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  Chapter 7

  His brain still muddled from sleep, Alex walked into the kitchen the following morning where the air simmered with warm, fragrant spices. Sitting on the counter beside the range was a pan of cinnamon rolls, each the size of his palm. He touched a fingertip to the side of the pan; the rolls were still warm from the oven.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he felt the crackle of stubble against his palm. He had no doubt the rolls were made from scratch. And that they would taste like paradise, just as the risotto had last night. After years of eating mostly takeout fare and food zapped in a microwave, he could get used to home-cooked meals.

  And fresh-ground coffee, he added, moving across the kitchen toward the heady scent emanating from the coffeemaker. Yesterday he and Wade Crawford had agreed the prime spot for the appliance was on the counter beside the refrigerator so the lens of the camera imbedded inside would pick up all movement in the kitchen. As he filled a mug with coffee, Alex was aware his image was being transmitted to one of the VCRs in the video room concealed beneath the first floor staircase.

  Carrying his steaming coffee, he moved to the French doors that led to the flagstone terrace, then pulled them open. It was nearly eight, already the sun shone down with blazing intensity. He tugged his sunglasses from the pocket of his shirt, slid them on and took his first sip of coffee.

  The rich, hot taste had him stifling a groan. Hell, yes, he could settle comfortably into a life that included gourmet home-cooked meals and coffee that slid a silky whisper of caffeine into the system.

  But never, he knew, into a relationship with the woman who made them.

  His brow furrowed as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. He had lain awake half the night wondering what had possessed him to tell Morgan about his miserable childhood. That part of his life was the thing of nightmares, and he loathed talking about it. Made it a habit not to. When he'd asked his now ex-wife to marry him, he'd told her only enough details of how he grew up to explain why he wouldn't be taking her home to meet the folks. Yet he had given Morgan all the grim facts.

  That he had—and didn't know why—put a knot of unease in his chest. As did the knowledge that her almost constant presence over the past days had seemingly jump-started his libido.

  Sipping his coffee, he pictured her as she'd looked last night, whipping up dinner while dressed in her curve-baring, sexy clothes. Standing beside her in the kitchen, he had fought the urge to drag her to the floor, peel off those maddening clothes and spend eternity with her naked beneath him, shuddering and helpless.

  Biting back a curse, he raked a hand through his uncombed hair. He had no business imagining Morgan naked. No business fantasizing about her in any way whatsoever. That he had never before felt this much pure physical hunger for a woman didn't matter. What mattered was that they were on the job. Partners. He had no intention of involving himself with a fellow officer during an assignment when their lives depended on staying objective and keeping a cool head. He was just going to have to tether the lust crawling inside his gut. Which shouldn't be hard to do, since working undercover was all about disconnecting emotions. And camouflaging the ones he couldn't seem to get a handle on.

  Truth, he reminded himself, wasn't the important thing here. What was perceived as truth was. He would damn well make sure no one other than himself knew his partner had his system revved like a gambler's who'd hit a hot streak.

  He would have an easier time keeping his mind on business by remembering Miss Superachiever was not his type. He knew that for sure. Just as he knew a man with a drive to succeed equaling hers would present a powerful lure for Morgan McCall. When she chose a lover, he thought, she would seek out a man every bit as proficient in the business world as in the bedroom.

  He sure as hell wasn't that man.

  When this assignment was over, she would do her time on the streets, then probably shoot through the ranks to the department's top echelon. He would stay where he was, working assignments that suited him. Odds were, he and Morgan would never again work together. Hardly ever even get a glimpse of each other.

  Which, considering his huge mistake in marrying a woman who drove herself to excel, was best for both of them.

  The sound of water slapping against tile drew him out onto the flagstone terrace. The deep end of the swimming pool came into his range of sight just as Morgan did a neat flip turn and used her feet to push off the wall. She glided beneath the water's surface, then propelled herself toward the pool's far end with the powerful, efficient strokes of an athlete. An Olympic athlete.

  How else? Alex thought, sliding one hand into the pocket of his stone-gray linen shorts. Swimming, he saw, was just another thing she did to perfection.

  When she again reached the tiled pool wall closest to him, he caught a shimmer of blond hair and a flash of her red suit. She whipped around with a supple twist of her body and shot back in the opposite direction. Her tanned, leanly muscled arms sliced through the water, her long legs scissored.

  Beyond all sober good sense, he wanted those arms wrapped around him, wanted those long, luscious legs tangled with his.

  As he watched her, his cop's sixth sense stirred, sounding a warning in his brain. He turned and moved with unhurried ease across the terrace toward the black wrought-iron table with a center canvas umbrella that blocked the sun. There, he sat his coffee aside and clicked the stem on his watch. He felt no vibration against his wrist, which meant no audio bugs were active in the area. A shift of his gaze verified several cameras on Spurlock's brick wall were now aimed at the swimming pool.

  Watching her, you bastard? Alex asked as his jaw set. Knowing part of Morgan's assignment was to flaunt her physical attributes to lure Spurlock didn't ease the pressure in Alex's gut. Not when he knew it was almost guaranteed that Spurlock—or some goon on his payroll—was watching her tanned, shapely form glide through the water.

  And probably enjoying the hell out of the show.

  Irrational as he knew it was, Alex felt protective, possessive and wildly territorial when it came to the woman under observation. For an instant he entertained the notion of retrieving his Glock from the hidden compartment in the desk and taking aim at those damn, one-eyed voyeurs.

  That the idiotic idea had even crossed his mind was another thing to add to the list of items he planned to keep quiet about. Irritated with himself, he snagged the towel draped over a nearby wrought-iron lounge chair, moved to the pool's deep end and waited for Morgan to complete another lap.

  As if sensing his presence, she slowed her strokes when she neared the pool's edge, then surfaced.

  "Hi," she said, treading water to keep afloat.

  "Morning. How many laps is that?"

  "One hundred seven." She dipped her head back into the water to slick her blond hair away from her face. "One hundred was my goal. I wanted to see how many over that I could manage."

  "Naturally you surpassed your goal. You said something last night about jogging this morning. Change your mind?"

  "No. I ran before I made breakfast. Wanted to get that out of the way before it got too hot." With the sun beaming in from behind him, she lifted one hand to shade her eyes as she looked up at him. "I made cinnamon rolls. Did you see them?"

  "Smelled them before I even got halfway down the stairs. They look great. How far did you run?"

  "Five miles."

  She'd jogged, whipped up breakfast and swum laps barely before he'd managed to get out of bed. "Remind me not to ask again about your morning activities," he said under his breath.

  "What?"

  "Nothing." With her long hair smoothed back and her tanned face washed clean of any cosmetics, she again had that varsity cheerleader look. Alex narrowed his eyes, noting for the first time the scar near the hairline on her right temple.

  "Something wrong?" she asked.

  "No." He held up the towel. "Need a break?"

  Her gaze flicked toward the cameras and her mouth formed a sassy curve. "Not really, bu
t I'll take one. Unless you'd care to join me, sweetheart?"

  He raised a brow. "What did you have in mind?"

  "A race." Treading water, she glided closer to the pool's edge, a challenging gleam in her blue eyes. "I'll even spot you a one-lap handicap."

  "Darling, you're too good to me." The last thing he needed was to get hammered by a woman with the stamina of a pentathlon athlete. "If I didn't have to be at the track for the first race, I'd take you up on the offer."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "There's always that possibility." Only if hell freezes over, he silently added, watching her swivel toward the nearest ladder.

  When she started up the ladder's rungs, his throat locked tight. The red suit he'd glimpsed beneath the water was a couple of stingy scraps of spandex that covered barely enough flesh to stave off an indecent-exposure arrest.

  She walked toward him with the confidence of the fictional Morgan Donovan, her blond hair flowing long, loose and wet over her shoulders, water sliding down tanned flesh on a body built like a centerfold's. The suit left nothing—and everything—to his imagination. Alex sensed she had the same effect on whoever was on the other side of the surveillance cameras. He didn't have to act out Alex Donovan's dark reaction to some faceless man leering at his wife. He felt it.

  "Darling," he began with a smoothness he was far from feeling. "Of all your bathing suits, that one is my favorite."

  She sent him a saucy, under-the-lashes look. "That's why I'm wearing it." Pausing a few steps from him, she cocked a hip and held her hand out for the towel while a pool of water formed at her bare feet. "Give me a minute to change, then we'll have breakfast out here on the terrace."

  He knew she was in character, knew the strut, the cockiness, the sex-bomb smile were all an act. That didn't change the fact that her mouth was pale and wet, her spiky-lashed eyes as blue as the sky overhead and the damp, sun-cooked smell of her flesh shot a surge of raw need into his blood.

  Later, after his system cooled, he would reason that what he did next was solely for the benefit of the surveillance cameras. At this instant, though, it wasn't the cop in him controlling his actions. It was the man with her scent drifting over his mind like mist and a fierce hunger slamming into him. All he knew was that he wanted a taste of her. Had to have a taste.

  Just one.

  "Breakfast outside sounds good," he murmured. Gripping one end of the towel in each hand, he hooked it around her neck, then tugged her closer. His gaze lowered, measuring the pulse that jumped at the base of her throat. "First, how about our saying a proper good morning to each other?"

  Her eyes registered wary surprise when he dipped his head, moving his lips within an inch of hers. He might want the kiss more than he wanted to breathe, but he'd be damned if he took it by force. All she had to do was give him a peck on the cheek and no one watching would raise and eyebrow. "Your call, Morgan," he said quietly.

  She remained motionless, her cautious gaze on his, the kiss hovering for the space of several heartbeats while the air heated and churned between them. He saw the change in her eyes, an almost imperceptible darkening a second before she placed a palm against his cheek, as if to keep his mouth at a safe distance. Even as he felt the trembling in her fingers, she angled her head back in a gesture that could readily be mistaken for teasing.

  "I vote we save that proper good morning for later," she said, her eyes staying on his. "Cinnamon rolls always taste better when they're still warm."

  Alex let out a breath. "Yeah." As sanity overtook madness, he eased his grip on the ends of the towel, then released them. "Wise call, Mrs. Donovan," he said, taking a step back. "Very wise."

  * * *

  Morgan sat on the terrace, the warm breeze caressing the ample amount of her flesh not covered by the skimpy khaki shorts and low-cut top she'd changed into. Her barely tasted cinnamon roll and coffee sat on the wrought-iron table in front of her. Although over a half hour had elapsed since she and Alex stood beside the pool, her pulse raced as though she'd just swum another hundred laps.

  The woman in her had wanted the kiss he offered. Wanted that tempting, dangerous mouth on hers. Oh, God, how she'd wanted.

  Still wanted.

  It had been the cop in her who'd held on to sanity, reminding her that the hunger in his voice had been there for show. Just like the slithering walk and the flirty looks she'd sent him. The entire impromptu sexual dance she and Alex had engaged in poolside had been for the benefit of Carlton Spurlock's surveillance cameras. Alex and Morgan Donovan were characters in an unscripted play, their goal to lure a man who had murdered six people. The make-believe world in which they performed would fade as fast as cut roses when the assignment ended. She had to remember that. Would remember that.

  Her eyes narrowed against the sun's glare as she stared unseeingly at the water shimmering in the blue-tiled pool. She only hoped the fierce, hungry need churning inside her would fade with equal speed.

  "Lose your appetite?"

  She shifted her gaze across the table. Alex was a study in calm, leaning back in his padded, wrought-iron chair, his coffee mug resting on one of his bare thighs. He wore a gray golf shirt a shade darker than his linen shorts, and a pair of casual deck shoes. The sun had shifted enough so that his chair was now partially in its rays. Dark stubble covered his jaw; his midnight-black hair ruffled in the breeze. Sunlight glinted off the lenses of the mirrored sunglasses that cloaked his eyes so thoroughly.

  Just the sight of him heated her blood with a wanting she had experienced only one other time in her life. She knew full well the sense of heady, thrilling surrender that went hand in hand with that kind of wanting.

  Just as she knew those mind-clouding sensations were as dangerous as a drunk behind the wheel of a car on a rain-slick road.

  She curled her fingers into her palms while a ripple of panic slithered along her nerves. She couldn't risk again. Would not allow herself to succumb to desire. Wouldn't let herself gamble away everything she'd struggled, fought, so hard to regain.

  Taking a breath, she gave a nonchalant shrug. "Seems I wasn't hungry after all," she said, picking up her coffee cup. If she took another bite of her roll, her roiling stomach would toss it back up. She dipped her head toward the basket heaped with cinnamon rolls at her elbow. "Want another one?"

  "Yes, but I've had my limit. And I helped myself to seconds of the risotto last night. I keep eating like that, I'll have to jog and swim laps with you." His mouth quirked at the edges. "I'm not sure I'm up for such a grueling workout regimen."

  "I wouldn't exactly describe it as grueling."

  "What do you call running five miles, then swimming over one hundred laps all in the same morning?"

  "Challenging." She sipped her coffee, found it tepid and set the cup aside. "If you're worried about keeping up with me, I promise to slow to your pace."

  "Ouch," he said dryly. "That's my ego you hear thudding at your feet." He glanced back at the mansion. "I'll just spend a few hours each day in the gym here in order to counter the effects of your culinary skills. You're a great cook, Morgan."

  "Thanks. Like I said, I have a talent for finding good recipes—"

  "And following the directions," he finished.

  "That's right."

  He sipped his coffee, his eyes staying locked with hers. "Gourmet cook, imposing athlete, awesome student, experienced horticulturist. Is there anything you don't do well?"

  "The list is endless." She finger combed her still-damp hair away from her face, feeling as though she'd been shoved under the lens of a microscope. "I just invest my time in the things I'm good at."

  "The things you do to perfection, you mean?" Without waiting for an answer, he asked, "With all your varied talents, why did you decide to be a cop?"

  Her gaze instinctively slid to Spurlock's high brick wall. Alex sat with his back to the cameras; the umbrella centered in the table angled to where it blocked her face from view of the lenses. The audio sensors inside their watches conf
irmed they were free to talk.

  "It's what I always wanted to be."

  "Why?"

  She forced herself to relax, muscle by muscle. It might be good for them to talk, she reasoned. Maybe after a few friendly chats she would get used to Alex being around. If seeing him, talking to him became habit, maybe her system would stop churning whenever he got close. Anything was worth a try.

  "I became a cop for two reasons. First, I like rules. Laws. Structure. When people go against them, someone needs to stop them, maintain order. Control. And get justice for the victims."

  "That's reason one. You said there are two."

  "Wearing a badge runs in my family," she reminded him. "And since we're Scots, so does the talent for weaving a good tale. My Granddad was the first McCall to sign on with the OCPD. My Dad was the second."

  "Let me guess, they wove good cop stories?"

  "The best. Growing up, we used to eat lunch every Sunday at my grandparents' house. After dessert, Carrie, Grace and I would sprawl on this big braided rug with our brothers, while Granddad and Dad regaled us with tales about their jobs." Picturing the scene, Morgan smiled. "The cops were always the 'good guys' and the do-wrongs were 'crooks.' Part of the fun was getting Granddad and Dad to show us all the cool takedown moves they used on crooks. Then all us kids practiced on each other, and wound up in a tangle of arms and legs on that braided rug."

  "Sounds like fun."

  "It was. Mostly." She scowled. "Once in a while things got a little intense."

  "How so?"

  "Like the time I twisted Bran's arm up his back with a little too much force and broke one itty-bitty bone in his wrist. He had to wear a cast for six weeks, and I got grounded for the same length of time. You'd have thought I tried to kill him."

  "I'll be sure not to resist if you ever have occasion to take me down." Leaning in, Alex sat his mug on the table. "Since all six McCall kids became cops, those stories must have been inspiring."

  "We all wanted to be good guys like Granddad and Dad." She hesitated, then asked, "Did you join the force because you wanted to be like George Jackson?"