gage settled back onto the bed in his adjoining room, the laptop monitor giving him a clear view of the loo and the Gorgon’s room. The Gorgon proceeded to examine the washroom. She peered into the corners, stood on her tiptoes to check the showerhead and even gave the toilet itself a cursory once-over.

He grinned and crossed his arms behind his head. He wasn’t sure what she used in the way of spyware, but Gage employed cutting-edge technology. She could look all day and never detect the motion-activated audio-video equipment planted in both rooms.

She offered an almost imperceptible shrug and leaned into the washroom mirror, peering at her face. A queer feeling jolted through him and he shook it off. Her eyes were positively arresting, yet the rest of her face was singularly unremarkable except for a slightly lush mouth.

She sighed and stepped back. Without ceremony, she unzipped and slipped out of her trousers. He wasn’t a voyeur and he would only watch her undress for as long as it took to ascertain she didn’t have any information hidden on her.

Her top came past her thighs, but Gage would’ve had to be a eunuch—and he wasn’t—not to notice and appreciate the lovely length of shapely leg. The Gorgon boasted the legs of a 1940’s pinup girl. She neatly folded her trousers and placed them on a towel on the washbasin’s edge.

In one fluid motion she tugged the top over her head and all the air seemed to suck right out of Gage’s body. Lush rounded curves covered by black knickers, cut high on the thigh and low on the hip, and a black bra. In the center of her chest a small zippered travel pouch was affixed to her two bra straps. Unsnapping the pouch, she stacked it and her top on her trousers.

She raised her arms over her head as she arched her back in a sinuous stretch—a siren’s call, all the more difficult not to heed as she was unaware of her audience—and then brought them down and back. She slowly rotated her head on her neck, as if ridding herself of the day’s tension, and then rolled her shoulders in an unerringly erotic motion.

She reached between her breasts and unhooked her bra. One simple shrug of her elegantly rounded shoulders and it was gone, joining her trousers and top.

Throughout the years, his gallery had displayed countless art pieces with nude subjects in varying states of undress. Strictly as a chap who appreciated the human form as a work of beauty, he was appreciative. Her back, from neck to hip, was a fluid, sensual work of art. Golden brown nipples tipped full breasts. As a man who hadn’t had a lover in months, he noted the alabaster globes, the slight rounding of her belly and the curve of her hips.

She turned and started the shower, stepping aside to avoid the spray. While the water heated, she skimmed her knickers off. A triangle of crisp curls covered the apex between her thighs and her lush bum formed an inverted heart at the base of her spine.

Desire, usually buffered by an emotional distance, slammed into him with a force that shook him. Intense wanting knifed through him, bypassing all rationale and objectivity. She stepped under the shower spray and he deliberately looked away from the screen, drawing a deep breath and holding it before exhaling slowly.

He’d never reacted this way, felt such a…connection to anyone before. His detachment seemed to have deserted him at a most inopportune time.

His operative task was broken down into a series of small objectives, which would ultimately lead to him attaining his primary goal. This particular objective had been satisfied. His cock stirred and he grimaced. Satisfied was a piss-poor choice of wording. How about met? He’d met his objective. He’d ascertained she wasn’t hiding any documents or goods in her clothing, although it could still be in her knapsack or the small pouch she’d worn. To watch her shower moved beyond his professional role and there was no room for that. She was a job. An assignment. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Out of nowhere she moaned, a low, husky direct feed in his ear. Like an adrenaline hit, it shot straight to his cock. What the hell? He glanced at the screen. Her head was tilted back. Water cascaded over her shoulders and the slopes of her honey-tipped breasts, running in rivulets over her belly and down the length of her legs, darkening her pubic hair.

Blood pooled between his thighs, thickening his cock to full attention. So caught up was he in the water flowing over her nakedness, he reached between his legs before he realized what he was about to do.

Bloody hell. He’d never sat about wanking his tool while on assignment and he wasn’t about to take it up now. He deliberately looked away, willing his cockstand back down.

He’d go one better than a cold shower. He’d ring Mason with an update.

“Everything’s in place?” Mason said. “You had time to set up?”

“Yes. She made contact on her mobile. She says everything is set to proceed as normal tomorrow. She referenced a Ming who’s to be picked up tomorrow and she warned he would try to get out.”

“We’ll see what we can find on a Ming. Any other names? Other references?” Mason’s voice sharpened with impatience.

Wouldn’t he have said so? Gage merely said, “No. What about her case? Find anything of interest?”

“It’s clean. We destroyed it, ripped out the seams in her trousers and knickers, even took the locks apart, nothing. Not that we really expected to find much. Anything of consequence will be on her.”

Perhaps in her backpack, or in the pouch she’d carried in her bra but not immediately on her now. The Gorgon was too seasoned to hide anything in her case, although sometimes, the best course of action was the least-anticipated move.

In the next room, the shower stopped. He quickly disconnected the phone.

Listening to the sound of her toweling herself dry, Gage prided himself on his professionalism. There was no need to watch her until she left the washroom. Unfortunately, he seemed singularly incapable of not seeing her in his mind’s eye.

Water splashed in the sink and the accompanying sound of her brushing her teeth echoed in his earpiece. The water ran a bit longer and a quick glance at the screen revealed she was rinsing out her knickers, the hotel towel wrapped around her, sarong-style. In short order, she unlocked his door from the inside, indicating it was free for him to use it, exited the washroom and immediately locked her bedroom door behind her.

He watched her via the monitor as she hung her clothes in the wardrobe and her knickers on a hanger to dry. She retrieved a pair of glasses and a small notebook and pen from her knapsack, placing them on the bedside stand.

Gage had monitored other operatives numerous times and always with a clinical detachment. Why then did it feel so intimate to watch her perform these routine tasks?

The Gorgon stood before her bedroom mirror and finger-combed her tangled hair. “My kingdom for a blow dryer,” she muttered before turning away in disgust. Gage grinned. Poor Gorgon. But that’s what one got when one made a living selling secrets.

She pulled off the towel and draped it over the chair back. “I guess I’ll just have to wear the sheet if there’s a fire in the middle of the night,” she said to her reflection, wrinkling her nose in an innocent way. But Gage knew better. He knew the bad guys weren’t always all bad and he knew the good-guy’s hats were more often gray than white. Still, it struck him as…well, rather cute. One didn’t expect the Gorgon to display a cute side when she was alone in her room talking to herself in the mirror. That’d get him in for a bloody evaluation in no time. Yes, Mason, the Gorgon displays a cute side to her when she’s alone. For chrissakes, puppies and kittens were cute, not sodding spooks. Actually, it’d almost be worth it just to watch the look on Mason’s face at the thought of his number one agent slipping over the edge.

THE GORGON GASPED HER pleasure. The blond man—was his name Raymond?—tugged harder at her nipple held between his fingers and alternately sucked and nipped at the one in his mouth.

“Do you like that?” Tightening his grip on her massage-oil-slicked thighs, the dark-haired Trevor worked his cock in and out of her harder and faster. She slid her hand up and down Raymond’s engorged penis in the same rhythm, scraping her nail lightly against the sensitive ridge on the underside.

Rule one: Don’t limit sex to good-looking, well-endowed men. Often the less-attractive ones, or those with smaller dicks, were more grateful and thus much more easily manipulated. They also tried harder to please.

Rule two: She was in charge…and they knew it. No one came until she came.

Rule three: Never let them know her real name or her number. She contacted them. It kept it simple and it kept them needy. Even the ones with girlfriends or wives came, no pun intended, when she called. Sometimes, the men even brought their significant others along. She, the Gorgon—she rather liked thinking of herself by that name—had an appetite for things the wives and girlfriends often didn’t.

And rule four: Sex was better with three on the playing field.

On the hotel nightstand, her phone vibrated. It’d be him with an update. She’d instructed him to text rather than call, telling him she had a meeting. Paranoia, possessiveness and insecurity on his part all worked to her advantage, but he wouldn’t like it if he knew what she was doing now.

“Hold that thought, gentlemen,” she said, unhanding Raymond’s cock. He was the less gifted of the two in the size department. She had plans for him after the commercial break.

She slid up the four-hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and flipped open her phone. She downloaded the text message and quickly scanned it.

A slow smile curved her mouth and the sexual excitement she’d felt with Raymond and Trevor intensified. Everything in Europe was going precisely as she’d planned. Carswell had been unleashed on the unsuspecting Holly Smith. She flipped her phone closed.

She got off on this spy business. She’d kind of miss it when she retired. She’d have to find something else to occupy her. And this news definitely called for a celebration. She rolled to her knees and turned to Trevor, where he waited at the end of the bed. “I think it’s time we switched things around, gentlemen.” She crawled the length of the bed on her hands and knees, her breasts swinging free and heavy. Braced on one hand, she wrapped her other hand around Trevor’s cock, teasing her tongue along the tip. He quivered in her palm and her smile widened.

She paused to glance over her shoulder at Raymond. “You’re invited to the party, too. But use the back door.”

Yes, this called for a celebration, indeed.

GAGE LOUNGED ABOUT IN his bed the following morning, content to do nothing. A bit of a lie-in had always been one of his guilty pleasures. His hard-ass grandfather, the Colonel, had considered it heretical and it hadn’t gone over well at boarding school, either.

Better still if it was a lazy rainy day and he had a spot of feminine company between the sheets.

He stretched and bunched the pillow beneath his head. It wasn’t as if he could do anything until the Gorgon made a move. Thus far, she’d made an early-morning visit to the loo, which he’d not watched once he ascertained there was nothing in her hands.

She nabbed her mobile and dialed, hugging one naked arm around her naked waist right below her naked breasts. Why didn’t she put on some bloody clothes? All that nakedness was damned distracting. Naked was a good look on her.

“Buon giorno.” She identified herself and gave her room number. “Has my suitcase arrived?” She paused. “You’re sure? Thank you. Grazie.”

She disconnected the call with a snap of her mobile. “Damn it to hell.”

She revisited the wardrobe, feeling her knickers, obviously far from dry judging by her grimace. She sniffed delicately at yesterday’s clothes and recoiled. “That’s just gross.”

Note to self. The Gorgon wasn’t a morning person. And she also had the most delicious voice, dropping sharp consonants and rounding itself around vowels, lengthening them in a Southern drawl. He’d never considered himself much of an auditory person, but her voice sent a rush through him. Christ, she even made swearing sound sexy. Not a far stretch at all to imagine her in her lovely naked state whispering a bit of naughtiness in his ear…

She rooted around in her knapsack and punched in a series of numbers on her mobile phone.

In all the spy films, the phone was always being monitored and recorded. But until he found a private moment with her mobile, he was privy only to her end of the conversation. She identified herself and her flight number to someone on the other end. Ah, she was following up with the airline. He settled back against his pillow. This should prove entertaining.

“My luggage didn’t make the flight from London to Venice yesterday. It was supposed to be delivered to my hotel this morning. What? There’s no trace of it?” Her voice escalated a notch. “How can you have lost it? It was checked through in Atlanta. I was assured it would be sent to my hotel. Yes, I understand you can’t send it if you can’t find it. But how about you understand this—I need underwear!” Well, now that she’d destroyed Gage’s hearing in that ear… “I washed out my lone pair last night and they haven’t dried. I don’t want to wear wet panties.”

She might be the enemy, but she was magnificent when riled. Her aqua eyes flashed like a stormy sea and her breasts quivered. For chrissake, where was his bloody detachment that had served him so well all his life?

“Does that sound like a good vacation to you? It doesn’t to me. Listen, if I didn’t want to wear underwear, I would’ve left them at home in the first place. I don’t appreciate your attitude. What’s your supervisor’s name? Maybe they can introduce you to the concept of customer service.”

Gage took satisfaction in the fact that her missing case had inconvenienced the Gorgon. One had to relish the small victories as they arose.

She disconnected the call. Gage noted the time. Quarter past eight. Grinning, he shoved back the covers and strolled into the washroom, clicking the lock on her door and locking her out of the washroom.

“Crap,” she muttered in his ear—well, his earpiece—but it might as well’ve been in his ear.

His grin broadened and he turned on the shower.

“Ugh. Yuck.”

Apparently she’d elected to wear the wet knickers. He pushed the sexual connotation out of his mind. Ah, the Gorgon was going to be in rare form when he met her this morning. Might as well go for broke.

A passable tenor, Gage’s voice always improved with the acoustics of a tiled washroom. He burst into a shower rendition of La Bohéme, from act one.

“I have descended into the bowels of hell,” the Gorgon’s voice muttered in his ear.

Gage sang louder.

HOLLY HAD BEEN DETERMINED to put her bad-day karma behind her yesterday…until she’d rolled out of bed naked this morning and discovered still-damp panties, no luggage and a rude airline-customer-service representative.

The only good thing to come of that conversation? She knew her luggage wasn’t showing up today. The woman on the phone had actually seemed delighted to tell her if it hadn’t arrived by now, it wouldn’t make it today.

In the next room, the shower and the singing stopped. Thank God. The voice wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but she wasn’t in the mood to be serenaded this morning. Yet another grand reason for having requested a private bathroom.

Missing luggage necessitated a change of itinerary. She was more thankful than ever that she’d arranged a private tour guide. She’d specifically requested a woman, slightly older than herself and a Venetian native. Holly would feel comfortable with a woman and she’d look less like a tourist, gaining insight into what it was like to live in Venice. She’d been introduced, via the Internet, to her assigned guide, Signora Ciavelli. Forty-seven, with a slightly round face and dark hair sprinkled with a bit of gray, she’d looked kind and capable in her photo.

Signora Ciavelli would know exactly where they should shop. And shop they would, because clammy panties, clothes she’d worn for thirty-six hours, no makeup and no hair-care products just weren’t working for Holly.

She checked out her reflection in the bedroom mirror. To quote her brother, Kyle, she looked like shit on a stick. Some women fared well going au naturel. She wasn’t one of them.

She knew she wasn’t a head-turner. She was just an average woman with odd-colored eyes. The entire time she was growing up, she’d loathed having the eyes she’d inherited from her father’s grandmother. She’d hated it when people commented on them because the compliments always ended a little flat, as if it was a pity the rest of her didn’t match up. She’d embraced her averageness to the point that when she’d begun earning her own money, she’d started wearing brown-tinted contacts. In fact, she’d had brown eyes for more than a decade. Her mother was the beauty. Thank goodness Holly looked more like her father. She didn’t want to be like Julia, flighty and vain. But with all her recent activities, she’d also realized hiding her eye color wasn’t exactly embracing who and what she was. Holly had forsaken her contacts several months ago. People still commented on her eyes, but oddly enough, it no longer bothered her. Funny how self-acceptance colored one’s perceptions. But there was no coloring her appearance anything but lacking this morning.

She desperately needed concealer for the lovely dark shadows beneath her eyes. As for her hair… She leaned forward and tried fluffing it with her fingers while she held her head upside down. She stood upright again and it looked decent…for about three seconds until it settled back into flat waves against her head. Not a good look.

She’d planned to show up at Julia’s address this afternoon. Holly wasn’t the great American beauty, but she’d be damned if she’d arrive looking like something the cat had dragged in.

The lock on the other side of her door clicked, signaling the bathroom was available. She might not have toothpaste, but she could at least brush and rinse with water before she ran downstairs.

She stepped into the bathroom, ribbons of steam hanging in the room. She had to admit she liked the scent of the shampoo and cologne lingering in the room. However, the guy must be near-ancient and hard of hearing, considering how loudly he sang in the shower.

She locked the door on his side. Granted, she was only brushing her teeth, but she still didn’t want the old fellow to get confused and wander in.

Five minutes later, she shrugged into her backpack and headed downstairs to meet Signora Ciavelli, determined to turn a bad start into a good day.

She descended the last stairs into the small lobby area, catching a tantalizing whiff of coffee and fresh bread. Holly’s stomach growled in recognition. Maybe the scent was wafting in from a kitchen that was out of sight. Maybe it was from somewhere else. She just knew she was hungry. Many pensiones included a continental breakfast but once again, she’d thought to shave a couple of dollars by choosing one that didn’t. Besides, her meals were included in her tour.

She’d kill for a cup of coffee and one of the Italian pastries she’d read about in the guidebooks. As soon as Signora Ciavelli showed up, she’d talk her into grabbing a bite to eat.

A couple stood by the front door studying a map and speaking in German…or was it Swiss? Heck, it could’ve been Russian. She just knew it wasn’t English, Italian or French. Tucked in one corner of the room, to the left of the stairs, two chairs upholstered in worn burgundy velvet flanked a small table. A man sat in one chair, his face obscured by a newspaper. The other chair stood unoccupied.

Mrs. Cheese stood behind the dark wood counter that served as the reception desk to the right of the stairs, speaking, in rapid-fire Italian, into a phone propped between her ear and shoulder.

No one, however, remotely resembled Signora Ciavelli. She stepped over to the window beside the heavy wooden door to peer outside. She experienced that same tingling awareness she’d felt the night before when she’d landed at the Marco Polo airport. Maybe it was something in the air here.

“Ms. Smith?”

Startled at hearing her name spoken in a masculine British voice, she whirled around…and found herself in heart-pounding close proximity to one of the sexiest men she’d ever encountered. Average height, dark hair worn a little longish, a lean jaw, dark eyes rimmed in thick dark lashes beneath heavy eyebrows and a hard, masculine mouth. “Yes. And you are…?”

Don’t let it be Signora Ciavelli with a sex change, which wasn’t as far-fetched as it might sound, considering her luck the past couple of days.

“Gage Carswell.” He thrust a very capable-looking hand with well-shaped fingers toward her. Because she wasn’t sure exactly why she shouldn’t, she shook hands with the man, whoever he was. His handshake was strong and firm without being a vice grip, and if she thought she’d tingled before… His touch resonated through her, all the way to her toes. “Signora Ciavelli had a medical emergency. She’ll be fine, but I’ll be taking her place this week.”

She’d never met him before, she was sure of it. But something about him teased at her, a familiarity she couldn’t quite identify.

“But you’re a man.” She realized how idiotic her comment sounded the moment it left her mouth.

“I’ve had occasion to notice.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which further upped his make-her-heart-race quota.

“But I requested a woman. And a native.” She wanted Signora Ciavelli because they would blend in with the locals and Holly could feel relaxed around her. Gage Carswell didn’t appear to fit either criteria.

“So I understand. But I lived in Venice for a few years and I’m quite fluent in Italian.” To illustrate his point, he broke into the language. She thought he said he looked forward to showing her the beauty of Venice. But he could’ve said her butt was too wide and her hair disgustingly flat and she wouldn’t have known the difference.

The missing piece, however, clicked into place for her. He didn’t look familiar but he smelled familiar. And once he spoke Italian, she placed his voice.

The voice in the shower this morning, the scent that lingered in the steamy room. “You wouldn’t happen to be staying here at the hotel, would you?”

“I am. As luck would have it, the room next to yours was available and the agency put me in there.” She’d pegged her bathroom buddy as elderly and deaf. When she was wrong, she was really wrong. She didn’t want to think about him naked in the bathroom, but her mind seemed intent on painting just that picture for her—wet dark hair, water clinging to well-formed shoulders, white towel knotted low on his hips…

She nodded and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I recognized your voice when you spoke Italian.”

He flashed a not-quite-contrite grin that set off butterflies in her tummy. “The singing this morning. Pardon that. I tend to get carried away.”

She was flexible. She could roll with the punches. She was not, however, this flexible. Gage Carswell was too male, too sexy…too everything. He just wouldn’t do. “Isn’t there someone else they can send for the week?”

“Was my singing that bad?” Another smile and that tingling blossomed into something that felt dangerously akin to lust.

She did not want to be charmed by him. She didn’t need the distraction. And he definitely wasn’t part of her plan.

She ignored his comment and his smile. “I wanted a Venetian native.”

“And I’m quite sorry that you have to make do with me. The agency has authorized me to refund half of what you paid in recompense.”

Well, this was a fine mess. She’d be hopeless navigating her own way around. And now she also had to spend money she hadn’t planned to spend to replace her luggage and clothes. If she settled for this guy, she got half of her money back. And being on a tight budget…

“Okay.” She just couldn’t muster being gracious.

His own smile seemed a tad tight. “So, according to what you’d arranged through the agency, we’ll have a spot of breakfast and then it’s off to Dorsoduro.”

That had been her plan, to check out the southwestern district, or sestiere, which was her mother’s last-known address. From what she’d read, it was an area of quiet neighborhoods and charming canals replete with tree-shaded squares, home to wealthy Venetians and foreigners. The Dorsoduro, however, would have to wait until this afternoon. “There’s a change of plans, Mr. Carswell. After breakfast, we’re going shopping.”

“Want to get the souvenirs out of the way up front?”

She knew her smile was grim. “No. We’re going to buy panties.”

4

HE’D UNDERGONE EXTENSIVE training in hand-to-hand combat, weaponry and guerrilla warfare tactics. He held a third-degree black belt and the powers-that-be considered him an expert in electronic surveillance. So it was ridiculous that one simple handshake and exchange with this woman had rattled his cage.

Still, one touch and the Gorgon had neatly thrown him for a loop, landing him on his figurative arse. No one had managed to put Gage Carswell in that situation since that first miserable week at boarding school when he’d been literally arse-ended into a rubbish bin by Geoff Winkley and his bully mates. Gage had sworn then and there he’d never find himself in that state again. Although this was figurative rather than literal, it was the same out-of-control feeling. He didn’t like it any better this time around.

She turned those brilliant aquamarine eyes on him and a spark kindled low in his belly. “Actually, I’m sure shopping for women’s underwear is more than you signed up for as a tour guide.” She shook her head and did a good job of looking chagrined, apologetic and annoyed all at once. “The airline lost my luggage, but there’s no reason both of us should be punished. If you can point me in the direction of a woman’s clothing store, I’ll manage. Just consider this morning a freebie and I’ll meet you back here, say around one?”

Light slanted through the window in the pensione lobby, tipping her brown lashes with gold. He wasn’t quite sure at all why she elicited such a response in him. Aside from her eyes, she possessed a quite ordinary face as he’d already noted.

A creamy complexion with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, which was a bit longish, a mouth that was at close inspection full and plump, all set within an oval-shaped face. Average height—not gamine enough for cute, not tall and thin enough to merit striking, she looked like a nice young woman. Looks however, could be deceiving and, in her case, deadly, if one relaxed their guard.

Did she suspect he was a plant? She’d certainly been hacked to find him taking Signora Ciavelli’s place. Did she need the time alone to alert her contact of the companion change? None of it really mattered because she wasn’t going anywhere without him.

He summoned a smile. “Shopping in Venice is never a punishment. My agency would be most unhappy if I left you to your own devices.” That was an effing understatement. “But I’ll tell them—”

“If you go alone, I’ll simply have to follow at a distance to ensure you don’t get lost. I’m charged with your wellbeing here, and at YWI, we take that very seriously. Leaving you to wander about on your own could get me fired.” Surprisingly, that swayed her. He read it in her eyes the instant she decided it wasn’t worth the argument. He took her by her arm—once again feeling the energy swirling between them, through him—and steered her toward the door. “Let’s have a bite to eat and then we’ll go shopping.”

“I’m ready for breakfast, but I’d like to check here afterward in case my luggage shows up. I’d rather not waste my time shopping if I don’t have to.”

“How’s your Italian?” He didn’t think she’d understood a word he’d said earlier.

“Dismal.” She smiled and it literally transformed her face to something quite lovely. “I can ask where the bathroom is, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to follow directions unless the person I talk to points.”

“Which is why you were very wise to hire a guide. I’ll give the desk my mobile phone number. They can ring through if your case arrives.”

Gage approached the small counter nestled in an alcove to the right of the front door. The same older woman with slightly graying hair who had shown him to his room yesterday evening sat folding a mountain of washroom linens.

He exchanged greetings with her and explained Ms. Smith was waiting on an important package to be delivered. He then relayed his mobile number as a contact.

The entire time he could feel the Gorgon behind him. He sensed her gaze roaming over him as surely as if she were touching him.

“Everything taken care of?” the Gorgon asked.

“They’ll call if your case shows up.”

And if a note or any other package was delivered instead, he’d know. He had the Gorgon under control.

“HOW’S YOUR COFFEE, Ms. Smith?”

A shiver slid down her spine. The timbre of his voice and that accent was a heady combination to her. Honestly, she could just prop her chin in her hand and listen to him talk, but then she’d look like a total idiot.

“The coffee’s excellent.” She raised the cup and blew a cooling breath over the surface. She’d surreptitiously examined the china and found it clean and spot-free. She sipped again at the rich, full-bodied brew. It was stronger, more intense, than the coffee she normally drank, but if she’d wanted what she was used to, she would’ve stayed home. “I’m feeling much more human. Amazing what a little caffeine can do for a person. And it’s Holly. Ms. Smith makes you sound like one of my students.”

And Holly was almost certain she couldn’t teach this man anything he didn’t already know. He wore an air of experience and sangfroid as casually as he wore his black slacks and dark brown shirt. She found him one part intimidating, one part intriguing.

“Very well, Holly.” The way her name rolled off his tongue shot a small thrill through her. “And I’m Gage. Never underestimate the power of caffeine and food.”

Yeah. And panties that weren’t clammy against her skin would also go a long way toward making her feel human again. But she wasn’t sharing that with a guide who scored an eleven on the one-to-ten hot meter. “There is that. How’s yours?”

She’d been torn between the sfogliatelli, a ricotta-and-fruit-filled pastry, or a simple brioche. Mr. Carswell—um, Gage—had ordered the brioche and she’d opted for the sfogliatelli. She’d lost twelve pounds before the trip, thanks to Weight Watchers, but she’d be damned if she’d count points in Venice. At least the cheese was a protein and there was some fruit in there. Besides, dinner last night had consisted of a hastily scarfed-down granola bar. One bite of the sfogliatelli and she’d thought she was in heaven. But then nothing had ever smelled quite as good as the aromas that had assaulted them when they’d walked through the door of the cozy shop with its glass counter of fresh pastries and strong coffee perfuming the air.

“Excellent. The food and drink is outstanding in Venice.”

Well, this was some scintillating conversation between. What was next? The weather. She took another bite of sfogliatelli and a silence settled between them. Around them, the other patrons chatted in a mix of languages. She heard a snippet or two of English.

When they came in, Holly had snagged a table at the picture window overlooking the narrow stone-paved street.

Holly people-watched through the glass now, a part of her scanning the face of every female passerby on the off chance it might be Julia. That was crazy. Maybe the whole trip was crazy. Doubts crowded her. All the money, the time, the plane trip to find a woman who most likely didn’t want to be found. She shook the doubt off. Coming here, finding her mother, meant Holly was taking charge, setting the course of this relationship.

And Holly had been three the last time she’d seen Julia. How likely was she to recognize a woman she hadn’t seen since? How likely was it that her mother would stroll by the very café Holly was sitting at on her first full day in Venice? Not likely at all, but she couldn’t seem to stop searching the faces for her, all the same.

It was even less likely that her mother would walk into this place, but she still took note of every woman coming in. And if she was honest, it also helped her ignore the heavy thumping of her heart brought on by her substitute tour guide.

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