Take My Breath Away...

Praise for Cara Summers

“The sex scenes were incredibly hot! Ms Summers

knows how to entertain her readers while

writing something a bit risqué.”

—Night Owl Reviews on Led into Temptation

“Sensationally sensual … this tale of a forbidden,

guilt-ridden love is a delight. Brimming with diverse,

compelling characters, scorching-hot love scenes, romance, and even a ghost, this story is unforgettable.”

—Romancejunkies.com on Led into Temptation

“Great characters with explosive chemistry, a fun

intrigue-flavoured plot and a high degree of

sensuality add up to an excellent read!”

—RT Book Reviews on Taken Beyond Temptation

“So steamy you can practically see the steam rising

from the pages … Filled with intrigue, mystery, humour,

sizzling-hot love scenes, an absorbing plot, non-stop

action, suspense, a well-matched couple, plot twists,

and a surprise ending, this story is unforgettable

and definitely a winner.”

—Romancejunkies.com on Taken Beyond Temptation

“A writer of incredible talent with a gift for emotional

stories laced with humour and passion.”

—Rendezvous

Dear Reader,

St Valentine’s Day has always been one of my favorite holidays, and I thought it would be the perfect backdrop for my fifth WRONG BED book. I love writing stories in which two people, who think they are so wrong for each other, discover (much to their initial horror) that they make a perfect match!

Special FBI agent Nicola Guthrie and Security expert Gabe Wilder share a common goal. They are each determined to catch a thief—namely the media celebrity who’s been robbing Denver’s socially elite and who only strikes on holidays. With St Valentine’s Day a mere forty-eight hours away, the clock is ticking, and Nicola’s prime suspect is Gabe. Of course, that doesn’t stop her from falling into bed with him the first chance she gets …

For news about upcoming books, please visit my website, www.carasummers.com.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Cara Summers

About the Author

Was CARA SUMMERS born with the dream of becoming a published romance novelist? No. But now that she is, she still feels her dream has come true. She loves writing for the Blaze® line because it allows her to create strong, determined women and seriously sexy men who will risk everything to achieve their dreams. Cara has written more than thirty-five books, and when she isn’t working on new stories, she teaches in the Writing Program at Syracuse University and at a community college near her home.

Take My

Breath Away …

Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all of my readers everywhere!

Thanks so much for your support.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Prologue

The day after Thanksgiving …

“I’M THINKING WHAT WE’VU got here is a copycat thief.” FBI Agent Nick Guthrie kept his eyes steady on Gabe Wilder as he gestured to the Monet propped on the credenza to the left of his desk. In front of the cleverly forged painting lay a copy of that morning’s Denver Post. The headline read: Priceless Monet Stolen on Thanksgiving Day.

“Don’t you agree? He replaces the original with a very good copy. That’s what your father always did. He’s even signing your father’s initials.”

Gabe said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. He’d been coming to grips with the fact that someone was imitating his father ever since Guthrie had called him to the crime scene the night before. At 6:30 a.m., the FBI offices were still empty, and Guthrie hadn’t bothered to draw the shades on the glass walls that divided his office from the others in the White-Collar Crime Division.

“Well?” Guthrie prompted Gabe. “What are you thinking?”

“We’re not dealing with a copycat.” He shifted his gaze to the Monet.

“No?” Guthrie frowned. “The thief broke through one of the best security alarm systems available, one of yours. He has a detailed knowledge of the M.O. your father used. And it’s a French Impressionist painting. Raphael Wilder was particularly talented at forging those. I say someone is deliberately imitating your father’s style right down to signing the forgery with the initials, R.W.”

“But my father never sent announcements bragging about his thefts,” Gabe pointed out.

“Agreed,” Guthrie said. “But everything else is the same.”

Gabe couldn’t argue with that. But why would someone choose to imitate the style of a legendary art thief and then deviate in a major way from his method? And why was this thief choosing to copy his father in the first place? Those were the questions that he intended to find the answers to.

“I had a chance to study the original painting when my company set up the security at the Langfords’ house.” Gabe nodded his head toward the Monet. “The forgery is a good one. It might have been years before the fake was detected.”

Guthrie leaned back in his chair. “So why announce the theft?”

“Exactly. Raphael Wilder never would have.” Then Gabe met Nick Guthrie’s eyes. “That’s why I’m not willing to agree that this thief is simply a copycat. There’s more going on here. Why don’t you come right out and ask me if I had something to do with stealing the Monet? The possibility must have crossed your mind. No one would know my father’s methods better than I. His initials are on the painting. The Langfords were using my security system.”

Guthrie said nothing.

“Perhaps I substituted the forgery when I installed the alarm system. That would eliminate the need to go back and break in later. I could sell the original and no one would be the wiser, perhaps ever.”

“That’s what your father would have done.” Guthrie shot him a frown. “And maybe your involvement in the theft did cross my mind, but I dismissed the possibility. Raphael Wilder was a thief, a very good one, and if you’d followed in his footsteps, I imagine you’d have made a very good one also. But you haven’t. We go back a long way, Gabe.”

That much was true. The first day he’d met FBI Agent Nick Guthrie was the day the man had come into his home and arrested his father for grand larceny. That had been over fifteen years ago. And within a month of Raphael Wilder’s conviction, he’d died in prison of pneumonia. Ever since then, Nick Guthrie had kept close tabs on Gabe. What might have begun as feelings of guilt or responsibility on Guthrie’s part had evolved gradually into a friendship, one that ran both ways.

And Nick Guthrie had been one of the people who’d helped him stay on the straight and narrow at a time in his life when he might have chosen a different path. He owed other people, too, of course. Father Mike Flynn and the St. Francis Center for Boys had played a key role.

Nick Guthrie leaned forward. “I know about the promise you made your mother when she was dying. I was with you and Father Mike the day that you renewed that promise to your father in the prison infirmary. There’s no way that you would break those vows by starting to steal paintings. You’ve built a business to protect people from theft and from harm. And you’re doing a damn good job of it.”

Gabe didn’t smile, but the knot that had been in his stomach when Guthrie had asked him to come into the office that morning eased. If Nick Guthrie hadn’t requested this meeting, Gabe would have insisted on one himself. He’d needed to know just how much G. W. Securities was going to come under suspicion because of his father.

Guthrie ran his hands through his hair. “Besides, if you were to take up a life of crime, I can’t see you sending announcement cards. And why target one of your own security systems? I’ve known you since you were thirteen. You’re not that dumb.”

Now Gabe did smile. “So it really did cross your mind?”

Guthrie sighed. “Of course it did. I’m an FBI agent. I have to consider all the possibilities. But you didn’t steal the Monet. And I’m not releasing any of the details about the thief using your father’s M.O. to the press.”

“Well, you’re right about me, as it happens. I didn’t steal the painting. But …”

Guthrie raised his hands, palms out. “I know. I know. You still think I was wrong about your father.”

It was a discussion they’d had often over the years. Gabe was willing to admit that his father had been a thief, a brilliant one. And a reformed one. He’d never believed his father had stolen the Pissaro that Guthrie had arrested him for stealing. Raphael Wilder had denied the theft even on his deathbed. “My father made the same promise to my mother that I did. He didn’t steal that painting.”

Guthrie rose and walked to the window. Over the years they’d agreed to disagree. The first time they’d argued about his father’s innocence, Gabe had punched the older man. He’d been thirteen and angry.

Guthrie had taken the punch and told him that he could take another. Anytime. But Gabe hadn’t punched him again because it hadn’t helped soothe any of the pain or the loss away. What had eventually helped was the time he’d spent at the St. Francis Center for Boys. At a crucial time in his life, Father Mike Flynn had helped him more than he could ever repay. Truth told, the priest was still helping him. He’d been the first person he’d called after he’d left the crime scene the night before.

“There was a time when I thought you might follow in your father’s footsteps,” Guthrie said. “But you’ve built a very different kind of life.”

Yes, he had. And G. W. Securities was becoming known beyond Denver. Partly due to some consulting work he’d done for Nick Guthrie, he’d recently landed jobs as far away as D.C. and New York City. Gabe stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

“So why is someone imitating parts of your father’s M.O.?” Guthrie spoke the question that was foremost in both of their minds.

As it hung unanswered in the air, Gabe’s attention was distracted by the young woman who’d just stepped out of the elevator in the outer offices. Something moved through him as she strode purposefully toward a desk in one of the glass-walled offices and set her briefcase down.

Not recognition.

Or was it? He gave her another few seconds of his attention. There was plenty there to warrant a second look. The gray slacks and jacket did little to disguise the long legs and the curves in that neat, athletic body. The bright blue of the shirt drew his gaze to her face—also worth a second look.

This time he was sure it was recognition that flickered. He knew that short upturned nose, the stubborn chin.

“Who …?”

Gabe wasn’t even aware that he’d spoken the question out loud until Guthrie answered, “That’s Nicola, my daughter. She started working here a week ago.”

Gabe registered the frown in the older man’s voice, but he didn’t take his gaze off of the woman.

“She didn’t even tell Marcia and me that she was applying to the FBI, not until she’d been accepted at Quantico. She finished her training there last month and received the Director’s Leadership Award. I had to pull a lot of strings to get her transferred here.”

Nicola Guthrie. Of course. It was the hair that had thrown him. Now it fell straight as rain until it curved beneath her chin. Fifteen years ago a mass of curls had framed her face. He’d teased her ruthlessly about them and even pulled them a few times.

“I’m going to limit her to research on this case,” Guthrie was saying. “She’s smart, but she’s not ready for field work. As long as she’s in the office and behind that desk, I can be sure she’s safe.”

Gabe was about to turn his attention back to the Monet when Nicola Guthrie turned and her gaze suddenly locked on his.

The impact ricocheted through his system, coming into contact with every nerve ending. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Everything else faded, and all he was aware of was her. The sudden tightening in his gut was raw, sexual and compelling. Without any conscious volition, he rose from the chair.

“Gabe?”

Guthrie’s voice came from a distance. Still, the sound might have been the only thing that allowed him to keep his feet firmly planted on the floor. The urge to go to her was so intense. He’d never felt a pull that strong. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. He felt trapped. But he couldn’t seem to summon up the will to fight his desire.

“What is it?” Guthrie’s voice was closer now. Gabe felt Guthrie’s hand on his arm. But it wasn’t until Nicola turned away that he was able to draw in a breath. Or gather a coherent thought.

“What’s wrong?” Guthrie asked.

“It’s this case.” Gabe was surprised to find his voice worked. He was still looking at her as she picked up a file and leafed through it.

What the hell was wrong with him? No woman had ever affected him this way before. All that had happened was that their eyes had met. She was standing a good twenty-five feet away and she’d made him feel weak, winded.

What would she do to him when she was closer? When he kissed her? When he touched her? When he was inside of her?

No.

Ruthlessly, Gabe reined his thoughts in and turned to face the man he called a friend. “I want some answers. I don’t have any idea why someone is using parts of my father’s M.O.” But there was a reason. He was sure of it.

“The announcement cards are easier,” he continued. “This particular thief craves attention. Which means that he may strike again to get more.”

“I wish we weren’t thinking along the same lines,” Guthrie said in a grim tone. “That brings me to the reason I asked you to come in today. I figure you’re going to be working on this case and I’d like you to agree to share any information you come up with. My office will do the same. What do you say?”

Gabe managed a smile as he held out a hand. “I say two heads are always better than one.”

Guthrie glanced toward the painting again. “I hope that we’re both wrong about another robbery.”

Gabe hoped so, too. But his gut told him they weren’t.

As he left the FBI offices, he noted that more people had reported to work. And in spite of his determination not to, he glanced once more in the direction of Nicola Guthrie’s office.

Her head was bent over a file.

Gabe wasn’t sure it was relief or disappointment he felt as the elevator doors closed and he descended to the street level.

1

Two and a half months later, February 12

“TURN LEFT IN point nine miles.”

The calm voice of her GPS system had FBI special agent Nicola Guthrie gripping the steering wheel of her car and peering through the windshield into thickly falling snow. Easing her foot off the gas, she narrowed her eyes to study what lay in the beams of her headlights.

Not much. She was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish the narrow mountain road from the treacherous ditches that bordered it on either side.

The storm had been steadily increasing in intensity ever since she’d left Denver at 6:00 p.m. And her little Volkswagen Beetle convertible was not known for its winter weather capabilities. The one-hour drive to the church of St. Francis had stretched into nearly three.

And counting.

But it was going to be worth it. The moment that Father Mike Flynn had walked into her office and showed her the note, she’d gotten that tingling feeling deep inside of her—the same one that had guided every important decision she’d ever made. And it had never failed her.

Tonight, she had a good chance of finally identifying the art thief who’d been leading the FBI on a merry chase for the past three months. On each holiday since Thanksgiving, he’d relieved one of Denver’s art collectors of a priceless painting. And if she unmasked him tonight, her father would finally have to relent and take her career choice seriously.

Nicola glanced at her speedometer. She could walk faster than this.

“Turn left in point five miles.”

Not much longer. Her decision to join the FBI had not set well with either her father or her stepmother. Her father’s tendency to be over-protective she could understand. Her mother had been an agent who’d worked with him, and she’d died in the line of duty when Nicola had been a toddler.

Her stepmother was a different kettle of fish. Marcia Thorne Guthrie had been born to wealth, and her ideas about a woman’s role in society were slightly and almost lovably medieval. Marcia thought women should study art and literature, marry, run a lovely home and spread her largesse through the community by doing good works. And by throwing huge charity balls like the one Marcia gave every year at Thorne Mansion on Valentine’s Day.

In fact, that’s exactly where Nicola should be right now—at Thorne Mansion helping her stepmother make the final dessert selections for the ball.

The problem was Nicola didn’t want to follow in her stepmother’s footsteps. She wanted to follow in her father’s. But she dearly loved both of her parents—enough to get a Masters in Fine Art degree before she’d secretly applied to the FBI. Throughout her life, her rebellions against her parents had ended in eventual victories, but they had always been hard-won. And actions had always spoken louder than words. Eventually, she’d win them over.

Which was why tonight was so important. If she could just catch herself a thief. And if that thief turned out to be who she thought it was? Well, her father would have to give her bonus points for that because he thought Gabe Wilder was as innocent as a newborn babe.

She didn’t.

“Turn left in point three miles.”

“Where?” Nicola frowned into the swirling snow.

Then she saw it—just the outline of the church steeple. Ahead and to her left. She might have missed it if not for the headlights of a vehicle parked nearby. When a sudden break in the wind gave her a better look at the silhouette of the parked car, Nicola’s pulse jumped.

It was an SUV and it looked familiar. Could it be …?

The tingling sensation moved through her. She’d felt the same way when Father Mike had visited her office and shown her the note announcing that the statue of St. Francis was going to be stolen tonight. Gabe Wilder might very well be here.

“Turn left in one hundred yards.”

One step at a time, Nicola. First, you have to find the driveway. Then the thief.

During the long drive from the city, her practical side had been cautioning her that a semi-retired Franciscan priest like Father Mike didn’t fit the profile of the previous wealthy and socially prominent victims of Denver’s well-publicized art thief. However, during the twenty years he’d served as the director of the St. Francis Center for Boys, Father Mike had certainly rubbed elbows with the movers and shakers of Denver.

And the thief always delivered a note to his next target on the day he struck. Father Mike had received his note today. She’d read it.

I’ve always admired the statue of St. Francis—ever since I first saw it in the prayer garden at the St. Francis Center. I was so disappointed when you moved it to that isolated church. So, I’ve decided to take it off your hands. Enjoy Lincoln’s Birthday.

The bragging tone and the specificity of the note were similar to the other ones in the file. The art piece and the holiday were always mentioned by name.

No one had expected the thief to make a move on Lincoln’s Birthday, February 12. The press, the FBI and most of Denver’s socially elite were expecting the thief to strike on Valentine’s Day. A priceless Cézanne was going to be auctioned at the annual Valentine’s Day Charity Ball—the one her stepmother was throwing—and the theory was that the thief wouldn’t be able to resist it.

No one had given any thought to the possibility that the thief might target the statue of St. Francis. Truth told, she hadn’t thought of it either. She’d been certain her father was right, and the thief would go after the Cézanne.

The small marble statue currently residing on a side altar in St. Francis Church didn’t have the monetary value of the artwork previously stolen. But there were those who would testify that it was priceless.

The statue of St. Francis had been donated to the Franciscan order in Denver years ago by an immigrant family from Assisi, Italy. They’d claimed it had been sculpted in the image of the saint himself, and that it possessed special powers to grant prayers. Since its arrival in Denver, the reputation of the statue had grown to legendary proportions. Even in its original home in the small prayer garden next to the St. Francis Center for Boys, the statue had attracted crowds. Many thought that paying a visit to the statue and saying a prayer was like having a direct line to God.

There were no documented miracles. Yet. But there were plenty of people who’d testified to the fact that the prayers they’d said to the statue had not only been answered but had changed their lives. People had fallen in love, marriages had been saved and babies had been born to supposedly infertile couples. And almost everyone testified to finding peace.

The article published in last Sunday’s edition of the Denver Post had included several of the stories. They ranged from recovering lost jewelry to improvements in health and relationships. There was even a local congresswoman who claimed she owed her latest election victory to St. Francis.

Nicola remembered a time when she’d believed in the power of the statue herself. She’d said a prayer, one she’d desperately wanted to be granted. But St. Francis hadn’t been listening that day. She hadn’t wasted another prayer on him since. But she was definitely in the minority.

When the St. Francis Center for Boys had been torn down and replaced by upscale townhomes as part of the city’s urban renewal program, Father Mike had received permission to relocate the statue to St. Francis Church. Since then the pilgrimages to pray to the statue had picked up in numbers.

Nearly half the money that had sustained the St. Francis Center had come from visitors who’d left donations in the small prayer garden where the statue had stood for fifteen years. Currently the three masses Father Mike commuted to say on Sunday were packed, and at least twenty percent of attendees were people from out of state who’d come to say a prayer.

What was the value of a piece of art that could answer your prayers? Nicola figured it might bring in a hefty price from some collector.

Evidently enough to have Father Mike hiring G. W. Securities, the premier firm in Denver, to protect it at its new location. That little known fact had also received quite a bit of play in the Denver Post article.

So if the statue of St. Francis was stolen, it would be the fourth piece of art snitched while under the protection of G. W. Securities. And to Nicola’s way of thinking that made the company’s owner, Gabe Wilder, a prime suspect. The fact that Gabe was the son of legendary thief Raphael Wilder added more weight to her suspicions.

“Turn left in twenty-five yards.”

As Nicola peered into the snow, a blast of wind slammed into her car and the rear wheels fishtailed. Holding her breath, she eased her foot off the gas and kept her hands steady on the wheel. Her headlights shifted, briefly pinning the SUV, and Nicola’s pulse jumped again. That was Gabe Wilder’s car all right.