Undercover Mistress

Max sat forward and clasped his hands together, elbows on his knees. “Miss Cross-”

“Oh-Celia, please.” She flashed him her most radiant smile.

He coughed, looked at his hands, then back at her. She thought his eyes seemed intelligent…measuring. Unlike Roy’s, which looked like something that could set off explosives. “Celia. What is it, exactly, that you want?”

She sat up straight and widened her eyes. “What do I want? Why…nothing, except what I said. I want to help, that’s all. We’re all fighting a war, right? I just want to do my part.” She felt an odd little thrill go through her as she realized she meant it-absolutely-and she finished in a quieter voice, keeping her eyes locked on Max’s, even though the words were meant for the person who was sitting next to him, simmering like an active volcano. “I can’t do much, but I can do this. You suspect Abby’s yacht is being used by terrorists, and you need to get someone on board to find out for sure. Well, I can get you there.” She paused. “Are you telling me you’re willing to pass up a chance like that?”

While Max studied her in thoughtful silence, Roy cleared his throat loudly. “You’re forgetting something,” he said, raspy anyway. “The prince’s thugs got a real good look at me. By this time, they’ve probably got me ID’d, as well.” Max looked at him. He lifted a shoulder. “I was about to tell you.”

Celia laughed, a light ripple of sound. “You’re forgetting where you are. I know people who can change your appearance so your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

“So do I,” Max said, studying her thoughtfully.

Roy looked at him and made a disgusted sound. “I can’t believe it. You’re actually considering this ridiculous notion of hers. It’s crazy, you know that. Lunacy. These people are dangerous. Trust me,” he added darkly, “I know.”

Max was gazing at Celia with narrowed eyes. “It’s not like she’s planning on joining special ops. Hell, during World War II, movie stars flew bombers. All she’s wanting to do is what she does anyway.” He gave her his very nice smile. “And very well, I might add. I don’t see how there’d be any danger…”

“Yeah, well, you can’t guarantee that. I’m not having any part of it.”

“It’s completely understandable you wouldn’t want to go back there again,” Celia said sweetly. “I’m sure Max can find someone else to go with me.” Her gaze followed Roy as he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet-she just couldn’t help it.

He stood glowering down at her, jaws black with beard, eyes black with fury, radiating heat and energy and danger…although…he did look a little silly, she thought fondly, with his hair all shower- rumpled, wearing baby blue sweats that were miles too short. But…with a shave and a good haircut, dressed in something…really classy…something elegant…say…Armani?

Oh, my. A wave of heat nearly knocked her over. She caught her breath audibly, and Roy instantly rounded on her with a suspicious, “What?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Nothing,” she lied. She couldn’t very well tell him she’d just gotten incredibly turned on from imagining him in clothes, could she?

Well, it’s because I’ve already seen him naked, she told herself. No imagination needed there at all.

With a supreme effort of will, she tore her gaze away from images of Roy-both real and fantasy-and turned back to Max, who was also getting to his feet, though with considerably less devastating effect on her senses.

“Fact of the matter is, if she’s right-” he nodded at Celia as he pulled his sunglasses out of the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt “-she can save us a whole lot of the one thing we don’t have enough of, and that’s time. We might not have a choice.”

He jabbed a finger at the yellow UCLA scrawled across Roy’s chest. “You-sit tight for the moment. Nobody knows you’re here-it’s a good safe house for you, until we know how badly your cover’s blown. I’m gonna send a company doctor to look you over, make sure you’re okay…get you some antibiotics. Meanwhile, I’ll run this idea of hers-” he nodded at Celia “-by the director, see what he says. And, I’m gonna need to talk to this Doc character, too. Where’d you say-”

“Next door,” said Celia, trying not to sound too eager. “Doc’s okay-really. His name is Peter Cavendish. He’s a real doctor, just…well-” she bit down on her lower lip and gave him a winsome smile “-not currently licensed to practice. But that’s good,” she added quickly when she saw Max and Roy exchange glances, “because it means the last thing he’s going to do is tell anyone about this. Right?” She beamed at Max as she took his arm.

Roy thought he could actually hear his teeth grinding together. His knew his stomach was in knots, and the phrase over my dead body kept running through his brain. He really wanted to kick someone’s butt-Max’s, for instance-but was pretty sure if he tried it, he’d only fall flat on his own.

“I don’t suppose you remembered to bring me some clothes,” he called plaintively.

In the doorway, Max snapped his fingers and half turned to give him a shrug of apology. “You know…I didn’t. Sorry-I was kind of in a hurry to get here.” His grin went crooked and all the humor went out of it. “Hey, I thought for sure you were dead. When I didn’t hear…” He cleared his throat, then tilted his head toward Celia. “She’s right, you know.” He smiled at her along his shoulder. “You do owe her. Big-time.”

The two of them walked out of the room together, arm in arm, cozy as two kids heading off to the prom. Just as they disappeared from view, Roy heard Max say, “Could I get your autograph? It’s for my wife-she’s a big, huge soap opera fan…”

Chapter 8

Roy stood where he was and swore until he ran out of words. Then he figured the problem was he needed some air. He’d been laid up in bed, cooped up in a strange house with strange people, way too long.

How else could he explain the antsy way he felt, watching a woman he barely knew smile at his friend and handler that way. She was a star, for God’s sake! Must have smiled like that at thousands of men. Probably didn’t think twice about it.

He made it down the hallway and into the living room before he started to feel light-headed and woozy and had to stop and hang on to the back of a cream suede sofa until his ears stopped ringing. Amazing, he thought, what being a few pints low on vital body fluids could do to a man.

Damn, but he hated the weakness. And he was going to have to get over it. Fast. Because Max was right about one thing-they were running out of time.

Just thinking about that gave Roy a queasy feeling in his stomach, as if he were in some kind of vehicle moving way too fast and beyond his control. And Max. What the hell was he thinking? He had to be really feeling the pressure, too, if he was giving serious thought to Celia’s hare-brained idea.

When Roy thought about that-when he thought about the man he’d come face-to- face with on the Bibi Lilith, the man who’d interrogated him, the man who’d shot him…touching Celia…smiling at her in that cruel way, looking at her with those dead eyes…

No. No way. He straightened himself up, gritted his teeth and fought off the dizziness with sheer willpower. He had to get his strength back. Had to get back in the game before that crazy woman convinced his boss to do something incredibly stupid.

Weaving like a 2 a.m. drunk, he made his way through the living room and out onto the deck, which was where Celia found him a few minutes later.

When he heard the sliding glass door open, he turned away from the view of sky and sea that was so different from the one he knew. Turned away, too, from the homesickness that had come upon him unexpectedly, along with thoughts of the beach house he’d left behind…gray-shingled siding with white porches, sitting tall on its stilts among gentle dunes tufted with sea grass…looking out upon endless sugar-sand beaches and sunny blue waters. Here, the beach houses of the rich and famous crowded close to the sand, yuppies jogged along the water’s edge and teenagers threw Frisbees to one another, while surfers sat patiently on their boards beyond the breakers. But he knew those undulating, coppery swells hid dangerous rip tides, forests of kelp and jagged volcanic rocks, and the ever-hovering fog shrouded the horizon in a sinister curtain. The Pacific, he had reason to know, was anything but peaceful. It was cold, and vast, and lethal…