Her Private Treasure

“You ran the tags.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He said nothing for a long moment as he studied her. “Well, I suppose somebody at the Bureau is taking my suspicions seriously if they sent you.”

She started to argue with him, to explain that the only reason she’d been sent was because he was friends with a powerful man. But admitting that would be admitting she had no influence and simply did as she was told. Plus, despite the urge not to be, she was flattered he recognized her investigative skills.

“We appreciate the cooperation of concerned citizens and follow up on any tip that will lead to the arrest and conviction of anyone participating in criminal activity.”

“Ah, the pat, politically correct answer. Not what I would have expected from a woman who risked her career by questioning Senator Grammer’s son.”

Malina felt the blood drain from her head as humiliation washed over her. “Agent Clairmont told you.”

Hamilton nodded. “As I’m sure he mentioned, we’re old friends. For what it’s worth, he considers you an asset to the Bureau. He also respects your willingness to do whatever it takes to see justice served, even if your methods are sometimes rash.”

“That kid was guilty as sin,” she said, fighting to talk past her tight jaw, even as she felt a quick spurt of pleasure in hearing her boss respected her.

“Sam thinks so, too. Power buys silence way too easily.”

“Not with me.”

“So noted. But I’m guessing a drug-and/or art-smuggling case could put a nice letter of commendation in your file. Not to mention I’m suddenly moved to make a generous campaign donation to whoever runs against that idiot Grammer in the next election.”

Her gaze shot to his. “Surely you didn’t just attempt to bribe a government agent.”

A wide, breath-stealing smile bloomed on his face. “Surely not.”

She rose slowly to her feet. Who the hell was this guy?

Smart, successful and wealthy. A law-abiding citizen who took untold hours of his time to investigate a professional neighbor, then used a powerful association to see that his observations were taken seriously. Was he bored, curious or did he have a hidden agenda?

Bracing her hands on his desk, she noted he’d stood when she had and now she was forced to look up at him. At five-seven, she wasn’t a tiny woman, but the height and breadth of him made her feel small and feminine in comparison. “I’m here to follow up on your information as ordered by my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Samuel Clairmont. Do you have anything further to add to your previous statements?”

“I imagine you’d be interested in the storage garage Jack keeps under an assumed name in Charleston, which currently houses a brand-new Lotus Elise.”

“How do you—” She stopped, shaking her head, irritated that he’d, yet again, managed to surprise her. “You followed him.”

“I’d also like to point out that he chose Ardent Red instead of British Racing Green for the exterior paint.” He cocked his head. “Do you think that’s an indicator of law-abiding citizen versus master smuggler?”

Temper brought heat to her cheeks. “Mr. Hamilton, I’m—”

“Call me Carr.”

“Mr. Hamilton, I’m advising—no,” she amended, “I’m ordering you to bring your amateur investigation to a halt. Do not question Mr. Rafton or his associates. Do not ask others about him and definitely do not follow him. The Bureau will look into your information and take things from here.”

“But you don’t really believe me.”

“I do, in fact. I trust that you saw what you say you have. What those observations mean is an entirely different subject.” She reached into her pocket for a business card, which she laid on his desk to avoid touching him again. It seemed imperative that she get away from this man as fast as possible. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.” She turned, then paused and glanced back. “Or if you find Jimmy Hoffa.”

With that parting shot, she headed toward the door, longing to run when she sensed him following her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, a blend of sandalwood and amber, as warm and enticing as the man himself.

Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke. “Professional considerations aside, I’d like to take you to dinner sometime.”

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Sorry. You’re a witness. I’m not allowed.”

“But you’re not even certain a crime has been committed.”

Despite what she’d told him and the sheer unlikelihood of anything significant happening on Palmer’s Island, she knew there was. Her instincts were buzzing, and they hadn’t steered her wrong yet.

Well, except for that senatorial questioning thing.

“I’m investigating,” she said shortly, hoping to further discourage him.

Either he didn’t get the signal or he didn’t care, since he reached out, sliding his fingertip along her jaw, sending waves of heat racing down her body. “And I imagine you don’t give a damn about what’s allowed.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t. At least she never had.

And look where that attitude had led you.

Opening the door, she stepped out of his reach. “I also don’t have time to get involved. I’m going to close as many cases as I can and get back to D.C., where I belong, as soon as possible.”

Disappointment moved across his handsome face. He slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Thanks for coming.”

She regretted her abrupt tone but didn’t see how she could change what was. “One last thing about Rafton.” Though she already knew the answer, caution demanded she ask. “This isn’t personal, right? Rafton didn’t hit your car or steal your girlfriend?”

“No. And I don’t have a girlfriend.” His dark eyes gleamed with power and possession. “If I did, neither Jack Rafton nor any other man would take her.”

2

AS CARR SIPPED his whiskey at The Night Heron bar, he watched out the back windows as boats docked and launched for sunset cruises down the Intracoastal Waterway, then rounded the tip of the island and out into the Atlantic.

Had he finally spent too much time slowing down and reflecting?

Observation had become a staple. Watching other people do interesting things.

For so many years, he’d been on the fast track. He’d spent every waking moment establishing a lucrative practice in Manhattan, fighting for clients with prospects for big payoffs, dismissing others he might have helped but whose cases weren’t as profitable.

He’d dispassionately profited from suffering and built a fortune and fierce reputation by doing so.

He hadn’t paused to notice small, everyday things. To stroll the beaches he’d grown up on. To appreciate love and friendship. To watch the birds glide across the night sky.

It had taken the death of his uncle and mentor to jolt him.

Uncle Clinton had departed his life respected, rich and bitterly alone. He’d coldly extracted every penny from every case he’d taken on. He’d corrupted idealistic law school graduates with promises of wealth and power. Few, other than the descendants who inherited his money, had mourned him.

As Carr had watched heaps of fertile earth drop onto his uncle’s casket, he knew he was destined for the same end. And he knew he had to find another path.

That had been two years ago, and while he didn’t regret finding his roots again and settling on quiet Palmer’s Island, the sparks of need for excitement came more frequently these days.

Dear heaven, did he have to fade into tedium? Was that his penance? “Hel-lo, gorgeous.”

Certain he wasn’t being addressed, Carr nevertheless glanced at Jimmy, The Heron’s weekday bartender, and noted his gaze locked on the door behind Carr. “What hot blonde are you fixated on tonight?”

“Brunette,” he returned, his eyes following the subject in question.

Carr didn’t bother to turn. Being barely twenty-one, Jimmy’s taste inevitably skewed young. At thirty-five, Carr wasn’t even remotely swimming in the same pool.

Instead, he stared at his whiskey.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice asked seconds later.

Raising his head, Carr blinked, but Special Agent Malina Blair was still sliding onto the bar stool next to him, changing his evening from watchful boredom to stimulating possibility in a matter of seconds.

“Drinking.” He raised his glass as he absorbed her lovely features. “Join me?”

Her exotic turquoise gaze slid from his face to his glass and back again. “Why the hell not?”

He only had to lift his finger to get Jimmy assembling her drink. “I like you a lot better when you’re speaking your mind instead of spouting Bureau platitudes.” Not that he hadn’t liked her then as well. His fingers tingled with the urge to pull her silky-looking dark hair from the restraining ponytail secured at the base of her neck. “How’s the investigation progressing?”

“I would like you a lot better if you’d stay out of my case,” she said as Jimmy set the drink before her.

“So now it’s a case?”

She rolled her shoulders. “It is.”

He’d had faith in her sense of justice, but he was relieved to have the instinct confirmed. Sam had been right in that she was the agent for the job.

Did his good deed erase one of the black marks next to his name?

He wasn’t sure—especially since his greatest desire was to seduce her into compromising her professional code of ethics and sleeping with him.

She sipped her drink, never wincing.

Though he considered his brand of imported whiskey smooth, he knew plenty of people who found it too bracing. Women mostly. But then Malina Blair was tougher than the exotic island beauty she appeared to be.

“You like whiskey?” he asked her, fascinated by the way her pillowy lips cupped the crystal.

“Not especially.” She rattled the ice in her glass. “This is nice, though. Stop me if I lose my senses and have the urge to shoot somebody.”

“I’m here to serve. Lousy day?”

“Lousy month.”

“I imagine so. But do you define yourself completely by your job?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

That path led nowhere, as Carr well knew. She’d be so much happier if she fell into bed with him. He wondered how long it would take him to manage it.

Certainly the key to this lady’s heart wouldn’t be found in candy, flowers and suggestive compliments. “So I assume you’ve spent the last thirty-six hours pursuing the case. What have you learned?”

“That boat captains on small islands like to gossip, and your friend Jack Rafton is well liked, even if he has been coming and going at odd hours lately.”

“Which you already knew by talking to me.”

She shrugged. “Corroboration was necessary.”

He was dying to watch that cool nonchalance fall away with the right touch. Because beneath the frustrated heat under her staid, navy-blue suit, the fire of a passionate woman lurked.

With effort, he managed to focus on their conversation. “If you need more details, you might talk to the harbormaster, Albert Duffy. He knows everything about everyone. Though you’d do better to charm him than flash your badge.”

She looked at him, then glanced at her watch with a sigh. “I have a meeting with Albert Duffy in twenty minutes.”

Carr tracked his gaze slowly down her body. “Not that I don’t think you look amazing—and I believe Jimmy is impressed as well—you’d do better showing Al a little leg.”

She bared her teeth. “I could always show him the wrong side of a federal interrogation room.”

He leaned toward her, lowering his voice several pitches. “Subtlety often works better than force.”

Her gaze moved to his and held. Desire lingered in the depth of her eyes, clear as the tropical water they mimicked. Her beautiful lips parted, and for a moment, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he thought she was going to give in to the need so obviously pulsing between them.

Tedium had vanished the moment she’d appeared, and the sensation was heady.

“Who’s Jimmy?” she asked, leaning back and breaking the spell.

“The bartender.” Carr inclined his head toward the young man pouring vodka in a glass for another customer. “Wave. I think he has a crush on you.”

She never looked in Jimmy’s direction but said, “He’s too young. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Drinking, as I said earlier. But also volunteering to be your assistant, guarding your virtue, so to speak, as well as helping break the ice with Al. I’m one of the few people he actually likes.”

“I thought I told you to stay out of this case.”

“It’s my bar.”

“Literally?”

“Yes, plus I live across the street.”

Admiration sparked in her eyes. “The house on the point.”

“How did you know?”

She drained the rest of her drink. “It’s you.”

“You’re hedging. You’ve certainly run a deep search on me by now. You know my address, my background, my professional history and financial status. I bet you even know what grade I received on my contract law midterm my junior year of college and whether I prefer boxers or briefs. Before you walked through the door, you knew I owned this place. Why the subterfuge? Why pretend surprise at finding me here?”

“I live for subterfuge,” she scoffed.

“Stop,” he said quietly but firmly. The sarcasm was a defense mechanism that she obviously used to keep people from probing too deeply. A way of maintaining distance. “It wouldn’t kill you to accept my help.”

“No, but it might compromise my case. Plus…”

When she stopped, he prompted, “Plus?”

“I don’t understand your motives. Why are you going to all this trouble? Why do you want to get involved in this investigation? What’s in it for you?”

She didn’t trust him. Not surprising, since he didn’t trust himself. The bribery attempt, a remnant of his old ways, had been a huge misstep. But he’d wanted to know what kind of agent he was dealing with, despite Sam’s assurances that Malina was fiercely ethical.

“It’s my duty,” he said finally.

“As what?”

“A citizen of the United States.”

She shook her head. “Nobody’s that committed and idealistic.”

“But they should be.” And he was fighting every day to be sure he could count himself among those who were. “This is my island.” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “Not all of it, though I do own a fair collection of properties. I mean, this is my birthplace, my home. It’s lovely and peaceful, the place where I intend to raise my children and live until I’m ancient and dotty. I care what happens here, and I won’t let smuggling or drugs or anything else ruin my community.”

Saying nothing, she held his gaze. “You’re—”

“Agent Blair?” a gruff voice interrupted.

Malina rose and held out her hand to harbormaster Albert Duffy. “Mr. Duffy, thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

Though he shook her hand briefly, his thick gray brows drew together, and the wrinkles on his darkly tanned and lined face seemed to deepen. “I don’t like working with women.”

“I don’t like working with anybody. Why don’t we take that table in the back corner?” she suggested.

Al scowled briefly, but must have been somewhat satisfied with Malina’s direct answer, because he shrugged and wandered toward the booth.

Malina turned back to Carr and spoke in a low tone only he could hear. “That was a pretty impassioned speech earlier. I can see why you were a prize to juries. I still have to ask you to keep your distance from this case.” When he started to interrupt, she held up her hand to stall him. “I’d be interested in calling you for an occasional consultation, but that’s where your involvement ends. Understand?”

“Since you’re articulate, and I’m fairly intelligent, yes, I understand.”

She narrowed her eyes briefly, as if trying to figure out if there was a loophole. Which, of course, there was.

“Your offer to help is admirable,” she said after a moment. “In fact, it’s—” She stopped and shook her head ruefully. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard sentiment like that.” She brushed her hand across his arm. “Thanks.”

Now she thought he was being noble.

He almost wished he could call back his words. His nobility was tainted. He didn’t deserve her admiration. But he wanted her.

When she reached into her pocket and pulled out a clip of cash, he held up his hand. “I’ll pay for the drinks.”

“I appreciate the offer, but you can’t.” She took out a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. “Generous.”

She turned toward the booth Al had settled into. “My compensation to the cute bartender whose flirting I’d never consider returning.”

“Why not?”

She flicked him a glance. “I’m attracted to men, not boys.”

“WOULD YOU LIKE a drink, Mr. Duffy?” Malina asked as she scooted into the booth and faced the cranky harbormaster.

He pointed a knobby finger toward the bar area. “It’s comin’.”

Malina looked over to see Carr Hamilton headed toward them, a glass of whiskey in each hand.

He slid onto the seat beside Duffy, then lifted his drink in a toast and his lips in smirk. “I figured you’d want to abstain. On duty and all.”

“Very considerate, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, certain the sharp attorney caught her sarcasm. “However, I don’t need your assistance.”

“I’m sure you don’t. However, I’m Mr. Duffy’s lawyer.”

“He called you?”

“No, but isn’t it fortunate I was here? I’ll stay on his behalf.”

“I don’t want to be here at all,” Duffy said, glaring at her.

“Me either,” she muttered. The man she had the reluctant hots for was currently sitting across from her, meddling in her case, distracting her from nearly everything. “But I have a job to do.”

Duffy sipped his drink. “You should be home, cookin’ for your man.”

Though her muscles tensed like a coiled snake, she managed to let the anger roll off. “I’m better with a pistol than a spatula.”

“Not natural,” Duffy insisted.

Malina drilled her gaze into his. “Frankly, Mr. Duffy, I’d rather be anywhere else, talking to anyone else than you. And yet…” She lifted her hands and leaned back. “Here I am, striving to protect the law-abiding citizens of Palmer’s Island from the criminal element. If I can make the sacrifice, so can you.”

Duffy continued to glare silently at her, as if sure he’d never seen a self-possessed woman in his life.

“Al,” Hamilton said quietly, “let her do this.”

Duffy sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’d like to record the interview, if that’s okay with you.” She cast Hamilton a glance. “And your attorney, of course.” With their verbal agreements secured, she asked Duffy, “Do you know Jack Rafton?”

Duffy looked wary. “Yeah. Slip number nine.”

“Owner of a twenty-six-foot cabin cruiser called American Dream?”

“Yeah.”

“How would you characterize your relationship?”

“We ain’t got a relationship, lady. We’re men.”

And not homophobic at all. Malina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She liked her job, she really did. Or, rather, she used to. “Are you friends?” she asked.

Duffy shrugged. “We have a drink together sometimes.”

“Have you ever been to his house?”

“No.”

“Do you have his cell phone number?”

“No.”

“What do you talk about when you’re together?”

“Fishing. What does that have to do with anything?”

“She’s trying to determine if you’re close friends with Jack,” Hamilton put in.

“Are you?” Malina pressed the harbormaster.

“I guess not.”

The man could give clams pointers. “But you see Mr. Rafton frequently.”

“He has a boat. I run the harbor.”

“Does Mr. Rafton seem under an unusual amount of stress lately?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Have you seen him at the docks at unusual times over the last few weeks?”

Duffy’s gaze darted to Hamilton. “What does she mean unusual?”

Hamilton’s lips twitched. “Out of the ordinary.”

“I know that. I don’t know what that has to do with—”

“You run the harbor,” Malina interrupted. “You know when people come and go. When does Rafton usually come and go?”

“Early morning, sometimes after dinner.”

“When has he been taking his boat out lately?”

Duffy sipped his whiskey before answering. “Later.”

“How much later?”

“Eleven, maybe twelve at night.”

“So would you characterize that as unusual?”

Annoyance lined Duffy’s face. “I guess so.”

His statement fell in line with what others had said with less reluctance and certainly more grace. Was Albert Duffy simply ornery, or did he have some connection with Rafton that he didn’t want known? With this man, directness seemed to be the only course. “Are you engaging in or helping to cover up illegal activity perpetrated by Jack Rafton?”

Duffy sputtered so heavily he couldn’t speak.

“Agent Blair,” Hamilton said, his gaze locking on hers, “that’s inappropriate.”

But it confirmed her instincts—Duffy was an insulting curmudgeon and likely not a would-be felon.

“I thought we might get to our goal more quickly with more specific questions,” she said to the men across from her. “And I’m sure Mr. Duffy doesn’t think the FBI engages in random questioning. I wanted to let him know that he’s being watched and any attempt by him to warn Mr. Rafton of the questions I’ve asked would be perceived by me as the act of an accomplice.” She smiled. “Everybody clear now?”

“What a man does on his own time isn’t any of my bother,” Duffy mumbled.

Her smile broadened. “Exactly. That’s my job. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Duffy,” she added, rising and turning off the microrecorder. “I’ll forward copies of the interview transcript to your office, Mr. Hamilton. Good night to you both.”

“You’d do better to learn to cook, honey,” Duffy said as she turned away.

Facing him, her fingers twitched as she skimmed her hand across the butt of her gun. “Would I?”

“Yeah.” His gaze defiant, Duffy leaned back in the booth. “Carr here needs a girlfriend. He’s rich, so he could probably even get you lessons.”

“If only I’d known those options were open to me, I’d have skipped training in Quantico and raced right over to the Julia Child Institute.” Her temper finally breaking, she braced her palm on the table and leaned toward Duffy, meeting his startled gaze with her own furious, narrowed one. “As it happens, I’m a pretty good ass-kicker, so I think I’ll stick with what I know.” She paused briefly, renewing her smile, even though it was significantly cooler. “As long as that’s okay with you.”

Stalking away, she didn’t dare look at Hamilton, who’d no doubt find a way to warm her icy demeanor.

Chauvinistic, patronizing men who were threatened by women in general, not just the ones carrying firearms, didn’t warrant any room in her thoughts. And yet, here she was, striding to her car and dwelling on the interview as if she cared whether or not she could boil water.

If Duffy owned a gun, it was doubtful he’d be able to hit the broad side of a barn with it, even with a sniper’s scope and a GPS. And yet nobody was questioning his ability to be harbormaster. Though what his job had to do with weapons, she couldn’t say. She just—

She ground to a halt next to her dark blue sedan. Those two didn’t seriously think the investigation of this case would be reduced to gender, did they? Suspected smuggling was serious business that had nothing to do with chromosomes.

Frankly, she’d expected better from Carr Hamilton.

He caught up to her in the parking lot, bracing his arm on the hood of her car and standing way too close. “Why did you come here tonight?”

Again, she was conscious of feeling small. As an agent, the sensation bothered her. As a woman, she couldn’t help inhaling his cologne’s spicy scent and spending a few seconds reveling in the head-spinning that followed.