Nobody Does It Better

THE GORGON GASPED HER pleasure. The blond man—was his name Raymond?—tugged harder at her nipple held between his fingers and alternately sucked and nipped at the one in his mouth.

“Do you like that?” Tightening his grip on her massage-oil-slicked thighs, the dark-haired Trevor worked his cock in and out of her harder and faster. She slid her hand up and down Raymond’s engorged penis in the same rhythm, scraping her nail lightly against the sensitive ridge on the underside.

Rule one: Don’t limit sex to good-looking, well-endowed men. Often the less-attractive ones, or those with smaller dicks, were more grateful and thus much more easily manipulated. They also tried harder to please.

Rule two: She was in charge…and they knew it. No one came until she came.

Rule three: Never let them know her real name or her number. She contacted them. It kept it simple and it kept them needy. Even the ones with girlfriends or wives came, no pun intended, when she called. Sometimes, the men even brought their significant others along. She, the Gorgon—she rather liked thinking of herself by that name—had an appetite for things the wives and girlfriends often didn’t.

And rule four: Sex was better with three on the playing field.

On the hotel nightstand, her phone vibrated. It’d be him with an update. She’d instructed him to text rather than call, telling him she had a meeting. Paranoia, possessiveness and insecurity on his part all worked to her advantage, but he wouldn’t like it if he knew what she was doing now.

“Hold that thought, gentlemen,” she said, unhanding Raymond’s cock. He was the less gifted of the two in the size department. She had plans for him after the commercial break.

She slid up the four-hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and flipped open her phone. She downloaded the text message and quickly scanned it.

A slow smile curved her mouth and the sexual excitement she’d felt with Raymond and Trevor intensified. Everything in Europe was going precisely as she’d planned. Carswell had been unleashed on the unsuspecting Holly Smith. She flipped her phone closed.

She got off on this spy business. She’d kind of miss it when she retired. She’d have to find something else to occupy her. And this news definitely called for a celebration. She rolled to her knees and turned to Trevor, where he waited at the end of the bed. “I think it’s time we switched things around, gentlemen.” She crawled the length of the bed on her hands and knees, her breasts swinging free and heavy. Braced on one hand, she wrapped her other hand around Trevor’s cock, teasing her tongue along the tip. He quivered in her palm and her smile widened.

She paused to glance over her shoulder at Raymond. “You’re invited to the party, too. But use the back door.”

Yes, this called for a celebration, indeed.

GAGE LOUNGED ABOUT IN his bed the following morning, content to do nothing. A bit of a lie-in had always been one of his guilty pleasures. His hard-ass grandfather, the Colonel, had considered it heretical and it hadn’t gone over well at boarding school, either.

Better still if it was a lazy rainy day and he had a spot of feminine company between the sheets.

He stretched and bunched the pillow beneath his head. It wasn’t as if he could do anything until the Gorgon made a move. Thus far, she’d made an early-morning visit to the loo, which he’d not watched once he ascertained there was nothing in her hands.

She nabbed her mobile and dialed, hugging one naked arm around her naked waist right below her naked breasts. Why didn’t she put on some bloody clothes? All that nakedness was damned distracting. Naked was a good look on her.

“Buon giorno.” She identified herself and gave her room number. “Has my suitcase arrived?” She paused. “You’re sure? Thank you. Grazie.”

She disconnected the call with a snap of her mobile. “Damn it to hell.”

She revisited the wardrobe, feeling her knickers, obviously far from dry judging by her grimace. She sniffed delicately at yesterday’s clothes and recoiled. “That’s just gross.”

Note to self. The Gorgon wasn’t a morning person. And she also had the most delicious voice, dropping sharp consonants and rounding itself around vowels, lengthening them in a Southern drawl. He’d never considered himself much of an auditory person, but her voice sent a rush through him. Christ, she even made swearing sound sexy. Not a far stretch at all to imagine her in her lovely naked state whispering a bit of naughtiness in his ear…

She rooted around in her knapsack and punched in a series of numbers on her mobile phone.

In all the spy films, the phone was always being monitored and recorded. But until he found a private moment with her mobile, he was privy only to her end of the conversation. She identified herself and her flight number to someone on the other end. Ah, she was following up with the airline. He settled back against his pillow. This should prove entertaining.

“My luggage didn’t make the flight from London to Venice yesterday. It was supposed to be delivered to my hotel this morning. What? There’s no trace of it?” Her voice escalated a notch. “How can you have lost it? It was checked through in Atlanta. I was assured it would be sent to my hotel. Yes, I understand you can’t send it if you can’t find it. But how about you understand this—I need underwear!” Well, now that she’d destroyed Gage’s hearing in that ear… “I washed out my lone pair last night and they haven’t dried. I don’t want to wear wet panties.”

She might be the enemy, but she was magnificent when riled. Her aqua eyes flashed like a stormy sea and her breasts quivered. For chrissake, where was his bloody detachment that had served him so well all his life?

“Does that sound like a good vacation to you? It doesn’t to me. Listen, if I didn’t want to wear underwear, I would’ve left them at home in the first place. I don’t appreciate your attitude. What’s your supervisor’s name? Maybe they can introduce you to the concept of customer service.”

Gage took satisfaction in the fact that her missing case had inconvenienced the Gorgon. One had to relish the small victories as they arose.

She disconnected the call. Gage noted the time. Quarter past eight. Grinning, he shoved back the covers and strolled into the washroom, clicking the lock on her door and locking her out of the washroom.

“Crap,” she muttered in his ear—well, his earpiece—but it might as well’ve been in his ear.

His grin broadened and he turned on the shower.

“Ugh. Yuck.”

Apparently she’d elected to wear the wet knickers. He pushed the sexual connotation out of his mind. Ah, the Gorgon was going to be in rare form when he met her this morning. Might as well go for broke.

A passable tenor, Gage’s voice always improved with the acoustics of a tiled washroom. He burst into a shower rendition of La Bohéme, from act one.

“I have descended into the bowels of hell,” the Gorgon’s voice muttered in his ear.

Gage sang louder.

HOLLY HAD BEEN DETERMINED to put her bad-day karma behind her yesterday…until she’d rolled out of bed naked this morning and discovered still-damp panties, no luggage and a rude airline-customer-service representative.

The only good thing to come of that conversation? She knew her luggage wasn’t showing up today. The woman on the phone had actually seemed delighted to tell her if it hadn’t arrived by now, it wouldn’t make it today.

In the next room, the shower and the singing stopped. Thank God. The voice wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but she wasn’t in the mood to be serenaded this morning. Yet another grand reason for having requested a private bathroom.

Missing luggage necessitated a change of itinerary. She was more thankful than ever that she’d arranged a private tour guide. She’d specifically requested a woman, slightly older than herself and a Venetian native. Holly would feel comfortable with a woman and she’d look less like a tourist, gaining insight into what it was like to live in Venice. She’d been introduced, via the Internet, to her assigned guide, Signora Ciavelli. Forty-seven, with a slightly round face and dark hair sprinkled with a bit of gray, she’d looked kind and capable in her photo.

Signora Ciavelli would know exactly where they should shop. And shop they would, because clammy panties, clothes she’d worn for thirty-six hours, no makeup and no hair-care products just weren’t working for Holly.

She checked out her reflection in the bedroom mirror. To quote her brother, Kyle, she looked like shit on a stick. Some women fared well going au naturel. She wasn’t one of them.

She knew she wasn’t a head-turner. She was just an average woman with odd-colored eyes. The entire time she was growing up, she’d loathed having the eyes she’d inherited from her father’s grandmother. She’d hated it when people commented on them because the compliments always ended a little flat, as if it was a pity the rest of her didn’t match up. She’d embraced her averageness to the point that when she’d begun earning her own money, she’d started wearing brown-tinted contacts. In fact, she’d had brown eyes for more than a decade. Her mother was the beauty. Thank goodness Holly looked more like her father. She didn’t want to be like Julia, flighty and vain. But with all her recent activities, she’d also realized hiding her eye color wasn’t exactly embracing who and what she was. Holly had forsaken her contacts several months ago. People still commented on her eyes, but oddly enough, it no longer bothered her. Funny how self-acceptance colored one’s perceptions. But there was no coloring her appearance anything but lacking this morning.

She desperately needed concealer for the lovely dark shadows beneath her eyes. As for her hair… She leaned forward and tried fluffing it with her fingers while she held her head upside down. She stood upright again and it looked decent…for about three seconds until it settled back into flat waves against her head. Not a good look.

She’d planned to show up at Julia’s address this afternoon. Holly wasn’t the great American beauty, but she’d be damned if she’d arrive looking like something the cat had dragged in.

The lock on the other side of her door clicked, signaling the bathroom was available. She might not have toothpaste, but she could at least brush and rinse with water before she ran downstairs.

She stepped into the bathroom, ribbons of steam hanging in the room. She had to admit she liked the scent of the shampoo and cologne lingering in the room. However, the guy must be near-ancient and hard of hearing, considering how loudly he sang in the shower.

She locked the door on his side. Granted, she was only brushing her teeth, but she still didn’t want the old fellow to get confused and wander in.

Five minutes later, she shrugged into her backpack and headed downstairs to meet Signora Ciavelli, determined to turn a bad start into a good day.

She descended the last stairs into the small lobby area, catching a tantalizing whiff of coffee and fresh bread. Holly’s stomach growled in recognition. Maybe the scent was wafting in from a kitchen that was out of sight. Maybe it was from somewhere else. She just knew she was hungry. Many pensiones included a continental breakfast but once again, she’d thought to shave a couple of dollars by choosing one that didn’t. Besides, her meals were included in her tour.

She’d kill for a cup of coffee and one of the Italian pastries she’d read about in the guidebooks. As soon as Signora Ciavelli showed up, she’d talk her into grabbing a bite to eat.

A couple stood by the front door studying a map and speaking in German…or was it Swiss? Heck, it could’ve been Russian. She just knew it wasn’t English, Italian or French. Tucked in one corner of the room, to the left of the stairs, two chairs upholstered in worn burgundy velvet flanked a small table. A man sat in one chair, his face obscured by a newspaper. The other chair stood unoccupied.

Mrs. Cheese stood behind the dark wood counter that served as the reception desk to the right of the stairs, speaking, in rapid-fire Italian, into a phone propped between her ear and shoulder.

No one, however, remotely resembled Signora Ciavelli. She stepped over to the window beside the heavy wooden door to peer outside. She experienced that same tingling awareness she’d felt the night before when she’d landed at the Marco Polo airport. Maybe it was something in the air here.

“Ms. Smith?”

Startled at hearing her name spoken in a masculine British voice, she whirled around…and found herself in heart-pounding close proximity to one of the sexiest men she’d ever encountered. Average height, dark hair worn a little longish, a lean jaw, dark eyes rimmed in thick dark lashes beneath heavy eyebrows and a hard, masculine mouth. “Yes. And you are…?”

Don’t let it be Signora Ciavelli with a sex change, which wasn’t as far-fetched as it might sound, considering her luck the past couple of days.

“Gage Carswell.” He thrust a very capable-looking hand with well-shaped fingers toward her. Because she wasn’t sure exactly why she shouldn’t, she shook hands with the man, whoever he was. His handshake was strong and firm without being a vice grip, and if she thought she’d tingled before… His touch resonated through her, all the way to her toes. “Signora Ciavelli had a medical emergency. She’ll be fine, but I’ll be taking her place this week.”

She’d never met him before, she was sure of it. But something about him teased at her, a familiarity she couldn’t quite identify.

“But you’re a man.” She realized how idiotic her comment sounded the moment it left her mouth.

“I’ve had occasion to notice.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which further upped his make-her-heart-race quota.

“But I requested a woman. And a native.” She wanted Signora Ciavelli because they would blend in with the locals and Holly could feel relaxed around her. Gage Carswell didn’t appear to fit either criteria.

“So I understand. But I lived in Venice for a few years and I’m quite fluent in Italian.” To illustrate his point, he broke into the language. She thought he said he looked forward to showing her the beauty of Venice. But he could’ve said her butt was too wide and her hair disgustingly flat and she wouldn’t have known the difference.

The missing piece, however, clicked into place for her. He didn’t look familiar but he smelled familiar. And once he spoke Italian, she placed his voice.

The voice in the shower this morning, the scent that lingered in the steamy room. “You wouldn’t happen to be staying here at the hotel, would you?”

“I am. As luck would have it, the room next to yours was available and the agency put me in there.” She’d pegged her bathroom buddy as elderly and deaf. When she was wrong, she was really wrong. She didn’t want to think about him naked in the bathroom, but her mind seemed intent on painting just that picture for her—wet dark hair, water clinging to well-formed shoulders, white towel knotted low on his hips…

She nodded and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I recognized your voice when you spoke Italian.”

He flashed a not-quite-contrite grin that set off butterflies in her tummy. “The singing this morning. Pardon that. I tend to get carried away.”

She was flexible. She could roll with the punches. She was not, however, this flexible. Gage Carswell was too male, too sexy…too everything. He just wouldn’t do. “Isn’t there someone else they can send for the week?”

“Was my singing that bad?” Another smile and that tingling blossomed into something that felt dangerously akin to lust.

She did not want to be charmed by him. She didn’t need the distraction. And he definitely wasn’t part of her plan.

She ignored his comment and his smile. “I wanted a Venetian native.”

“And I’m quite sorry that you have to make do with me. The agency has authorized me to refund half of what you paid in recompense.”

Well, this was a fine mess. She’d be hopeless navigating her own way around. And now she also had to spend money she hadn’t planned to spend to replace her luggage and clothes. If she settled for this guy, she got half of her money back. And being on a tight budget…

“Okay.” She just couldn’t muster being gracious.

His own smile seemed a tad tight. “So, according to what you’d arranged through the agency, we’ll have a spot of breakfast and then it’s off to Dorsoduro.”

That had been her plan, to check out the southwestern district, or sestiere, which was her mother’s last-known address. From what she’d read, it was an area of quiet neighborhoods and charming canals replete with tree-shaded squares, home to wealthy Venetians and foreigners. The Dorsoduro, however, would have to wait until this afternoon. “There’s a change of plans, Mr. Carswell. After breakfast, we’re going shopping.”

“Want to get the souvenirs out of the way up front?”

She knew her smile was grim. “No. We’re going to buy panties.”

4

HE’D UNDERGONE EXTENSIVE training in hand-to-hand combat, weaponry and guerrilla warfare tactics. He held a third-degree black belt and the powers-that-be considered him an expert in electronic surveillance. So it was ridiculous that one simple handshake and exchange with this woman had rattled his cage.

Still, one touch and the Gorgon had neatly thrown him for a loop, landing him on his figurative arse. No one had managed to put Gage Carswell in that situation since that first miserable week at boarding school when he’d been literally arse-ended into a rubbish bin by Geoff Winkley and his bully mates. Gage had sworn then and there he’d never find himself in that state again. Although this was figurative rather than literal, it was the same out-of-control feeling. He didn’t like it any better this time around.

She turned those brilliant aquamarine eyes on him and a spark kindled low in his belly. “Actually, I’m sure shopping for women’s underwear is more than you signed up for as a tour guide.” She shook her head and did a good job of looking chagrined, apologetic and annoyed all at once. “The airline lost my luggage, but there’s no reason both of us should be punished. If you can point me in the direction of a woman’s clothing store, I’ll manage. Just consider this morning a freebie and I’ll meet you back here, say around one?”

Light slanted through the window in the pensione lobby, tipping her brown lashes with gold. He wasn’t quite sure at all why she elicited such a response in him. Aside from her eyes, she possessed a quite ordinary face as he’d already noted.

A creamy complexion with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, which was a bit longish, a mouth that was at close inspection full and plump, all set within an oval-shaped face. Average height—not gamine enough for cute, not tall and thin enough to merit striking, she looked like a nice young woman. Looks however, could be deceiving and, in her case, deadly, if one relaxed their guard.

Did she suspect he was a plant? She’d certainly been hacked to find him taking Signora Ciavelli’s place. Did she need the time alone to alert her contact of the companion change? None of it really mattered because she wasn’t going anywhere without him.

He summoned a smile. “Shopping in Venice is never a punishment. My agency would be most unhappy if I left you to your own devices.” That was an effing understatement. “But I’ll tell them—”

“If you go alone, I’ll simply have to follow at a distance to ensure you don’t get lost. I’m charged with your wellbeing here, and at YWI, we take that very seriously. Leaving you to wander about on your own could get me fired.” Surprisingly, that swayed her. He read it in her eyes the instant she decided it wasn’t worth the argument. He took her by her arm—once again feeling the energy swirling between them, through him—and steered her toward the door. “Let’s have a bite to eat and then we’ll go shopping.”

“I’m ready for breakfast, but I’d like to check here afterward in case my luggage shows up. I’d rather not waste my time shopping if I don’t have to.”

“How’s your Italian?” He didn’t think she’d understood a word he’d said earlier.

“Dismal.” She smiled and it literally transformed her face to something quite lovely. “I can ask where the bathroom is, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to follow directions unless the person I talk to points.”

“Which is why you were very wise to hire a guide. I’ll give the desk my mobile phone number. They can ring through if your case arrives.”

Gage approached the small counter nestled in an alcove to the right of the front door. The same older woman with slightly graying hair who had shown him to his room yesterday evening sat folding a mountain of washroom linens.

He exchanged greetings with her and explained Ms. Smith was waiting on an important package to be delivered. He then relayed his mobile number as a contact.

The entire time he could feel the Gorgon behind him. He sensed her gaze roaming over him as surely as if she were touching him.

“Everything taken care of?” the Gorgon asked.

“They’ll call if your case shows up.”

And if a note or any other package was delivered instead, he’d know. He had the Gorgon under control.

“HOW’S YOUR COFFEE, Ms. Smith?”

A shiver slid down her spine. The timbre of his voice and that accent was a heady combination to her. Honestly, she could just prop her chin in her hand and listen to him talk, but then she’d look like a total idiot.

“The coffee’s excellent.” She raised the cup and blew a cooling breath over the surface. She’d surreptitiously examined the china and found it clean and spot-free. She sipped again at the rich, full-bodied brew. It was stronger, more intense, than the coffee she normally drank, but if she’d wanted what she was used to, she would’ve stayed home. “I’m feeling much more human. Amazing what a little caffeine can do for a person. And it’s Holly. Ms. Smith makes you sound like one of my students.”

And Holly was almost certain she couldn’t teach this man anything he didn’t already know. He wore an air of experience and sangfroid as casually as he wore his black slacks and dark brown shirt. She found him one part intimidating, one part intriguing.

“Very well, Holly.” The way her name rolled off his tongue shot a small thrill through her. “And I’m Gage. Never underestimate the power of caffeine and food.”

Yeah. And panties that weren’t clammy against her skin would also go a long way toward making her feel human again. But she wasn’t sharing that with a guide who scored an eleven on the one-to-ten hot meter. “There is that. How’s yours?”

She’d been torn between the sfogliatelli, a ricotta-and-fruit-filled pastry, or a simple brioche. Mr. Carswell—um, Gage—had ordered the brioche and she’d opted for the sfogliatelli. She’d lost twelve pounds before the trip, thanks to Weight Watchers, but she’d be damned if she’d count points in Venice. At least the cheese was a protein and there was some fruit in there. Besides, dinner last night had consisted of a hastily scarfed-down granola bar. One bite of the sfogliatelli and she’d thought she was in heaven. But then nothing had ever smelled quite as good as the aromas that had assaulted them when they’d walked through the door of the cozy shop with its glass counter of fresh pastries and strong coffee perfuming the air.

“Excellent. The food and drink is outstanding in Venice.”

Well, this was some scintillating conversation between. What was next? The weather. She took another bite of sfogliatelli and a silence settled between them. Around them, the other patrons chatted in a mix of languages. She heard a snippet or two of English.

When they came in, Holly had snagged a table at the picture window overlooking the narrow stone-paved street.

Holly people-watched through the glass now, a part of her scanning the face of every female passerby on the off chance it might be Julia. That was crazy. Maybe the whole trip was crazy. Doubts crowded her. All the money, the time, the plane trip to find a woman who most likely didn’t want to be found. She shook the doubt off. Coming here, finding her mother, meant Holly was taking charge, setting the course of this relationship.