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  That wasn't news to Alex. He had checked before he left his apartment to make sure the van—manned with a mix of federal and local undercover cops—had arrived on schedule. He had purposely planned for Morgan and himself to make a later appearance commensurate with a rich, privileged couple who had the money to hire things done.

  Rackowitz walked into the small alcove off the kitchen and retrieved her purse and keys off the scarred wood table. "Since I'm your yard and pool girl, I'll head over there now and start mowing. Glancing down at her T-shirt and shorts, she smiled. "At least this is one assignment where I'll get to do some serious work on my tan."

  "Who said a career in law enforcement has no perks?" Alex asked dryly. "Just remember, with all the activity at the mansion it probably won't take long for Spurlock's security cameras to start sweeping the property."

  She wiggled her dark eyebrows. "I wore my tightest shorts to make sure he gets an eyeful."

  Alex chuckled. "For a Fed, Rackowitz, you're not so bad."

  "Yeah, well, for a local cop, you'll do."

  "Keep a watch out for Wade Crawford from our Vice detail. He'll show up at the mansion sometime this morning to get the security alarm up to snuff and install the cameras and straight-line."

  "Will do."

  "Before you go, let's check to make sure my watch talks to your pager." His gaze swept the waistband of her shorts. "Where is it?"

  "In my pocket. It vibrates instead of making noise that might draw the wrong kind of attention."

  "Good." Alex hit a sequence of clicks on the watch's stem.

  "Feels like there's a crazed moth trapped in there," Rackowitz said, dipping her hand into her pocket. She withdrew the pager, checking its display. "Got your personal code to send in the cavalry." She reset the pager, slid it back into her pocket. "Anything else?"

  "I'll tell you in a minute."

  Alex walked out of the kitchen into the living room furnished with a sagging dirt-colored sofa and matching chairs that looked as if they'd been acquired from a cut-rate motel. A phone sat on the table beside the sofa. He picked up its receiver, heard the dial tone, then hung up. Crawford would install phones in the study and master bedroom at the Hampton Hills mansion. Those would be linked to this one to provide instant communication. Pick up one, the others would automatically ring. The specialized phones also acted as omnidirectional microphones, doubling as both a security feature and bug. The phones were almost impossible to tap and could be swept as often as necessary to ensure their integrity.

  Alex turned and looked at Rackowitz, now leaning against the kitchen door. As their control officer, she would live in the safe house for the duration of the assignment. Any contact he or Morgan needed to make with law enforcement would be through her. Rackowitz working each day on the mansion's grounds and pool made communication among all parties easy. If Alex did find it necessary to visit the safe house and picked up a tail in the process, the attractive Agent Rackowitz could be explained away as his mistress.

  "I'm glad you're assigned to this operation," he said. "Too bad it uproots you from your family."

  "Spurlock had two FBI agents poisoned when he snatched his accountant, Tool, out of our custody." As she spoke, something cold and hard settled in her dark eyes. "One of those guys was a pal of mine. This is personal, Blade. I want Spurlock in the worst way. And Tool's lucky the big guy already charbroiled him. Otherwise, he'd be on my takedown list, too."

  Alex thought about George Jackson and felt the still-sharp drag of grief. "I know what you mean."

  "Anyway, Frank and the boys will get along fine without me for a while. They're looking forward to going to Waterworld every day and pigging out on frozen foods and takeout." Her expression turned pained. "I'll just have to rent a dozer to shovel out the house when I get back."

  "No doubt."

  "McCall," Rackowitz said, her gaze flicking to the narrow staircase at the far end of the living room.

  "What about her?"

  "Great skin, gorgeous hair, awesome bod. They sure come out of the academy looking young these days." Rackowitz shook her head. "You positive someone as green as she is can pull this off?"

  "If I didn't think so, she wouldn't be here."

  "Yeah, well, I trust your judgment." She slung her purse strap over one shoulder. "I'm off to mow your lawn and clean your pool, Mr. Donovan. I sure hope you believe in giving big tips to the hired help."

  Alex lifted a brow. "You want a tip, Rackowitz? Don't talk to strangers. You'll stay safe that way."

  "You're a load of laughs, Blade. See you and the little woman in a while," Rackowitz added before heading into the kitchen and out the back door.

  Alex shifted his gaze toward the staircase. It was time he had a look at his wife.

  He was about to head upstairs when he heard the creak of a door overhead, then footsteps clicking along the hallway's wood floor. Remaining in the center of the living room, he kept his eyes on the staircase, waiting for Morgan to step into view.

  The instant she did, the blood drained out of his brain.

  She'd sure as hell bought the right clothes, he thought, struggling to ignore the buzz in his head.

  A black leather miniskirt clung to her thighs like wet paint and showcased those long, bare, tanned legs. She'd put on makeup—enough of it to make her eyes a cool, luminous blue and her mouth brooding. And extraordinarily tempting. Her blond hair was teased and cascaded across her shoulders, looking mussed and tousled, the way it might if she had just spent a session in bed with a lover. A very long, heated session.

  Alex could see enough of her electric-blue tank top not concealed by miles of golden hair to tell there was nothing but woman underneath.

  When Morgan glimpsed him standing in the center of the living room, she hesitated, then walked toward him. "I hope this outfit is okay." She might look like a man's darkest fantasy, but her voice and demeanor were all business. "Since my job is to get Spurlock's attention, I thought I should try to do that the instant we arrive at the mansion."

  When Alex managed to drag in a breath, a kick-to-the-glands perfume wafted off her flesh into his lungs.

  She eyed him guardedly. "Something wrong?"

  "No." He worked on getting his breath back. It was now a snap for him to picture her sitting behind the sporty little Beemer's wheel. This woman had been born to drive that car. Born to make a man weep from wanting to get his hands on her. "You look…good. Fine."

  She arched a brow. "I look like the poster girl for a porn palace." She cast him a long, weighing glance. "You look different, too. Totally."

  He'd shaved, had his hair trimmed in a businessman's cut, and donned a tailored, gray silk suit and red tie. "Alex Donovan, at your service, Mrs. Donovan."

  She glanced toward the kitchen. "Where's Agent Rackowitz?"

  "Already left for Hampton Hills. She'll either be mowing or cleaning the pool by the time we get there."

  "I like her." Morgan raised a bare shoulder. "She doesn't project the uptight image of a Fed you always hear about."

  "Uh-huh." Alex was just now getting around to noticing the black ice-pick heels that made her long legs look endless. Before this moment he had never realized a woman's legs could be considered a work of art.

  She ran her palms down the leather skirt that could double as a wide belt. "Alex, you're staring at me like I'm not what you expected." As she spoke, she tossed all that long, golden hair back in a gesture so utterly sensual it delivered a punch straight to his gut. "If the porn queen look isn't what you had in mind for me, say so. Carrie gave me lessons on fixing my hair and slathering on makeup, but she may have gone overboard. And if the clothes aren't right, I can take them back. I saved the receipts—"

  "No, you're exactly what I want." And was totally unprepared for. If she had this effect on him, she'd have Spurlock drooling the instant he laid eyes on her. "You nailed the look, Morgan. Trust me."

  "Okay." She glanced at the solid-gold Rolex he'd strapped on her wrist the
previous day. Hers had been modified with the same microchips as his. "Are we done here?"

  "Almost. We just need to take care of one more thing before we head to Hampton Hills." As he spoke, he closed the distance between them while pulling a small brown envelope from his pocket. "The Donovans are husband and wife. They wear rings."

  "Rings." In the black stilettos, she stood eye to eye with him. "I hadn't thought about a ring."

  "Work undercover long enough, you learn to think of every detail." They were standing so close he could almost feel the heated, come-get-me scent pulsing off her flesh. The varsity cheerleader had transformed into a lethal weapon.

  He dumped the ring into his palm, then tucked the empty envelope back into the pocket of his suitcoat.

  Her eyes went wide. "Holy…How big is that rock?"

  "A little over six carats." Smiling while she gaped, he glanced at the wide gold band with the emerald-cut diamond that sparkled in his palm like the tail of a comet. "Criminal Intel took it and both Rolexes off a career jewel thief. They haven't yet found the lawful owners. Meanwhile, the watches and ring are on loan to us from the property room's safe."

  She held out a hand to accept the ring. "I hope you don't expect me to wear this while I'm digging in flower beds."

  "No, just all other times." Instead of handing her the ring, he slid his fingers around hers…and felt her stiffen. "My touch," he reminded her, aware of how soft her flesh felt against his. "You have to get used to my touch, Morgan."

  "I know." Her lashes fluttered. "I'm getting there."

  "And I have to get used to yours," he added. With his hand cradling hers, he eased the ring onto her finger. He could feel her nerves shimmering against his flesh. He wasn't so sure his didn't follow their lead.

  "It fits." The lightness in her voice sounded forced. "Imagine that."

  He tightened his grip when she started to pull away. "I have a ring, too." He reached into his pocket. The gold band had once symbolized the vows he'd made to another woman. Now it served as a reminder of one very huge, painful mistake. "Here."

  He could sense her cool caution as she plucked the band from his palm.

  The instant she slid it on his finger, she stepped back. "That it? We officially the Donovans?"

  He met her gaze, saw nerves and some other emotion he couldn't peg swimming in her blue eyes.

  "Yes, that's it."

  "Okay, I'll get my suitcase from the bedroom."

  "Need some help?"

  "No. I'll just be a minute."

  Letting out a pent-up breath, he watched her walk away, her hips swaying beneath the black leather mini like a swing in a soft breeze. She disappeared up the staircase with one last inviting flash of leg.

  When a spike of lust drove into his gut, he could all but feel the danger tripping through his blood. He didn't intend to let any woman get to him again. To dig in, then start clawing until there was nothing of him left except hollow hurt. His eyes narrowed. There was something indefinable about Morgan McCall that made him suspect she might take hold inside him, even if he didn't want her to.

  Distance, he told himself, was the key to prevent that from happening.

  Too bad they were about to move in together.

  Shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he muttered a curse. Working undercover had honed his acting skills. For him to get through this assignment, he'd damn well have to give an award-winning performance.

  * * *

  With the BMW's top down, the warm June air slid across Morgan's flesh as she tailed Alex's black Lincoln through the rich neighborhood of professionally tended landscapes and massive, architect-designed homes. She had grown up in a comfortable, middle-class area of Oklahoma City, had occasionally taken shortcuts through Hampton Hills on her way to somewhere else. Never in her wildest imaginings had she envisioned herself the mistress of one of these monster, million-dollar homes.

  Or pictured herself married—pretend or otherwise—to a man like Alexander Blade. Donovan, she mentally corrected.

  She nudged her designer sunglasses more firmly up the bridge of her nose as she reflected on the man driving the car in front of hers. His shaggy hair, unshaven face, rumpled shirts and worn jeans had lent him a darkly brooding mystique. Now, with his hair trimmed, his face shaved, his clothing expensive, he looked like the godfather of a Mafia empire. A cool, controlled, dangerous man with whom a woman could never totally feel safe.

  Just thinking about spending so much time with him, parading as his sexpot wife, had her easing out a breath. On her left hand, the killer diamond sparked in the sunlight, reflecting dazzling rays in every direction. Only to herself would she admit she wasn't sure she could handle this assignment. She functioned best with rules. Solid rules. Stable guidelines. Laws and ordinances that were printed in black-and-white and could be quoted verbatim. None of those existed in the murky world of undercover work. There it was all games and illusions. Smoke and mirrors. Lies and deception. It took only one tiny, unintentional mistake to leave a hole for someone to peer through and learn the truth.

  The sudden clench of nerves at the base of her neck had her palms going damp. What if she screwed up? What if Carlton Spurlock saw through her act? The man was a monster who had ordered—or carried out—the murder of at least six people, three of them cops. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel at the thought of some mistake on her part landing herself and Alex in danger. Worse, getting one or both of them hurt…or killed.

  "Stop," she ordered herself through gritted teeth. "You can pull this off. You have to pull this off." Spurlock was a killer. Period. It was up to Alex and her to take him down. Of lesser importance was the fact this assignment was a great career opportunity. Done right, it could help sweep her swiftly up through the department's ranks.

  She was still assuring herself she could do the job with perfection four blocks later when the Lincoln's turn indicator flashed.

  She had seen numerous photos of the Hampton Hills mansion in which she and Alex would set up house. No picture, however, could have prepared her for her first glimpse of the enormous sprawling structure.

  "Heavens," she murmured as she swung the BMW onto the cobblestone driveway shaded with towering oaks. The Lincoln glided forward, finally stopping a few yards behind a large, white moving van. Since the bank had seized the house and all its furnishing during the bankruptcy, the cops dressed in blue overalls with a moving company logo embroidered on the back were in the process of unloading only a few pieces of furniture loaned from the Feds that had been fitted with hidden compartments. The remainder of the van had been filled with various sizes of cardboard boxes, most of them empty.

  Morgan braked the BMW just before the driveway curved to nest against a columned porch wide enough to inline skate on. Planters, she decided automatically. The porch would look more inviting with stone planters holding trimmed shrubs placed on either side of the massive, double front doors.

  She turned off the Beemer's purring engine. Instead of sliding out, she leaned back and studied the imposing three-story white structure with a high-peaked roof, forest-green trim, the numerous windows flanked by emerald shutters.

  It hit her then—the reality of the assignment. Alex had drummed into her head how comfortable undercover cops had to become with their cover story. Comfortable, she thought, as panic tightened her chest. No way in hell could she ever feel at ease pretending to be the mistress of this jumbo house with its large rooms, thick walls and shiny hardwood floors.

  Or the wife of the man who would inhabit those rooms with her.

  "Darling." Alex's deep voice jerked her gaze from the structure. As if sensing her panic, he placed a hand over the one she still had clenched on the steering wheel. His touch was firm, steady. Warm. "Everything all right?"

  She gazed up at him, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting her image back at her. It wasn't Morgan McCall she saw, but a woman with poofy blond hair and a mouth made pouty by siren-red lip gloss. Morgan Donovan, she
thought, her nerves instantly calming. She now knew this woman inside and out, she reminded herself. The sexy, slinky Mrs. Alexander Donovan, with her big hair, skimpy outfits and six-carat diamond ring would feel infinitely comfortable in these expensive surroundings.

  And feel totally at ease with the man who provided them.

  Mentally she slid into her undercover persona role while sending Alex a slow smile. "The photos you showed me of the mansion don't do it justice. It's much more beautiful in reality."

  "That it is." With his hand still on hers, he swung open the door and helped her ease out of the BMW's tooled leather comfort. When she would have automatically released his hand, he tangled his fingers with hers, edged her closer and slid his free hand against the side of her throat. When he dipped his head, her pulse stuttered, then picked up speed.

  "I just used my watch to do a scan—there's no active audio surveillance at the moment," he murmured, his breath a quiet wash against her cheek. "But several cameras mounted on the brick wall behind me are aimed this way. Be careful what you say. Someone on the other side of those cameras might read lips."

  Morgan didn't know if it was the feel of Alex's hands on her flesh or the knowledge they were being watched—or both—that had her stomach flipping. Trying to keep her breathing even, she adjusted her sunglasses while focusing across his shoulder. Spurlock's property was surrounded by a twelve-foot brick wall, topped with surveillance cameras, motion detectors and sensors. When she pulled into the drive, she had taken note of the ornate iron gates that blocked entry to the curvy, meandering driveway.

  She gave the staring black eyes of the security cameras one last look before shifting her gaze back to Alex.

  She instantly froze, aware now that if she lifted her chin, her mouth would be on his. She stood unmoving as the warm, spicy scent of his cologne slid into her lungs. Against her throat, his palm was a hard, firm presence. What would it be like, she wondered, to ease forward that one forbidden inch? To skim her lips against his wide, generous mouth? How would he feel? Taste? As dangerous as he looked?