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  "That, and I wanted a job that came with a steady paycheck. When you grow up not knowing where your next meal will come from, that's a big lure."

  "I can imagine." She propped her forearms on the table. "So, how long have you been drawing that steady paycheck?"

  "Nearly fifteen years."

  "You're halfway through your career."

  "More than that if I decided to retire after twenty years."

  Her brow knit. "You're still a sergeant." Her response was automatic, one she wasn't even aware she'd said out loud until Alex slid his sunglasses down on his nose and looked at her over the rim.

  "That a problem for you, Officer McCall?" he asked, his voice as cool as his eyes. "My still being a sergeant?"

  "No. I hope to be a sergeant someday."

  "But you don't plan to stay one for long, do you?"

  "I intend to move up the ranks." She lifted her chin. "Wanting to advance in one's chosen career is nothing to be ashamed of."

  "You're right, it's not. Neither is finding a place where you fit and staying there."

  "Is that what you've done?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you even taken the lieutenant's exam?"

  "Meaning, do I possess the ambition to rise up the ranks like you? The answer is no. Working undercover suits me. I don't want a promotion."

  "Ever?"

  He took off his glasses, swinging them from finger and thumb while he studied her. Nothing in his tanned features gave away his thoughts.

  "I don't plan to take the test," he finally said. "Ever. I imagine that makes me seem lacking in the eyes of a woman like you."

  "A woman like me," she repeated, lacing her fingers together. "Exactly what kind would that be?"

  "Focused. Ultracompetitive. A woman who drives herself to succeed at everything she does. If she cooks, it's gourmet. If she swims, it's in Olympic form. If she goes to the police academy, she comes out top in every subject. And if she hits a glass ceiling at the PD, she'll make sure she shatters it on her way to the chief's office."

  "So, you think I'll be the top cop one day?"

  "Sweetheart, I'd make book on it."

  She furrowed her brow. "You make it sound like that's a bad thing. That I'm hungry for power."

  "There's nothing wrong with your goal, Morgan. Any more than it's wrong for someone who doesn't share your aspirations to stay in a job where they feel they do their best. Get the most satisfaction. It's a matter of choice."

  "I agree."

  He gave her a sardonic smile. "You might honestly believe you do. You'll feel far different if you try to share your life with a man whose ambition doesn't equal yours. The relationship will be doomed from the start."

  "Doomed." Light gusts of wind picked up strands of her hair, batted them against her cheek. "Is that the voice of experience I hear?"

  "It is."

  She thought about the comparison he'd made the previous day between funerals and weddings. "Sounds like you hooked up with a woman who had her eye on making it to the top of her career field. And the fact you didn't share her ambition in your own job caused problems."

  "It caused a divorce." His eyes narrowed on her face. "And it appears, with you, I'm repeating history."

  "Hardly. We're pretending to be married. It's business, not personal." She had no idea why she felt it important to point that out. "With us, feelings and emotions don't figure into the equation. Can't figure in."

  "Like everything else, you've tied all aspects of our assignment into a tidy package." He checked his watch, then rose. "The happily married husband and wife who now live in this mansion are suited for each other in all ways, so let's keep our minds focused on them. So, Mrs. Donovan, what will you do today while your adoring husband makes himself known at the racetrack?"

  Morgan eased out a breath. Alex was right—things would go much smoother between them if they kept their minds on the job. Which is where she now directed her thoughts.

  Last night she and Alex had settled in the mansion's huge, oak-beamed study and reviewed the operation plan they'd drawn up for their assignment. They had agreed Alex would spend his days at the track, the reasons being threefold. First, his presence would solidify his cover as a professional gambler, new to the area and looking for action. Second, placing substantial, attention-getting bets would put him in position to connect with local gamblers who ran in Carlton Spurlock's inner circle. Third, a few discreet visits to the stables to interact with jockeys might unearth new information about Frankie Isom, the jockey whom Krystelle Vander claimed Spurlock murdered.

  "I've got a good idea what needs to be added to the soil here to get it healthy," Morgan said, glancing across the terrace toward the pitiful flower beds. "I want to make sure, though. I'll take soil samples from several spots this morning and have Sara take them to the county extension center for analysis."

  Alex walked around the table, stopping beside her chair. "And after you're through digging in the dirt?"

  "I'll finish inputting the measurements for the flower beds into my laptop. From that, I'll set up a spreadsheet to help plan what shrubs, perennials and annuals to plant in each bed, and how many. Then I'll do a chart to coordinate the colors that will look best in each bed."

  "Spreadsheets and charts," Alex said. He reached down, cupped her chin in his hand and nudged it upward. His fingers were warm, tensed and started her stomach quivering all over again.

  He studied her face for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "I wonder, do you ever stop to smell them?"

  "Spreadsheets and charts?" she managed to ask while her pulse throbbed hard and thick.

  "Flowers. The ones you list on your spreadsheets and charts. Do you ever take time to smell the real flowers? Enjoy them?"

  She ordered herself to settle. His hand was on her chin because of the surveillance cameras aimed their way. Solely because of the cameras. "Of course I smell the flowers."

  He skimmed his thumb over her jawline. "I'm glad to hear it."

  Just then, Morgan caught movement out of the corner of her eye as Sara Rackowitz appeared around the corner of the mansion.

  "Sara's here." Morgan pulled back fractionally, forcing him to drop his hand.

  Alex followed her gaze. "Right on time," he said.

  Dressed in cutoffs, tennis shoes and a sleeveless top, the FBI agent strode across the terrace. She wore her dark hair drawn back in a ponytail anchored through the back of a red Oklahoma Sooners baseball cap.

  That Morgan could still feel the light skim of Alex's thumb across her jaw—and the fact Sara had witnessed that moment of intimacy—sent a ripple of unease creeping up Morgan's spine. Unease that intensified when the agent's assessing gaze flicked from Alex to her, then back to Alex.

  "Good morning, Sara," he said.

  "Morning, Mr. Donovan. Mrs. Donovan."

  "Sara." Morgan nudged the basket of cinnamon rolls across the table. "How about a roll and some coffee before we start work?"

  "I'll pass on the coffee, but not on these," Sara said, snagging a roll from the basket. "I smelled them the instant I stepped onto the terrace." She took one bite, then rolled her eyes. "These fell from heaven, right?"

  "I have a similar reaction to anything Morgan cooks," Alex commented. He shifted his stance to put his back toward Spurlock's security cameras. "Sara, it's safe to talk."

  "Good." She took another bite. "Before we get down to real business, I just want to say that I'm sunburned and sore as hell from all the slave labor I did around this joint yesterday. Would you guys please tell the Donovans their Girl Friday deserves a raise?"

  Alex chuckled. "I'll tell the Bureau to put something extra in your paycheck."

  "Yeah, that'll happen in this lifetime." Sara pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of her cutoffs and handed it to Morgan. "Here's the list of swimming pool supplies you asked for."

  "Thanks," Morgan said.

  "The piece of paper under the list shows a description of each car t
hat entered Spurlock's property last night for the charity do he hosted," Sara explained. "We ran the tags off the photos taken by our pole-cam to find out each vehicle's registered owner." Morgan knew Sara was referring to the camera the Feds had installed inside a nondescript-looking cylinder and mounted on a utility pole across from the massive gate that blocked Spurlock's driveway.

  Standing behind Morgan's chair, Alex settled a casual hand on her shoulder as he leaned in and studied the list. "Judges, mayors of surrounding municipalities, CEOs," he read. "A lot of upstanding citizens, at least on the surface."

  "Right." Sara continued to nibble on her roll. "Wonder what those citizens would say if we told them their host last night was responsible for the murder of at least six people, three of them cops?"

  "They wouldn't believe it," Alex answered. "Won't believe it without our having evidence to back up our claim."

  "Six people," Morgan said, her gaze drifting to the high brick wall. "Here we are, hoping we can find whatever evidence Krystelle Vander supposedly hid in Spurlock's gold bedroom that proves he killed the jockey. Even if we do, we might not ever be able to prove Spurlock killed the other five victims."

  Alex's fingers tightened on her shoulder for a brief instant. "Taking him down for one murder is preferable to no conviction at all."

  "True," Morgan agreed.

  His hand drifted from her shoulder. "I have to get ready to go to the race track." He bent, dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. "See you tonight, darling."

  "See you." With the breath backed up in her lungs, she watched his slow, confident gait take him across the terrace, then through the French doors. She'd been wrong, she realized. No amount of friendly conversation would ever get her used to being around Alex Blade. Her system would never grow complacent. Her pulse would never even out. Her desire for him would never wane.

  For the second time in her life, Morgan found that her feelings for a man had her teetering on the edge of a cliff. Closing her eyes, she fought against the fluttering panic in her stomach. She couldn't let herself tumble off that cliff this time, she told herself. Wouldn't let herself fall.

  "How's life with Blade?"

  Morgan opened her eyes, noted she was the subject of the FBI agent's sharp, intense scrutiny. "Peachy. He's agreed to set the table and wash the dishes whenever I cook."

  "How'd you manage that?"

  "He likes to eat food that has never been frozen or seen the inside of a box."

  "Same thing goes for my husband, but he still won't get near a sink full of dirty dishes." Sara popped another bite of cinnamon roll into her mouth. "You going to give me the recipe for these?"

  "Sure."

  "To tell you the truth, I'm a real slouch in the kitchen," Sara confessed. "My kids have no idea what 'made from scratch' means. How about when this operation is over, you come to my house and give me a couple of cooking lessons? I'll buy a bottle of wine to make sure the process is painless."

  Morgan laughed, and found she genuinely liked Special Agent Sara Rackowitz. "Just name the date and time."

  "I will." Sara tucked a hand into the back pocket of her cutoffs and looked out at the lawn. "So, Mrs. Donovan, what kind of work do you have planned for us today?"

  "We're going to dig in the dirt."

  "Somehow I knew you were going to say that," Sara commented, rubbing a hand across her lower back. "I definitely deserve a raise."

  Chapter 8

  Two weeks later, a vicious case of frustration had Alex steering his black Lincoln into the drive behind the department's two-story brick safe house. When he pushed open the car door and climbed out, the late-afternoon heat stole the oxygen from his lungs.

  "Hell," he muttered, shoving the keys into his pants pocket.

  Leaving his suit coat behind on the Lincoln's front seat, he jerked the knot of his slate-blue silk tie loose then flicked open the top button of his white tailored shirt. He unhooked his cuff links and rolled up the starched sleeves while advancing up the narrow, creaking wood steps to the house's back porch.

  It wasn't the searing heat or humidity thick enough to swim in that had his mood as dark as a storm about to strike. It was the job. The job he loved, that defined who he was. The job that now seemed to be driving him slowly mad.

  He set his jaw. Having worked undercover for years, he knew to expect setbacks. Knew it sometimes took months to build a case. For Alex, being patient had never before posed a problem. He'd learned the higher the stakes, the more the waiting paid off.

  His knowing all that, and applying it to this undercover operation were miles apart.

  He knocked twice on the door, paused, then rapped four times in quick succession, sending Sara Rackowitz the "all is well" code.

  Seconds later the trim, attractive FBI agent swung open the door. Her damp hair and crisp top and shorts told him she wasn't too long out of the shower.

  "On the phone you sounded surly," she commented, flicking her gaze over his loose tie and rolled-up sleeves. "You look that way, too. Bad day at the racetrack, Blade?"

  "Actually, Alex Donovan won. Huge."

  "Third day running. You're on a roll, big spender."

  "Donovan is, anyway."

  Alex stepped into the cool, small kitchen, his gaze sliding over the faded wallpaper, chipped counters and yellowed linoleum. "Got a beer, Rackowitz?"

  He wasn't surprised when her dark brows arched. He'd made it a staunch rule to shun alcohol while working undercover. That he was making an exception to that rule—and didn't much care at the moment—added to his overall sense of irritation.

  "Sure, I've got a beer. And since I worked my butt off today cleaning that monster pool you and Morgan get to float around in, I'll join you." Rackowitz walked to the refrigerator, snagged two cans, handed him one, then trailed him into the small living room where a window air conditioner ground away in a monotonous tone.

  "Speaking of Morgan," Rackowitz continued, "why isn't Mr. Donovan on his way to the mansion to celebrate his good luck at the track with his gorgeous wife?"

  "I'll be there soon enough."

  Truth was, Alex thought as he settled onto the sagging sofa, returning to the mansion every evening had begun to feel too much like coming home. He knew it was ridiculous to feel that way just by walking into the massive house that wasn't his, and becoming instantly aware of the scent of the woman who didn't belong to him.

  He didn't give a flip about the mansion. But he damn sure wanted the woman. A woman who was all wrong for him. One he knew could never belong to him, not for long, anyway.

  That, he thought, was the reason the frustration gripping him by the throat had brought him to the safe house. He wanted the operation over. Finished. Wrapped up in a package so incredibly tidy that even Morgan McCall would approve.

  "This op is going nowhere." He popped the top on the can, took a long, slow pull of ice-cold beer. "That's going to change."

  "It will." Rackowitz dropped onto the stuffed chair that looked as decrepit as the couch. "Don't forget, Blade, you've been at this for barely two weeks. And you have made progress. We know for sure you snagged someone's attention, because that Las Vegas cop suspected of having ties to a gambling consortium ran a check on Alex Donovan."

  "Problem is, we don't know if the cop ran the background check at Spurlock's request. Could have been for one of the high rollers I met at the racetrack who's thinking of investing in the real estate deals I've been talking up."

  "The cop ran an inquiry on Morgan Donovan when he did the one on you. Instinct tells me the background check run on her has Spurlock's prints all over it."

  "Still, we can't be sure, since Morgan spent a couple of days at the track with me. You can bet she got a lot of attention."

  "I'll bet."

  Taking another swig of beer, Alex made a useless attempt to erase the memory of how it felt to have Morgan's arm linked with his as they moved among the wealthy clientele who leased penthouse suites at the track. Of how she smelled like hot, s
moldering sin. Of how that scent filled his lungs, his head, making him crazy to have her.

  His desire for her seemed to intensify daily. Dammit, he had to get away from her before he did something stupid.

  "I want this operation over." His inability to keep the sharp edge out of his voice had his temper bristling.

  Watching him with interest, Rackowitz sat her beer can on the coffee table with water marks ringing its surface. "You want to tell your control officer what's going on here, Blade?"

  "What's going on is nothing. Spurlock has yet to outwardly acknowledge our presence. It's our job to get him to do that. I'm damn well going to see that happens."

  "How?"

  "Plan B. Call and get the ball rolling. For tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "We know Spurlock is having another charity event this evening. When his guests start leaving, I'll put on a show Spurlock can't ignore. He won't like that sort of attention drawn to his neighborhood."

  Rackowitz checked her watch. "You're not giving our guys a lot of notice."

  "For what's left to do, it's plenty. They built the device before Morgan and I moved into the mansion. It just needs to get hooked up to the piece-of-junk seizure car, which is here, parked in the garage."

  "You're sure about this?"

  "I'm sure." Alex shoved a hand through his hair. "Look, Rackowitz, it's time. Morgan's got every flower bed replanted with flowers, shrubs and who knows what else. The grass is starting to look greener than emeralds. If a bunch of pretty blooms and a manicured lawn were going to appeal to Spurlock's love of horticulture enough to draw him to our side of that brick wall, they'd have done it by now."

  "Probably." Rackowitz frowned. "I thought Morgan's looks would be what got him to drop by and welcome you to the neighborhood. Can't believe I was so off-track. Why do you think he's holding back?"

  Alex raised a shoulder. "Maybe because of his recent problems with Krystelle Vander and Emmett Tool. One was his lover, one his accountant. Both were insiders he trusted and they turned on him. We put plan B into effect, we show Spurlock that Alex Donovan also has reasons to be concerned about his own safety. Hopefully, what happens tonight will be the shove Spurlock needs to make him realize he and I are kindred spirits."