Undercover Mistress

to Roy. “Darling, I want you to meet Art Milos. This is his house. And his party. Art, this is my friend, R. J. Cassidy. He’s Canadian.”

She said it all with a smile so playful and eyes so serene, Roy felt confused and a little bit foolish-sure, now, that he must have been mistaken about the trembling.

He shook his host’s hand and-remembering to whisper-produced some apparently adequate answers in response to the man’s standard questions: Canadian, huh? What part? What business are you in? Where did you two meet? At least he hoped he did. If anybody’d asked him, he’d have been hard- pressed to remember one word of what he said. His eyes and most of his mind had wandered off with Celia as she moved into the crush of people, pausing to speak to someone, then moving farther afield to take two wineglasses from a tray borne by a passing waiter.

“What is it?” he asked in a growly undertone when she returned to hold out one of the glasses to him.

She was already gulping from the other like a thirsty child. She considered, licking her lips. “Chardonnay, I think.”

“You don’t suppose they’d have any beer?” Though he said it in a whisper, Milos, who was already moving on to the next arrival, evidently heard him anyway, and turned back long enough to point toward a wall of arches that opened onto a stunning view of the L.A. lights.

“Foreign, domestic and weasel piss-otherwise known as lite beer. Bar’s outside on the patio.” And he was gone-swallowed up in the crowd.

“That’s for me,” Roy muttered. Celia, having drained the first glass of wine, smiled at him gaily, shrugged and took a sip from the other. “Back in a minute,” he said under his breath, and as he began to make his way toward the arches, he was thinking, I’m here five minutes and I already feel like I’m making a prison break.

Outside, he found the bar with no trouble and selected a bottle of Mexican beer. While he waited for Celia to join him, he strolled across the tiled patio, carrying his bottle of beer in his usual way, close to his chest. One of those aluminum and canvas affairs had been set up to keep out the rain, and there were several tall aluminum outdoor heaters holding off the December chill. Between them, people stood around in small groups, laughing and talking in the mellow light of torches…drinking…a few eating-nobody smoking, though, he noticed. In Hollywood, evidently, healthy living was In.

Some of the people gave him curious looks as he passed; a few nodded and smiled, just in case he was somebody important. Most ignored him.

He saw some people he recognized, and some others he thought he probably ought to have recognized, if he’d been more up on the latest goings-on in the world of entertainment. But it wasn’t his world. Truth was, he felt more out of place in it, more conspicuous and exposed, than he ever had mingling with street thugs, underworld bosses and international arms dealers.

Wondering what was keeping Celia but reluctant to go back inside where the bulk of the noise and the crowd were to find out, he wandered to the edge of the patio, to the point where it dropped away in an impressive series of Spanish-tiled terraces, hot tubs, pools and fountains toward a carpet of city lights. Tonight, the distant spangles seemed to blur and shimmer in the lightly falling rain, and Roy found himself thinking about another night not so long ago, a warm, clear night, when he’d stood on a hill above Los Angeles Harbor with Max, talking of boats, and unthinkable acts of terror.

Was it only coincidence that a cold, damp breeze should skirl in out of the darkness and rain just then to find its way under the collar of his new leather jacket and make him shiver?

“Darling-there you are!”

Something leapt inside him at the sound of her voice. As he turned, he wondered if it would show in his eyes. Prayed it wouldn’t.

An instant later, that momentary spark was snuffed out, and a professional chill settled over him; his body stilled and his features froze into what he prayed would be an unreadable mask of calm. Impassive as a granite statue, he watched the small group of men come toward him. They were swarthy skinned and darkly dressed, and at their center, Celia, laughing and lovely, looked like a shimmering golden topaz set in onyx.

The man beside her caught and held Roy’s attention first, possibly because he had one arm draped around Celia’s shoulders. He was tall and, Roy supposed, would probably be considered handsome, in an exotic sort of way, with a hawk nose, gleaming black eyes and a perfectly trimmed goatee. (And what was it with these Hollywood people and goatees? He was glad he’d won the argument with Celia on that score, at least, and was, for the moment, clean-shaven.) He didn’t know whether it was the damned goatee or the arm around Celia that irked him, but he felt a sudden primitive urge to slug the guy.

Still…he wasn’t the reason Roy had gone still as stone, with every nerve and sinew vibrating with a primitive cognizance of danger. After the first second, his eyes had moved on to the four men arrayed in a rough semicircle behind Celia and her escort. They were much alike, of a type Roy happened to know well. Though formally dressed in seemingly identical dark suits, gleaming white shirts and black neckties, there was about them a certain alertness…and something more. Ruthlessness and even cruelty…a suggestion in their taut muscles and impassive faces of violence kept under tight rein.

And one of them, at least, he’d seen before. It had been dark that night, but he’d known he’d never forget the face of the man who’d shot him on the deck of the yacht Bibi Lilith.

“Darling…” It was Celia’s voice again, breathless and tipsy, reaching toward him across the black, echoing void that had opened up in his mind. He focused on her and saw her hand extended gracefully toward him. “This is…” she sang the name, punctuating each syllable with a wave of her nearly empty wineglass “…Prince Abdul Abbas al- Fayad-but everybody calls him Abby-don’t they, darling?” Her laughter was a silvery sound that twanged against Roy’s razor-edged nerves like aluminum foil on a sensitive tooth. “Abby, this is my friend, R.J., from Canada.”

“Your highness…” Roy returned in a grating whisper, smiling a clenched-teeth smile, extending his right hand. At the same time, he caught Celia’s outstretched hand with his left. He heard her breath gust sharply as he pulled her to his side.

Seemingly oblivious to that not-too-subtle demonstration of possession the prince raised his eyebrows and waggled a finger at his own throat. “Your voice-it is…?”

“An injury. It’s getting better…slowly.” His voice would have been sandy, he thought, even if he hadn’t been playing a part. He considered it a wonder his vocal cords worked at all.

Danger. Suddenly it was all around him; he could feel it. Inside his new designer clothes he was cold…sweating. Images…sensations still fresh in his memory played again in his mind. The searing pain of the bullet ripping through his flesh…the blackness of the water, the deathly, mind-numbing cold…

Had the bodyguard recognized him? There was no outward sign in those impassive black eyes. Don’t look too closely. Can’t risk looking him in the eyes. Mustn’t give him the chance to look too closely at me…

“R.J. and I met in the hospital-in rehab,” Celia said, and reached up to kiss his cheek.

He didn’t know where the impulse came from. Some primal directive of male biology predating civilized competition by millennia, maybe? He felt her lips brush his cheek, her breath warm and smelling of wine. In the next instant, he’d hooked his arm around her waist and brought her hard against him, turned his head and caught her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss.

He felt her lips…their warmth, flavor and texture…burst under his like ripe fruit in the heat of summer. Sensation flooded his senses and, for a moment, drowned all thought, infused his system like a potent drug, leaving him shocked, reeling, disoriented.

It lasted no more than seconds. Not nearly long enough…much too long. What the hell was that? What did I just do?

She swayed a little when he released her, as if something she’d been leaning against had been removed suddenly.

“Darling-” Incredibly, her voice, her lowered lashes, her smile, still seemed sultry, sexy, intimate. Then she lifted her lashes, and he saw that behind their camouflage her eyes were fierce and bright. With confusion? Anger? And yet…when she continued, her voice and smile gave no sign. “Abby’s been telling me all about his boat. He has the most amazing yacht…”

“Really?” Mentally reeling himself in, Roy showed the prince his teeth.

With Celia tucked close against him, he could feel the tension humming in her body. Or maybe the humming