The Proposition

Natalie took his fingers and removed them from her mouth. “That’s your proposition? No-strings, no-complications, no-etiquette sex?”

“Exactly.” Chance made himself stop with one word. Because he was very much afraid that he was going to babble. Worse still, he just might beg.

Her grin was quick and wicked. He’d never seen that look on her face before, and his heart did a little stutter.

“Proposition accepted,” she said.

Chance’s heart stopped altogether.

NATALIE LED the way down a narrow flagstone path to the back of a Federal-style house just three blocks away from the Blue Pepper. Lantern lights hung on either side of the door to her apartment.

She’d never before brought a man here—to her own space. But when Chance had suggested her place because it had to be closer than his hotel on Sixteenth Street, Natalie hadn’t argued. If she was going to give herself over to one night of reckless, no-strings, no-etiquette sex, she might as well do it in familiar surroundings.

Chance had said nothing since they’d left the Blue Pepper. He hadn’t touched her either, but she’d been very much aware of him walking at her side. When she drew the key out of her purse and slid it into the door, he laid a hand on hers.

She turned to look at him then. The full moon poured brightly into the garden behind him, but Chance’s face was caught in shifting shadows. His eyes were dark, and she couldn’t read what he was thinking.

“Second thoughts?” he asked.

The kindness of the question had some of the nerves in her stomach settling. But she’d made her decision, and she wasn’t going to run away from it. Shaking her head, she said, “You?”

“No.”

She led the way into the narrow foyer. After shutting the door with his foot, Chance moved quickly, using his arms and body to cage her against the wall.

“It’s not a night for any kind of thought,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to within a breath of hers. “Tonight we’re just going to feel.”

Any lingering doubts streamed away in that first touch of his lips to hers. His mouth was firm, but giving, his hands almost gentle as he ran them up her arms and slipped them into her hair. And his taste—there was a dark sweetness there that she hadn’t expected. Natalie had one long moment to take a heady sample of it before he moved in even closer. His body, rock-hard, pressed against her, and she felt her own body soften and yield in response. He nipped her bottom lip then slid his tongue over hers.

Heat, one glorious, scorching wave of it, rushed up and over her. If she’d ever been more aware of a man before, she couldn’t recall it. Everything about him was hard—his chest, his hands, the angle of his hip and the long length of his thigh. Even his mouth had grown harder, more demanding, as if he was determined to find some flavor that she was hiding from him.

It wasn’t sweetness she tasted anymore, but a hungry desperation. Was it his or hers?

And all the while those clever, glorious hands raced over her—tracing the curve of her throat, cupping her breasts, and gripping her bottom to pull her even closer. Fire licked along her nerve endings as one sensation after another pulsed through her. Her body had throbbed before, but not like this. Her heart had hammered before, but not as if it intended to burst right out of her chest.

“More.”

Had she said the word aloud? The question had barely formed in her mind, when he answered it by slipping fingers into the vee of her blouse and ripping it open. Then in a lightning move, he jerked what remained of her blouse down her arms, trapping her hands at her sides.

Vulnerability. It was a feeling she’d fought against all of her life. But Natalie welcomed it now, along with the deeply erotic thrill that shot through her. She’d prided herself on always being in charge—on the job, in bed. Now, as those hard hands moved over her again, she couldn’t remember why she’d even wanted to be in control. When he began to use his mouth on her, she gave herself over to a fresh storm of sensations—the hot, rough texture of his tongue at her throat, the scrape of his teeth at her shoulder. One instant she burned, the next, she shivered.

Someone laughed. She didn’t recognize the low, sultry sound, and then his mouth closed over her breast. Fire, furious flames of it, sped along her nerve endings. There was another rip of cloth as she tore her arms free from her blouse. Then she threaded her fingers through his hair and tried to drag his mouth back to hers.

“More,” she repeated.

Her whispered plea became a drumbeat in his mind as hunger and need tangled inside of him. He’d been right that it wasn’t a night for thinking. He couldn’t seem to grab on to one coherent thought. Nor could he resist returning for one more sample of her mouth.

Would he ever get enough of the sweet, drugging flavor of her surrender, that throaty gasp of pleasure that ended in his name? And her scent—something wild and exotic that made him think of taking her quickly on a deserted, moonlit beach while waves thundered furiously over the sand.

Another second and he would simply drown in her. Drawing back, Chance fought to breathe, to clear his mind.

“Hurry. Please.”

Her words started his blood pounding in his head. Helpless to resist, he covered her lips again with his and plundered. This time it wasn’t sweetness he tasted, but a hunger as sharp and desperate as his own. The hands running over him were as eager and determined to possess as his. The change in her from surrender to fevered urgency swamped his senses, and need sliced through him.

His fingers fumbled as he tore her belt free and sent her slacks pooling to the floor. He ran his hand down her, pushing aside the remaining barrier of silk. Hanging on to a thin thread of control, he lifted his head—because he had to see her, needed to see her, as he slipped two fingers into her heat. She locked around him, and he watched her eyes darken and cloud as she absorbed the pleasure he was giving her. He knew the moment her climax began, and when she reached the peak, it was his name she breathed. The sound sliced through him and sharpened an ache deep inside him, sharper than any he’d ever known.

Even as the last ripples of her climax moved through her, Natalie knew she had to have more of him. Of this man. Of Chance. She pulled his shirt free and tugged at his belt. Together, they struggled to free him of slacks, T-shirt, shoes until the only barrier between them was the thin black fabric of his briefs. Unable to take the time to pull them down, she closed her hand over him.

“The bedroom.” His voice was ragged.

“Here,” she replied.

They dragged each other to the floor. Once they were there, she lost no time. Rolling herself on top of him, she began to explore him with her mouth, using her tongue and teeth on his shoulder, his throat, his chest. She couldn’t get enough. Her heart had never beaten this hard. Her body had never ached this sharply.

Rising to her knees, she straddled his thighs, dragged down his briefs. Hands clamped at her waist. He lifted her clear of the floor, and then she was sinking onto him. The moment he filled her, they began to move. Through a haze, she saw his smoky eyes, locked on hers as he filled her, withdrew, then filled her again. Pleasure, waves of it, engulfed her as they both increased the pace. As her vision grayed, she leaned down to cover his mouth with hers.

“Now,” she murmured against his lips. “Come with me, now.”

In one lightning move, he rolled her beneath him. Then he drove her, drove them both, until together they reached that peak and shattered.

2

Three months later…

WITH ONE HAND, Chance Mitchell reached into the cooler at his side and pulled out a beer. He was being watched. It was nothing that he could see in his brief scan of the shoreline—not yet. Still, the moment the boat he was on had rounded that last curve of the coast, all of Chance’s senses had gone on alert.

“The hair on the back of my neck tells me that I’m posing for pictures,” Tracker said from his position behind the wheel.

“Yeah,” Chance replied. That cinched it. If there was one person whose instincts he trusted more than his own, it was Tracker’s. “I’m getting the same feeling.”

Chance twisted off the cap on his beer and took a long swallow, all the while keeping a tight grip on his fishing pole. To any observer he looked like he was enjoying the fishing that the waters off the south Florida coast provided. That’s exactly what he wanted the security people he knew were watching him to believe.

And if they checked into it—as he was sure they were doing right now—they would find that the boat was registered to Lucas Wainwright III, CEO of Wainwright Enterprises, and that the man himself had indeed flown in from D.C. to spend the weekend in Boca Raton and had had his boat brought in from his place on the Keys.

Chance pulled his hat down hard. Luckily, he and his old friend Lucas were the same height and build, so all he’d had to do was use temporary black dye on his hair. But there was no telling how powerful those cameras were, and he didn’t want anyone on shore getting a good look at his facial features.

Something hit the line hard. The pole bent nearly double, then twanged upward. Chance nearly laughed out loud. Sometimes, he really loved undercover work. Here he was, on a job staking out the isolated Florida estate of Carlo Brancotti—a millionaire who’d made his fortune stealing from others—and he was going to have the pleasure of battling and landing a big catch. He couldn’t have planned it better for the audience that he was sure was recording his every move.

The only thing that might please him more was to land Carlo himself. Two years ago, a huge yellow diamond, the size of a baby’s fist, had disappeared from the Ferrante private collection in Rome, and Chance had been on Brancotti’s trail ever since. The theft had occurred while the jewel was in transport between the Ferrante palace and the museum where it was to be displayed. The real diamond had been taken and an amazingly accurate fake had been substituted.

From the moment he’d been called in to investigate the heist, Chance had been sure that Brancotti was the mastermind behind it. He’d been tracking the man for a long time, and Brancotti’s trademark was to leave an almost undetectable fake in place of the real jewel. By the time the theft was discovered, Brancotti would have found a buyer, and there would be no evidence to connect the man with the crime.

In this case, the substitution had been discovered within days because Count Ferrante had insisted on an appraisal of the diamond for insurance purposes just before the exhibition was opened to the public.

Chance had sold the insurance company and the count on offering a reward for the diamond, one large enough to tempt Brancotti to give it back. And Brancotti had taken the bait. It had been a good idea. If it had worked, the count would have gotten his diamond back, and Chance would have settled an old score and put Brancotti behind bars.

But the plan had gone terribly wrong, and Chance had lost his partner, Venetia Gaston.

The fish pulled hard on his line, and Chance dragged his thoughts back to the present. Mindful of the telescopic lens he was sure was aimed at him, he began to play the fish, releasing the tension on the line and then gradually pulling it taut again.

For two long years, he’d waited for news of a large yellow diamond to surface, and a week ago it had. Through one of his contacts, he’d received a tip that Carlo Brancotti was inviting a very select group of men and women to a weekend at his retreat in south Florida and that the Ferrante diamond would be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

The heightened security along the shoreline of Carlo’s estate cinched it. Carlo Brancotti was meticulously careful. That was why he’d never been caught. Tilting his head slightly, Chance kept one eye on his pole as he scanned the shoreline. The south Florida sun beat down, sending sparks skimming across the back-wash the boat was creating, but he didn’t miss the flash in the thick cypress trees that lined the shore, light reflecting off a lens. Someone was definitely watching them. He felt the quick kick of adrenaline that he always experienced when he knew the hunt was about to begin.

“Showtime,” he said to Tracker. “I’m going to need your help with this fish. It’s big.”

“Damn. You have all the luck.”

A second later, his old buddy was at his side. He’d been pleased when Tracker had agreed to help him with the case—they made a good team. Together, they watched the fish leap out of the water in a huge, graceful arc. The pole bent nearly double again as the fish dove below the surface.

“You spot anything?” Tracker asked as he grabbed Chance’s chair to steady it.

“One of them is at two o’clock as you face the shore.”

“Got it,” Tracker said. “There’s another one about a thousand yards to the left.”

The fish cleared the water again.

“A lot of security,” Chance remarked as he reeled in the line.

“Must be something needs guarding,” Tracker said.

“That’s the way I figure it, too. Keep a watch, will you? Landing this fish is going to require all of my attention. And if they’re watching me, maybe you can pick out a few more of them.”

“Right,” Tracker said.

For the next few minutes, they said nothing as Chance let out the line and then drew it in, over and over. By the time Tracker dipped the net over the side of the boat and they hauled the fish in, the boat had moved past the Brancotti estate.

Chance waited until they’d turned and were headed back. Tracker kept the throttle open, and Chance stood at the wheel with him while the video camera on the stern side of the boat recorded every inch of the shoreline. This time there was no telltale flash of light. Evidently, their cover had held. The photos that would make their way to Brancotti would show a very happy fisherman, heading home after a satisfying catch.

“Can you get in along the shore without being detected?” Chance asked.

Tracker grinned. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

“Carlo doesn’t leave anything to chance.”

“Getting you off the estate will be the easy part. You’ve got the tough job. You’ve got to get on the estate by getting invited to the party. And you have to steal the diamond.”

Chance smiled at his old friend. “I’ve got an invite already, thanks to a contact of mine. As for stealing the diamond—that will be the fun part.”

Turning, Tracker studied his friend for a minute. “This is more than a job to you, isn’t it?”

“Carlo and I go back a long way.” Longer than Chance would ever admit to anyone. He and Carlo had lived in the same orphanage for a year—one long year when he’d been a scrawny twelve-year-old and Carlo had been seventeen and his only friend and mentor. Of course, their names had been different then. Chance had hero-worshipped the older boy. But the friendship had died the night that Carlo had robbed the orphanage and made sure that Chance got the blame for the theft. That had been twenty years ago.

Tracker shot his friend a look. “If it’s personal between you and Brancotti, that could get in your way.”

“I won’t let it.”

“Is there any chance he’ll recognize you?”

“No. I was twelve the last time we saw each other.”

Tracker frowned, then said, “Why don’t I go in with you? I could pose as your bodyguard or your personal assistant.”

Chance grinned and shook his head. “Thanks, but I already have a partner in mind, and you won’t fit into the wardrobe.”

“There’s a wardrobe?”

“An expensive one. I’ll be posing as Steven Bradford. You probably haven’t heard of him because he’s very low-key, but he’s a software genius who made his billions in the high-tech boom. And as Steven, I’ll be bringing along my latest companion, a model type who, with my backing, is hoping to jettison her career into supermodel status.”

Tracker grinned. “The nerd and his arm candy.”

“Exactly.” Chance paused, then said what he’d been thinking about ever since he’d accepted the assignment. “I’m going to ask Natalie Gibbs to work with me.”

Tracker thought for a minute. “She’s a looker all right.”

“She’s the right body type and with blond hair she’ll be a dead ringer for Catherine Weston, who now calls herself ‘Calli.’” But it wasn’t just her looks that had kept Detective Natalie Gibbs in his mind and in his dreams for three straight months.

“I did some research on her.” He’d run a thorough check on Natalie, partly to figure out why she’d gotten to him. “Her father, Harry Gibbs, was an international jewel thief. One of those legends who’s the prime suspect in every big heist, but who never got caught. He died in an accident about six years ago.”

“The father’s a jewel thief and the daughter becomes a cop. Interesting.”

Fascinating was the word Chance would have chosen. The hell of it was, the more he’d learned about Natalie Gibbs, the more intrigued by her he’d become. “She’s not the only daughter. She’s the oldest of a set of triplets.” According to one source he’d talked to, Natalie took her position as the oldest quite seriously, especially since their mother had passed away six years ago.

“She evidently inherited some of her father’s talents,” Chance continued. “She worked her way through college cracking safes for various law enforcement agencies.”

Tracker eased the boat around a curve of land that cut them off from the Brancotti estate, then turned to study his friend. “Sophie’s pretty sure that there’s something going on between the two of you. Or that there could be something. She swears that sparks fly whenever you’re in the same room together.”

Chance shrugged. “It won’t interfere with the job.”

“It could interfere with your thinking. Take it from someone who’s been there.”

“The bottom line is I need her for the job. She’s got a cool head.” Except for when she was exploding in his arms. “Plus, she has a gift for disguise and a knack for undercover work.”

Tracker hadn’t taken his eyes off Chance. “You’re sure about this?”

Chance met Tracker’s eyes steadily. “She’s exactly what I want.” That was nothing less than the truth. Even before that one night in her apartment, he’d wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever met. The mistake he’d made was to think that having her once would get her out of his system. His miscalculation about that wasn’t the only error he’d made that night. He’d never been so rough with a woman before. Hell, he’d ripped her clothes off and taken her on the floor of her foyer. And he hadn’t been much gentler later in her bed.

To top everything off, he’d left before she’d awakened and flown off to London without so much as a note or a phone call to say goodbye. Chance liked women, and he prided himself on treating them well. But he hadn’t treated Natalie very well.

Truth be told, his response to Natalie Gibbs had scared him. It hadn’t been just the lack of control he’d had over his physical response to her. No. There’d been a moment when he’d stood in the doorway of her bedroom watching her sleep when he simply hadn’t wanted to leave. Ever.

That was unprecedented. Chance Mitchell never stayed in one place, never intended to settle down. He changed his name as often as he changed locations. But something about Natalie Gibbs pulled at him. That was why he hadn’t called or sent flowers. Now, three months later, he wanted her to help him catch Brancotti. And he still wanted her, period.

“You haven’t run any of this by Natalie yet?” Tracker asked.

“No.”

Tracker grinned. “I’d say you have your work cut out for you—on more than one front. She struck me as the straight-as-an-arrow type and I don’t have to tell you that you’ve always taken the riskier approach.”

“Yeah.” Tracker was the one who’d nicknamed him “Chance” when they’d worked together in a Special Forces unit.

“Have you got a plan?”

“Not yet.” Three days ago, he’d called her department, but at the last minute, he’d asked to talk to her partner, Matt Ramsey, instead.

“She didn’t strike me as the type who could be easily conned,” Tracker said, his grin widening.

“No.” Chance bit back a sigh. If he was going to convince Natalie Gibbs to join him, he was going to have to pull off some fancy moves all right. And so far, he hadn’t come up with a plan that had a chance in hell of succeeding.

“Tell you what,” Tracker said. “Sophie’s throwing a party at her antique shop on Friday to showcase some local artists. Natalie will be there. Why don’t you come?”

Chance thought for a minute. If he ran into Natalie at a party, she couldn’t refuse to see him. She’d have no choice but to talk to him at least.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Chance said. That gave him about forty-eight hours to come up with a strategy. Deadlines always sparked his creativity.

“Good. I was sure I was going to be bored. Now, I’ll have the chance to observe a master con man at work.”

“HERE ARE THE latest acceptances to your party.”

Carlo Brancotti didn’t glance up from his computer screen as his personal assistant, Lisa McGill, placed a manila folder on his desk. He was a careful man. Some judged him to be too careful, but he hadn’t remained at the top of his profession by letting down his guard. Anything out of the ordinary was reported to him instantly, and his surveillance team had phoned him the minute the boat had been spotted so close to shore. They’d already traced the license plate. It belonged to Lucas Wainwright. Frowning, he tapped his fingers on his desk. Wainwright…the name was familiar, but the details escaped him.

Suddenly, the information appeared on the screen. Carlo scanned it quickly. Lucas Wainwright, CEO of Wainwright Enterprises, owner of a resort hotel in the Keys and another in South Beach, frequently used his boat to fish.

Satisfied, Carlo turned his attention to Lisa. “Report.”

“All of the usuals, Sir Arthur and Lady Latham, the Moto brothers, the Demirs and Hassam Aldiri.”

“And the first-timers?”

Lisa frowned a bit. First-timers made her nervous because there was a chance, always a chance, that one of them would be a plant, someone that a big insurance company or a law enforcement agency had gotten to. Carlo was looking forward to that very possibility. Foiling those who thought they could catch him was half the fun of the business he was in. More than anything, he enjoyed the game. He always had. The money was just a very pleasant side benefit.

“Risa Manwaring, Armand Genovese and Steven Bradford have all accepted, and they will arrive on Sunday.”

The disapproval in her voice had him biting back a smile as he opened the file she’d placed on his desk. He wouldn’t show any disapproval for her concern, for it was her job to worry and to keep him safe. “You’ve put them under surveillance?”

“Of course.”

Carlo nodded in approval as he examined the photos in the file. Lisa had already run background checks on all three—Risa Manwaring, the retired film star, who now lived in seclusion; Armand Genovese, the Italian businessman, with rumored ties to organized crime; and Steven Bradford, the software genius, who reportedly had money to burn. Each would have his or her own reasons for wanting to acquire the Ferrante diamond. Which one, he wondered, would have that special craving for it that would run up the price?

Taking out the photos, he lined them up in a neat row, then pulled a magnifying glass from his desk. Not one of them offered a clear, accurate image. “These were the best you could get hold of?”

“Yes. I’m still working on it.”

He nodded in approval, but he didn’t expect her to find any better pictures of his future guests. He’d chosen these three specifically because all three shunned the media.

Which one would the man who called himself Chance Mitchell be impersonating? That was the question.