time, one of the victims was the daughter of a rich, powerful man.
Mark could almost feel the strings being pulled all the way from Washington, D.C., by Senator Landon Grayson. His only child had been murdered, his granddaughter kidnapped. Grayson chaired the committee that controlled the Bureau’s funding. Every citizen was deemed to be equal under the law; in truth, though, due process came swifter to the rich and powerful.
Which was why, barely two days after Mark and Grace got their first whiff that their case was a homicide and their prime suspect was in Las Vegas, they were on a plane. A short limo ride later, they checked in to the luxury suite that had been reserved in their undercover names.
Now, standing in the living room of that elegant suite, Mark slipped a folded bill to the bellman who had over-seen the delivery of their luggage.
“Thank you, Mr. Calhoun.” The fifty-something attendant, dressed in the Gold Palace’s spotless amber-colored uniform coat and black trousers, was too experienced to even glance at the bill before pocketing it.
Mark settled his briefcase on an end table polished to a mirrorlike finish. He knew that gamblers on hot streaks gave heart-stopping tips to staff members of the hotels in which they stayed. But the undercover persona the FBI had created for him was not one of a high-rolling risk taker. Anyone running a background check on Mark Calhoun would discover the Houston, Texas, native held major interests in a number of profitable oil and gas companies and the burgeoning field of wind energy production.
Despite his substantial wealth, the fictional Mark Calhoun was not a man who tossed chips into the center of a green felt-covered table, crossed his fingers, then rolled the dice. When he did splurge, it was on homes, vehicles and vacations that provided diversions from the stresses and disappointments of everyday life. This trip was intended to be one of those diversions to help buoy up the fictional Calhouns who had received word that their third attempt at in-vitro fertilization had failed.
“There’s an ice machine in the minibar,” the bellman said, nodding toward the glossy black wet bar on the far side of the suite. “We’ve stocked the refrigerator and cabinets according to the preferences your assistant faxed to our concierge.”
“Good.” In truth, Grace had compiled the list, which, Mark had noted, contained several boxes of the stomach-soothing tea he habitually consumed. Even in undercover mode, she saw to the comfort of those around her.
As if checking for any small detail left undone, the bellman swept his circumspect gaze around the spacious living room done in sapphires and emeralds, accented with mahogany wood and lush arrangements of flowers. “Is there anything else you or Mrs. Calhoun require at the moment?”
“Where is the safe?”
The bellman inclined his head toward the alcove arranged into an office area with a dark wood desk inlaid with intricate marquetry. Behind the desk sat a trim, matching console. “The safe is in the closet beside the console. You create the combination you desire, then clear it on your final use.”
“Fine.” Mark slipped his key card into the inside pocket of his black suit coat. The safe would be used to store his and Grace’s law enforcement credentials and weapons during their stay. As an extra level of security, Mark would attach a small device that required the entering of three separate combinations before the safe’s door would open.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he glanced sideways as Grace stepped out of the double-wide doors that led to the bedroom.
“Darling,” he said. Sending her a husband’s intimate smile, he extended a hand her way. “Do the other rooms meet with your satisfaction?”
Mark studied Grace as she crossed the ocean of Oriental carpet that separated them. Just as he had done by a subtle change to his hair color and brows, she, too, had altered her appearance. Instead of the sweaters and man-tailored slacks she favored, she now wore a figure-skimming silver silk pantsuit and matching high-heeled boots. Her hair, usually clipped back, hung loose, falling like soft, black rain to her shoulders. She’d shaded her brown eyes with copper highlights that lent them a slightly exotic look and applied a darker blush, emphasizing her fine-boned cheeks. A slick of coral covered her lips, making her mouth look glossy and luminous and far too tempting to a man who knew exactly how that mouth tasted.
A man who was well aware that her new look in no way made her a different person from the woman he’d known so intimately. She had merely transformed herself into a different type of person on the surface.
Just as he had the day he watched her walk into her boss’s office after a separation of six years, Mark felt something stir deep inside him. Something no other woman had ever been able to touch.
Even as her hand slid into his, he reminded himself that, although he and Grace had shared something special, they had chosen to walk away and let it die. The logical part of Mark’s brain theorized that whatever it was that now moved inside him was merely an echo of the searing need and passion he had once felt for Grace.
And regret, he conceded.
How many times over the years had he replayed their relationship in his mind, adjusting the elemental needs and desires they both felt in order to get a different outcome? More times than he would like to admit.
Since it appeared their basic needs had not changed, Mark knew he should have the good sense to leave well enough alone. But at this instant, standing beside her with his hand circling hers and the warmth of her flesh seeping into his, temptation lured him like a seductive smile. And the force of the regret he still carried for what might have been nudged him from behind.
“The bedroom and bath are fine.” Grace gave the bellman a polite, polished smile. “I had asked for a schedule for the health spa.”
“Yes, Mrs. Calhoun, it’s on the desk. Once you decide when you want to visit the spa, the concierge will take care of the scheduling.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. “I think that’s all for now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mark breathed in Grace’s soft, subtle scent while they stood side by side, tracking the bellman’s progress across the suite. When the door clicked closed behind the man, Mark sensed her shoulders stiffening, felt the tenseness settle into her fingers, still wrapped in his hand. He knew he should ease his grip, release her. Yet, he held on while memories he’d locked away rushed to the surface. Memories of the feel of her soft hands against his heated flesh. The warmth of her body, the comfort she had offered that no one else had ever given him.
When she tugged her hand from his, he felt the scrape of the stunning diamond she now wore in the guise of Mrs. Mark Calhoun.
With his mind snapping back to thoughts of the job, Mark turned to the table where he’d left his briefcase. While he input the combination and unsnapped the locks, he felt the familiar shudder of the fatigue that lately seemed to reach to the marrow of his bones. That sense of weariness reminded him Grace McCall-Fox wasn’t the only thing he had to regret. There were the cases he had failed to solve, the trials lost. The child molesters and killers who had slipped through his fingers, the dream that almost nightly had him seeing again each of those victims, reliving every failure. He carried each regret like a stone around his shoulders. With all that weight, he shouldn’t feel so hollow on the inside, but he did.
“Mark?”
He looked up, met Grace’s waiting gaze and saw the puzzlement in her dark eyes. They’d spent
