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A Breath Away
Wendy Etherington
Never mix work and men.This simple rule has given security specialist Jade Broussard busy days and lonely nights. Only that was before utterly gorgeous art dealer Remy Tremaine crawls into her bed, requesting her protective services. He presents dangerous new territory. She can't deny the talents of his hands and mouth. Melting the day's work tensions each night is a guilty–if delicious–pleasure.Yet he sidesteps boundaries, while Jade wrote the rule book. No, it will never work out. But there is an easy solution: catch the bad guy, save her client's life, then say goodbye. Too bad Remy's secrets might change Jade's mind. The question is, will it be for better or worse?


A Breath Away
Wendy Etherington


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Kelly Adams, Linda Gabler and
Theresa Johnson, who took my kids to the movies at a critical moment. You’re neighbors I miss and friends I cherish.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Coming Next Month

1
“WHERE’S MY PILE of money?”
Pissed off after an excruciatingly frustrating morning at the Atlanta airport, Jade Broussard glared at her cousin across his desk.
Rising from his black leather chair, Lucas grinned—the man was too charming for his own good. “Did I mention money?”
“A pile.”
“Mmm. I suppose I did.” He extended his arm toward one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. “You look exhausted. Coffee?”
Jade shook her head and instead prowled the room. His sleek yet posh office with its stunning view of Midtown was impressive. But then, she expected nothing less from Lucas. Everything he touched turned to gold, even though these days he was doing more pro bono work than litigating multi-million-dollar cases.
Instead of contemplating his attack of conscience, she recalled the phone conversation they’d had the night before.
“What do I have to do for this pile of money?”
“What you usually do—provide protection, investigate the crime.”
“The police investigate crimes,” she’d said, though he had her attention, a fact he no doubt realized.
“Just come. Please.”
She’d come. What else could she do? He was the only family she had left.
“I’m not exhausted,” she said finally.
“I should hope not. I sent a limo.”
“I’m furious. Do you have any idea how crazy that airport is? Landing delays. Terminal changes. People ambling everywhere talking on cell phones. Security is a mess.”
“They frisked you, didn’t they?”
“They tried.”
As if he’d expected her travel woes, Lucas had the nerve to smirk.
“I’m walking through the airport, minding my own business, when some overly paranoid, jerk-face citizen spots my Beretta beneath my jacket. All hell breaks loose, people ducking, diving and screaming.” She stalked toward him. “I’m a professional. I have a permit.”
“Of course you do.”
“I didn’t draw the damn thing, you know.”
“Though I imagine you were tempted.”
She planted her hands on her hips, remembering—with renewed fury—the humiliation of being escorted to airport security. “You’re damn right I was tempted. Freakin’ terrorists. They’re ruining this country.”
“No doubt their goal. Perhaps if you’d waited until you got in the limo to retrieve your gun from your carry-on bag…”
She shrugged. “Yeah.” She didn’t feel whole without a side piece, though. She felt vulnerable. Exposed. Alone.
Shaking off the thread of irritation, she finally dropped into the chair in front of Lucas’s desk and crossed her booted ankles. “What’s this case about?” For double her usual fee, there had to be more to it than “provide protection, investigate the crime.”
“A favor for a friend.”
“What friend?”
“The friendly kind.”
She smirked. “Cute. Where did you meet this friend?”
Lucas grinned, and his green eyes lit with an obviously favorable memory. “A bar. Yours, in fact.”
“Beau’s?”
“You own another bar?”
She frowned, ignoring the pang of grief that had never fully faded—even more than a decade after her parents’ murders. Beau and Katy Broussard had been a staple of the bluesy French Quarter. Their deaths had completely changed the course of Jade’s life. She’d inherited the bar, and eventually gotten vengeance on their killer, but she didn’t have them—their laughter, their touch or their guidance. Revenge had been a hollow victory, just as she’d been warned it would be.
Normally she liked verbal sparring with her cousin, but if this case was somehow connected to her personally—through Beau’s or her past—she didn’t intend to waste time with chitchat.
“Who’s the friend, Lucas?” she asked, her tone hard.
“Remington Tremaine.”
Jade fought a flinch, but apparently didn’t quite pull it off, since Lucas nodded.
“He said you’d know him.”
Her mouth had gone dry, but she forced herself to think fast. Tremaine was not someone she wanted anywhere near her cousin. Dangerous didn’t even begin to describe the man. “How long ago did you meet him?”
“Three years ago. We bonded over a glass or two of Southern Comfort, and he’s been a client ever since. His family has old San Francisco money, mostly from real estate and vineyards, but Remy loves art.”
No doubt stolen.
“I’ve arranged for the sale of some beautiful and rare pieces over the past few years,” Lucas continued.
While Lucas watched closely for her reaction, Jade simply nodded. Though she knew her cousin had a not-so-stellar past with the law, he’d long ago gone straight. These sales were legit.
Of course they are. Who’d suspect a genteel, handsome-as-sin art collector of anything more serious than spending more on wine than a car?
And wasn’t that precisely the point?
“What happened to Tremaine?” she asked.
“He was shot outside a restaurant here in Midtown two nights ago.”
A thousand thoughts rushed her brain instantly, and she fought to find one question she could ask. “How bad?”
“The bullet grazed his arm. He’s fine.”
“Which restaurant?”
“Plush.”
Jade finally managed to shake off the shock of hearing Tremaine’s name. “Plush?”
“A happening place for the idle rich and semifamous.”
“Naturally.” The bastard would fit right in.
“You’ll be able to see for yourself. The whole thing is on videotape.”
Jade raised her eyebrows. “You have a videotape of the shooting?”
“The police do.”
“And how did you find that out?”
“Not from the cops. The restaurant manager told Remy.”
“Convenient. What about press coverage?”
“Light. Unfortunately, a shooting isn’t big news in Atlanta unless somebody famous is involved. This particular restaurant insisted the cops keep everything quiet and had the pull to make it happen. ‘A local diner was shot last night’ was as much as the media got.”
Something positive in this mess, and yet the most important question was as yet unanswered. They might as well get to it. “Who suggested hiring me—you or him?”
“You know him from…before, don’t you?”
Jade shook her head. Her past was something Lucas knew she didn’t—couldn’t—discuss.
Eyeing her, he stroked his chin. “He asked me to hire you. He called from the hospital emergency room, in fact.”
“You’re that close?”
“No.”
Her cousin was a smart man. Brilliant, in fact. He’d sensed way more than was wise for him. He had a nice life and a beautiful new wife. He didn’t need the complications Tremaine had laid at his doorstep.
Some friend.
“He’s not really an art dealer, is he?” Lucas asked into the charged silence.
No. No, he certainly wasn’t.
Remington Tremaine was many things—arrogant and bold high among them. He was sneaky and obsessively private. He flouted rules and codes, and seemed to operate by a morality that made no sense to anyone but him. He was obscenely handsome and knew it. He was a dark mystery, the kind that inspired feminine sighs of longing and male snorts of envy. The kind whispered about by the very few who knew his true history.
The two most important things Jade knew about him, however, were the two things she absolutely couldn’t share with Lucas. One, Remington Tremaine was a former international art and jewel thief. And two, he currently was an undercover agent with the National Security Agency.
In this day of dedicated searches for terrorists, some of the “softer” crimes went unnoticed. Thieves were pushed aside in favor of tracking whispers about major terrorist attacks. But a small portion of NSA bosses suspected the spoils of certain burglaries were being funneled into terrorist groups, so there was still a group of agents who focused their talents on investigating that connection. Tremaine was part of that group, and the one most speculated about.
None of the other agents knew how the NSA had lured him away from his cushy life of crime to the side of law and order, but he’d apparently done enough to keep the directors from prosecuting him for his previous transgressions. She’d always thought he was one of those forgive-you-to-get-the-bigger-bad-guy deals that were made with criminals all the time.
What the hell had the NSA been thinking giving him a cover as an art dealer? That was like giving the drunk the keys to the bar.
“Dammit, Jade,” Lucas said as he stood, “I have a right to know what’s going on.”
Bracing her hands against the wooden arms of her chair, Jade rose slowly. At only thirty-three, she suddenly felt old and tired. But she was also furious. How dare Tremaine bring the NSA and God only knew what kind of criminals from his past to her doorstep? To Lucas’s doorstep—his supposed friend?
The past never really leaves us, her business partner and mentor, Frank Williams, had once said. How right he was.
“No, you don’t have a right,” she said, her gaze burning into his. “As of now, this is my problem. I want you to go back to work, back to helping people who actually need it. I want you to forget about Remington Tremaine. If anybody asks, you arranged the sale of some artwork for him, and that’s it. You know nothing else. Got it?”
Green eyes so like her own flashed back at her. “I won’t sit by and let you do this by yourself.”
Though she appreciated his blind support, she didn’t soften her gaze. “Where is he?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Dammit, Lucas, I don’t have time for games.” She leaned over his desk. “Where is he?”
“You’re not cutting me out.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“Then I have no idea where he is.” He turned his back on her.
She’d kill Tremaine for this, for involving her family in their sordid world of intrigue. Whoever was after him didn’t need to worry. She’d eliminate the problem and relish the act. Mr. Tremaine should look up her records. After reading the file about what had happened to the last idiot who’d messed with her family, he’d undoubtedly change his mind about getting to her through Lucas.
She hated herself for scaring her cousin, but she did it anyway. Lucas had no training and belonged nowhere near the danger surrounding Tremaine. “What about Vanessa?” she whispered to Lucas’s back.
Predictably, he spun to face her. He didn’t look so confident anymore.
This is what you do, girl. Find a weakness. Exploit it. Get the mission done.
“What about her?” he asked, his gaze hard and furious. And anxious.
“Your wife isn’t part of this.”
“Of course not.”
“But she will be if you persist.”
Lucas’s hands fisted at his sides. “Are you threatening me?”
“No.” She walked around his desk and stopped just inches from him. She looked up into his handsome, trusted, beloved face. “But they will.”
“Who?”
Whatever scum from her old life that seemed determined to follow her into this one. Why had Tremaine contacted her? If he’d been shot on the job, why hadn’t he gone to the NSA? Had his cover been blown? Had he lost faith in the agency?
Or was this shooting personal? Was that why he’d involved Lucas? To scare or intimidate her into taking his case?
Once upon a time she’d been an NSA agent, as well, so she could understand the disastrous implications of any of those scenarios. But she’d retired—and not on the best of terms. Even though she now owned a security and investigations company, and could protect the average John Q. Citizen, she didn’t have the power or contacts of the agency.
So why did Tremaine want her?
“Who would threaten me?” Lucas asked, bringing her thoughts back to him.
In disgust, she knew the vow of secrecy to her government only expired on her death, and no matter how bitterly she and the agency had parted, she owed them her silence about their ways and their world. She trusted Lucas, but she couldn’t share this with him.
“Whomever shot Tremaine.” She laid her hands on his shoulders. “This is outside your realm, Lucas. Admit it and let me deal with it.”
He shrugged off her touch.
She fought against the hurt of his rejection. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t that. She goggled at him. “Gone?”
“No one knows he left. They think he’s holed up in his hotel room.”
“They?”
“Everybody but me—including the police.”
Resisting the urge to pull her hair out by the roots—she’d save that bit of torture for Tremaine—she paced the room.
Damn the arrogant man. He should have let the NSA take him underground until the whole mess could be sorted out. Yet she knew, and not just because he’d called Lucas, that he’d abandoned protocol and forged his own plan. He’d no doubt continue to do so.
Lucas blocked her path. “Dammit, Jade, I want to help.”
She stepped back. “You can’t.” She wouldn’t let him. Risking the highly trained people in her own agency was going to be hard enough. “Where is he, Lucas?”
His eyes cold, he bit out his response. “He has a room at the Marriott Marquis. He said he’d meet you there later.”
As he turned away, she resisted slugging him and knocking some sense into his hard head. She loved him like a brother, and surely he’d get over his snit fit eventually.
He was her one connection to family. And yet, for her job, she’d hurt him.
Just another day in paradise.

USING THE KEY to Tremaine’s posh, two-bedroom hotel suite Lucas had given her, Jade took advantage of the solitude to snoop and make phone calls.
She noted the neutral black, bone and tan colors, as well as the glass, leather and steel that made up the contemporary decor and wondered if it suited Tremaine. The sumptuous living and dining area was as large as most people’s apartments, and there was a fully stocked bar. She could certainly understand why he preferred the suite to whatever holding room the NSA would stuff him in until they were ready to launch the complicated investigation into an undercover agent’s shooting.
But why had he gone against protocol to hire her?
She was good, and her team was great, but even with her and her partner’s network of contacts, they couldn’t get inside current NSA files. She and Tremaine had never met and knew each other only by reputation. Why was he hiring—and essentially trusting—her instead of moving under the NSA’s protective umbrella?
The answer seemed too simple to be correct—he didn’t trust the NSA.
Smart man.
Whatever his reasoning, he’d cleverly hooked her. She didn’t like violence coming anywhere near Lucas, and if protecting Tremaine meant protecting her cousin, she’d bite her tongue and do it. Plus, despite her urge to scoff at the pretty boy’s troubles, she was reluctantly intrigued about the legendary thief.
So, it seemed she and Tremaine were stuck with each other. She doubted they would get along—she’d heard too much about his tendency to follow only the rules that were convenient for him. In her mind, rules existed for a good reason—convenient or not.
His light-fingered past didn’t win him any points with her, either. Even if he’d been a very good thief.
Could you use good and light-fingered in the same sentence without sounding ridiculous?
Not in her book.
She used her cell phone to call her partner, Frank, and her best guards to her side. They’d all be on planes in the morning. She didn’t see any point in their coming sooner, since their client was MIA, and she preferred facing him alone at the moment.
If she decided to kill him, she could always bury his body and not involve her business in the crime.
Snooping-wise, she got very little that she didn’t already know. He’d left his luggage—purposefully, she was sure—so she found shaving cream, shampoo, condoms and a spicy, exotic cologne that would no doubt suit him. His wardrobe consisted of custom-made suits in charcoal and black and Italian loafers with tassels.
Art magazines and a highbrow novel encompassed his printed collection. And though she took great delight in gliding a razor blade down all the seams of his expensive leather bags to check for hidden compartments, she found nothing of interest.
If he was arrogant, at least he wasn’t stupid.
At dinnertime, she sampled from the fruit basket on the coffee table. Late into the night, she flipped around the TV channels and found nothing that could hold her interest for more than a moment or two.
Nearly all her clients begged for her services. She’d worked for rock stars needing protection from overzealous fans, wealthy businessmen who wanted to protect their assets from thieves. Even politicians, who always seemed dogged by threats and stalkers, called her and her team every election year.
They all did what she said without question, either out of fear for themselves or their families. They relied on her expertise.
No one had ever been so cocky as to order her services through a third party, then not even bother to show up for his purchase. She was sure the contrast wasn’t lost on Tremaine.
At l:00 a.m., she locked the guest-bedroom door, showered, re-dressed, then lay on top of the bed. She might as well get some rest if her client was going to continue to ignore her.
In a fitful sleep, she dreamed about her parents. They stood behind their ancient walnut bar at Beau’s, their arms crossed over their chests, their faces set with disappointment. Guilt washed over her. She wanted to tell them she hadn’t failed them. She wanted to explain she was sorry she hadn’t been there to protect them….
Then she was hugging Lucas. She lay her head against his chest and delighted in the beat of his heart, realizing there was still one person in the world who loved her unconditionally, who shared her blood. She relaxed, letting the feeling of security wash through her.
His lips whispered over her cheek. “I need your help,” he said softly.
In less than a second, she realized she was no longer dreaming. There were indeed lips against her cheek. Warm, soft, persuasive lips attached to a warm, hard, male body. Neither of which belonged to her cousin.
Though training and instincts screamed danger, she paused to breathe in the scent of a spicy, exotic cologne and a faint smell of whiskey and realized the rumors about her new client must be true.
He was very good with his hands.
By the moonlight streaming through the window, she could see he lay on his side, pressed against her, his lips sending shivers of delight skating down her spine, his clever fingers gliding up her stomach. Under her shirt. That simple touch ignited sensual sparks inside her, creating a longing she fought to ignore.
Did he intend to disarm her before seducing her? Somehow, she doubted he’d bother.
“Move your hand up another inch, Tremaine, and you’ll lose it.”
With a quick flip, she’d straddled him and pressed her Beretta to the center of his forehead.
The rogue had the nerve to smile. “My, my, Ms. Broussard. Is this how you greet all your clients?”
“Only the ones who pick the lock to my bedroom.”
“You could hardly call that thing on the door a lock.”
No doubt she could have gotten past it herself, but what infuriated her was that she hadn’t heard him. He’d come through the outer door, crossed the living room, opened the bedroom door, crossed that room, then slid into bed with her before she’d been aware. Normally, she’d have heard him when he put the key card in the exterior door lock. Either she was really tired, or he was even more skilled than she’d imagined.
She also wasn’t crazy about the way she’d responded to his touch. For a moment she’d relished the contact with him and wanted more. Staring down into his sculpted face, his silvery eyes glittering back at her, his jet-black hair gleaming almost blue in the low light, she wanted him still. His innate sensuality was even more potent in person than in pictures, though some part of her managed to recognize that an attraction to her client was a weakness she couldn’t afford.
More aggravated at herself than him, she holstered her pistol. “Is there a particular reason you’re in bed with me?”
“It’s my bed.”
“It’s the wrong bed. This is the guest room.”
He grinned. “My mistake.”
“I’m sure. Where the hell have you been?”
“On an errand of mercy.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Pictures don’t do you justice, Agent Broussard.”
“That’s former Agent Broussard, and I’ll have to return the compliment.” Her body still hummed from the feel of his fingers. Men—especially male clients—didn’t overwhelm her. They didn’t affect her personally.
He braced his hands at her waist. “We could continue what we started.”
To her surprise, Jade was tempted. She held nearly everyone at a distance, so she rarely took the time to indulge in sex. She was definitely aware of the hard ridge of male flesh pressed intimately between her legs. She already knew his hands promised magic.
Their physical attraction was as obvious in the room as the bed they were lying on. Her stomach fluttered with need. Her fingers tingled. All she had to do was lean down, press her lips to his…
“Bad idea,” she said, jerking back.
As she climbed off him, his eyes darkened with seemingly genuine regret. “Perhaps another time.”
She didn’t comment and glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 4:00 a.m. It was time to get back to business. “You want to tell me who shot you and why?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”
“Why do you need me? Why don’t you trot back to Washington and let the NSA deal with this?”
He rolled off the bed and gained his feet with a grace that she was certain had gotten him through more than one second-story window undetected and unscathed. “I’ll tell you everything over coffee.”
Somehow I doubt that.
Watching him stride from the room, Jade’s gaze slid down his lean body, covered in tailored black pants and a black ribbed turtleneck, and wondered if he’d really given up his former profession.
How many people had he made a fool of in his murky past? How many beds had he crawled into? Was his present just as devious? She knew that less than half of the rumors about her were accurate. Was it the same for him? What was his real story?
He intrigued her more than was wise. In her line of work, she had to maintain a professional distance in order to serve her clients well. In her private life, space was just as welcome. But the moments of personal intimacy she’d just shared with Tremaine already had her thinking of him as something more than a client, and she couldn’t quite shake the lingering tremors of desire.
Not good. Not good at all.
Was she really crazy enough to help him?
Apparently, since she sighed and stalked after him.
She did, however, double-check to be sure her ammunition clip was fully loaded first.

2
REMY EYED JADE “The Arrow” Broussard over the rim of his coffee mug and again marveled that the hard, determined woman now pacing in front of him had been melting in his arms only moments earlier, her fiery hair tangled around his fingers, her voice husky with sleep.
He wondered if she knew as much about him as he did about her. He wondered if her nickname was well-earned. Because of her deadly sharp shooting skills and her tendency to be a rule-follower—at least by the slippery NSA standards—he’d been as surprised as anybody when she’d suddenly resigned two years ago to follow her partner, Frank Williams, into the private sector. Remy reflected on the way she’d leaned into his touch. She’d relaxed quite a bit since leaving government work.
A handy convenience for him.
“I don’t appreciate you dragging my cousin into this,” she said when she finally stopped pacing, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.
“I needed protection. I asked a trusted advisor for guidance.”
“One who just happens to be my cousin. You had to know.”
He’d known. His friendship with Lucas had just been a happy by-product of his deep-seated need to find out more about the lady currently scowling at him.
In fact, he could admit—at least to himself—that he had a miniobsession when it came to Jade Broussard. Ever since he’d seen the first NSA case file involving her, he’d researched her, wondered about her and even sought out her cousin in the hopes of someday meeting her.
After last night’s shooting, she seemed the obvious choice to help him solve a lifelong mystery. She’d single-mindedly gotten revenge for her family. Maybe she could do the same for him.
“I certainly check out all my advisors before taking them on,” he said finally.
“Do you ever give anybody a straight answer?”
He smiled faintly. “Not if I can help it.” Just for the thrill, he let his gaze slide down her body, which was surprisingly curvy for such a fierce and serious woman. “Surely, it’s the same for you.”
“Very few people ask me questions,” she said.
“Too intimidated?”
“I imagine.”
“You’ll have a hard time affecting me the same way, Jade.”
Her shoulders jerked at his use of her first name. She clearly didn’t like the intimacy. She liked their attraction even less.
Ironically, he relished her presence.
After talking himself out of contacting her for so long—deciding she wouldn’t want anything to do with a former thief—having her close was an interesting kind of torture.
She would never understand what had driven him to his former life. Yet, despite the philosophical distance between them, his blood sizzled hotter every minute they were together. He had to curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.
He’d snuck into her bed to rattle her, to see if the effect she had on him from a distance would strengthen when they touched. But even he hadn’t anticipated being knocked so far off balance. He hadn’t expected the temptation to be so strong.
“I want some answers from you, Tremaine,” she said as she resumed pacing. “I want them now and I want them straight, or I’m dumping you and going back home.”
“No compassion for an old colleague?”
“No.”
“I was shot, you know.”
“Whoopee. Been there myself a few times.”
Though he’d known this, he raised his eyebrows. “Who got the jump on you?”
“An electronics thief who wanted to turn Miami Beach into his own personal illegal superstore for assorted bad guys. Still have the scar on my upper thigh.”
That would have been Romildo Ramirez. “And how did he make out?”
Her gaze raked him. “Not as well as you obviously did.”
“Just a scratch for me, I’ll admit. But still a rather rude end to a lovely dinner.”
“Who’d want to shoot you over dinner?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Dinner with whom? About what?”
All business, this one. Something else he’d known—a quality that was good for his case, though maybe not for his libido. “Is there any chance of you calling me Remy?”
Her vivid green eyes flashed. “No.”
“We’re going to be pretty…intimate over the next couple of weeks.”
“We’re going to be close professionally. Close and intimate are two different things. Dinner—who and what?”
She didn’t trust him at all. Smart woman. “I was having dinner with a female friend. A personal female friend,” he clarified, though he was sure she’d figured that already. “She enjoys my taste in wine and new restaurants. My interest in art, frankly, baffles her, but then we don’t often go into deep discussions about light and symmetry.”
Jade smirked. “I’m sure.”
“She’s a charming companion when I’m between buying trips. Or, for our purposes, between cases.”
“Which you are now?”
“For the most part. I’d just started on some research for a new project.”
“So this shooting is personal?”
“I think so.”
She stopped, glancing at him. “Related to your past.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I have several people in mind.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “Thieves?”
She would never understand his past. He resisted the urge to sigh. He knew this, after all. “They all have illegal connections.”
“Have any of them threatened you? Do any of them know what you do now?”
“My cover is secure, and getting shot is pretty threatening.” Holding up the videotape he’d procured a few hours ago, he crossed the room to the VCR and popped the cassette in. “Maybe this will help.”
“The tape of the shooting? Lucas said you—” She stopped as he walked back toward her.
She glared up at him, and he could tell she didn’t like his proximity or their size difference. He was a solid six-two, whereas she was only five-seven.
“How did you get the tape?” she asked.
He returned to his seat on the sofa, leaning against the cushions and laying one arm along the back. His effort at casualness was deliberate, since he felt anything but. Both the shooting and the woman who stood so close had knocked him dangerously askew. “From the police.”
“They just handed over a copy?”
“Not exactly.”
She looked disgusted. “If we’re going to do this, you can’t just swipe anything you want.”
“Why not?” he asked reasonably, though when she opened her mouth to no doubt tell him why, he continued, “I made a copy and returned the original.”
“Is that where you’ve been the last twelve hours?”
“How do you know I’ve been gone twelve hours?”
“’Cause I’ve been here nearly that long.” She dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa and propped her feet—encased in dark green alligator boots—on the coffee table.
“I only spent a small part of that time at the police station. Their security is shockingly lax.”
“I bet you say that about everyone.”
“True.”
Anxious to view the tape himself, Remy pressed the play button on the remote. The digital timer in the upper right-hand corner allowed him to fast-forward to the moment he was interested in, though later he’d watch the hour before the shooting to look for any details that might be relevant.
At 7:52 p.m., a white male with dark-brown hair, about five-ten in height and dressed in a waiter’s uniform, walked out of the French doors to Remy’s right. Holding a bread basket to conceal his gun, he headed straight to Remy’s table, but at about five feet from his target, another waiter crossed his path, bumping into him and knocking the basket to the floor. The other waiter knelt to clean up the mess as the shooter directed his attention to Remy. Then, in either a panic or a rage, he fired off two shots.
Remy yanked his date under the table as the shooter leaped over the low brick wall surrounding the patio and disappeared from view.
He remembered well his heart hammering, his arm burning and his thoughts racing. He’d tried to block out the panicked shouts and cries as he palmed the .22 pistol he carried concealed in an ankle holster, quickly returning the weapon to its hiding place when he realized no more shots were coming. The waiter who’d knocked into the shooter had crawled beneath the table to check on them, and Remy had the presence of mind and training to morph into a shocked and outraged art executive as the police were called and he and his date were sent to the hospital.
Jade asked for the remote, and he handed it to her without comment. She ran the tape back three times before asking, “Do you make a habit of eating at this restaurant?”
“I’ve never been there, though I did make a reservation two days before.”
“Do you often sit outside at restaurants?”
“Hardly ever in February. But there was a live band, a number of heaters, and my companion pleaded.”
“You don’t know the shooter I take it.”
“Never seen him before, and the tape is pretty grainy. We can try running his image through the usual channels, though.”
“Let the police chase that. He doesn’t seem like a professional.”
Remy agreed—and all the more reason the shooting didn’t make sense. “Rather lousy aim.”
“And the whole plan was bad. Too risky, too public.” She angled her head. “Unless the intent was simply a warning.”
He nodded. He’d considered that, as well. In fact, given his suspect short list, it was likely.
“Who would hire such an incompetent idiot?”
“Somebody desperate, equally stupid or very, very clever.”
She glanced at him for the first time since the tape started.
“I’d feel better if it had been a good hit.”
He was nearly sure she didn’t mean a successful attempt on his life. Still, he agreed. The clumsiness of the whole business was somehow more chilling. It was out of place and unfamiliar in their world.
The intrigue and danger they lived with day-to-day made them suspicious of everyone, unable to trust, and forced them to distance themselves from most people. As a result, they were paranoid. And very careful.
But he’d made mistakes in his past. He’d already paid for some and there was one whose bill seemed to finally be due.
“I need everything you have on your date and the people you believe are behind the shooting.”
“Got it.” He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a minidisk, then handed it to her. He was interested in what she’d come up with. More than him? Or at least something different? He was nearly positive who was responsible, but he needed to be sure before he risked revealing details about his past to Jade and her team. “My date’s clean, though.”
She glanced at the disk before setting it on the table in front of them. “Part of your mercy mission?”
“I had to stash her somewhere until I can figure out what’s going on.”
“Where?”
“Puerto Rico—a lovely resort and spa.”
“How’d you get her there?”
“My LearJet.”
“You have a private plane?”
He liked the way her eyes turned hot when she was annoyed. He wondered what they looked like when she was aroused. “Mmm. It’s handy.”
“Bought on your government salary?”
“Certainly not.”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
Though his heart pounded, he watched her with the appearance of calm. The Arrow probably never stepped outside the lines. “Perhaps I bought it with my ill-gotten gains. Maybe everything I have is tainted with greed and deception.”
Her gaze slid back to his. “Maybe it is.”
“I’m a legitimate art dealer.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I need your help, not your judgment. I can’t share my past with the police, and I’m not telling the NSA any more than they already know.” He rose to pour more coffee. “Are you taking my case or not?” He thought he’d assured himself of her participation by going through Lucas, but maybe he’d been wrong about their bond.
“I’m going to have to dig deeply into your past.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have to give me names, dates, places.”
“The disk contains plenty.”
“I also want your impressions of people. Not just a scroll of data.”
He nodded.
“I’m taking your case.”
“Thank you.”
He was going to have to share things he’d rather not. He was going to have to relive times better left buried. He might even have to trust Jade Broussard.
She didn’t respect him, and obviously abhorred his illegal past. He especially didn’t want to face her judgment, because then he might have to admit that in the black-and-white of the world, he’d spent most of his life in the dark.

JADE KNEW the idea of sharing didn’t sit well with her client. Well, at least they had that in common.
Very little else, but they had that.
“Let’s start with the present. You’re sure the shooting isn’t job-related?”
“That’s the most logical conclusion.”
Again, she noted the careful choice of words. He didn’t exactly agree, didn’t answer her question, but he didn’t disagree, either. He kept the flow of conversation going without revealing his thoughts. She’d bet it served him well—in both legal and illegal situations.
“Have you talked to Hillman?” she asked, expecting him to say he hadn’t.
When Tremaine nodded, she suppressed her surprise and asked, “What did he say?”
“What you’d expect—come in from the field, we’ll protect you.”
“And you said no?” She was trying to picture anybody—even the man next to her—disobeying a direct order from Jordan Hillman, a high-level director at the NSA, who oversaw every active undercover operation and was one of the most secretly powerful men in the country.
“I said nothing.”
“Naturally. You’re good at that.”
“It comes in handy at times.” He slid his hand along the back of the leather sofa they shared. The move was a sinuous caress, one that made her blood hum even as part of her remained professional, observing how well he fit into the contemporary decor of the room, though she was sure he’d look equally at home among oxblood club chairs and gas lanterns.
He was a dichotomy.
A mystery she longed to unfold. Much to her frustration.
“So, he thinks you’re coming in?” she asked in an effort to force her brain to concentrate fully on her job.
“I imagine he’s figured out by now that I’m not.”
Great. Talk about a war on multiple fronts. “So we have them after you, too?”
“No. I’ll call him and tell him I think I have a handle on who’s responsible.”
“He’ll expect a full report—names, motives, etcetera.”
“Not from me.”
What was he holding back? She had little doubt he was only pretending to cooperate. He had an agenda here that went beyond the botched shooting.
As she was mulling over the possibilities—maybe the shooting was NSA related, and he and Hillman were trying to draw her back into the agency—he reached out and stroked her jaw.
She jerked back.
“I wondered if you’d be hard and rough,” he said, seeming unaffected by her retreat. “You’re not. Somehow, you still have compassion and tenderness. I wonder how twelve years at the NSA didn’t stamp it out of you.”
She was surprised to realize her throat was dry, and her face was warm where he’d touched her. “How do you know I put in twelve years?”
“I know a lot about you, Jade Katherine Broussard.”
His silver eyes turned to the color of smoke, and the heat emanating from his body slid around her like a cashmere wrap. There had been times in her life when her spirit had been so cold and lonely she’d have given anything for that sensation.
But she’d found strength and purpose in her work. She had loyal friends and colleagues and didn’t need anyone to hold her hand when she ran into trouble.
There were times, though, when she longed for something more. For a relationship like the one her parents had shared. For someone who both understood and challenged her. For white-hot passion that overwhelmed her, burning down the walls she’d so carefully built.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said, leaning toward her.
She blinked. What had she been thinking? Had she actually been daydreaming in the middle of an interrogation? The man was a client, an admitted thief and probably a master manipulator.
She ignored his compliment—which was no doubt empty, anyway. “When did you last talk to Hillman?”
“I called him last night.”
The chief guy took his call? Another oddity in an already strange case. “You didn’t detour to Washington on your way to Puerto Rico?”
“No.”
She planted her boots on the floor and sat forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. “You talked to him? Not his assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you said you were pretty much between cases. Just doing a little research. If you’re consulting with the top man, you’re doing a great deal more than that.”
He said nothing for several moments, then he smiled. “Perhaps I am.”
“That’s it?” She stayed in her seat and held her temper by the barest margin. “Look, I’ve had about enough of your evasive answers. And your mysterious past doesn’t intrigue me, it annoys me. If we’re going to make this…”
“Relationship?”
“…unconventional partnership work, you’ve got to trust me.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Isn’t gonna happen.”
He trusted no one. She understood, since she felt exactly the same way.
“But—just so you know—there isn’t a big case or mystery,” he added. “I always work directly with Hillman. That was part of my agreement when I signed on with the NSA.”
She got over her irritation long enough to be impressed. “Convenient.”
He shrugged. “Mostly it was a power thing.” Grinning, he added, “I like having it all on my side.”
The guy wasn’t just slippery good, he was amazing good. He charmed and disarmed, even as he stole your wallet. He worked for the government and still made a profit. “I imagine you do.”
She stood to pace, as she often did when she was thinking. But tonight she did so because she couldn’t think. He was distracting. His smile, his sleek good looks, his craftiness, even his evasiveness. She’d lied when she’d said his mysterious past didn’t intrigue her.
In truth, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know all. And more than the professional details. Her body wanted intimate details.
But her job required her to set aside her curiosity and pretend her senses weren’t completely overwhelmed by the temptation he presented. “Why don’t you want Hillman to know the shooting is part of your past?”
“I don’t trust him to keep his word and leave my past in the grave where I buried it.”
She didn’t trust Hillman, either, so her opinion of her client rose a bit. She also respected his intentions to move ahead, away from the criminal life he’d led.
But she knew she had to hold her sympathy in check. She was intrigued by him, her body wanted him, but she wasn’t sure she really liked him.
She’d solve his case, take his money and protect her cousin. As long as she kept those distinct objectives in mind, they’d all come out just fine.
“But I’d think you and Hillman would be buddies,” she said, not trying to hide her sarcasm. “Of the same mind and all. You’re the poster boy for trying any means necessary to get the bigger, badder criminal of the moment, after all.”
“Yes, I imagine that’s his philosophy. I guess you don’t agree.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. “You guess correctly.”
“You don’t think the government should make deals with the other side?”
Well aware he was asking her if she agreed with Hillman’s decision to offer a deal to him in particular, she refused to soften her stance. “No, I don’t.”
“Leopards don’t change their spots.”
“Not in my experience.”
He simply nodded.
During her NSA career, she’d been appalled by some of the arrangements made with midlevel criminals in order to bring down their bosses. The idea that justice was negotiated in a boardroom, and that any wrongdoing could be wiped out by ratting out somebody else, was abhorrent to her.
Tremaine had benefited from such an agreement, which she’d always resented. What had precipitated his change of sides? And why had he taken the government’s deal in the first place?
To save his own hide, most likely, though he did nothing now to defend himself. What was up with him? And why did she have to be so damn interested in digging beneath the surface?
“So, that’s the present—at least professionally. But we haven’t talked about the personal present. Friends and lovers.” She watched his expression, hoping he’d squirm. “Anybody there have it in for you?”
“Like if I slept with my best friend’s wife?”
Given his lothario reputation, she certainly wouldn’t be surprised, but somehow she didn’t see the man before her putting himself in that position. He’d be selective about his bed partners, and he’d consider all the options and consequences before taking that step.
What else about him had been exaggerated?
“Yeah, like that,” she said finally.
“I don’t have a best friend, so no.”
Her pulse jumped. How did he manage to get to her that way? She cleared her throat. “So now that we’ve covered the present, it’s time for the past.”
She could have sworn she saw him flinch, but he recovered quickly.
“Of course,” he said, smiling with the easy charm that seemed as natural to him as breathing. “But before we do, I think it’s important that we explore our unexpected connection.”
“What unexpected connection?”
“The fact that I’d much rather get you in bed than investigate my own shooting.” As she ground to a halt, he raised his eyebrows, looking inviting as sin. “I assume the sentiment is returned?”

3
JADE FOUGHT TO ignore her rapid heartbeat. She forced herself to drag clean air into her lungs, to expel it and to calm her erotic thoughts.
She failed miserably.
Instead, she imagined her client’s body beneath her, his erection pressed against the pulsing need between her legs.
They’d been that close a short time ago, but now she envisioned their clothes disappearing. His body would be hard and sleek. Ripples of need and heat would surge through her. His hands would pleasure her beyond her wildest dreams. She’d satisfy an itch she didn’t even know she had until she’d met him.
“It hardly matters if we want each other,” she said, humiliated to find herself breathless. “We’re both professionals, so we’re not going to do anything about it.”
He smiled, his gaze locking with hers. “Aren’t we?”
As he rose and started toward her, she froze. She ordered her feet to move, but they didn’t. The look in his eyes needed no explanation as to his intent, and though the professional remained lurking inside her—the one usually front and center—the desire rolling through her body was overwhelming her instincts.
When he stopped in front of her, he cupped her cheek in his hand and angled her face toward him. “If you’re going to shoot, shoot to kill, because I’m not backing away.”
Then his lips were on hers, persuasive and demanding, but still soft. Her heartbeat accelerated as he slid his tongue inside her mouth, drawing her more deeply beneath his spell, causing the final vestiges of restraint to fall away.
She pressed her body against his, molding herself to the hard planes of his chest, his hardened penis against her stomach. Desire pooled between her legs.
Inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne, she let him lead her to hunger and need, to fan the flames of their attraction and send the temperature from simmering to red-hot.
He was a virtual stranger, not to mention a client, and she watched herself from a distance, not really believing she was touching him and letting him touch her in return. She felt energized in his arms. And exhilarated. And safe.
It was the thought of safety that brought reality crashing back.
She was supposed to be protecting him. She was supposed to solve his case, help him get his life back under control, then send him on his way.
She wrenched herself out of his arms. Breathing hard, she held out her hand. “We can’t do this.”
He grabbed her hand and jerked her against him. “I sure as hell don’t see any reasons not to.”
“Sure you do. You’re just ignoring them.”
“Sex releases tension.”
“Sex complicates.”
“You don’t like complications?”
“No, and I don’t have sex with clients.”
“Is that a hard and fast rule, or just a guideline?”
She braced her feet apart and glared at him. “Don’t make me prove I can take you down anytime I want to, Tremaine.”
“Back to last names, are we? Maybe I should prove how quickly I can have you moaning—even screaming—my name.”
“Dream on.”
“How about I demonstrate instead?”
Bang, bang, bang.
They jumped apart and darted toward the door.
“Room service!” came the cry from the hall.
Jade had her Beretta in her hand as she positioned herself against the wall next to the door. “You order anything?”
“No.”
Her client had drawn a small pistol—from his ankle holster, no doubt—and took his place behind her. “Surely I’m not being stalked by someone with bad aim and a complete absence of originality. Room service,” he added in disgust.
Jade silently agreed, though she was pretty sure she recognized their waiter’s voice. She peered through the peephole and did, indeed, see David Washington and Mo Leger. They waved.
Stifling an eye roll, she said, “They’re mine,” then holstered her weapon and opened the door.
“Hey, boss,” David said, saluting. Tan, handsome and lean, his six-foot-six body was way too long for the waiter’s uniform he wore.
Mo—every bit as tall, plus considerably heavier and darker—pushed a white-tablecloth-covered cart into the suite. He’d opted for a maintenance man’s gray jumpsuit. “You might wanna hold back lookin’ through the peephole, Chief. We coulda blasted you.”
“I recognized your voice,” Jade said with a trace of annoyance. Because of their sense of timing? She didn’t want to go there.
She supposed it was too much to expect these two to stop treating their cases like elaborate games. But of course, to men like David and Mo—and probably Remington Tremaine, as well—chasing the bad guys was a game. One they played with deadly seriousness at times, but one they still found humor and enjoyment in.
She wished she could say she still had fun. Somewhere she’d lost the fire and passion, though she never considered doing anything else. It was all she knew and all she had.
After she made introductions among the men, David asked Tremaine, “So, you’re NSA?”
When Tremaine hesitated to confirm, Jade said, “If you want our help, my people have to have information. I told them what was in your dossier.”
“What little you have?”
“Keep it up, Mr. Fancy-art-dealer, and I’ll find your would be assassin just so I can swear my allegiance to him.”
Mo and David gave her strange looks—she couldn’t recall a time they’d seen her banter with a client—so before their curiosity got the best of them, she said, “His trouble isn’t about a case. It’s about his former profession.”
Hell, she’d kissed the man and guilt—or attraction or weakness—already had her glossing over the fact that he used to take other people’s stuff for a living.
“Sit down, and I’ll fill you in,” she added.
“Over breakfast,” David said.
Jade glanced at the cart. “You brought food?”
Mo and David exchanged smiles. “Among other things.”

OTHER THINGS turned out to be computers, surveillance equipment and instruments Remy couldn’t begin to identify.
He was only marginally competent with computers, but he certainly recognized the weapons, ammunition clips, binoculars and communications devices—including headsets, microphones, cameras and bugs. But there were also black boxes that lit up or emitted a series of beeps, a control that looked suspiciously like a detonator and handheld wands that might be lasers.
If somebody had told him he was going to learn to swing a light saber, he wouldn’t have been surprised in the least.
While he used technology to his advantage on occasion, his strength was his ability to get personal, to read body language, to discern the significance of expressions and reactions. He liked touching things and people. Reading an electronic gauge or tracking some blip on a radar screen held no appeal for him.
Mo, however, was clearly in his element. As he checked out the information on the disk Remy had provided, his walnut-colored hands commanded a laptop keyboard the way the best teenage techno-geek could only dream of doing. Since he was extremely fierce-looking, the thought of him as a geek made Remy smile.
Remy’s amusement faded when his gaze slid to Jade, leaning over David’s shoulder as she pointed to one of the mysterious black boxes on the dining room table. His attraction—correction, his overwhelming need—was interfering with the case. As much as he’d looked forward to finally meeting her, he hadn’t anticipated that complication.
This case was about his life. And while there were many people who couldn’t care less, he certainly placed a high value on his own skin.
But when he was near her, he forgot about the shooting and old scores and professionalism and rules—though he was admittedly never big on those, anyway. She made him forget his goals and purpose, something no one had done for a long, long time.
“You could run a small war from this room,” he said in an effort to focus on the business at hand.
Jade glanced over her shoulder. Those intense green eyes focused briefly on his face. “We are. The bad guys want to take you out. We’re not going to let them.”
Direct. To the point. Where he knew the situation had layers of problems and complications—admittedly ones he hadn’t completely shared with her—she broke things down to their most basic pieces. “Do you always see things so simply?”
“Mostly. I have a simple job.”
He indicated the technology-strewn table with a sweep of his hand. “Seems pretty complex to me.”
“That’s because you still work for our blessed but flawed federal government.” She shrugged and turned away. “David, you want to tell Mr. Tremaine what our job is?”
“Get them before they get you.”
Remy laughed, moving around the table to sit across from them. “A good philosophy.”
“It works for us,” Jade said, frowning at him. “I thought you were going to get some rest.”
“I tried, but I can’t seem to relax. Probably too much caffeine.”
Actually, every time he closed his eyes all he saw was the two of them naked and tangled in the sheets of his bed.
Her eyes heated for a moment—with anger or maybe the same desire simmering in his veins. Probably an reluctant combination of both.
“You really need to sleep.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
The yes was obviously on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it. “You’re a big boy. Do what you want.” She picked up an ammunition clip and checked it, adding, “You’ll be here for the next few days anyway. Plenty of time to recuperate.”
Even as he admired her I’ll-slip-this-in-when-he-won’t-notice strategy, he wasn’t complying. “I don’t think so, Agent Broussard.”
“I’m not an agent, and you’ll do what I say.”
“I’ll do what I please.”
“Not if you want my team protecting you.”
His body responded to her order by hardening like a rock. He wanted her when she was angry and defiant. He wanted her soft and vulnerable. Was there any situation where she couldn’t—literally—get a rise out of him?
He did realize that forcing his point would get him nowhere. She’d never back down in front of her team.
“Could we discuss this in my office?” he asked as he rose.
“Office? You don’t—”
“How about the room I’m currently sleeping and working in?”
She sighed—heavily. “David, continue to run the equipment diagnostics. Mo, keeping working on those names and background checks. I want the most likely suspect ASAP. I’ll be right back.”
She stalked toward Remy’s bedroom door, crossed the threshold, then stood at the end of the bed with her feet planted shoulder-width apart, her hands braced on her hips. She looked as though she planned to go ten rounds with the heavyweight champ.
He was tense, as well. It was both heady and annoying to have dreamed about being with her, to finally have her near him, only to have her constantly trying to distance herself.
But in contrast to her anger, he took great pains to move slowly, to close the door behind him with a quiet click and face her with a slight smile on his face. “Clients are a pain in the ass, huh?”
“Yes, they are.”
“And yet without them, you wouldn’t have a business.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I have agreeable clients. Ones who listen to me, ones who don’t question—”
“Ones who are too damn scared to do anything else.”
She said nothing for several long moments. “I don’t like you very much.”
“What a shame. I like you very much.” Before she could add another terse comment that might send his temper careening over the edge she’d already jumped off, he walked toward her, stopping when he was just inches away. “I’m not scared, Jade. At least not of getting shot again. I’m troubled by the need you rouse in me. I wonder if I’ll forget what I’m here to do.”
Instead of touching her, he should be finding a way to separate his fascination with her from his need for her investigative skills. There had been times he’d tossed aside professional ethics, but never for sex.
Ahem.
Okay, so there was that case in Boston years ago when he probably should have resisted the charms of that lovely blond secretary who worked for the drug cartel….
But that was just fun and games. This thing with Jade felt too intense to be a game. Fun…well, maybe…if a man had the right touch.
Thankfully—or not, depending on which parts of him he asked—she didn’t seem to give a damn about his confession of attraction. “We need to get the people on your suspect list under surveillance, and you’re laying low for a couple of days while I gather resources and information.”
“I can’t do that.”
“And I can’t fight blind.”
He had issues with being trapped—which was how he viewed holing up in a hotel room, luxurious or not. He knew this stemmed from his childhood days at the orphanage. While the nuns had been caring and gentle, his movements had been restricted to the convent; his choices had been limited. Had his foray into rebellion and eventual thievery been genetic or circumstantial? He’d likely never know for certain.
“I have to do something,” he said.
“I’ll put you to work.”
“I work better in the field. You must realize I can get in and out of here without anyone knowing.”
Her eyes flashed. “Not without me knowing.”
“Jade, Jade…” He cupped her elbows. “I’m trying here. I’m really trying to work with you. But you can’t put me in a box. You can’t honestly expect I’d agree to that.”
She pulled away, then paced in a circle before facing him again. “I’m asking you to stay put. Just a day or two. I need time to check with my network of contacts about your suspects. Two of them are all the way across the country in San Francisco and one is in south Florida.”
He could help by giving her more information. But he’d promised himself to let her roll with this case her way. After all these years, if he’d made a mistake or jumped to the wrong conclusions, he might never have the answers he sought. “Do you ever stop pushing?”
“No.”
He’d expected nothing less. Wasn’t that why he’d hired her in the first place? “You’re asking a lot.”
“I’m doing what’s necessary. You know I am.”
He knew.
“Do you really intend to tell me everything about your past?” she asked. “The parts that aren’t in your file?”
“Do you really intend to continue to deny our chemistry?”
She sighed and stepped back. “We’re not getting anywhere.”
They certainly weren’t. But as much as he needed her to do her job, to make sure his own investigation had indeed led him in the right direction, he needed her touch, her kiss, her sighs of pleasure even more.
His muscles twitched with the effort of holding back. He clenched his fists at his sides and fought to control his breathing.
“There are parts of my life that aren’t pretty,” he said finally.
“I’m not denying our chemistry,” she said at the same time.
She extended her hands. “You first.”
“Ladies first. Besides, mine will take longer to tell.”
She huffed out a breath. “Okay, look. We’ve got a personal issue with each other. I’m not completely immune, and obviously you’re not.”
Was that a compliment? He didn’t think so.
“It’s just something we’re going to have to work around,” she continued. “It’s a chemical thing that pops up from time to time when men and women work together. Close quarters, tense moments, etcetera.”
He loved her short, businesslike tone. He’d known her three hours, and yet he already realized it was so her. “Really? When was the last time it cropped up for you?”
“I don’t think we need to go into specifics.”
“Sure we do.”
She sighed. “Okay, so maybe one time I let myself get too close to a target. The results weren’t pretty, so you’d better—”
“He got killed?”
“Well, no, but—”
“He was injured?”
“Well, yes, but not because of anything I—”
“He just betrayed you by sneaking off with a terrorist—the one from whom he’d been accepting bribes for more than a year. Then he got shot, got scared and turned over evidence to your superior, who cut him a no-jail-time deal with the government.”
She went still, her eyes frosting over. “Somebody’s been doing some digging.”
“Naturally.” He reached out, trailing his finger along her cheek. “In fact, I know a great deal more about you than I imagine you’re comfortable with.”
“And yet you won’t grant me the same courtesy.”
“I’m getting around to it. I would just rather talk about the personal issue between us.” His tone deepened as desire rolled through his stomach. “Exploring chemistry can be a healthy release.”
“It can also be an unnecessary distraction.”
“We’ll set guidelines.”
“I won’t—”
“Consider it.”
She licked her lips, drawing his gaze and forcing him to suppress a moan. “Okay.”
He smiled, sliding his thumb across her bottom lip. “It’s a start.”

4
MAYBE IT WAS the probing, conflicted expression in Remy’s eyes. Maybe it was simply time to give in to someone’s opinions other than her own. Maybe she was just exhausted. But Jade was certainly tempted.
Foolish, definitely. But the lure was there, glimmering in front of her like an inviting respite from holding everything in, from doubting and fighting to stay in control. Even as he aggravated her, this man might equal her strength and challenge her as no one ever had before.
For now, though, she had to set it aside.
“We have a lot to talk about, but we don’t have to do it now,” she said, rolling her shoulders and stepping back. “I want to see what Mo comes up with. In the meantime, I’ll find a way to let you out, but you have to keep out of sight. You’re supposed to be a traumatized art dealer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned. “Boss. Chief.”
“I prefer the last two.”
“I figured.”
“I gotta get some sleep. I’m getting punchy.”
“Because you’re tempted by me.”
“Because I’m tired. I’ll grill you later, don’t worry.”
“Promise?”
“Count on it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me tuck you in?”
She smiled wanly. “You supposed right.” She headed toward the door. “But I’ll be ready for the life and times of Remington Tremaine when I get up.”
“You’re giving me time to deal with my own demons, aren’t you?”
She turned the doorknob but didn’t look back. “Of course not. I’m just tired.”
After leaving her client, she checked briefly on David and Mo, then shut herself in the guest bedroom.
Okay, maybe she was going soft. But then maybe she just needed a break from Tremaine’s magnetism. He knew way too much about her. She probably should have expected his craftiness, but the day had had so many twists and turns it was no wonder she was dizzy. Not to mention she was out of practice with sophisticated intrigue.
Most of the people she defended her clients against these days were angry or overly devoted or just plain crazy. Plus, her primary goal was preventative protection, which involved an entirely different kind of smarts.
Closing her eyes as she lay back on the bed, she fought to put Tremaine out of her mind. He’d occupied every minute of her thoughts all day. She needed a break—along with a healthy dose of perspective.
Her partner, Frank, would be arriving soon. He’d help serve as a buffer between her and Tremaine. He’d have fresh ideas and the professional distance she couldn’t seem to hold on to.
Was that why she’d put off her client’s confession regarding his dodgy history? Was she so desperate for balance that she’d stalled receiving vital information? Or was she afraid she’d hear something that would push her irrevocably to either accept or reject him?
Before this case, her opinion of him had been anything but positive. Since she’d met him she’d budged little. But her conscience niggled. What if she was wrong about him? What if she’d sneered at a man who had value way beyond the shallow box she was determined to keep him in?
You’re still thinking about him.
She mentally worked through cleaning and loading her pistol, hoping to bore herself to sleep. As she drifted, her parents’ faces hovered before her.
She remembered her dad teaching her to change the beer tap and how to bluff at poker. He used to wear Old Spice cologne and would pull her into his lap during late-night card games, long after she was supposed to have been asleep.
She’d been a night owl even then.
She remembered her mom’s perfectly manicured hands reflected in the mirror as Jade sat at her dressing table. Momma had liked Jade’s hair—which she’d brushed and braided constantly—long. Once in high school, after they’d argued about her curfew, Jade had cut it off really short, and her mom had cried.
Jade had kept it long—though not waist-length—ever since. No doubt there was psychological funny business in that decision, some leftover sense of guilt for hurting her now-dead mother.
As always, her dream came back to that hot June day when a group of terrorists had decided to use a parade to assassinate the mayor of New Orleans. As grand marshal, her dad had been right beside him, her mother on the other side. The three of them, plus the mayor’s bodyguard, had died in the shooting.
Jade hadn’t been there. She’d been in calculus class at Tulane. She hadn’t said goodbye to them. She hadn’t appreciated or loved them enough. And then they were gone.
The NSA had seen her pain and with stealth tactics and subtle training, turned it into controlled fury. At the tender age of nineteen, she’d started a new life of intrigue and danger—all in the name of revenge.
She jolted awake at the knock on the door.
Her hand automatically jerked to her holster as she sat up and blinked the dreams and the past away.
“J.B.?”
Frank.
“Coming.”
She unlocked and opened the door, then immediately sank onto the end of the bed. She rarely dreamed, so the cobwebs were hard to bat away.
Her partner dropped onto the bed beside her. He wore his usual baggy jeans and button-down shirt—today, baby blue. His face was scruffy, and his sandy-brown hair looked as though he’d run his hands through it at least a thousand times.
But the crinkles spreading out from his dark-brown eyes betrayed his sharpness—if you took the time to look. He was only ten years older than her, but he had what people romantically refer to as an “old soul,” so he acted more like her father than her brother.
“What’s up with the locked door?” he asked.
“With Light-fingered Tremaine on the case, I figured the precaution was necessary.”
Frank glanced at the door. “Not much of a lock.”
“Don’t I know it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What the hell did you do last night? You look terrible.”
“I reworked the Ace One security program.”
“No kidding? You got the bugs out?”
“Yep.”
All thoughts of sleep gone, she leaped to her feet. “You’re a freakin’ genius!”
“You had doubts before?”
“Did you tell Mo?” Mo had taught Frank—who’d been previously technologically challenged—everything he knew. She wasn’t sure how thrilled his teacher was liable to be about his student excelling quite so thoroughly.
“Oh, yeah. I told him.” Frank smiled. “He’s pissed. We had fifty bucks on who’d break it first.”
“Can we test it here?”
“You really think there’s going to be a full-scale assault on the penthouse suite?”
“I’m not as worried about them getting in as I am about him—” she nodded toward the living room, where, presumably, their client was waiting “—getting out.”
“Certainly a bigger issue. I’ll get it installed. We can probably consider this a fairly definitive test.”
“I can’t think of a better situation.”
“He’s the best.”
Curious, Jade angled her head. “You really think so?”
“Near as I can figure.”
“You met him?”
“Slick.”
“In spades. What did you find out research-wise?”
“More than you, I bet.”
“Cute.”
“You wanna put fifty on it?”
Recalling Tremaine’s evasive answers and, worse, her reaction to him, she shook her head. “Not particularly.”
“I think he considers me a rival for your affections.”
“How do you figure that?” she asked casually, though sweat prickled at the small of her back.
“Just got that sense.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ten minutes.”
She rolled her eyes. The man was a master. How could she forget? He’d taught her, after all.
There was no telling what Frank had gotten from Tremaine in ten minutes—added to what he’d researched. When he saw them together, he’d really get a troubling picture.
She’d already briefed her partner on the suspected cause of their client’s shooting, so he’d dug much further back in Tremaine’s life.
“Let’s hear the dirt,” she said.
“He’s an orphan.”
Despite preparing to be cynical, her heart stuttered. Guess the old money, vineyards and real estate he’d told Lucas about were part of his cover. “No kidding?”
“Mom dropped him off at a Catholic orphanage when he was six months old. Father’s identity unknown—blank on the birth certificate. Tremaine was his mother’s last name, and she died three months after dropping him off with the nuns.”
She swallowed.
“Around the age of fifteen, an old family friend came to visit him. Tremaine met with him in private, then told the nuns that the man hadn’t known his family, that he’d been mistaken about his identity.
“A few months later, he started sneaking out of the convent. He got caught a couple of times, and the nuns sent him to confession and counseling. At first, they figured he was out looking for drugs or alcohol, but others don’t think so.”
“Who’d you get this from?”
“One of the nuns.”
Being raised Catholic, though she’d been lapsed for many years, Jade had a hard time picturing anybody grilling nuns. “She just offered all this up?”
“I smiled nicely.”
“Ha.”
“And memorized a Bible verse she wanted me to learn.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Micah 2:1. It’s a warning about devising wickedness. Truth is, without the black cape and funny hat, she was kinda cute.”
“Stop.” Jade held up her hand. “Oh, please stop.”
Frank cleared his throat. “Anyway, I got the info. You wanna hear it, or not?”
“He was sneaking out at night.”
“Right. Nobody really knows what he was doing during all these late-night outings—except maybe the priest in the confessional booth—since Tremaine refused to tell anyone. But then the forays stopped. Supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“My opinion. I think he just stopped getting caught.”
“Our thief was born.”
“Makes sense. For the next year he was the model student. The day he turned eighteen, he packed his suitcase and headed out for parts unknown. The mail the nuns tried to send him came back.”
Again, an odd, sinking feeling rolled through her stomach. Like her—until she’d found Lucas—Tremaine had been alone in the world. “He never went back?”
“Oh, he went back. Brought a big freakin’ check that entirely renovated the orphanage—big-screen TVs, PCs, video-game units, board games, building blocks, playground equipment, solid-wood bunk beds, freshly painted walls. The works.”
“Profits from an excellent thief.”
Frank shrugged. “Maybe. He refused to let them credit him as the benefactor.”
Just as he’d refused to defend himself earlier. She shook aside her emotions and concentrated on facts. “So he wanted a low profile.”
“But why go back at all?”
“They’d raised him,” she said.
“Plenty of people are raised without being grateful.”
Or aren’t as appreciative as they should be. At least until it’s too late. “A question to be probed.”
“You’ve been around him longer. What do you think?”
Oh, boy. “Could be guilt or genuine affection.”
“You lean toward…?”
She recalled the soft, persuasive feel of his lips on hers, the smile of invitation—and the blank look in his eyes when she’d questioned whether or not his money was tainted. For once, she went with her heart. “Affection. But where does the NSA come in?”
“No idea there. Not surprisingly, no one will go on record. There are just the rumors we’ve all heard before—he turned evidence against a bigger, thieving fish. As far as personal impressions go, a couple of agents acknowledged they worked with him, but they found him competent and secretive—just what you’d expect.”
“You called the NSA directly?”
“No. Tipping our connection didn’t seem wise at the moment. I talked to trusted, but retired, people.”
Jade leaned back against the door. “So, who’s this old family friend?”
“No idea. The good sisters claimed not to know, either.”
“Claimed?”
“Their loyalty is with Tremaine.”
“So we need to talk to him.”
“You think he’s really going to tell us what we need to know?”
“It’s his life. He’d better.”
She turned the doorknob, determined to face the inevitable sooner than later.
“Jade?”
Turning, she met Frank’s gaze.
“Are you okay with this?”
“Of course.”
“What about Lucas?”
She fought against the hurt lingering near her heart. Why didn’t he just trust her to take care of things? “Did he call you?”
“He left me a message. He’s worried about you.”
I am, too. “I cut him out of this case. He’s mad.”
“He could help.”
She clenched her fists. “You’re not serious.”
“He knows about the art world, the clientele. He’s known Tremaine longer. Maybe he could give us a perspective we aren’t seeing.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“Doesn’t mean he should be eliminated as an expert.”
Though her instincts protested, she tried to focus on Frank’s words. She trusted him like no one else. “I need to think about that.”
“Don’t think long. I imagine this case is gonna move quick.”
Another knock rattled the door.
When Jade opened it, David stuck his head inside. “The police are about to release the scene back to the restaurant. Do we want to check it out?”
“They’re offering to let us?”
“Apparently Tremaine’s name brings out the manners.”
“Yeah.” Mentally, Jade shifted priorities in her head. She figured they’d have to sneak by the police scene restrictions. “Yeah, we want to see it.” She turned to her partner, who now stood behind her. “You and Mo stay here with Tremaine. David and I will go.”
“Fine by me.” He rubbed his hands together. “I want to install that security system.”
“Are we going to get a big bill from the Marriott for seriously altering their room?”
“Humph. They’ll never know we were here.”
As Frank stalked from the room, Jade followed, shaking her head. Questioning a man’s home improvement/computer skills was like questioning the strength of his libido.
In the living room, she found their client beside Mo, both of them sitting at the dining room table amongst the surveillance and computer equipment.
“See this button here?” Mo was saying as he held up a particularly sophisticated tracking device. “Press it and you get a GPS position, so—”
“Feel free to give away all our secrets,” Jade said. As if Tremaine needed another specialty.
The men rose.
“Well, boss, he’s one of us, right?” Mo said, his massive size contrasting sharply with his contrite expression. “I figured—”
“No, he’s not.” Her gaze flicked to Tremaine, who—naturally—smiled. “He’s a client, not a member of this team.”
“But you have to admit, I’m not your usual client,” Tremaine said.
“You’re unusual, all right. And that’s not a compliment,” she added when his grin widened. “Okay, people. We have a new development. The local cops are giving us an opportunity to check out the scene, so David and I will go.”
“And me,” Tremaine added.
“You’ll stay here with Mo and Frank, order lunch from room service and pretend to be traumatized.”
“A wonderfully humiliating picture, but, no, I won’t.”
Did the man live to annoy just her, or was it everyone who didn’t let him run them over?
“I don’t mind keeping an extra-sharp eye on him,” David said.
Jade raised her eyebrows. “Do you usually keep a less than sharp eye on our clients?”
He flushed. “Ah, well, no.”
Tremaine approached her, and her pulse immediately, embarrassingly, sped up. “Are you telling me if you’d been shot, you’d let somebody else examine the scene?”
He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t.
“And you did promise you’d find a way to let me out.”
“I was thinking of a stroll down to the lobby,” she said incredulously, “not to the scene of your near death.”
“I need your help,” he said, staring down at her, “not for you to run my life.”
The sincerity gleaming from his silver eyes made her instantly suspicious. This was an act for the crowd. He’d shift to ruthlessness without a qualm if it would facilitate getting his way.
“My team gets to vote on the direction of cases. Clients don’t.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to make an exception this time, aren’t you?”
“The team votes. Guys?”
Grumbling and mumbling ensued, all of which fell in Tremaine’s favor.
“Fine. I know when I’m outnumbered.” She forced her anger to the pit of her stomach. It was an ego thing, after all. She wanted her way, and the others didn’t agree. She was arrogant, but not stupid. She knew Tremaine, unlike other clients, could handle himself, even though she knew she’d have to constantly remind him who was in charge.
“I don’t like it.” She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head. “But it’s your funeral.” She smiled.
“I was sort of hoping to avoid that.”
“Mmm, well, Frank has gotten your signature on the standard security protection release, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He will before we leave.” She turned back to the bedroom. She wanted to splash some water on her face. “Which we do in fifteen minutes.”

5
REMY EXITED THE limo alongside Jade and David in front of Plush, the restaurant where he’d been shot.
The feelings of isolation and being locked in faded as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Power and confidence returned. He’d had to come back, he realized. Not just to forward the investigation, but to shed the sense of helplessness he’d been forced to embrace. The role he’d played that night had required him to swallow a huge part of himself—the warrior side.
They walked into the restaurant, which was obviously winding down from the lunchtime rush. As Jade approached the maître d’, Remy started to intervene, but the man had obviously been forewarned about their arrival, because he frowned when he noticed Jade. “Ms. Broussard?”
“That’s me.”
“The detective is on the patio. Alone. We’ve been banned from allowing diners out there all day.”
Jade shrugged, her head already turning toward the patio. “That’s their decision, not mine.”
“Yes, well.” He spotted Remy. “Mr. Tremaine. Oh, sir, it’s so good to see you up and about. We were so grateful you weren’t seriously injured. We sent flowers to the hospital, but they said you’d already been released.”
“Who said?” Jade asked abruptly, her head snapping around.
The maître d’ blinked. “The person who answered the phone at the hospital.”
“Did he give any other information?” she asked sharply.
“No.” He looked to Remy and smiled. “But now you’re here, so instead we’ll serve you a wonderful lunch—on the house, of course.”
Remy laid his hand on the maître d’s shoulder. “Thank you so much, John, but I’m afraid I can’t take the time today.”
“But you will dine here again, sir, won’t you?” he asked, almost desperately, as Remy turned away.
“You can count on it.”
“At least the yahoos at the hospital didn’t give out your home address,” Jade said as they headed toward the patio.
“Probably because I didn’t give it to them. But my office is easily known. I’d like to go there next.”
“Not until after we do a bomb sweep.”
“With all that equipment at the hotel, I’m sure you can arrange that without a problem.”
“I’ll be sure to put it on top of my list, sir.”
“You didn’t honestly expect I’d sit by, did you?” he asked, well aware she was ticked he’d won their minor skirmish about his coming along.
“No, but I don’t have to be happy about it, do I?”
“Ms. Broussard.” A man with a crew cut and wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in khakis and a navy polo shirt approached them as they walked onto the patio. “I thought I recognized you getting out of the limo.”
Jade shook his hand briefly. “Did you? I don’t think we’ve met, Detective….”
“Parker. Your cousin Lucas and I have worked a few cases together. He described you.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “All the way down to your boots.”
Jade smiled wanly. “He’s efficient that way. This is Remington Tremaine and my associate, David Washington.”

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