temptress was more than Cassie’s odd, naive roommate. She might well be Sean’s salvation.
“Caitlin, isn’t it?”
“Yes?”
“Today’s my thirty-second birthday.”
She hesitated. “Happy birthday.”
He turned on what he could salvage of his charm. “How would you like to give me the best birthday present of my life?”
CAITLIN FELT INDIGNANT anger flush through her from head to toe with a bright rosy heat. “Birthday present? How ’bout I give you a punch in the face?”
How dare he? Either Cassie’s Dear John was a dangerous sex fiend or he was making fun of her.
“What?” A look of stunned surprise filled his dark green eyes an instant before an answering blush crept up his neck. Then those same eyes narrowed in an angry squint as he waved aside her prickly pride. “That wasn’t a proposition. Not that kind, at any rate. But I do have a business proposition for you.”
She arched one eyebrow in doubt. “Is it any better than your last line?” She watched as he pushed up the tweed sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. “And quit checking the time. It’s rude. If you have to go somewhere, go. I’m not stopping you.”
Caitlin stiffened in cautious anticipation as his expressive face grew still. One second he was antsy, the next completely calm. Spooky. Cool in a Terminator kind of way, but spooky.
“I don’t have time to do this nice and subtle,” he announced. He pulled back the front of his coat and reached inside. “I’ll make it quick.”
That endless expanse of taut white T-shirt gave way to a band of black leather that curved over his shoulder and hung down beneath his arm. A holster, with a gun. A big, black, deadly looking gun. Make this quick?
“Oh my God.” Caitlin jumped back a step. Mr. Terminator was reaching for his gun! “Don’t shoot me!”
She reached for the nearest thing that looked like protection and came up with the nozzle on the vacuum cleaner. She held it in front of her in both hands like a weapon.
Sean froze. He looked at the nozzle. He looked at Caitlin. He looked down to where his hand hovered beside the holster. Then he looked at her again, studying her frightened expression with a cockeyed squint that indicated he thought she was the crazy person here.
Their gazes held for about two seconds, just long enough for her courage to waver. Then he was moving again. All-business. He pulled a leather wallet from an inside jacket pocket. “Don’t worry, McCormick. I guess I should have used a little more finesse in my invitation. But I’m afraid smooth moves just aren’t my style.” He inclined his head toward the nozzle she wielded in her hand. “If it’s any consolation, neither is shooting a woman who could suck my brains out.”
Suck? Caitlin’s heart tripped an extra beat. A raw rush of heat and pressure pounded between her legs and left her lightheaded. Sex? This guy wanted her to…? Her gaze flew to his crotch. She’d never. She wanted. She wouldn’t. “How dare you!”
“Here.” He flipped open his wallet. Inside she saw an official-looking ID and a polished brass badge. Uh-oh. “I’m Special Agent Sean Maddox, ma’am. I’m with the FBI.”
The nervous excitement that had pounded through her body flooded her neck and face with embarrassment. Sucking. The vacuum. He’d been talking about the vacuum. Of course. Idiot.
“FBI?”
Ignoring the aftershocks of sexual frustration and indignation that were slow to die, she gathered her wits and took the wallet in a tentative grasp. She studied it a few moments. The picture matched. He hadn’t been smiling when this ID photo was taken, either. U.S. Department of Justice. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Sean Michael Maddox. DOB 05/29/71.
“It is your birthday,” she murmured out loud, but read on. New England Bureau Administrative Chief. Though the tension eased from her posture, suspicion quickly took its place.
She handed back the wallet. “Your ID says ‘Administrative Chief’, not ‘special agent.’ And Virginia’s a little out of your New England territory. Either you’re a liar or that’s fake.”
“I assure you, my work with the FBI is very real.” He returned the wallet to his pocket, making a dramatic effort to show her that he wasn’t going anywhere near his gun. “What I’m about to tell you can’t go beyond this apartment, Miss McCormick.”
Oh God. That sounded serious. Dangerous. His warning, articulated with just the barest indication of a foreign accent, sounded like a line right out of a James Bond movie.
Interesting.
The aftershocks of emotion inside her gained momentum.
“You mean it’s a secret?”
“Top secret.”
Despite her distrust of Agent Maddox or Chief Maddox or whoever the hell this distracting hulk of male animal was, the right side of her brain kicked in, pushing logic and protestations aside. He was about to share a government secret with her. Caitlin breathed in deeply, giving her brain plenty of oxygen to fuel her imagination. She was about to become privy to some real cloak-and-dagger information.
“Is Cassie in trouble with the FBI?” she asked.
“No. But she was going to help me with a time-sensitive case. A mutual friend gave me her name. She was going to provide my cover this weekend while I conducted an undercover investigation.” He paused to read Caitlin’s reaction, then continued without comment. “Since she’s unavailable, I’m asking you to take her place. I need you to be my mistress so I can gain access to an exclusive couples-only resort.”
This man was asking her to take part in an investigation? To travel? To serve her country? To assume a secret role? To be a man’s mistress?
Her father would have a cow.
“Me?”
“You.”
She glanced down at her brother Travis’s USMC T-shirt and the cutoff jeans she wore. She glanced at the vacuum nozzle she still held like a defensive weapon between them.
When she lifted her gaze back to his, his calm green eyes revealed nothing but the fact that his offer was serious. “You want me to be your mistress this weekend?”
He swiped a hand across his jaw and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Caitlin could only guess what this show of patience was costing him.
When he nailed her with those amazingly green eyes—no blue or gray to corrupt their mossy hue—she saw he was all-business again. “I need you to pretend to be my mistress. Pretend,” he emphasized. “Pleasure Cove Island is a haven for rich and powerful couples to get away for the weekend without any public scrutiny. No press. No phone lines. The Bureau has given me a fake background. As a Bureau chief, I have the clout to warrant an invitation. But I can’t very well go to a couples-only resort by myself without raising suspicion, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I need to find answers, and I need to find them quickly.”
“Answers
