make it up to you next week, I promise,” he said. “This meeting couldn’t be avoided. I’ll be in town, but I have to stay over at the hotel.”
“Mmm.” She glanced at Toni, who sipped her coffee as if she didn’t have every molecule directed at their conversation. “Which hotel?”
“The Sheraton.”
“Good choice. They have a view of the river, you know. It’s—”
“Are you planning to surprise me and show up in my room—” he paused, his grin blooming with devilish enthusiasm, his voice lowering “—naked, perhaps?”
Startled, she raised her head.
He leaned forward, pressing a light kiss on her jaw, sending heat soaring through her veins. “As much as I would enjoy it, you would, no doubt, shock the accounts manager I’m rooming with right out of his Jockey shorts.”
She fought desperately against his allure—the spicy, male smell of him, his warm breath against her skin—reminding herself he’d never roomed with anyone before. A very smooth and flattering response to keep her from showing up unexpectedly at his hotel? She never would have considered interrupting his business meetings before today. Before he’d lied.
Her head ached from the unanswered questions, but she swallowed her fear and anger for the moment. She needed time to figure out what to do, how to confront him.
“I promise not to stay more than two nights,” he continued, “and I’ll have my cell phone if you need me.” His hand slid up her leg, encountering bare flesh at the edge of her thigh-high hose. “God, do you know how sexy these things are?” He whispered. “How am I going to concentrate on stock portfolios now?”
With his clever fingers dancing their way to her crotch, Roxanne drew a deep breath. Damp heat flooded her panties. The tip of his finger brushed the satin, and she squirmed on the seat, wondering how she could discreetly press his hand harder against her. Four nights without him, and she was panting. It was crazy. It was exhilarating.
The pleasure he always brought her was so intense, so powerful, she couldn’t doubt his feelings for her, his love for her. Though he rarely said the words out loud. And the concentration and attention he lavished on her had led to security, to trust. Until now. Until doubt and fear and suspicion had reared their ugly heads.
“This is a great chance for a girls’ night out. Right, Rox?”
Toni’s cheerful but tight voice broke through Roxanne’s sexual fantasy. Caught somewhere between wanting, fulfillment, and disappointment at her own needs, she yanked her navy jacket straight and prayed Gage would find that coolness of his, so as not to betray what was actually going on beneath the linen tablecloth.
She need not have worried.
Gage glided his hand from between her thighs to the small of her back. “I’m glad you’ll have Toni to distract you.”
“Oh, yeah. We can always troll the bars in the Quarter,” Toni said sharply.
Gage’s silver eyes flashed with humor. He grinned as his gaze slid from Toni to Roxanne. “Just remember who you belong to, babe,” he said lightly.
I remember. Do you? She searched his face for signs of insincerity, for slyness or an outright lie. She saw nothing but warmth and hunger. Directed at her. Gage had that power. He made her feel as if no other woman existed. No man had ever given her that, even her father. Maybe she was addicted to that feeling. Maybe that feeling had led her to believe she was in love. But how could she love a man she didn’t really know?
She forced a smile to her lips. “You, of course.”
“I need to get going.” Gage slid one hand around Roxanne’s neck and drew her close. “Think of me.”
He pressed his lips briefly to hers, glided out of the booth, then left.
Roxanne sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She wanted him to wrap her in his strong arms almost as much as she wanted to strangle the man.
“So,” Toni began, peeking slyly over her coffee cup. “You want to meet me at the shop at three?”
“Definitely.”
GAGE DABON STRODE into the Bayou Palace’s lobby bar. Checking his Rolex, he sat on a stool and ordered Jack Daniel’s—Black Label. He retrieved a sterling-silver case from inside his jacket pocket and, lighting a cigarette, settled back with his drink to wait.
Image was everything in his business, as he’d learned a thousand times over. Image and guts. They kept the deal together. They kept you alive.
As he discreetly scanned the lobby for his quarry, he tried to force his thoughts away from Roxanne. But regret fought its way in.
He hated lying to her, hated it more every day, and the deception made him all the more conscious of how long he’d been at the game and how easy leaving would be. But he couldn’t let her discover the truth yet—for her own safety and his. He didn’t think she would appreciate the irony of her being engaged to the one kind of man she always said she could never live with—a cop.
Not just any beat cop, either. A Secret Service undercover agent for the United States Treasury Department.
He smiled grimly. No, he’d lose her. And that was unacceptable.
It had begun with an addiction to their favorite restaurant, and now, was he addicted to her as well? Her smile, her touch?
The fact that he’d actually proposed should tell him he’d lost his mind as well as his edge. A wife and a family made you vulnerable, prevented your heart from turning to steel, forced you think about going too far. But he desperately wanted that life with Roxanne.
Her sweetness and purity were like a balm to a man who’d lived among, then tracked and captured, the worst of society for nearly ten years. She made him feel clean when he was so damn tired of being dirty.
Every day he thought more about retiring. Every time he had to leave her. Every time he had to lie. If he could get through this case…
He shook aside the thought and swallowed another sip of liquor, the drink burning down his throat. He frankly hated the stuff, but the image required it. He had to focus on now. Today. This moment. For now, their engagement bound her to him. He’d find a way to explain things to her soon.
Finally, he spotted his target. And the ridiculous idiocy of criminals struck him anew. The kid—turning twenty-two next month—was a brilliant computer engineer. MIT graduate. Affluent upbringing. All-American good looks—though he really should get to know Calvin Klein and ditch the pocket protector.
Our young “hero” could have his pick of jobs, own a nice house in the suburbs, but instead Clark Mettles had decided to use his varied talents to counterfeit United States currency.
Ah, youth.
Gage shook his head in disgust, even as he raised his index finger to signal the kid.
Briefcase in hand, Mettles made a beeline for the bar stool next to Gage.
“M-Mr. Angelini?”
