“Kiss me, Ronnie,”

Blake said, his voice rough.

“This is crazy,” she sighed.

“We have to make people believe I’m the only man in the world you want.”

“I think you’re taking this a little far,” she said, but slipped her arms around his neck just the same.

He wanted a convincing performance, so she’d give him one. “Just don’t expect a declaration of love, Detective.”

She sucked in a sharp breath when his warm lips skirted along her jaw to her throat. She tipped her head back, not because what he was doing felt wonderfully delicious, but to provide a convincing performance.

Uh-huh. Sure, her conscience taunted.

Ronnie gave in to the desire by pressing her fingers against the back of his neck, urging his mouth over hers. He tasted sweet, hard and hot. She never wanted it to end.

“Convincing enough for you?” she asked, surprised by the strength in her voice.

“Yeah,” he muttered with roughness in his tone. “Plenty.”

“Good.” She lifted her chin a notch and hoped for a satisfied expression. But stepping around him, she felt anything but pleased, wishing like the devil for an icy shower.

Dear Reader,

Every so often a secondary character emerges that catches a writer’s eye, and detective Blake Hammond was one such character. I met Blake when I was writing Flirting with Danger (#708), and for two years he sat in the back of my mind just waiting for the right woman to come along. When sassy DEA Agent Veronica Carmichael appeared, we both knew she was “the one.”

This is one story that couldn’t have been told without the assistance of a few important people. I’d like to offer a very special thank-you to Officer Darrell Drouin of the East Hartford Police Department for answering all of my questions on jurisdiction and interdepartmental procedures. A big thank-you to the Renville County Sheriff’s Department, and especially to Renville County Deputy Sheriff Marlyn Eklund who always offers a smile when answering even my most bizarre “what if” questions as they relate to inner workings of the criminal element. You guys are the best!

I’d love to hear what you think of Blake and Veronica’s romance. You can write to me by e-mail at jamie@jamiedenton.net or to P.O. Box 224, Mohall, ND 58761.

Warmest regards,

Jamie Denton

Books by Jamie Denton

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

708—FLIRTING WITH DANGER

748—THE SEDUCTION OF SYDNEY

767—VALENTINE FANTASY

793—RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

797—BREAKING THE RULES

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

10—SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY

Under the Covers

Jamie Denton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kane, Katelyn and Jadyn

This one is for you my little angels.

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

1

EXHAUSTED, Detective Blake Hammond dropped into the worn leather chair, leaned back and propped his polished brown loafers on the edge of the gray metal desk. He glanced at the clock hanging on the far wall and managed a tired grin, anxious to wrap up the long unproductive night of surveillance. In less than twelve hours he’d be on a 747 to the Hawaiian Islands. The most strenuous item on his agenda consisted of downing a variety of fruity rum drinks, while appreciating the view of sunbathing beauties intent on deepening their tans under the warm tropical sunshine.

Life was good, and bound to be an improvement over the last month, which had been filled with long hours that hadn’t garnered a solid arrest. For the past two weeks, he’d been convinced the lead from a snitch was a dead end. A series of robberies in Los Angeles’s high-rent district had the lieutenant demanding a bust, but so far, Blake and his new partner, Lucas Stone, had turned up nothing. The robberies were clean, no forced entry and not a single print or scrap of evidence left by the perps.

“You don’t have to gloat, Hammond.” Luke tossed a thin file near Blake’s feet. “It’s depressing to the rest of us grunts left behind to deal with the criminal element.”

“I’ve earned the right to gloat,” Blake said with a chuckle, swinging his feet to the floor. “I haven’t had a vacation in over three years. For the next fourteen days the only surveillance I’m planning has to do with curvy, suntanned, string-bikini-clad bodies glistening with coconut-scented oil.”

Luke dropped into the chair behind the desk adjacent to Blake’s. “Great,” he grumbled, reaching for the phone after shoving a lock of sandy-brown hair off his forehead. “I’m stuck partnering that blowhard bore, Pearson, while you’re scoping beach-bound Bettys. There’s just something unfair about that.”

“You know what they say about life being fair,” Blake said without an ounce of remorse, glancing up as Lieutenant Forbes came out of his office.

“Hammond. A minute,” Forbes barked. His salt-and-pepper eyebrows were pulled into a heavy frown Blake was certain didn’t bode well.

Blake shot a look in his partner’s direction. Luke shrugged and punched numbers into the telephone keypad.

“Close the door,” Forbes ordered when Blake walked into the lieutenant’s office. He perched on the edge of his desk while Blake propped his backside on the arm of the leather sofa that sat against the far wall.

“I’m canceling your vacation.”

Blake came off the sofa. “No. You’re not.” Let Forbes write him up for insubordination. He needed a vacation before he made a serious, and costly, mistake. The previous week he’d gotten a little too rough with a suspect. He didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if Luke hadn’t pulled him off the creep. Blake had been appalled by his own behavior. His usual calm and patience had slipped out of frustration, telling him loud and clear he was overdue for some much needed R and R, something he planned to rectify in the next twelve hours.

A tired cop made mistakes. An overworked cop was dangerous.

A frustrated cop was deadly.

“I haven’t had time off in three years,” Blake said, frowning. He stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his pressed khaki trousers and gave Forbes a hard look. “I’m tired, Lieutenant. I need a break.”

Forbes crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “I know you need a vacation, Hammond. I wouldn’t do this to you, but I don’t have a choice. I need someone to go undercover with DEA.”

“DEA? Oh, come on, Lieutenant. I’m not in the mood to be hassled by some government agent over petty jurisdictional issues. Give it to Stone. I’m tired.”

“Stone’s too involved in the uptown robbery. I need someone familiar to stay on that case. You’re the only one free for the next couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks somewhere warm and tropical, not holed up with an uptight, arrogant DEA agent.”

“It’ll be light duty.”

Blake gave a harsh laugh. “Light duty? With the DEA involved? Yeah, and the CIA’s adopted a kinder, gentler method of interrogation, too. Tell me another fairy tale, Lieutenant.”

“I’m still your superior officer, Hammond,” Forbes said in that cold-as-steel voice he’d perfected as a beat cop back in the glory days of the LAPD. “This is a special situation and you’re needed.”

Blake took a deep breath and attempted to summon his trademark calm and cool demeanor. He felt as if he was fighting a losing battle as the thought of handing in his shield played on the fringes of his mind. Just the fact that he even considered walking out was solid proof he needed to get away for a while. Good cops didn’t make mistakes, or take their frustrations out on suspects. The role of good cop was as natural as breathing to him.

Lately he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Is that an order, Lieutenant?” he asked, his voice filled with a composure that felt far too foreign to be realistic.

Forbes returned Blake’s hard stare with one of his own. “Yeah, Hammond. It’s an order.”

Irritation climbed up Blake’s spine and settled in his neck. He let out a long breath and rubbed at the tension. “Fine,” he said after another deep breath that did little to ease his frustration. “My airline ticket’s nonrefundable. I want to be reimbursed.” If the department was going to screw him out of a vacation, then they could damn well pay for the privilege, he thought irritably.

Forbes nodded sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about it. This is coming from the brass upstairs, so it shouldn’t be a problem. As soon as you’ve wrapped this assignment up, you can take off.”

With nothing else to say, Blake dropped onto the edge of the sofa. He didn’t like it, and the churning in his gut confirmed his suspicions. He despised being backed into a corner, but an order was an order which left him with no other option than to comply. “What am I getting into?”

Forbes circled the desk, opened a file and stood with his hands braced on the large desk. “This isn’t just an L.A. problem,” he said looking at Blake. “The word on the street is a new designer drug is hitting the West Coast. There are already reports that it’s starting to show up in the Midwest and, we can assume, moving farther east.”

“Colombians?” Blake asked. He was familiar with drug trafficking, as were all the detectives in Vice. Busting the bad guys, the small-timers and even the movers and shakers in the underworld was part of his everyday life. The only reason he and Luke had been stuck on the uptown robbery detail was that their snitch had refused to provide information to anyone other than Luke.

“Not this time,” Forbes answered, shifting his attention to the open file. “According to Ronnie Carmichael, the agent you’ll be working with, this new brand of synthetic coke is being smuggled into the States through Avalon.”

Blake leaned forward, braced his elbows on his legs, and clasped his hands between his knees. “Catalina Island?” Interesting, he thought. Southern California’s island retreat was more of a place for lovers and honeymooners than drug traffickers. “How are they getting it out?”

A knock at the door had Forbes moving around his desk. “DEA suspects it’s being brought out by chopper or run out of Avalon Harbor on the launches,” he said, reaching the door and resting his hand on the knob. “There are about twenty or more runs back and forth between Avalon and Long Beach Harbor per day.”

“Which provides plenty of opportunity for movement,” Blake surmised.

“Considering the Coast Guard has never paid a whole lot of attention to the water taxis, you’re right.”

“That could explain how the stuff’s getting out of Avalon.”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Forbes said as he opened the door. “And stop.”

Standing in the threshold was a woman. Not just any woman, but a breathtakingly beautiful one. Blake gazed into eyes a startling shade of brilliant turquoise and felt his heart slam into his ribs.

“I apologize for being late,” she said quickly.

She shifted her attention to Forbes, and away from that instant spark of awareness Blake would bet his badge she’d felt, too. Not only did she have the softest, sweetest voice he’d ever heard with just a trace of a Southern accent he found sexy as sin, but the slight smile canting her lips caused an adorable dimple to wink at him. “Your L.A. interchange was a little more than I expected.”

Forbes commanded her attention and ushered her into the room while Blake took advantage of her movements, allowing his gaze to travel the length of her. He had no idea who she was, but she had the kind of legs that made a man sit up and take notice, slender and shapely, like the rest of her. When it came to the appreciation of women, Blake considered himself an expert. And in his expert opinion, the curvaceous brunette was a vast improvement over the last department secretary. If this was the type of support staff personnel was placing in the detectives’ bureau, he might just stop complaining about having to ride a desk for hours at a time to deal with the endless stream of paperwork.

Her sensible, low-heeled pumps clicked sharply on the linoleum as she crossed the small office space to the pair of mismatched chairs opposite Forbes’s desk. Always the gentleman, Blake stood, hoping to gain an introduction to the petite dream come true.

A straight peach skirt reached just above her shapely knees and a soft, floral-print blouse brought out the intriguing color of her eyes. He usually liked his women tall, but he’d make an exception for the looker with a thick file tucked under her arm.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and Blake flashed her his most winning smile. Delicately arched eyebrows rose briefly, and those turquoise eyes looked him up and down without showing the slightest hint of interest, curious or otherwise, before turning her attention back to the lieutenant.

Just as well, Blake thought, even if he didn’t buy her disinterest for a nanosecond. She more than piqued his interest, but she was off-limits since the department had a strict fraternization policy that applied to all law enforcement and support staff personnel.

“Blake,” Forbes said, drawing his attention from her lethal legs. “This is Special Agent Veronica Carmichael, from the Drug Enforcement Agency. Ronnie will be your partner for the next couple of weeks.”

Blake looked from the slight grin tugging his superior’s lips to the lust-inspiring brunette and back again. Ronny was Ronnie?

“This is a practical joke, right?” he asked desperately.

No way was all that honey and sweetness an uptight, arrogant DEA agent. The few times he’d crossed paths with Drug Enforcement agents, they were hard-drinking, rough-talking, take-no-prisoners brick walls of solid muscle with a penchant for risking their thick, beefy necks. She didn’t look as if she could withstand a brisk Santa Ana wind, let alone wrestle a whacked-out dust dealer to the ground.

“I assure you, Detective,” she said, a flash of determination lining her delicate Southern accent. “I’m no joke.”

“You’re going to be my partner?” he asked carefully.

“I hope you don’t have a problem taking orders from a woman,” she said, a saccharine smile curving her lips.

“Taking orders?” he asked incredulously. “There must be a page missing from my script. Would you mind starting from the top?”

She turned to face him fully, settling her gaze on him with a level stare. “Make no mistake, Detective. This is strictly a DEA operation. We’re calling the shots. As my superiors have explained to your Lieutenant, the LAPD is being brought into this investigation merely to appease the local jurisdictional issues. Your presence is merely a token offering of cooperation.”

“Now wait a minute, Agent Carmichael,” Blake started irritably. Maybe if he wasn’t close to burnout, he wouldn’t have taken offense to her tone and haughty attitude. But he was tired, cranky and his fourteen glorious days in Hawaii had been preempted so he could baby-sit the DEA.

He took a step toward her. She didn’t so much as widen her gaze in alarm. “I’m nobody’s token anything,” he said, reluctantly admiring her attempt to establish territorial boundaries early in the game. “You’re in my sandbox now, honey. That means we play by my rules.”

“The name is Special Agent Carmichael. You may call me Veronica, but I prefer Ronnie,” she said, slipping a length of bobbed, sable hair behind her ear to reveal a pair of small gold, heart-shaped earrings. “In the future, I suggest you select one as a form of address as opposed to honey, sweetheart, doll or babe. If remembering my name is too difficult for you, then might I suggest you simply refer to me as Special Agent in Charge. It’d be a shame to have your sterling record besmirched with a sexual harassment complaint.”

Blake glared at the sexy half-pint agent and counted to ten. Then kept going until he hit thirty-five. He’d never been prone to losing his temper. His skill for sweet-talking the toughest suspects into giving him the goods was legendary in the department. He’d always had a way with women, and the fact that the Southern belle in a badge seemed immune to his equally legendary charm, chafed. Nothing would have given him more satisfaction than to tell the department brass what they could do with their half-baked ideas about partnering him with an arrogant little DEA agent with more sass than smarts. The only thing that kept him from following through was the she-put-you-in-your-place smirk on Forbes’s face. That and, despite being in need of a long vacation, he loved his job.

“I was just starting to fill Blake in on the case,” Forbes said, motioning to the chairs in front of his desk.

Blake waited for Ronnie to sit before taking the remaining chair for himself. She gave him a bland look, then sat primly on the edge of the cracked vinyl. She placed the file beside her then smoothed her delicate, manicured hands over her skirt. Then, crossing her feet at the ankles and tucking them to the side in a perfect display of ladylike, finishing-school training, she turned that interesting gaze his way.

“Our preliminary investigation has revealed the primary activity to be in one of the island’s most exclusive resorts,” she said, folding her hands demurely in her lap. “For the past six weeks, we’ve had two agents in place working as employees of the resort.”

Blake propped his foot over his knee and leaned back into the chair, still bristling over her haughty I’m-in-charge speech. “Why the need for another agent?” he asked. Avalon wasn’t a large island, and in his experience with the DEA, they liked to do things their way, and without the assistance of other law enforcement agencies.

The phone on Forbes’s desk rang and he picked it up, waving at them to continue.

“We know where the drugs are being manufactured and suspect the resort as a means of transportation,” Ronnie said quietly, reaching for the folder. She pulled out a half-dozen glossy black-and-white photos and handed them to him. “We don’t know who is involved. Unfortunately, our agents’ positions in housekeeping and the resort bar haven’t allowed them to develop any concrete evidence.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Blake finished, examining the photographs. He didn’t recognize any of the suspects’ names or faces, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have records, something he planned to look into as soon as this meeting was called to an end. “I assume we’ll be going in to obtain that evidence,” he said, handing her the photographs.

Her smile was brief, causing that adorable dimple to wink at him again. “Exactly. Agents Anderson and McCall are working full shifts as employees so their time has been limited. Unfortunately, this particular resort plays to high-profile types and, as I mentioned, is very exclusive. They operate under a strict policy that doesn’t allow employees to frequent the resort during non-work hours. Because of that, Anderson’s and McCall’s activities have been severely disabled.”

“What makes you think we’ll have any better luck?” he asked her.

Forbes hung up the phone and smiled pleasantly at Ronnie. “If you’ll excuse me, Special Agent Carmichael, I have a meeting upstairs to attend.”

Blake frowned. None of the detectives in his squad would ever call the lieutenant a touchy-feely kind of guy, and the kind, grandfatherly smile he cast in the pint-sized agent’s direction struck Blake as almost comical. “Feel free to use my office for as long you like.”

Ronnie slipped the photographs back into the file and flashed Forbes a charming grin. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

After crossing the room and opening the door, Forbes turned his attention to Blake. “Be prepared to depart for the island tomorrow morning,” he said, using that commanding “I’m the boss” voice Blake was used to hearing. “Carmichael will fill you in on the rest.”

The door closed and they were alone. Ronnie cleared her throat, making Blake wonder if she was more nervous than she appeared. Not that her demeanor would so much as hint at anything but ladylike calm, he thought. A more erotic image tripped through his mind, one that would have Ronnie Carmichael’s cultured Southern charm slipping…right into his arms.

“The agency needs someone inside and allowed free rein of the island,” she said, dragging his thoughts out of the bedroom and back to their conversation. “Our primary objective is to determine how the drugs are being moved through the island, as well as ascertain the key players.”

“I understand DEA wanting to avoid jurisdiction problems, but you’ve already got two agents on-site hampered by resort policy. What makes you think we’ll have any more luck?”

She lowered her gaze, her dark sable lashes sweeping downward. “Because we’ll be going in undercover,” she said, without looking at him. “Only not as employees.”

The knot of tension returned and tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck to help ease it. “But why me?” he asked, his voice filled with caution.

She smoothed her skirt again. “Your lieutenant explained you were the only officer he could spare…that fit the profile.”

Blake frowned again. That twisting in his gut made a return visit, too, causing a riot among his insides. “Profile?” he asked, slowly lowering his hand. “What profile?”

Ronnie sighed and looked at him, her turquoise gaze intense. “I’ve read your file, Detective. Your experience in this area is well documented, and while there were other detectives with more experience, you are available and you fit the profile.”

His frown deepened. “What profile?” he demanded a second time.

“You’re thirty-one, right?”

“So? What does age have to do with an interdepartmental investigation?”

She tilted her head to the side, and regarded him skeptically. “Your lieutenant didn’t tell you, did he?”

The churning increased, igniting a ball of fire in his gut that had him reaching into his pocket for the roll of Tums he’d starting carrying two weeks ago. “Tell me what?”

She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Detective, the resort under surveillance is Seaport Manor.”

He shrugged and reached into his pocket. The name meant nothing to him.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hesitation had his suspicion mounting. “Seaport Manor is a honeymoon retreat.”

His hand slipped over the roll of antacids. “I’m still not following you,” he said, refusing to jump to the wrong conclusion.

“We’re going undercover, Detective. Tomorrow morning we board the Island Express, a water taxi which will take us to the quaint island resort and deliver us directly to the private dock of Seaport Manor, where we have two weeks to gather as much evidence as possible. We are registered under the name St. Claire, one of Savannah, Georgia’s oldest and most prominent families.”

His hand tightened over the roll of Tums. “We are registered?”

“That’s right, Detective,” she said with a brisk nod. “Blake and Veronica St. Claire will be spending the next two weeks at Seaport Manor as newlyweds.” She flashed him a saucy grin, and a victorious light brightened her turquoise eyes. “Welcome to Operation Honeymoon. Babe.”

2

RONNIE FLASHED the too-polished and too-gorgeous-to-be-real detective a grin filled with satisfaction as his arrogance faded. Her own grin dimmed when his raven-black eyebrows collided over narrowed, pale gray eyes.

“Find yourself another cop to play house,” he said, angrily pushing out of the chair. “I’m not interested.”

Her smile disappeared completely. There was no other cop, and she had her assignment. Because of jurisdiction, she’d been forced to partner herself with the LAPD, rather than one of her own, for which she was secretly grateful. The last thing she wanted was to play loving wife to the very men who’d made her life a living hell the past three years. A fact that confirmed she should’ve followed her own dreams rather than attempted to fulfill a prophecy she’d never asked for, nor wanted.

She shifted in the chair as he reached for the door. “I’m afraid you have no choice,” she said, grateful when the firm tone she tried managed to stop him from leaving. “While your department has been more than cooperative, you know as well as I do that deep budget cuts have left your division operating with the bare minimum. You’re the only officer available. And I’ve been guaranteed—”

He spun to face her, his frustration-filled gaze connecting with hers. “I really don’t give a damn what you’ve been guaranteed.”

“Look, I’m sorry you’re not happy about the assignment, but there isn’t any other way.” She didn’t like him glowering down at her, so she stood and rested her backside against the desk. If he’d been standing in front of her, he’d still tower over her by a good ten inches, but at least she’d equaled the playing field…somewhat. “With employees being banned from Seaport Manor during their off-hours, we need undercover operatives on the inside that have the freedom to come and go as they please. And it is a honeymoon resort. If we went in as singles, we’d be suspect from the moment we stepped off the launch.”

He let out a long breath filled with impatience. “You really think people are going to believe we’re newlyweds?”

She gave him a brief smile, in hopes of placating him since they hadn’t exactly started out on the best of terms. “From what I’ve read about you, Detective, you’re very good at what you do. I’m sure you’ll provide a convincing performance.”

Something in his gaze shifted, sending a ripple of alarm skirting down her spine. His soft gray eyes filled with purpose as he crossed the cramped office, closing the distance between them. With every ounce of willpower in her arsenal, she held her ground instead of darting behind the desk like the little warning voice in her head was shouting for her to do.

He stopped mere inches away, invading her personal space, and close enough for her to breathe in the alluring scent of cologne and man. She cursed her rotten luck. Why couldn’t they have found her a more middle-aged, less virile cop to play one half of the happy couple for the next week or two? Living in close quarters, in a ridiculously expensive and lavish honeymoon suite no less, with a man she found dangerously attractive held little appeal.

Or maybe too much appeal, her conscience taunted.

Definitely way too appealing, she thought. Since she knew the type so well, she could protect herself. Couldn’t she? Forewarned was supposed to mean forearmed, not an invitation to lose control. Considering she’d once fallen victim to a guy with all the right words, all the right moves and all the wrong answers she’d been too blind to see, she’d just have to be extremely careful not to lose her head. She could never, for one second, forget Blake was merely a means to an end that would finally give her the chance to follow her own dreams for a change.

Oh, yes, she knew Blake Hammond’s type all right. Cocky swagger and confident, killer smile, the kind capable of reducing any living, breathing female to a tongue-tied idiot. Soft, sexy bedroom eyes, combined with a deep velvety smooth voice warm enough to melt the iciest resistance. Throw in a body, hard in all the right places, yielding in even better places, and he fit the type to perfection. She’d sworn to stay away from that kind of guy, no matter how irresistibly charming. One momentary lapse of common sense was more than enough to last her a lifetime, thank you very much.

She shook the thoughts from her mind and concentrated instead on the tiny lines of fatigue bracketing Blake’s eyes. She struggled to ignore the way her pulse revved when his gaze dipped momentarily to her mouth.

She would not make the same mistake twice, no matter how much her hormones clamored for male attention. Just to prove it to herself, she pulled in a steady breath. Almost.

“You’ve already threatened me with sexual harassment,” he said, his voice filled with a calm she suspected was tightly controlled. “How are we supposed to behave like newlyweds with a threat like that hanging over my head?”

His meaning wasn’t lost on her. Newlyweds not only spoke in endearing terms to each other, they touched, caressed and kissed…long deep kisses. Toe-curling kisses. Kisses that generated heat and fire and spelled trouble.

He shifted closer still.

She pulled back.

He followed.

She caught his tangy scent and nearly sighed.

“Newlyweds are in love and they act like it, Special Agent in Charge,” he said, his deep voice soft and gentle like the touches, caresses and kisses he’d implied. “You gonna file a complaint every time I have to do this, even if it means keeping us alive?”

He lifted his hand and cupped the back of her neck in his warm palm. Her breath stilled. His fingers sifted through her hair and sent a series of delightful tingles running over her skin. Reflexively, she placed her hand against his chest to hold him at bay.

Oh, big mistake, she thought, curling her fingers into a fist against the heat burning her palm. Surrounded by a solid wall of masculinity, damn if her feminine senses didn’t go haywire. He was as solid as he looked, and the thought of peeling his neatly pressed shirt away to expose all that dark, male skin shocked her clear to the toes of her sensible beige pumps.

She was supposed to be past this silly kind of juvenile behavior. Lust had nearly gotten her killed. Lust along with misplaced trust in an agent operating on the wrong side of the law, something she’d discovered after it was too late. Big deal if Internal Affairs had cleared her of any wrongdoing. Her service record might not have been damaged because of her stupidity, but that didn’t mean her heart and mind hadn’t been banged up more than a little.

“I have my orders, Detective,” she said with false bravado, despite the awareness shimmering between them. She fought hard to forget about bared skin and touching that glorious male body for the next two weeks. The thought of telling her family she planned to quit the agency and follow her own dreams would be far simpler in comparison. No matter how silly anyone thought those dreams might be. “And so do you,” she added.

“Do my orders include kissing my ‘bride’ in public?”

She sucked in a sharp breath as the image of Blake’s mouth pressing evocatively against hers flashed through her mind. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to make this bust, Detective. If it means a kiss or two with my temporary partner to maintain our cover, then I will do my job.”

He grinned, his devilishly handsome mouth filled with enough promise that her knees went weak in spite of her firm reminders. A mouth she’d be tasting soon enough considering their assignment.

“What about touching?” he asked, his voice low, like a whispered endearment.

“If I have to suffer through a few touches to keep us alive, then I’ll do it. It’s all part of the job.”

“Suffer?” A sexy little smile tipped his mouth as he released his gentle hold. “I can’t say a woman’s ever told me she’s suffered from my touch.”

Ronnie seriously doubted the experience would be a painful one, and that was part of her problem. From the crazy way her heart was pounding, she had no trouble imagining all sorts of sensual delights his touch could bring. “There’s a first time for everything,” she countered, hoping to convince him, or maybe herself, she was immune to his devastating charm.

He stepped back and gave her some much-needed breathing room that did little to still the rapid cadence of her heart. Trading barbs with Blake Hammond definitely qualified as stimulating. Too bad other types of stimulation sounded equally intriguing.

He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck again. Ah, stress. Now there was something she could easily understand.

“I’m going home, Carmichael,” he said. “I haven’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, and I’m beat. You’re right. I don’t have a choice, but before we go anywhere, there’s one thing I want to make crystal clear.”

She braced her hands behind her on the desk, hoping she looked more calm, assured and a whole lot more collected than she was feeling. “Which is?” she asked, arching her brow.

“I’ll play, but we’re playing my way. You can take it or leave it.”

“You don’t know anything about the case.”

He shrugged and walked to the door. “That’s why you’re going to brief me. Tonight.”

“Tonight? But—” She needed time to regain control. Something only distance would provide since she was nearly panting after Blake and all that incredible sex appeal.

“Tonight,” he said, his tone as uncompromising as the flinty steel filling his eyes. “Be at my place by seven. It’s in the file. I’ll even spring for dinner.”

She weighed her options, and couldn’t find a single professional argument. He’d have to be brought up to speed, and she’d rather have him rested and attentive. Personally, the idea of being alone with him terrified her.

“Fine, Detective,” she reluctantly agreed. “I’ll see you at seven.”

He gave her one last look, shook his head, then left her alone in the small office. She watched him through the open miniblinds as he stopped to say something to one of the other detectives before leaving.

Slowly, she moved to the chair and sat, willing her legs to stop trembling, wondering how she was ever going to survive a week, maybe two, pretending to be filled with lust for the sexiest man she’d ever met. Especially when the lines between pretense and reality had already begun to merge.

BLAKE TAPPED THE RAZOR on the side of the sink, silently cursing fate, and his lieutenant. The much-needed sleep did little to improve his mood, but considering his long-awaited and much anticipated vacation had been preempted, he figured he was entitled to a little crabbiness.

“Newlyweds,” he muttered, scraping the razor along his cheek. He was no stranger to undercover operations. He’d been a detective long enough to have dealt with his fair share of assignments, good and bad, but none had ever evoked erotic images strong enough to haunt his dreams. Dreams casting a sassy, diminutive DEA agent with eyes the color of the sea, hair softer than down and skin as smooth and sleek as Egyptian cotton in the starring role.

Under normal circumstances, he’d never consider spending fourteen days in a romantic setting with a sexy, intriguing woman a hardship. Spending those days alone with a Southern belle with a badge and an attitude hardly qualified as an erotic fantasy. Agent Carmichael was a sexual harassment allegation waiting to happen, especially since he’d come dangerously close to kissing her this morning. Thank heaven his common sense had overruled his baser intentions.

Women and the badge weren’t compatible. His parents’ divorce when he was ten confirmed it. He had his own experience to quantify that knowledge, as well, not to mention more than half the cops on the force were either divorced or close to it. The divorce rate among the detective squad was even higher. Only a very special woman could handle being married to a cop. Not many understood the long hours, or how a disappearing act for days at a time when an undercover assignment came along was all part of the motto, To Protect and Serve. It took a strong woman to be able to deal with the reality that every time she kissed her badge-carrying husband goodbye in the morning, it could very well be the last time she ever saw him alive. In his experience, women like that were far and few between, one of the reasons why, at thirty-one, he’d never married. There’d been a close call once, but that was a lifetime ago.

He shoved those unpleasant thoughts aside as the doorbell rang. Rinsing away the remnants of shaving cream, he buried his face in a fluffy towel before heading to the front door of his beachfront condo.

He’d hoped his reaction when he’d first seen Ronnie Carmichael this morning had been a result of lack of sleep and extreme frustration. Those hopes crumbled when he swung open the door and his heart began to pound again.

She looked ready for a day of relaxing under the warmth of the southern California sun, even if she did have a briefcase in her hands. Her silky hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, a few stray strands teasing the curve of her jaw. Khaki walking shorts showed off her lightly tanned legs, and a teal cotton top with a scoop neck hugged her full breasts and emphasized her curves.

“Either you’re independently wealthy or on the take,” she said with a gentle smile, breezing past him. He caught the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume and breathed in, imagining the pulse points where she’d dabbed the fragrance.

He frowned and closed the door. “That’s a hell of a greeting.”

“You’ve got a nice place,” she said, a bare hint of a smile flirting around the edges of her very kissable mouth. “I didn’t know LAPD paid their detectives so well.”

“They don’t,” he said, ushering her into the sunken living room overlooking the Pacific. “My mother’s family has money and I bought this place a couple of years ago when I came into a trust. Not that it’s any of your business.”

She set her briefcase beside the glass-topped cocktail table and shrugged. “It’s not, but I’d rather not be involved with a cop on the take.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t fit. Not DEA.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Blake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

“But—”

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

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

“Then prove it,” he challenged.

“Prove it? How?”

“Kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it, Ronnie.”

3

“YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS.” Ronnie pushed away from him and stood. Before she could follow her instincts and bolt across the room, his hand snaked out and snagged her wrist.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his soft gray eyes filled with something unidentifiable that had her heart beating faster. “You’re no civilian, Ronnie. You know what can go wrong as well as I do. You want to end up in a body bag? Because that’s exactly where we’ll be if there’s so much as a hint we’re not legit.”

She wished he’d stop smoothing his thumb along the tender underside of her wrist. Didn’t he know that drove her crazy and made her skin quiver?

Gently, she tugged her hand, but his grip tightened. “I’m no rookie,” she told him.

“Great. Then you know we have to be damned convincing.”

“Of course I do,” she said irritably when he stood. Why was he doing this? Did he know the thought of kissing him had occupied her mind for the better part of the day? Was he aware of just how much she’d thought about slipping her arms around his neck and dragging his mouth down to hers the second he’d uttered that husky “kiss me” demand?

She hoped not, firmly reminding herself again that his presence on this case was nothing more than a means to an end. That’s all he ever could be to her, no matter how many times her heart rate accelerated or how much overtime her imagination put in whenever she thought about the next two weeks alone in a luxurious honeymoon resort with him. He was her temporary partner and held no more importance than a vital piece of equipment required to do the job. She would not, could not, get caught up in all that sex appeal.

More significantly, Blake Hammond was a cop. And after what she’d suffered because of her former partner, getting involved with any man in law enforcement was nothing short of emotional suicide. One dark-haired, silver-eyed detective with enough sexual magnetism to short circuit her central nervous system had to top her list of males in the danger zone. She refused to be that stupid again.

He slipped his free hand along the side of her neck and used his thumb to tilt her chin up so she had no choice but to look into the steely determination in his gaze. “Then kiss me,” he said, his voice a rough rumble of sound. “Kiss me and convince me I’m the only man in the world you want kissing you.”

Against her will, the rate of her pulse picked up speed and collided with the hammering of her heart. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said around the wedge of unease clogging her throat, “we don’t exactly have an audience.”

Without a word, he dropped his hand and gently tugged her wrist so she’d follow him.

“Where are we going?” she demanded when they reached the front door of his condo. She had no idea what kind of game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to go quietly.

He opened the door. “To find you an audience,” he said, continuing outside.

She hurried down the short flight of concrete steps in an attempt to keep up with him. “This is crazy. You’re crazy.”

He stopped at the base of the stairs and looked into the darkening horizon. “There’s nothing crazy about wanting to stay alive. This way.”

With a hefty sigh, she kept pace with him as he gently pulled her down a pathway toward a series of wooden steps leading to the beach. With his hand still wrapped around her wrist, they crossed the sand toward a strip of palm trees silhouetted against the murky skyline.

She peered into the darkness and spotted her audience. An elderly couple walked hand in hand along the shore, their bulky basset hound waddling and baying at the incoming waves, then romping down the wet sand after the receding water. Farther down the shoreline, a group of teens sat grouped around a fire pit. The scent of burning wood mingled with the salty tang of sea air, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of rap music from a portable stereo system, carried toward them on the evening breeze.

Blake stopped once they reached the palms, and backed her up until her spine grazed the rough bark. “Put your arms around me,” he demanded gently.

“I think you’re taking this a little too far,” she said, but slipped her arms around his neck just the same. While she didn’t care much for his high-handed attitude, she’d been an agent too long not to understand the validity of the point he was trying to make. Their very lives depended on whether or not everyone they came in contact with believed they were the happy couple. How could they possibly hope to convince anyone if she continually avoided his touch? She’d just have to be strong and remember it was all make-believe. An assignment. More importantly, if they did their jobs well enough, it’d also be her last.

He settled his hands on her hips, his fingers pressing against her backside. “Like you mean it, Ronnie.”

He wanted a convincing performance, then she’d give him one, she thought mutinously.

This was her duty, he was merely along for the ride, and if she didn’t establish herself as the head of this little undercover operation, she’d be playing second string to the sexy, arrogant detective for the remainder of the assignment. And that was something she refused to allow to happen to her again. She’d been acting like a good little girl for too many years, and what had it gotten her?

Nowhere that she wanted to be again.

She toyed with the silky hair at the nape of his neck and looked into his eyes. “Just don’t expect a declaration of love, Detective,” she said in what she hoped was a husky voice.

“Blake,” he said, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck.

She sucked in a sharp breath when his warm lips skirted along her jaw to her throat. She tipped her head back, not because what he was doing to her felt wonderfully delicious, but to provide a convincing performance.

Uh-huh. Sure, her pesky conscience taunted.

“Say it.” His voice was low, deep and dancing over her nerve endings, adding to the delicious sensations his lips were already stirring.

His hands roamed from her hips and up her sides. His thumbs rested just below the underside of her breasts and she closed her eyes, an action that did nothing to quell the slow heat winding through the pit of her stomach, or the way her breasts suddenly swelled against the smooth satin of her bra.

He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her ear and she couldn’t have formed a coherent sentence, let alone a hollow protest, if her life depended on it.

“Say it, Ronnie.”

Her fingers flexed and tangled in his raven black hair. “Say what?” she managed in a breathy whisper, turning her head to the side when his mouth trailed a line of heat down to her collarbone. Between his mouth and that musky man scent mingled with the sting of sea air, she couldn’t think straight.

“Blake. Say my name, Ronnie,” he demanded again, while pressing biting little kisses up her throat and along her jaw. “Say it.”

His mouth hovered over hers, his breath fanning her lips more intoxicating than she’d ever dreamed possible. Good heavens, she wanted him to kiss her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Feminine pride rose within her at the desire flaring in his gaze. “Is it really necessary?”

“It is if you want to stay alive. My name has to be second nature to you.”

She swallowed, knowing exactly why she was hesitating. Her mind might acknowledge it was only make-believe, but her body already had other ideas. Dangerous ideas. She knew he was absolutely right with every instinct she’d acquired since her first day on the job. Yet, somehow, speaking his name with his hands spanning her rib cage and his thumbs tracing lazy patterns beneath her breasts made saying his name far too intimate to be anything but real.

“Blake,” she whispered, then gave in to the desire by pressing her fingers against the back of his neck, urging his mouth over hers.

His lips moved in an erotic dance of seduction that sent tingles of sensation shooting to her toes. Heat curled in her belly and spread outward as his tongue swept over hers, tormenting her with lazy sweeps until she trembled in his arms. He tasted sweet, like the sugar in the tea she’d drunk earlier. He tasted hard, like a pillar of strength, immovable and sturdy. He tasted hot, like mind-blowing, sweat-slicked bodies and tangled-sheets sex.

His hand slid from her rib cage and chased down her back to settle on her bottom. A moan bubbled in her throat and she molded her body to his, reveling in the feel of crisp denim against her bare legs, of the feel of his wide, firm chest against her sensitive breasts. Desire thrummed through her, and thoughts of regaining the upper hand fled in favor of the soulful, silky glide of his tongue exploring her mouth. He’d reawakened the lustful beast inside her, hot and primitive, guided by the natural, most basic need to mate. A need that shook and rattled her practiced composure.

One hand roamed her back and held her close, while the other smoothed along her rib cage and upward, this time cupping her breast in his large, warm hand. The music faded and her desire climbed when his thumb traced the pebble hardness rasping enticingly against her bra. The waves crashing on the shore dimmed and fierce need swelled, tangling her in a seductive web.

She’d experienced need. She knew firsthand desire could be a powerful emotion and more addicting than the drugs she worked to keep off the streets. She hadn’t expected to be swamped with both by such a breath-stealing kiss that made her insides melt and her senses spin.

She slid her hands from his neck, over his wide shoulders and down the smooth cotton polo shirt to his firm, thick biceps, exploring the rough, male texture of his skin. She never wanted the kiss to end.

She pulled back anyway, silently cursing not only the instant loss of heat, but the fact that she desperately wanted nothing more than to slip back into his arms and finish what they’d started.

“Convincing enough for you…Blake?” she asked, surprised by the strength in her voice when the rest of her was trembling, as though she were a kitten facing down a Saint Bernard.

Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides. “Yeah,” he muttered with a roughness in his tone. “Plenty convincing.”

“Good.” She lifted her chin a notch and hoped for a satisfied expression. Stepping around him, she headed toward the condo, feeling anything but pleased, but hot and achy instead…and wishing like the devil for an icy shower.

BLAKE WAS CONVINCED all right. Convinced he’d been lured into the lioness’s den and had just been served up as the main course.

He followed Ronnie back to his place at a more sedate pace, needing time to rein in his runaway libido before he made another stupid mistake that had him sliding his hands over her lush curves and tasting the sweet perfection of her mouth. Instead of maintaining a keen awareness of their surroundings, he’d been consumed by her, something he couldn’t allow to happen again. Mistakes of any kind were unacceptable, and often met with fatal results. Losing control definitely qualified as a drastic error, and it had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the woman who’d just turned him inside out with need.

The kiss had been far from gentle, and filled with enough sizzling heat to scorch them both. He dreaded the thought of what could’ve happened if she hadn’t ended the kiss. Making love to Ronnie was a temptation tough to resist, but was about as smart as stepping onto the ledge of a high-rise during an ice storm.

Not a smart move, he thought watching the provocative sway of her hips as she climbed the wooden stairs. For the second time in a short period, he’d lost control of a situation, and that bothered him. First, the suspect he’d been ready to pulverize, and now his reaction to Ronnie when she’d pressed her delectable body intimately against his.

He needed more than a vacation. He needed a reality check. A cold shower wouldn’t hurt, either.

By the time he stepped inside the condo, he’d managed to regain a semblance of composure, until he saw her bend over to place something inside her briefcase. He let out a long, slow breath that did little to cool the resumed height of his temperature. Best to avoid the situation completely, he thought, and walked into the kitchen to place a call to the local deli for a couple of meatball sandwiches.

Thankfully, she kept her distance while he made himself scarce under the guise of slicing vegetables for a salad. They had a job to do, and he had no business blurring the lines because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. The department’s non-fraternization rules were in place for a reason. Sex was one monster of a distraction and had no business on the job.

Ten minutes later his prime distraction sauntered into the kitchen with a smile pasted on her sexy mouth. A mouth he wanted to taste again and to hell with policy.

“Can I help?” she asked, her sweet accent breaking into his thoughts.

He considered telling her she could help by getting herself removed from the case and letting the LAPD handle it, or better yet, find herself another partner.

“No, thanks,” he lied.

He didn’t like the idea of Ronnie spending two weeks alone with another man any more than he welcomed the twisting in his gut the image evoked. He shoved the thought aside and attempted to concentrate on the mushrooms he’d been slicing, until she eased up beside him and braced her elbows on the counter. He glanced down as she reached into the glass bowl and filched a halved cherry tomato, his gaze drawn to the way her cotton top dipped, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts.

He let out another long rush of air that had little effect on his simmering lust.

She snagged another cherry tomato and smiled up at him. “I used to get my hand smacked for doing this as a kid,” she admitted.

“Improper behavior for a Southern lady?” He pushed the bowl closer to her.

She laughed, a light sound that made him smile. “How ever did you guess?”

He finished with the mushrooms and started on the cucumber. “So is being a DEA agent.”

She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Like I said, it’s a family legacy.”

He knew about legacies. He had his own he was determined not to fulfill, no matter how attracted he was to Ronnie. “So what do your prophetic instincts have to say about designer drugs being smuggled in and out of Catalina Island?” he asked, changing the subject…for now.

“We’re supposed to gather evidence to determine who is involved, confirm the smugglers are using the resort, and if Seaport Manor is knowingly involved.” She straightened and turned, resting her curvy bottom against the cabinet. Crossing her arms, she added, “From what I’ve studied so far, I’m seriously doubting there’s any knowledge on the part of the resort.”

“I called my lieutenant this afternoon,” he said, despite his curiosity about Ronnie’s past. “You know the resort’s a joint venture, right?”

“Right,” she said, looking suitably impressed that he’d done his homework. “But we’ve turned up nothing on any of the shareholders involved. They’re so clean they squeak.”

“Maybe all of them are legit,” he said, rinsing a handful of radishes. “Or one or two of the so-called partners could be buried so deep, unless you knew what you were looking for, you’d never find it.”

“Not a chance. The computers would have found something. Some link.”

He flashed her a grin and shrugged, clearly not buying her explanation.

Her lips twitched as she pushed off the counter. “You’re so doubting.”

“Doubt has nothing to do with it.”

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of iced tea. “No,” she said, refilling their glasses. “Then what does?”

“Experience.” He dumped the last of the vegetables in the bowl and set the knife aside. “Do you know how many of these corporations are local? Not just California-based, but L.A.-based? All of them,” he supplied without waiting for an answer.

“That’s not unusual. Big resorts are owned by major corporations all around the world.”

“Bingo.”

She slipped the pitcher back into the fridge. “You lost me.”

“The joint venture is a fake,” he said turning to face her. “One, maybe two or three individuals tops are connected to Seaport, and he, or they, are deeply buried beneath a series of dummy corporations.”

“That’s impossible,” she argued, shaking her head. “We’ve run each of those corporations through the computer systems and they all checked out. Believe me, if there were any links whatsoever, the system would have picked it up. The only connection is the joint-venture ownership of Seaport Manor. Period.”

“You’ll have to trust me on this one,” he said as the doorbell rang. “I can feel it. We’re looking for one person.”

He left her alone in the kitchen and went to the door, returning a few seconds later with their meal.

“You’re wrong,” she said, taking the sandwiches from him.

He opened the cabinet for plates and place mats and laid them on the counter. “Avalon is filled with exclusive resorts. Over the last few years the place has turned into a corporate landowner’s paradise. Every one of them are joint ventures or singularly owned by Fortune 500 types. All of them, except Seaport Manor, has the backing of big-name corporate dollars. What I don’t like is the fact that Seaport is exclusively local.”

She leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Okay, I’ll grant that it’s not common, but you’re forgetting a little thing called free enterprise. Our Constitution says it’s okay for locally owned corporations to own a resort in the same town as the conglomerates on the New York Stock Exchange.”

He set the meatball sandwiches on a serving tray with the salad bowl and dressings and led the way onto the deck. He should have his head examined for bringing them back into a romantic setting, but the June evening was warm, and taking his meals on the deck was a habit he enjoyed.

“This isn’t about free enterprise, Ronnie. It’s about a small phony band of investors, strictly local investors, using Seaport Manor as a front for a drug smuggling operation.”

“We don’t know that for certain. It took us a long time to get a strong enough line on what was happening on Catalina to even justify this operation.” She leaned over the table to set out the place mats. “In everything I’ve read, there hasn’t been one red flag on any of those corporations. Not so much as a single lawsuit pending, no SEC violations, not even a request for filing a late corporate tax return. Nothing.”

He waited for her to sit before he joined her at the table. “That alone should be cause for suspicion.”

“They’re clean, Blake.”

“They’re too clean. It makes me cautious.”

“I don’t agree. Once the agency got wind of the smuggling, we sent out a few agents, and it still took them months to determine the drugs were even being filtered through the island. Like I said, we don’t even know for certain the resort’s involved.”

“Then why did your operatives narrow it down to Seaport?” he asked, serving their meal.

“There’s no other resort with its own private launch and water taxi,” she said. She set a napkin in her lap, then poured a ladle of dressing over her salad. “The others have been watched closely, and turned up nothing. The problem is we haven’t been able to get close enough to the private launch to set up an effective surveillance to know for certain.”

He took the salad dressing from her, forcing his mind on their conversation and not the way her eyes shone in the early-evening moonlight, or how the light sea breeze ruffled her wispy bangs across her forehead. “What makes you think we’ll have any more luck than your other operatives?”

She flashed him a grin filled with impudence. “Because one of their best honeymoon suites, bungalow number one, is less than a hundred feet from the launch, and has a perfect view of the surrounding beach. We’ll be setting up a video camera so we can see exactly what comes in and what goes out, even when we’re out of the room.”

He braced his arms on the table. “Won’t work,” he said. “You’re forgetting about housekeeping. That ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign won’t be effective forever.”

A becoming blush stained her cheeks and she cleared her throat. “One of our agents is working in housekeeping,” she explained in a prim, finishing-school voice. “The other is a bartender.”

“Not bad,” he admitted with a grin. “What about days off?”

“We stow the equipment and break out the high-powered binoculars and 35 mm cameras.”

“It’s a start. Surveillance can tell us of any strange movement, but don’t think it’ll tell us who’s involved.”

“Of course it will. We’d have them on camera.”

He leaned back in the deck chair and studied her momentarily. She was so dainty, so delicate. Too damn beautiful to be carrying a weapon and flashing around a badge. She also had tunnel vision, something he hoped to cure. “You surprise me, Carmichael.”

She set her fork on the edge of her plate and let out a sigh before looking at him. “Somehow I don’t think this is going to be a compliment.”

He grinned at the caution in her voice. “For a DEA agent, you’re thinking small.”

She looked at him as if he couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag with directions. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It just means I thought DEA didn’t waste their precious collars on small-timers.”

The narrowing of her eyes didn’t detract one iota from the electrifying sparks of frustration flaring in her turquoise depths. “My assignment is to determine who and how the drugs are moving through the island. If we capture one of the people behind the smuggling, then the assignment is considered a success.”

“Like I said, small time.”

“I resent that.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said lazily. “But wouldn’t a commendation for stopping whoever is behind the smuggling look a lot nicer in your service record? I know it would in mine.”

“This isn’t your case.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, sugar. My sandbox, my rules. Remember? And my rules say we don’t spend precious taxpayer dollars on grunts when we can bring down the key player behind the scenes, and send the whole operation into a crash and burn.”

She tossed her napkin on the table. The sea breeze picked up, pulling more silky, sable strands free from their imprisoning band to caress her cheek. She angrily shoved them away. “First off,” she said, a trace of genteel steel in her voice, “you don’t know if there is a big player involved. And more importantly, this is a D—”

“DEA operation and you’re in charge,” he finished before biting into his sandwich. Fine. Let her think the winds of command were blowing in from her direction. He had a hunch. He always trusted his hunches.

“It’s a good thing we’re not really married,” he said after a minute.

She folded her arms and tossed him another one of her irritated expressions. “Why?”

Damn, but she looked gorgeous when her feminine feathers were all ruffled. Her eyes sparkled, and the way she pursed her mouth had that dimple winking at him again. He wanted to kiss her. He decided to irritate her instead.

“Because sometimes, sugar, the man likes to be on top.”

4

“ENJOY YOUR STAY at Seaport Manor, Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire.” The desk clerk solemnly handed the leather-bound key holder to the bellman. “George will escort you to your bungalow.”

Blake nodded his thanks and glanced down at Ronnie, noting the flash of what he could only term as strong trepidation in her brilliant eyes. He settled his hand on the small of her back to gently guide her after the bellman, who was already across the marble floor toward the rear of the lobby. Since they’d stepped off the water taxi, she’d been absolutely silent. While she might have suddenly lost her ability for speech, based on the perfectly straight line of her spine and the tension in her shoulders, she obviously hadn’t lost her ability to stiffen whenever he touched her. He’d hoped after last night those telltale signs wouldn’t continue to be a problem.

He’d been wrong.

On an assignment like this, he couldn’t afford to be wrong. So what if his ego climbed a notch every time she flinched, stiffened or her intriguing gaze widened with wonder when he touched her. That wasn’t the point. They had a job to do, and he swore before they took one step outside their bungalow, he’d make damned sure she had no misconceptions about her undercover role…as his loving bride.

They followed the bellman outside into a manufactured tropical world of romantic make-believe. He’d studied the additional photographs and video surveillance Ronnie had left with him last night, but even he had to admit the photos and video didn’t do the place justice. Avalon hosted its own natural elegance and quaint simplicity, but the tropical additions by the resort designers made the reality of a drug smuggling operation almost surreal. Who would suspect something so devious in a location one step shy of paradise? No one, he thought cynically, which made Seaport Manor an almost perfect cover.

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