waiting to happen, especially since he’d come dangerously close to kissing her this morning. Thank heaven his common sense had overruled his baser intentions.
Women and the badge weren’t compatible. His parents’ divorce when he was ten confirmed it. He had his own experience to quantify that knowledge, as well, not to mention more than half the cops on the force were either divorced or close to it. The divorce rate among the detective squad was even higher. Only a very special woman could handle being married to a cop. Not many understood the long hours, or how a disappearing act for days at a time when an undercover assignment came along was all part of the motto, To Protect and Serve. It took a strong woman to be able to deal with the reality that every time she kissed her badge-carrying husband goodbye in the morning, it could very well be the last time she ever saw him alive. In his experience, women like that were far and few between, one of the reasons why, at thirty-one, he’d never married. There’d been a close call once, but that was a lifetime ago.
He shoved those unpleasant thoughts aside as the doorbell rang. Rinsing away the remnants of shaving cream, he buried his face in a fluffy towel before heading to the front door of his beachfront condo.
He’d hoped his reaction when he’d first seen Ronnie Carmichael this morning had been a result of lack of sleep and extreme frustration. Those hopes crumbled when he swung open the door and his heart began to pound again.
She looked ready for a day of relaxing under the warmth of the southern California sun, even if she did have a briefcase in her hands. Her silky hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, a few stray strands teasing the curve of her jaw. Khaki walking shorts showed off her lightly tanned legs, and a teal cotton top with a scoop neck hugged her full breasts and emphasized her curves.
“Either you’re independently wealthy or on the take,” she said with a gentle smile, breezing past him. He caught the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume and breathed in, imagining the pulse points where she’d dabbed the fragrance.
He frowned and closed the door. “That’s a hell of a greeting.”
“You’ve got a nice place,” she said, a bare hint of a smile flirting around the edges of her very kissable mouth. “I didn’t know LAPD paid their detectives so well.”
“They don’t,” he said, ushering her into the sunken living room overlooking the Pacific. “My mother’s family has money and I bought this place a couple of years ago when I came into a trust. Not that it’s any of your business.”
She set her briefcase beside the glass-topped cocktail table and shrugged. “It’s not, but I’d rather not be involved with a cop on the take.”
“You have a really low opinion of cops for someone who wears a badge.” He understood more than she believed, having his own experience with a good cop turning bad.
She slipped her slender hands into the side pockets of her walking shorts and turned her gaze to the picture window. Waves crashed on the sandy beach against a backdrop of red setting sun and dusky sky, perfect accompaniments for romance. Too bad Agent Carmichael was all business.
“I’ve seen a lot in the last few years,” she said quietly.
“Suspicion or experience.” Unfortunately, a cop turned bad wasn’t as uncommon as he’d once believed. A recent experience with one of their own walking on the wrong side of the law still left a foul taste in his mouth.
“Experience,” she admitted, then turned her attention back to him. “Nice view.”
“I thought we’d have dinner on the deck.” Her sable eyebrows pulled into a slight frown and suspicion filled her turquoise gaze. “We’re eating here?”
A note of panic filled her voice and he suppressed a smile. He’d suspected her interest this morning, but he’d written it off as his imagination since he’d been dead tired and feeling a little punchy. Perhaps his imagination hadn’t been working overtime after all. Could it be his temporary “bride” wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to believe?
“Unless you’d rather go to a more public place…where we could be overheard.”
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the plush sofa. “Here is fine.”
He headed into the kitchenette. “Something to drink?”
“Maybe later.”
“I was thinking iced tea. We are working.”
“Oh,” she said, a slight blush covering her cheeks. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”
She pulled the briefcase onto the sofa beside her and snapped the latch. By the time he returned to the living room with their drinks, she had a series of photographs spread over the cocktail table.
He handed her the iced tea and sat next to her on the sofa. She stiffened, then pulled in a long, deep breath. A dead giveaway of her nervousness. No way was anyone going to believe they were newlyweds. Not with her telling actions every time he came within two feet of her.
He leaned forward and scanned the photos. “Where are you from, Carmichael?” he asked, attempting to set her at ease.
She sat primly on the edge of the sofa, her knees pressed together, the iced tea gripped in her slender hands, a perfectly manicured nail tapping rhythmically on the glass. He had difficulty imagining those hands drawing, let alone using a weapon, even if it meant keeping them alive.
“I grew up in Savannah, but I live in New York,” she said, “when I’m home. St. Claire is my mother’s maiden name, by the way.”
He set his glass on the table and used his neatly pressed jeans to swipe the condensation from his hands. “Tell me something.”
She kept her gaze riveted on the photos. “What do you want to know?”
“You don’t fit. Not DEA.”
She let out a puff of air. “It’s a long story,” she said, her voice filled with caution that heightened his curiosity.
She looked over at him and their gazes connected. “We’ve got all night,” he said quietly, unable to quash the erotic images filtering through his mind that statement evoked.
“Three generations of Carmichaels have been federal law enforcement officers, starting with my grandfather. Two of my uncles, four cousins and my father are all DEA. It was expected that I follow tradition.”
Two things struck him. First, her sweet, lyrical voice, devoid of emotion, as if her words were recited by rote. Second, the coldness that had entered her turquoise eyes. Both intrigued him, and made him wary. While he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his newest assignment, the last thing he needed was a partner filled with resentment.
He leaned toward her, and eased the glass from her hands. His fingers brushed hers and she flinched before folding her hands in her lap. “Sounds like a prophecy you didn’t want to fulfill,” he said.
She frowned. “I’m an agent, Detective, and a good—”
“Blake.”
Curiosity entered her gaze and her frown deepened. “Excuse me?”
“You’d better get used
