have to relate that description to his three little sisters. They’d appreciate it. Meantime, his gaze settled on a high-angle shot of a state-of-the-art kitchen that seemed bigger than his apartment in Georgetown, which just went to show that Secret Service men didn’t command the salaries of senators. Or ex-senators, he corrected, since Ellery Verne had retired from government ten years ago, at least officially. As Morgan’s eyes settled on a red-carpeted stairway leading from the kitchen to the live-in maid’s private suite, a slow, wolfish smile spread over his lips. During the time he’d worked here, Lucy had flirted with him shamelessly, as had Senator Verne’s troublemaking daughter, Vanessa, whom Morgan wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. But Lucy…
Suffice it to say Morgan felt he deserved to spend tonight with her. If the senator hadn’t demanded the best the Secret Service had to offer—meaning Morgan—then Morgan could have spent these weeks in the line of fire, catching the Valentine Bomber, instead of living at the Vernes’, opening mail and installing their new security system. Anyway, no male needed to defend his right to seek satisfaction, and this was the first time since he and Cheryl broke up that Morgan had really been in the mood. Glancing down, his gaze caught the words, I’m so hungry to taste every tall, elegant inch of you….
Vanessa Verne was definitely mouthwatering, but Lucy Giangarfalo was far less risky, and as a Secret Service agent, Morgan prided himself on playing it safe.
“Call it a kiss goodbye,” he murmured, lifting the in-house intercom phone and eyeing the stairwell to Lucy’s suite. “A valentine for staying out of Vanessa Verne’s legendary clutches.”
He was only half joking. Vanessa had a reputation with men that made Medusa look like the tooth fairy. Fortunately, Morgan’s two-week stint was over, so he’d be leaving the Vernes’ without having slept with Vanessa. “Good job,” he commended himself.
As Lucy’s phone rang, he thought about the Valentine Bomber case, which had started a month ago when three prominent ex-senators formed a lobbying committee to review national maternity-leave policies. Because their first meeting had been planned for today, Valentine’s Day, they’d dubbed themselves the Valentine Committee, and a media blitz followed.
Everybody had an opinion about whether or not U.S. businesses should extend maternity leaves from three months to six—including an unidentified extremist. He felt longer leaves would encourage women to be in a workforce where he said they didn’t belong, and he’d begun sending letter bombs to dissuade the ex-senators. The first, a red heart pasted to a white lace doily, had exploded beside a mailbag on David Sawyer’s porch in Connecticut; the second, a white heart mounted on red felt, was discovered by a trained dog at Samuel Perkins’s home. Because it seemed likely that a third bomb would be delivered to the Vernes, Morgan had been called in to tweeze open the mail and dust for prints.
In addition to becoming privy to the senator’s wild daughter’s private erotic correspondence, he’d established mail-opening protocols for whoever would replace him tomorrow, as well as set up state-of-the-art security that could be operated from switches on a wall in the kitchen. Listening to the continued ringing, he frowned. “C’mon, Lucy. Don’t disappoint me.”
He was about to hang up when a sleep-scratchy female voice came on the line. “Who’s this?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, straining to hear her barely audible words. “You asleep, sweetheart?”
Her soft, raspy voice sent warmth swirling into his groin. “Morgan?”
“You sound different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, his chest tight. “Sexy as hell.”
“I’m not usually sexy?”
“Oh, but you are. That’s why I thought I’d take a chance tonight. See if you wanted company.”
“Uh…sure.”
He chuckled with satisfaction, the heat in his groin spreading to his limbs. “It wasn’t appropriate to call you before now,” he explained, “not while I was working here, but tomorrow morning, I’m being transferred back to headquarters.” After that, who knew? Maybe he and Lucy would hit it off tonight and keep seeing each other. That would be nice. At thirty-four, Morgan was the oldest of the Fine clan—there were five kids—but he was the only one who hadn’t yet found a life partner. “I can be there in five minutes,” he added, his voice husky with anticipation. “Can you keep the sheets warm?”
“Do you know where to find me? I’m—”
“I’m with the Secret Service,” he teased. “I know everything.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
After hitting Disconnect, he replaced the receiver, not feeling too surprised at his success, given how Lucy had been flirting with him. He glanced through an adjoining door into the bedroom he’d been using. His packed duffel bag was beside the antique four-poster bed. By eight a.m. he’d be back at headquarters. He hoped that catching whoever was sending the bombs would mean a promotion for him into administration, out of the field. He’d seen what happened to men who waited too long to take desk jobs. They got tired and couldn’t keep up the pace.
Lifting the letter to Vanessa, he began slipping it into its envelope, taking in the masculine, caramel-colored stationery and crimped, no-nonsense print that read, My fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls.
Morgan knew the feeling. But the poor guy didn’t know what he was getting into. Doing double duty as Vanessa Verne’s bodyguard during his stay here had sure opened Morgan’s eyes. He could almost hear her voice. Morgan, could you just check the clasp on my necklace? If you could just help me with this itsy-bitsy top button…
She was six feet tall in silk stockings, all sharp angles and long limbs. Not particularly busty nor conventionally pretty, she reminded Morgan of how sixteenth-century royalty was portrayed in Hollywood movies. She looked like the actresses in the big-costume productions made by Merchant and Ivory that his mother and three sisters went so gaga over.
Spiral curls the rusty color of autumn leaves cascaded to her waist, and her skin was the color of cream. Everybody said she had flair. Panache. Because her penchant for wearing oddly matched but tasteful vintage clothes made her stand out among Washington’s elite, Morgan had been surprised to find that, at home, she dressed like his sisters, in tight stretch pants, bulky sweaters and wool clogs from L.L. Bean.
“You’re tall enough for me, Morgan,” she’d commented during the Presidential Kids fundraiser, where he’d accompanied her as a guard. “Most men aren’t.”
Before he caught himself, he’d winked and said, “I’m not most men, sweetheart.”
It was the closest he’d come to flirting. While she’d dazzled him with a hundred-watt smile that made his heart pound, he’d realized she was right. Even with gold high heels encasing her slender feet, he was taller. Where her gown made her glow, however, his gray suit made him melt into wallpaper. Every time she’d smiled at him, he’d suddenly felt too huge, too dark and too male. Not that she minded. Between his name, his short, tousled black hair and dazzling dark eyes, people generally took him for what he was, black Irish. And around Washington, his watchful demeanor and physical stature quickly pegged him as an agent. Vanessa had obviously liked the overall package.
But Morgan hadn’t given in to temptation. Except for that one slip, he’d
