Code Name: Bikini

“Call them again.” Gina straightened, frowning. “No. I’m almost done here so I’ll go. I need that mixer for the whole second segment.”

“You sure?”

As she went back to work, icing swirled beneath her skilled fingers and crimson petals bloomed over a white ground. Carefully she dusted edible flowers over the sides of the cake and the iced cake board.

“Whoa, great roses.” Andreas glanced over her shoulder.

Gina didn’t look up, securing a ribbon of lifelike petals across the top of the cake. When you dealt with buttercream, there were always worries, always mistakes. The trick was being fast enough and experienced enough to know how to cover them up. “Almost done here. Have Reggie bring the cake stands.”

She eased the second display cake from its box. The rich lemon batter had been enhanced by a liberal amount of rum, and the cake happened to be the captain’s favorite. Using her turntable, she whisked swirls of white all around the base and then anchored pink hearts cut from marzipan, each one dotted with an edible silver bead.

The result was pretty damned good. She stood back, warmed by a zing of pride.

No matter how many pastries she made, she always felt a glow of pleasure at creating a thing of beauty. She’d never planned to cook for a living. Growing up in a quiet suburb of Sacramento, she’d wavered between being the world surfing champion or a neurosurgeon. Her policeman father had encouraged her in both—right up until the day he’d taken a bullet in the heart during an armored car robbery. After that, life had taken Gina down a very different route.

She centered the cakes on a rolling cart. Behind her she heard Andreas fire up his crème brûlée torch.

Now she had to find that damned mixer.

SHOWTIME, Trace thought.

Staring at the receiving line, he picked out a senator, two congressmen and a whole lot of major-league diamonds. San Francisco society was out in force, it seemed. Ryker’s connections appeared to be solid gold.

There was too much loud laughter and too much jockeying for position next to the most powerful people. Trace glanced longingly at the bar displaying cans of ice-cold beer.

Wolfe appeared beside him, carrying two glasses of cola. “Skoal.”

“Hell, sir, you expect me to drink that?”

But Trace only pretended to complain. He rarely drank to excess, and in a crowd like this it would be stupid to drink at all. You never knew who you were rubbing shoulders with. Any casual remark could find its way to the E-ring of the Pentagon within hours, killing a good career overnight.

He glanced at the door, wishing he had an excuse to leave. Any excuse.

Trace realized that Wolfe was talking to him. “Sorry, sir. What did you say?”

“The senator’s wife just told me that a case of vintage champagne is held up somewhere down in the hotel’s receiving department.” Wolfe motioned toward the door. “You are hereby ordered to go find it. It’s that or keep explaining to people why you look like you hate these events, so get moving. And I want you back before this thing is finished, clear?”

“Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.” Trace scratched his cheek. “But it might take me longer than I think to find that missing champagne. Probably a real mess down there.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Wolfe muttered.

Trace grinned. With luck, he’d be back just in time to say his goodbyes.

THE HOTEL LOADING BAY was deserted, half in shadow.

The mixer was still in its box, wedged in a corner next to a row of folding chairs.

Gina tried to lift the box and staggered back, gasping. She’d forgotten how heavy a commercial mixer could be. And there was no one around to help her move the stupid thing.

On the other hand, there happened to be a forklift parked by the wall, and it was screaming her name.

Gina had spent two summers working in a warehouse, so she knew her way around forklift trucks. She hopped aboard, scanned the controls and gunned the motor. It took her less than a minute to maneuver across the small loading area and center the metal arms. She nudged the mixer into position, raised it four inches, locked the long arms in place and then swung wide.

“You mind watching where you aim that thing? I kind of like having my chest in one piece.”

And it was such a gorgeous chest, Gina thought, staring at her rescuer from earlier that afternoon.

The broad wall of muscle showed off his white uniform and rows of medals to perfection.

“Mind if I borrow your forklift for a few minutes?”

“Yes,” she snapped. What was he doing here? She didn’t have time to be distracted, not with two hundred people upstairs expecting a killer pastry presentation to begin any second. “Sorry, but I’m late. You’ll have to find your own ride. It’s every man for himself right now,” she said grimly.

Wheeling, she balanced the mixer and turned with small, precise movements.

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“Summer job,” she called over her shoulder.

Learning to drive a forklift had been easy. Getting along with the macho male warehouse staff had been the hard part. But she’d held her own and made good money those summers, enough for all her tuition and more. When summer ended, her male coworkers had been sorry to see her go.

She had almost finished her turn when a man’s voice echoed from someplace inside. Abruptly the heavy metal door of the loading bay started to slide shut.

“Hey, stop!” Gina shouted, trying to maneuver back out of reach.

But the door kept right on moving.

In her concentration, she barely saw the Navy officer jump up onto the area under the closing door. “Hold on,” he called over the din of creaking metal. “There has to be a manual override here somewhere.”

He wouldn’t find it in time, Gina thought desperately. She maneuvered sideways, her gaze locked on the moving door. Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow. She was yanked off the truck and pulled against a rock-hard chest.

“No. My beautiful Hobart mixer—”

“Can be replaced. You can’t,” the man said roughly. “That door probably weighs eight hundred pounds. You’d be hamburger, trust me.”

“Do something,” Gina whispered. Her presentation was going up in smoke before her eyes.

Caught against his chest, she watched in horror as metal ground down against metal. The forklift shuddered, crumpling slowly, with her mixer caught firmly beneath.

The man blew out a breath. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this.” He set Gina back on her feet, scanned the out-of-season tools and supplies lining the walls and grabbed a thick rope.

He circled the mixer and pulled hard, bending to the task, his face taut and arms rigid. As the door came lower, the space was plunged into shadow.

Gina heard the scrape of metal as she searched vainly for any kind of wall control panel or power button, but finally she had to give up. “Forget it,” she called. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He didn’t seem to hear, so she gripped his shoulder and yelled over the growl and grind of metal. “Let it go. It’s not your problem.”

As her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowed light, she saw that he had worked the big steel mixer several inches closer, but it wasn’t far enough. She flinched as the crucial piece of equipment was mangled by the door.

Finally the metal stopped moving. She took a shaky breath and sank against the wall, frantically trying to plan around the loss of the mixer.

“Are you okay?” The man’s voice was cool, precise. He’d recovered incredibly fast, Gina noticed. He wasn’t even breathing hard now. She, on the other hand, was a total wreck.

“Okay as in not hurt or maimed? I think so. Okay as in anticipating a happy life and a prosperous future? Definitely not. I’ve got two hundred people upstairs waiting for me and that mixer, and I am so screwed.” She looked up, stabbing a hand through her hair. “Thanks for trying, Mr.—”

“Trace.”

“Gina,” she said without really thinking. She stuck out one hand and felt a tug at her sleeve. Furious, she tried again.

No luck.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t move, that’s what’s wrong.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE LEANED RIGHT and left. This time there was a definite snag on her right side.

Trace moved closer. “Stay still.”

“But I—”

His hard body nudged hers. “Stop twisting around.” He ran a hand along the wall and then across her shoulders.

“What’s wrong? What did you find?”

“Give me a minute here. The light’s not great,” he said shortly. “I’ll get my cell phone.”

“Check the left pocket of my skirt,” Gina shot back. “Outside corner right under the snap.”

She felt his hand slide along her arm and into her pocket, searching to the bottom.

“How deep are these pockets?” He searched some more. “This feels like plastic. Do you always carry thermometers in your cargo pockets?”

“Knitting needles. Hand them over.” Gina turned a knob on the bottom of the long piece of plastic and instantly her hand was bathed in a blue-white glow. “They’re for knitting in the dark. I never leave home without them.” She held up the bright needle, trying to look over her shoulder, but Trace moved her back against the wall and angled the needle downward.

“I think I see the problem. A big piece of your sweater is caught in the joints of the loading-bay door. It must have happened when you were trying to find the control.”

She would never, ever knit bell sleeves again, Gina swore. She gave an experimental tug with her arm.

The man was right. Her sleeve was caught in the cross joint.

“You want me to cut it?”

Her heart fluttered. “Hand dyed cashmere yarn? I don’t think so. Do you have any idea what cashmere costs?”

His lips curved slightly. “In that case, I guess we’re stuck here until someone comes.”

We. Not you.

That was nice.

Gina’s eyes narrowed. Only maybe the man wasn’t heroic. Maybe he was a psychotic stalker who waited for opportunities to get women in deserted places and this was definitely deserted. After that he’d—

She remembered how he’d caught her cake boxes and balanced both of them carefully.

Nah. He was hero material, all right.

“Actually, there is another way to handle this,” he said thoughtfully.

“Anything. I’ve got a master class to give upstairs.” Desperation made her voice shrill.

He crossed his arms. She felt his gaze brush her face, her chest.

“Then take off the sweater.”

She stared at him. This was heading right into psycho territory after all. He even had a faint smile playing around his lips. Better nip this line of thought in the bud.

“Forget it. I can’t take the sweater off.”

“Why? I’ll help you. The sleeve doesn’t look that tight.”

“It’s not the sleeve.” Gina took an angry breath. “There’s not—I’m not—” She frowned at the wall. “I’m not wearing anything underneath the sweater. Is that clear enough for you?”

His mouth twitched. “I can see how that would be a little problem.”

If the man laughed, she was going to hit him in the face.

But he tilted up her knitting needle, studied the sweater and rubbed his jaw. “When did you say your class was supposed to start?”

“Five minutes ago.” Damn, damn, damn. She had to think. “My cell phone is in my purse. Call security and get them down here.”

He fumbled for her phone. “I don’t think they’ll get here fast enough to be much help.”

Gina blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “I can’t walk into my class naked. Well, half naked.”

“Wear my jacket. You can find a cook’s uniform somewhere in the kitchen, can’t you? That should tide you over.”

Why hadn’t she thought of that? It just might work.

“That’s good. But my sweater will still be hanging here.” No way was she losing all that excellent cashmere. The yarn had been worth a week’s wages.

“I’ll come back for it. I’ve got to track down a case of vintage champagne. After that I’ll drop off your sweater wherever your class is meeting.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “Hold on. Why are you being so nice?”

“Do I have to have a reason?”

“Absolutely.” She shoved a strand of hair out of her eyes. “If I know anything, I know this. Nobody does nice for nothing.”

“You’re wrong.”

Gina felt the skim of his hand at her neck, the heat of his body against her thighs. She swallowed. “No way.”

“I do,” he whispered.

An odd little flutter dipped into her chest. Gina felt something earthier and more reckless than simple gratitude.

She closed her eyes, hit with sudden images.

Her.

Him. Together in a hotel bed, doing things Gina hadn’t ever tried, putting herself into the hands of a stranger. Breaking all the rules.

She closed her eyes, forcing away dark images that left her skin hot and aching.

It had been too long, she thought. This was just reflex and cranky female hormones talking, nothing more.

She cleared her throat. “It’s a deal. Turn off the light while I get out of this sweater.”

The light vanished.

Just like that? No protests or trickery?

She wasn’t sure if she should be thrilled or insulted. Most men she knew would have tried to sneak at least one look. She shimmied out of her sweater, clutching the soft cashmere to her chest. “So—are you about ready? I just have to work free of this sleeve.”

The sweater came off. Cool air skimmed her naked breasts. She sensed Trace’s presence nearby.

Warm cloth settled around her shoulders.

“How’s that?” His voice was low and rough.

“F-fine.” No, it wasn’t fine. It was a very bad idea. Gina realized the uniform jacket was warm with the heat of his body, as intimate as the touch of his hands on her sensitive skin. The fabric also carried his scent, a mix of crisp outdoor air, citrus soap and sweat.

Kill me now, she thought dimly, intensely aware of how close he was standing.

Her nipples hardened as the cloth touched and skimmed, driving her crazy with the thought of his callused hands curved over all the same places.

Hel-lo.

The man is a stranger. Did you lose all functioning cells of your brain when the light went out?

There was only one answer.

Yes.

She felt reckless and hot, her fingers digging into the long sleeves of his uniform jacket. Whatever she wanted, he would do it. Here and now. They were alone and she’d never see him again, so what would it matter to let go, just this once?

“Are you ready to go? Your people will be waiting. Maybe you should call them.”

Earth to Mars. The man was dead right. When had her brain blown every fuse? “I’m ready. You can turn on that light again. Then I’ll make my call.”

She heard the rustle of cloth and saw his chest, rows of hard muscles outlined beneath a white T-shirt, caught in the glow of her knitting needle.

The sight made her knees go soft. Okay, the man had a chest out of her deepest fantasies. So what? You didn’t go to bed with a man just because he had a fantastic chest and abs to die for.

At least you shouldn’t, she thought wildly.

“My first topic is bed.” Gina felt her face go hot. “I mean, bread. Then I’m doing puff pastry and custard-style desserts. Andreas will be able to get things started.”

“Bread. I’ve always loved a hot loaf fresh from the oven. You must be a great teacher. And don’t worry about your sweater. I’ll bring it to you.” He took her arm, guiding her up a set of narrow metal steps.

Sweater? What sweater?

She was worrying about a lot more than some cashmere yarn. Right now her sanity seemed to be at risk.

“I appreciate your help.” She tried to ignore the way his muscles bunched and flexed as he moved in front of her to open an interior door.

But she couldn’t ignore the way her nipples felt, tight and hot, driving against the soft lining of his uniform. The friction was making her lose all focus as her body came alive.

“By the way, was that Mongolian cashmere? Four-ply?”

She simply stared at him.

All this, and the man knew about yarn, too? Be still my beating heart, she thought dizzily.

She managed to make her voice cool and casual. “You noticed that?”

“My friend is a knitter. A fanatic, actually. When she finally scored a whole bag of cashmere on eBay, she went nuts. I heard about it for months.”

“Your friend is a she?” Somehow the question just tumbled out. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she said stiffly.

His fingers cradled her wrists. For a moment he held her lightly, their bodies touching, while the sense of contact between them grew, nearly electric. Gina’s throat went dry.

“Miki,” he said quietly. “A she. Just a friend, in case it’s important.”

It shouldn’t have been.

She barely knew the man, so his friends and background were of no possible significance.

Like hell, they weren’t.

“You’re not—married or anything? Seeing anyone, I mean.” Great job, Ryan. Spell it out, why don’t you? Let him know you’re a complete tongue-tied idiot in a major state of lust.

“No one.” He slid one hand slowly over her hair. Just that and no more, letting the warm strands play through his fingers as if they were infinitely interesting. “What about you?”

Gina took a deep breath. “No one for me, either. No time for any of that stuff.”

“Good.” The word was rough.

He moved before she knew it, and his mouth brushed hers, careful and slow. Gina made a lost sound. Somehow her fingers were locked around his strong shoulders and there was no space between them. With her thigh to his, she felt the sudden tension of his body.

“Hell,” he whispered.

“What?”

“This. You. It shouldn’t be happening.” His tongue slid against hers, hot and searching, and Gina’s fingers tightened. He kissed her hard as if he couldn’t stop himself, but had to try. His arousal was unmistakable.

The suggestive pressure at the base of her stomach made her greedy for more.

The sharp vibration of her cell phone jolted her back to reality. She shouldn’t be doing this. She had never been interested in casual sex. She hadn’t been too good with long-term relationships, either. But the slick, damp feeling between her legs told Gina that her body was making up for lost time.

The vibration continued, and she dug in her purse, found her cell phone and answered breathlessly. “Yeah.”

“Chief, where are you?” Andreas sounded worried. “I’ve got Reggie at bat, but the natives are restless. You’ve got four food critics and six reporters up here, and they want you, not us.”

“I’m on the way. Ask Reggie to grab an extra white jacket in my size and leave it out, okay?”

“Why—”

“Don’t ask. Just stall. I’ll be there in five.”

“You got it. There’s a television crew here, too. Someone from the home office set it up and forgot to let us know.”

Gina coughed back a sound of dismay. No need to worry Andreas more than he already was. “Not a problem. We’ll start with the bed recipe—I mean, bread,” she said quickly.

Great.

Silence. “Gina, are you okay? You sound…strange.”

She struggled through a haze of major lust and stared up at Trace. He was focused on her entirely, his hands open on her shoulders. His attention—and his control—were nearly tangible.

Another major turn on, she thought. How long since a man had listened to her, watched with that kind of total focus and concern?

Never, a small voice whispered.

“I’m fine, Andreas. See you in five.” She powered off her cell phone and shoved it into her pocket. There was so much more to say, so much more that could have happened then.

But her time was up.

“I have to go.” Her voice was strained. “I can’t let them deal with this without me.”

He nodded as if he understood. “The elevator is beyond those stairs. Make a left and then a quick right. You can’t miss it.”

“How do you know where the elevator is?”

“I memorized the hotel floor plan. It’s a habit of mine.”

She frowned, suddenly aware how different his life was from hers and how unlikely it was that they’d ever met.

That knowledge made her push to her toes and rest her palm against his cheek, savoring the heat of his body. “Thank you.”

She felt his jaw flex. “I did nothing special.”

“Wrong. I’d forgotten there could be giving with no strings. I’d forgotten—a lot of things. You just reminded me.”

She brushed her mouth across his, feeling the instant rise of heat.

Him. Her.

They both felt it. His body left no mistake about that.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Gina forced herself to climb the stairs. No point in dragging things out. “After I change, I’ll leave your jacket upstairs in the kitchen. It’s just off the ballroom. Good luck with the champagne.” She smiled briefly. “I’ll…see you around.”

But she wouldn’t. They both knew that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HE WATCHED HER GO, her hair swinging, her steps fast. Great legs, he thought. A woman with places to go and people to see.

He wanted her to stay.

She was mouthy and stubborn, but he liked her energy. He also liked her sense of loyalty to her kitchen team. Trace knew all about the importance of team loyalty.

But five hours to make one cake?

He felt a dull ache at his shoulder and grimaced. He was regretting his wrestling match with the big mixer, but he hadn’t done any real damage. Any pain had been more than offset by her smile of thanks and gentle kiss.

Great mouth, too.

Then he shrugged off the memory. She wasn’t his type. He’d always favored leggy blondes or sultry brunettes, women who liked to feel a man’s body fast and hard, without much discussion.

He rubbed his neck and wondered why the other women he could remember suddenly seemed pale and uninteresting.

He glanced at his watch.

Vintage champagne, he thought wryly. But first he was going to chew someone’s butt for closing the loading door without maintaining direct visual contact with the area. There was probably an override switch somewhere, but it was nowhere in sight, and someone could have been killed beneath the heavy door. The hotel was damned lucky that their only casualties were a forklift truck and a Hobart mixer.

After he retrieved his uniform jacket from the kitchen, he’d report that problem to security.

“LOOKING FOR SOMEONE?” Wolfe stole through the crowd, his smile forced.

“Just an escape route. I found the missing champagne. The senator’s wife seemed very happy.” Trace set his untouched glass of punch on a nearby table. “Is it just me or do these things keep getting worse?”

“Yes,” Wolfe said cryptically. “Don’t look now but the senator is gesturing. We should go make nice-nice.”

Trace uttered a sound of pain and eyed the open bar wistfully. “I didn’t sign up to play nice. I signed up for det cords and delayed rocket rounds.”

“Welcome to the New Navy,” Wolfe muttered.

TEN MINUTES LATER Trace stood at the back of the crowded room finishing a shrimp canapé that tasted like cardboard. To his left a journalist was trying to draw Wolfe into an argument about the necessity of collateral damage during wartime operations. Not that he’d succeed.

Finally Wolfe broke away, looking harassed as a woman slid a business card with her phone number into his pocket. “If I’m not brain dead, I will be in another five minutes.” Wolfe glanced at his watch, then examined the thinning crowd. “We’re done here. Let’s roll.”

“Hallelujah.” Trace headed to the door without a backward glance. He and Wolfe said polite goodbyes to the senator and his wife, then breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the elevators.

Trace consulted his memory of the hotel floor plan and hit the elevator button down.