creases of black volcanic rock, made even more slick and dangerous by the spume. The only descent was a set of wooden stairs that led to a small, protected beach fringed with palms.
On the landward side, the gate Jordan had driven through appeared to be the single egress point in the twelve-foot-high iron fence almost hidden by the lush tropical foliage. The fence was topped by pointed spikes that would be a bitch to scramble over.
Jordan eyed the iron barrier thoughtfully. She could go under it, of course. Or through it. She had a special pneumatic tool tucked at the bottom of her carryall that would pry the bars apart. She suspected, however, either of those alternatives would set off a half-dozen different alarms, silent and otherwise. TJ Scott was nothing if not thorough.
Her stomach twisting at the thought, she shoved the rented Mustang convertible into gear and followed the curving drive to the main reception center. The plantation-style building featured a high-pitched roof, fanciful white trim and a wraparound porch designed to protect the interior from Kauai’s frequent showers. Thronelike rattan chairs invited guests to laze in the shade of the veranda, while swirling fans stirred the perfume of the orchids spilling from a series of hanging baskets.
Jordan parked beside a golf cart painted a deep emerald color with a green-and-white-striped awning. Skirting the cart, she started for the veranda. Only then did she spot the figure shaded by the deep overhang. He was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses.
Waiting for her.
Despite being forewarned, despite the hours Jordan had spent steeling herself for this meeting, her heart started to pound. Sweat dampened her palms and the perfumed air she dragged into tight lungs was suddenly too sweet, too cloying.
She was damned if she’d let the bastard see his impact on her, though. Pretending a nonchalance she wasn’t anywhere near feeling, she mounted the veranda steps.
“Aloha, Jordan.”
She went still, knowing he would expect her to recognize the deep Bronx baritone. Turning, she slid her sunglasses to the end of her nose.
“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look who’s here….”
“Welcome to Hawaii.”
He strolled over to where she stood and draped a lei of white orchids over her head. Somehow Jordan managed to resist the urge to rip off the garland, toss it onto the porch and grind the delicate blossoms under her heel. She didn’t bother to disguise her scorn, however, as she let her gaze travel over his tanned face.
Every feature was seared in her memory. The strong, square jaw. The nose with the irregular bump on the bridge. The tobacco-brown hair cut military short. The mouth that had driven her so wild.
Infuriated by the memory, she aimed a pointed glance at the logo on his emerald green polo shirt and pretended ignorance of his position at the institute.
“So this is what happens to cops who go bad,” she observed with a lift of her brow. “They wind up working as bellmen at tropical resorts for a living.”
“It’s worse than that,” he drawled. “I’m in charge of security here. I don’t even rake in any tips.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to skim off some cream.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, but Jordan spotted a small twitch at the side of his jaw. Deliberately, she slid the knife in deeper.
“Tell me, Scott. Does your present employer know the reason for your abrupt departure from the NYPD?”
“He does.”
“And he trusts you with his security? Bartholomew Greene must be a forgiving man. Or very, very foolish.”
Or so deeply involved in the same seamy underworld that had entangled TJ Scott, he’d jumped at the chance to bring the disgraced cop into his fold.
“Isn’t Greene worried you’ll betray his trust? The way you did your badge?”
“I didn’t betray my badge, Red.”
The pet name brought her chin up. She raked him with a withering look, not bothering to disguise her scorn.
“I suppose some people might not consider accepting bribes from petty criminals a betrayal. The squad from the anticorruption task force voiced another opinion when they kicked in your apartment door and found a suitcase stuffed with cash in your closet.”
The shame of that night came rushing back. She and TJ had been asleep when a splintering crash jerked them awake. He’d lunged for his service pistol and rolled naked from the bed. Jordan had dived for the neat little .38 she carried when not in the field. She could still hear the shouts and bellowed warnings, still remember the chaotic confusion of those first few seconds. Even now her cheeks burned with fury when she recalled how two members of the squad had stood watch while she and TJ dragged on their clothes.
That scene had been bad enough. The worst came a few moments later. To this day Jordan carried with her the absolute mortification of discovering that a highly trained and otherwise perceptive OMEGA agent had fallen for a dirty cop. A cop who still claimed he was set up.
“I said it then. I’ll say it again. That wasn’t my suitcase.”
The rough edge to his voice told Jordan he was fighting for control. The knowledge gave her a vicious sense of satisfaction.
“Tell it to the judge, Scott. Oh, wait! You already did, didn’t you?”
“And he dismissed the case against me.”
“Because of a technicality,” she shot back. “Some low-level clerk at the NYPD put the wrong apartment number on the search warrant.”
Fury bubbled to the surface, scorching away the hurt. She snatched off her glasses and let him have the full force of her contempt.
“It didn’t matter what the witness said. That whole chorus of pimps and street pushers who swore they paid you to stay off their backs. I would have believed you, TJ. I did believe you until the police report came back and confirmed your fingerprints were all over those bills.”
She’d kicked herself over and over for missing the small signs that, in retrospect, were so damn obvious. The gold Rolex. The Italian loafers. The weekend at that ritzy Connecticut resort.
Her only excuse was that it had all happened so fast. They’d met at a charity event to benefit children of NYPD officers who’d died in the line of duty. The next afternoon they’d shared a blanket at an open-air concert in Central Park. The following Saturday they’d zipped up to Connecticut for the wildest, most heart-pounding forty-eight hours of Jordan’s life.
She could almost—almost!—forgive herself for missing the signs that the cop with the linebacker’s shoulders and sexy grin was on the take. What she couldn’t excuse was how she’d fallen for the man so fast and so hard.
She knew better, dammit! All those years when she’d lived from hand to mouth, lying about her age, taking any job she could, she’d never let any male get close to her. The bone-deep wariness her stepfather had instilled with his fists had colored her every relationship with adult males. And despite the sultry image she projected on the runway, she’d never
