Sure Bet Page 11

  "When you explain it like that, plan B sounds like the way to go," Rackowitz said, then reached for the phone. Five minutes later, the ball was indeed rolling.

  Reclaiming her beer, Rackowitz leaned back in the chair. "Blade, when I asked you earlier what was going on, I didn't mean only with the operation."

  He slid her a look. "What else is there?"

  "What's going on with Morgan?"

  "Officer McCall is inexperienced but capable. She's holding her own. End of story."

  "I've been around her enough to have figured all that out for myself," Rackowitz countered, then eased forward, her dark hair brushing across her cheeks. "You and I have worked together on some pretty intense operations. I've never seen you wound this tight, so I doubt your comment about Morgan is the 'end of story.' Tell me what's going on between you two. Off the record."

  "Nothing's going on, Rackowitz." When she continued to stare, he added, "I'm being straight with you."

  "Okay, I'll buy that because you've never lied to me." She angled her chin. "Is that why you're wound tighter than a watch spring? Because there's nothing going on between you and Morgan and you want there to be?"

  Frustration pushed him to his feet, had him pacing the small living room with a restless, prowling stride. "No that's the last thing I want, Rackowitz."

  She conveyed her doubt in his statement with a penetrating look. "Is that so?"

  "That's so," he responded. "Suffice it to say that Morgan might as well have been cloned from my ex-wife."

  Rackowitz crossed her arms over her chest. "The only comment you've ever made to me about the ex-Mrs. Blade is that marrying her was one big screwup."

  "My opinion hasn't changed." He rubbed his fingers dead center of his forehead where a headache had begun to brew. "So, how about you and I go over the details for plan B? If it works, we'll be able to pack up and go home soon."

  "Sounds good to me."

  * * *

  In the dark master bedroom, the clock beside the bed glowed an eerie red 1:00 a.m. With the mansion gripped in the heavy hush of night, Morgan eased back a panel of the velvet drapes and peered out a window.

  On the cobblestone driveway below, the black Lincoln sat in the spot where Alex had habitually parked it since the day they moved in. Several small spotlights installed in strategic locations around the mansion's front yard spread dramatic fans of light across the Lincoln's shiny black exterior.

  She looked back across her shoulder. With the only light coming from a small lamp out in the hallway, she could make out Alex's silhouette, but not his expression as he stood at the foot of her unmade bed. "Are you sure that's a different car than the one you've driven since this op began?"

  "Positive. Alex Donovan's primo Lincoln is locked in the garage at the safe house," he said, inclining his head toward the window. "The one you're looking at now is a seizure car the department acquired last month in a drug raid. It shifts like a garbage truck and has a skip in the engine stroke."

  Letting the drape swing closed, she turned from the window to face him. "Whatever that is, it sounds bad."

  "In this case, terminal," he said, stepping forward into a weak spear of light. "The Lincoln parked outside is slated for the junkyard." As he spoke, he weighed a small, black flashlight in his palm. He had explained earlier that an OCPD bomb tech had converted the flashlight into a triggering device. All Alex had to do was slide down the little silver lever on the side, and a mechanism hooked to the Lincoln's ignition would send a spark to the modest amount of explosives the tech had planted beneath the almost empty fuel tank.

  "Tonight, you and I will simply speed the Lincoln's destined arrival at the junkyard," Alex added.

  "You and I," Morgan repeated, resolutely telling herself to ignore the fact he wore only a pair of gray cotton drawstring pajama bottoms. The light sweeping in from the hallway might be weak, but she could see enough to know that his chest, darkened by a scattering of sleek black hair, was much too broad and too tempting for her to let her gaze settle anywhere but on the shadowed planes of his narrow, rawboned face.

  Which was a huge temptation in itself.

  Feeling that temptation clear to the bone, she put a hand to the lapels of her long robe of ivory silk. "Since I didn't know about plan B until a few hours ago, you should get all the credit. I'm just glad you told me what was going to happen tonight before you put things into motion."

  He slid the triggering device into his pocket. "If I hadn't briefed you, how do you think you would have reacted when an explosion rocked you out of a sound sleep around one in the morning?"

  Her gaze ranged across the bedroom to the antique writing desk with its hidden compartment. "Maybe grabbed my gun and badge, thinking we were under attack." She shoved a hand through her hair that she'd artfully tousled to make it look like she'd been jolted from sleep. "I don't know for sure what I would have done."

  "Neither do I, which is not good when working assignments like this. Undercover partners have to keep the lines of communication open, have to tell each other exactly what they intend to do. Forgetting that can blow your cover and get one or both hurt."

  "Not to mention killed."

  "That, too."

  She turned again to the window and eased back the drapes. The night was inky black; she could barely make out the dark shapes of trees swaying in the wind. Beyond the yard, the street dotted with wrought-iron lampposts was devoid of traffic.

  When Alex moved in behind her, a faint whiff of his now familiar, musky aftershave slid into her lungs, tightening her insides. She closed her eyes against need that rose in her like a warm wave. After two weeks of living under the same roof with him, she ached to feel his hands against her flesh, to know, to finally know how that hard mouth would taste, how it would feel against hers.

  Don't go there, she cautioned, struggling to force back the cloudy haze of desire. Getting involved twice in one lifetime with a man who could rob her of her faculties to think would be emotional suicide. She was back in control of her life now, her fate. She had no intention of allowing history to repeat itself with the man standing only inches behind her.

  "Morgan, open your robe."

  Her eyes flew open the same instant Alex's hands cupped her shoulders.

  When he turned her to face him, her hands went up instinctively, settling on his bare arms that looked hard as marble and felt just as solid. The feel of flesh against flesh heated the need already flowing in her blood. Need that mixed with razor-sharp panic when she gazed up into his face and felt her resistance toward him peel away.

  That quickly. That terrifyingly.

  Raising her chin in defense, she tossed her hair back. "Look, you're about to blow a car to smithereens. This isn't the time—"

  "Relax," he said quietly. "If I had seduction in mind, I would choose a different time and place." He flicked a look at the immense bed with its pooling, rumpled sheets. "A different time, anyway," he amended.

  "Fine," she managed. "Why do you want me to open my robe?"

  "An explosion jerks someone out of a sound sleep. Before they dash out of the house to see if the end of the world has arrived they maybe have the presence of mind to grab a robe."

  "Okay. So?"

  His right hand moved from her shoulder, settling at her waist. "So, they don't take time to cinch the robe's belt into a nice, neat bow," he said, tugging the belt loose.

  She felt the robe's silk lapels slither apart to expose her matching ivory gown. In the weak light from the hallway, she saw Alex's gaze drop to the lace that snugged across her breasts, saw his dark eyes flicker, then sharpen.

  "That's…logical." She let her hands fall from his arms and took a step back. "I guess with the belt tied, I look too together. Tidy."

  His gaze rose to meet hers. "Too damn tidy for your own good." Turning abruptly, he sliced back one side of the drapes with his hand and stared out the window.

  Her pulse thudding hard and thick, Morgan studied him in the silent dark
. Her gaze traced his broad shoulders, moved across his muscled chest, slid down to his washboard-flat stomach. If she was so in control of her fate, her life, why did she want this man, who could stir her with one look, even more than she wanted to breathe?

  And how the hell was she going to keep her hands off him when all she wanted to do was jump that gorgeous body?

  Alex dipped his head toward the window. "Looks like Spurlock's party is breaking up."

  Her erotic thoughts scattering, Morgan moved beside him and gazed out beyond the driveway and well-tended lawn to the street. A vehicle turned out of Spurlock's driveway, its headlights licking across the blacktop. Seconds later another vehicle followed.

  Alex pulled the triggering device from the pocket of his pajama bottoms, his index finger hovering over the silver lever. He met her gaze. "Ready to see if we can get our neighbor's attention, Mrs. Donovan?"

  "More than ready."

  Although she was expecting the explosion, the thundering blast jolted her heart into her throat. She watched out the window as the black Lincoln jumped a foot into the air, landed hard, then burst into flames. From one story above, looking down across the driveway into the windshield was a glimpse into hell. Flames danced across the seats, the dash, bursting in blue and red-orange spikes. The lights fanning across the front of the mansion illuminated the white smoke billowing from beneath the Lincoln's hood.

  Alex placed the device in the drawer on the nightstand, snagged the phone and dialed 911. With adrenaline surging like a torrent through her veins, Morgan marveled at the control in his voice as he reported the blast to the dispatcher, then answered questions.

  He hung up, turned, then held out a rock-steady hand. "We'd better get out there."

  By the time they rushed down the staircase and onto the front porch, the distant, urgent whip of a siren filled the smoke-laden air. Morgan spotted several luxury cars stopped in the glow of the streetlights, their faceless occupants no doubt watching the inferno. Mindful of the surveillance cameras eternally pointed their way, she put a hand to her mouth, then staggered back a few steps.

  "Steady, darling," Alex said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

  A siren wailed to a crescendo when a fire truck throbbing with emergency lights swung into the driveway, followed seconds later by a black and white patrol car. All sirens ceased abruptly as several firefighters in full turnout gear spilled from the truck.

  Within an efficient thirty minutes, the fire was doused, equipment stowed, the fire truck and its occupants gone. In anxious, worried-wife mode, Morgan paced the mansion's wide front porch with the restless, prowling stride of a caged cat while Alex stood in the driveway conversing with a uniformed cop with a flat, masked expression. The cop nodded, handed Alex a copy of his report, then slid into the black-and-white and drove away.

  Continuing to pace, Morgan glanced toward the street. Now that the excitement was over, the curious onlookers had driven off in their big, expensive cars. And Carlton Spurlock had yet to surface.

  Squashing the hard jolt of disappointment, she moved down the porch steps, her open robe billowing in the night breeze. Crossing the driveway, she felt the coolness of the cobblestones beneath her bare feet. She paused when she reached Alex's side and gazed at the Lincoln's charred skeleton.

  "How long do we mill around, hoping Spurlock shows?" she asked quietly.

  Alex glanced down at her. "Give it time. Our quarry has an aversion to the police. No way would he come calling while they were still here."

  "True."

  Alex dipped his head toward the Lincoln's burned remains. "I'll have to be sure to congratulate the bomb tech on a job well done."

  Morgan nodded just as the purr of an engine drifted on the breeze. Turning in unison, she and Alex tracked the sleek, black limousine gliding up the driveway.

  Feeling as if a stone had lodged in her chest, Morgan watched the limo brake to a stop a few feet from where they stood.

  Sliding an arm around her waist, Alex dipped his head. "Plan B worked," he murmured. "Darling, get ready to meet our neighbor," he added, then pressed a steadying kiss against her temple.

  Chapter 9

  When Carlton Spurlock emerged from the long, sleek limo's rear door, Alex got his first in-the-flesh look at the man. The overall impression was one of vitality and health and well-channeled power. The imposing carriage lamps mounted on each side of the mansion's front door illuminated Spurlock's tall, powerful build in a mix of silver light and shadow. That distinctive build looked doubly impressive cloaked in a dark tailored suit with the pant cuffs breaking on a pair of expensive Italian loafers.

  The knowledge that the man had murdered six people—including George Jackson and two Feds—snapped at Alex like fangs. The resolve to take him down and lock him up increased a hundredfold.

  As Spurlock moved away from the limo, the wiry, athletic-looking driver who'd opened the door for him fell into step at his boss's heel. Spurlock paused, spoke a few words. The underling instantly nodded, walked to the front of the limo, then propped a hip against the hood.

  And focused his cold, calculating gaze on Alex as if he were a snake that might strike his employer at any instant.

  Smart guy, Alex thought.

  From intel compiled by the FBI and OCPD, Alex pegged the goon as Peter Colaneri, an ex-con with a phone-book-thick rap sheet reflecting a propensity for violence. That personality trait qualified Colaneri to serve as a bodyguard—and suspected henchman—for the man advancing across the driveway like a shadow, controlled and observant. Soundless.

  "Mr. Donovan?"

  "That's right." Tightening his arm around Morgan's waist, Alex prodded her behind him. He wanted Spurlock to know up-front that Alex Donovan was a distrustful, hard-bitten tough guy with territorial instincts toward what was his. Including his wife. "Who the hell wants to know?"

  Spurlock arched a dark brow. His face had sharp features and tanned skin that glowed with health. His hair was black, well styled, silver at the temples and all there. Eyes as hard as ice chips flicked from Alex to the charred Lincoln, then back. "I'm Carlton Spurlock. Your neighbor. I had a social gathering tonight. Some of my guests were…disturbed by the explosion. So am I."

  "The line forms behind me, pal. Somebody sticks a bomb on my car and blows it to hell, you think I'm not disturbed?"

  "This is a quiet neighborhood, Mr. Donovan. I have an interest in keeping it that way."

  "So, buy yourself a set of ear plugs."

  "Honestly, Alex," Morgan chided. Easing from his hold, she took a sauntering step into Spurlock's full view, her ivory robe flowing open with the movement. "There's no reason to be rude to Mr…."

  Tilting her head, she sent Spurlock a slow, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," she began in a voice as dark and sultry as the night surrounding them. "I didn't catch your name."

  It was as though she had prepared for this role all her life, Alex thought. In one simmering second the tidy rookie cop had effected a silky metamorphosis into a confident, sexy former cocktail waitress who knew all the tricks about drawing a man's eye.

  "Spurlock." The gray gaze flicked to her lace-covered breasts, then rose. "Carlton Spurlock."

  Oh, yeah, Alex thought, reading the silent appreciation in the man's eyes. Already she had their prey's blood running a little hotter.

  "I'm Morgan Donovan, Mr. Spurlock." Offering her hand, she strolled toward him with a metronome sway of hips. "Please excuse my husband's brusqueness. He's upset about what happened to his car." She sent a wary glance in the direction of the Lincoln. "A bomb," she breathed. "One of the firemen said it was a bomb. My nerves are just jumping."

  "How could they not be?" Instead of shaking her hand, Spurlock lifted it to his lips, pressed his mouth to her knuckles.

  "And it doesn't help to know we've upset you and your guests," she added. Skimming a fingertip down the long column of her throat, she gave Spurlock a distressed look. "I hope you'll give us a second chance to prove we can be good nei
ghbors? Quiet ones."

  "Of course," he said, his mouth lingering over her hand. "And I ask you to excuse my rudeness in not welcoming you to the neighborhood when you moved in. Some business endeavors have claimed my full attention lately. I hope you'll forgive the oversight, Mrs. Donovan."

  "There's nothing to forgive." Her hair was a gorgeous mess, falling like a golden waterfall over her shoulders, curling seductively over her breasts. Alex looked at her, and all he could see was Spurlock's manicured thumb brushing across her knuckles. He felt his hatred for the man gain strength until it oozed through his blood like molten lava.

  "And, please, call me Morgan," she added, then tossed Alex a chastising look with laser blue eyes. "Sweetheart, you and Mr. Spurlock started off on the wrong foot, don't you think?"

  "Yeah." Reining in his thoughts, Alex sent her silent kudos for how perfectly she was playing her role. Too much open hostility on his part would either block or delay their initial goal of getting invited to visit Spurlock's kingdom on the other side of that brick wall.

  Alex stepped forward, offering Spurlock his hand…which forced the scum to release his grip on Morgan's. "Alex Donovan. My wife is always telling me I'm too abrupt with strangers. Guess she's right."

  "No harm done, Mr. Donovan." Spurlock returned the handshake with a hard, firm grip, then turned and examined the Lincoln with interest. "It appears you have an enemy."

  "I've got more than one," Alex commented.

  "That's something we have in common, Mr. Donovan." Spurlock looked back at him, his gaze narrow, measuring. "Do you have an idea which of your enemies planted the bomb on your car?"

  "Maybe. When I know for sure, I'll deal with that person, one-on-one."

  "Yes. I get that impression."

  When Spurlock reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, Alex's spine stiffened in reflex. Although his eyes stayed mild, his thoughts flashed to the master bedroom where his loaded Glock lay with Morgan's in the desk's hidden compartment. That was the thing about working undercover—you often had to rely solely on your wits instead of your weapon.