Undercover Mistress

Suppressing a shiver, he braced his backside and his hands on the deck railing to steady himself and watched Celia come toward him, smiling, positively glowing with satisfaction, like a cat fresh from dining on a canary.

“You might as well wipe that smirk off your face,” he said in a gravelly voice, “because you are not doing this. It’s just a plumb crazy idea.”

“Well, now,” she said sweetly as she joined him, leaning her hands on the railing and lifting her face to the reddening sun and the chilling breeze, “it’s really not up to you, is it? It’s up to Max-and the director, whoever he is. And Max seems to think it’s a good idea. Seems to think the director will, too.”

“Seems to me,” Roy said, scowling, “Max is way more susceptible to the influence and charm of a beautiful woman than a married man ought to be.”

Her laughter seemed to sparkle like the sun out there on the water. She looked at him along her shoulder. “Seems to me,” she countered in a husky voice, “you were pretty susceptible yourself not so long ago.”

“That was before I knew what a devious woman you are,” he muttered. “Before I knew you had an ulterior motive for kissing me.”

She jerked as if he’d startled her, and an emotion he couldn’t identify flashed like a seagull’s shadow across her face. “I don’t have any…ulterior motives, as you put it. It’s like I told you-I just want to help. I want-” her breath caught and she turned back to the water, her blue eyes for a moment eerily reflecting its coppery glow “-I want to do something I can take credit for. Something…important. Something-okay, this is going to sound corny-something meaningful.”

“Fine,” Roy said savagely. “Why don’t you go volunteer at an old folks’ home? Adopt an orphan from Bolivia? Why do you have to do something that could get you killed?”

The breeze blew her hair across her face when she turned it toward him. She lifted her chin as she fingered her hair back, revealing a sardonic smile. “You’re being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Melodramatic?” His voice cracked on the word. “Lady, you tell me you listened to my nightmare ravings, heard every word. You’ve seen me-living, breathing proof of how rough these people play. And you think I’m being melodramatic?”

“You were caught trespassing,” Celia pointed out with airy confidence. “Obviously up to no good. I, on the other hand, will be Abby’s invited guest. What danger can there be in that?”

Roy couldn’t argue with her logic, and he couldn’t find a way to explain his to her, either. Maybe he didn’t have any. He just knew he didn’t want Celia Cross-or any woman, he told himself-getting anywhere near the Bibi Lilith, Prince Abdul al-Fayad, or the thugs who’d tried their level best to put an end to Betty Starr’s little boy Roy.

Finally, after working his jaw on it for a couple of minutes, he stuck his chin out in her direction and said, “Fine. Get me an invitation. That’s if the director gives the okay. I’ll take it from there.”

Celia shook her head. “Oh, no. Not without me, you won’t. I’m in on it, or no deal.”

Roy felt his body go tense and still. He drew himself in around a humming core of anger and, with ominous calm, said, “What do you mean, ‘No deal’?”

“I mean,” she said, not the least bit impressed or intimidated, locking eyes with him, “you’ll have to find another way to get on board Abby’s yacht. You should also think about the fact,” she added, leaning closer to him and dropping her voice to a seductive whisper, “that I know things you wish I didn’t know. And I have mainline access to the media.”

Roy’s breath hissed between his teeth. “You wouldn’t.”

Again her smoky blue gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t bet on it.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring down into those eyes, with his heart banging against the walls of his chest and his belly quivering with a hellish combination of physical weakness and cold fury. Dammit, she was so close…too close…and vibrant and sweet-smelling and beautiful and warm. Kissin’- close, if he’d been of such a mind.

Which he sure as hell wasn’t. Right then, he’d have been more likely to strangle her.

Then, as abruptly as if someone had flipped a light switch, a smile burst over her face, dispelling the tension the way light eliminates darkness and causing a queer little kick in Roy’s chest. “But why are we even talking about such things? It’s not ever going to come to that. You’ll see. Max is a smart man-he knows a good thing when he sees it.”

She clapped her hands together, reminding him of nothing so much as somebody trying to distract a difficult child. “So-what would you like for dinner? That was it for the pot roast, but I’ve got…let’s see…meat loaf, lasagna, and…oh yeah, chicken cordon bleu.”

“I just ate,” Roy reminded her, scowling. He was still smarting and the last thing he wanted to do was play her game, but, damnation, it was hard to resist that smile.

“Oh, I know,” she said gaily, “but I’m planning ahead. It’s all frozen, you see. I have to get something out to thaw.” She paused for a moment to cock her head as if replaying that inside her head, then gave him an impish version of the smile. “I can’t believe I thought of it, actually. Wow-I’m better at this domestic stuff than I thought.”

He snorted-he’d be damned if he was going to let her make him laugh. If she wanted to declare a truce for the time being, fine, that was all right with him. But this war wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. There was just no way he was going on an undercover mission with thousands-maybe millions-of lives at stake, with a soap opera star as his partner. No way.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “you’re a regular Julia Child.” He didn’t tell her he was surprised a TV actress would even eat, much less cook.

If possible, her smile grew even more dazzling. “Thank you.” Then she added, in a chummy, conversational way, “I actually knew her, you know. She and my parents were good friends.” She stuck out her lower lip in a regretful pout. “It’s a pity, I suppose, they never asked Julia to teach me to cook. The truth is-” now the lower lip was captured by perfectly even white teeth “-I can’t boil water. But-” and like the sun playing peekaboo with clouds, the smile reappeared “-I nuke fairly well.”

Roy stared at her through the whole amazing display, and when she turned with a flirty little flounce to go back into the house, it was a beat or two before he could find his voice, to ask her the question that had come to him, whether he wanted it to or not.

“What was it like?” He knew his voice sounded harsh but didn’t do anything to fix it. He waited while she paused to look back at him, then continued on the same gravelly way. “Growing up like that, I mean-in a Bel Air mansion, with famous movie stars for parents?”

She came back to him slowly, like a prowling cat, measuring him with her eyes. He watched her with a sardonic smile on his lips, fortified against her, now, expecting another performance. “Poor Little Rich Girl,” maybe? But as she came closer, her smile seemed to grow wistful…then sad. And there was something in her eyes that made him think this time it-the smile and the sadness-might be real.

“It was…wonderful,” she said softly. “More wonderful than you can possibly imagine. It was like…not even a fairy tale, because there was nothing evil or scary or bad. Ever. My life was always filled with laughter and love and music and…and the most amazing people. Everyone I knew was either beautiful or brilliantly talented or funny-sometimes all three-and it seemed as though everyone adored me. Everyone was always kind…”

She was beside him again, hands resting on the deck railing, gazing out at the water, but closer than before. He jerked as her shoulder brushed against his arm; though it seemed accidental, it sent a shock wave through him and set off a thrumming beat low-down in his belly.

He looked over at her. The setting sun lent her skin and hair a summery warmth that contradicted a damp and chilly wind that was sharp enough now to redden her nose and spark tears in her eyes. At least, that was what he told himself was responsible for that display of apparent vulnerability. He didn’t want to believe it was real. Didn’t want to feel sympathy for the likes of Celia Cross. He didn’t want to feel anything for her-to be truthful, not for any woman, right at the moment, but especially not a woman like this one. A woman as devious, as manipulative, as skilled an actress as this one.

“What about your parents?” he asked gruffly. “I’d think they’d have had to be gone quite a bit.”

“They were.” Since he wasn’t looking at her, he felt rather than saw her nod. Heard the little catch of her breath. “When they could, they took me along. I loved that-I got to have a tutor, and when my parents weren’t busy on the set, we had the most marvelous adventures.” She flashed him a wind-whipped smile. “I’ve ridden on