Authors: Jenna Mills
Smoke and Mirrors (10 page)
She'd responded to him as a woman, not as a cop. And that woman in her, the one who'd gone without for so long, had reacted to the burning hunger. Like a sinkhole, it grew larger and larger, increasingly dangerous, sucking her down into its depths.
It was a hell of a note. After all this time, that Derek Mansfield was so easily tapping into her dormant sexuality dismayed her. Purely physical, she told herself, and therefore understandable. He was a devastatingly attractive man. A woman would have to be dead to be immune to those smoldering blue eyes, that insolent grin, that big, graceful body.
Cass was certainly not dead.
She swore under her breath, then flicked on the stereo and cranked up the volume. Rock and roll blasted her, instantly soothing away the restlessness, just as she knew it would.
Off to the west, the sun dipped below a swell of angry dark clouds. In all likelihood, the ball of fire would not be seen again until tomorrow. The stunning streaks of gold and magenta were likely the last light of day.
The car separating her from
Mansfield
turned into an exclusive neighborhood, forcing Cass to hang back. She'd been expecting a covert meeting, on the pier perhaps, not a jaunty drive up the
Turn around. Call Gray. Arrange a backup. The thoughts swirled, yet Cass held them at bay. Now was not the time for opting out. Now was the time to topple one more domino—once she found it.
Darkness descended, making the narrow winding road harder to navigate. The angry clouds that swallowed the sun hovered overhead, unleashing the first fat drops of rain.
And Cass thought of home.
Thunderstorms always did that to her, reminded her of
New
Orleans
, with all those humid afternoons leading to spectacular displays of Mother Nature's fury.
The Ferrari made a sudden turn to the left. Had she not been following so diligently, Cass would have thought he'd vanished into thin
air.
But, flicking off her lights, she followed him into the secluded lane.
That's what it was. A winding, country lane. Despite its quaintness, Cass knew it could lead anywhere. A deserted cabin. A crumbling bar. A trailer. An out-of-the-way meeting spot.
A place to hide merchandise, dispose of evidence. Or witnesses. Or cops.
Her blood quickened, yet she refused to define the source of her excitement.
Navigating the dark road demanded all her concentration. She couldn't follow too closely, so she hung back and eased her way down the path.
A clearing opened before her. The lights of Derek's car went out, casting the lane into darkness. Had there been stars or moon, they might have lit her way, but the clouds muted all light. Cass instinctively stopped the car to avoid smashing into one of the towering trees that lined the road.
The fiercely cold wind whipped at her the second she opened the door. A cold front racing out of
Canada
, Cass realized, her Southern blood making her instinctively shiver. But she crept forward, one cautious step at a time, until she reached the mouth of the clearing. Then she froze.
The house was spectacular, no other word would do. The grand structure rose up from a neatly manicured lawn like a palatial country estate.
Yellow pools of light glowed from the windows, beacons in a storm. A wide veranda offered a warm greeting. Supported by huge white columns, the porch wrapped around both sides of the house. Seven full-length windows stood tall on the left, seven to the right, all in perfect Georgian symmetry. A similar balcony hugged the second story, yet instead of windows, doors graced the white bricks.
She crept forward. The Ferrari was parked in a large circular drive, partially hidden by discreetly placed shrubs.
Mansfield
was nowhere in sight. He must have disappeared through the enormous double doors, she realized, into the welcoming warmth inside.
Another chill raced through her. The grand house didn't belong here, anymore than
Mansfield
belonged inside it.
A friend's home. A contact. But as Cass neared the hedges bordering the veranda and the windows came into view, she saw the object of her investigation, pumping the hand of a man who looked shockingly like a butler. There was a woman, a stereotypical middle-aged woman in a gray dress, taking his coat and gloves. And then another woman, this one young but in a similar dress, handing him a tumbler filled with amber liquid.
Raindrops splattered around her, but Cass didn't move. She could do nothing but stare. For hours. While
Mansfield
was seated at a gleaming dining room table, alone. While he ate a full-course meal fit for a king, alone. While he paced the length of the parlor, alone.
While he went upstairs into one of the bedrooms, alone. Cass hurried over to a large maple tree, its branches offering her scant shelter from the rain.
The French doors swung open, and the man who was becoming a troubling enigma strode onto the upper veranda. Glass tumbler in one hand, the other wrapped around the white railing, he stared out into the night. It was too dark to make out his features, but Cass didn't need light to see those restless eyes.
Or to feel them.
The wind whipped his hair about his shuttered face. He looked so alone standing there, so isolated.
Dangerous thoughts, Cass warned herself.
The rain picked up, cold shards pouring down in thick, unrelenting sheets. But
Mansfield
seemed oblivious. He simply stood there, staring.
Just as she stood there, staring.
A drenched eternity later, he hurled the tumbler over the balcony, against the nearest tree, then turned and stormed inside. The howling wind stole the sound of shattering glass.
Cass was left alone, except for the restlessness deep inside. It grew and festered, threatened to destroy.
* * *
"You shouldn't have followed him like that. Not alone."
Cass waved off Gray's concern. "I wanted to make sure he didn't circle back and catch you in the penthouse. Did you find anything?"
Gray frowned. "Other than a folder on you, not a damn thing."
Cass stiffened. She glanced around the immaculate hotel lobby, ensuring no one stood within hearing distance. "He doesn't suspect a thing," she said forcefully.
"No," Gray agreed. His tone was deceptively soft. "But he damn well wants."
A blast of heat went through her. "Well, looks like he's about to learn he can't always get what he wants, isn't he?"
"Careful, Cammy. He's a dangerous man."
"And I'm a dangerous woman," she countered. "I know my job, and I do it well. If I didn't," she reminded, "you might not be standing here today."
He scowled. "So where's
Mansfield
? Has he come back yet?"
Cass glanced toward the front doors, grateful this time she had a legitimate reason. "Haven't seen him yet, but then,
Mansfield
isn't exactly a creature of habit. The man comes and goes as he pleases."
He could return in five minutes, five hours,
five
days. Impossible to predict what he would do next. "I suspect he'll be here soon, though. He's been spending time with his nephew every afternoon," she said, spotting the child. He sat at the chess table, entertaining himself with magic tricks. "The kid seems to be the one exception to
Mansfield
's unpredictability."
She didn't want to think too much about that, either.
"You okay with the boy?" Gray asked too gently.
She glanced at Ryan, felt the answering ache deep inside. "Fine," she lied.
He eyed her skeptically,
then
let it drop. "
Mansfield
was still at the country house when you left?"
Grateful for something else to think about, she recalled the sight of him silhouetted in the window. "Snug as a bug."
"And what time was that?"
She was almost embarrassed to admit how long she'd stood in the rain. "Just before sunrise."
Frowning, Gray reached out and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "You really want him, don't you?"
She flinched, stepped back from his touch. "What?"
"
Mansfield
," Gray said. "Behind bars. I can't imagine what else would prompt you to spend the night in the cold rain."
Cass didn't want to imagine, either. The mere memory sent a shiver through her. "We've waited a long time to nail him. I'm enjoying having some action for a change." She handed him a slip of paper. "Now get on up to room 223. I told Mr. and Mrs. Olsen someone would be up to help them with their luggage."
Gray's expression softened. "We'll talk more
later
. You sure you're okay?"
His concern warmed as much as it grated. "I will be unless Mr. Olsen calls down here looking for his bellhop."
Gray mumbled something unintelligible, grabbed the luggage cart,
then
headed for the elevator.
Cass watched him go, tried not to laugh. Really, she did. But the sight of her macho, over-protective partner poured into his prissy little bellman uniform tickled her funny bone. "Don't forget your hat," she called to him, then laughed when he crammed it down on his head and stormed into the elevator.
"What's so funny, doll?"
Cass pivoted to find Derek lounging there, those sizzling blue eyes concentrated on her. Laughing. Knowing.
Chapter 6
A
moment of pure male appreciation snagged Derek when he caught sight of her. She looked as provocatively beautiful as ever, with her dark hair secured in its sleek braid and her body poured into that tight little suit. The sound of her throaty laughter had lightened his mood the second he walked in the door.
Until he saw the bellman striding away, the fondness on her face as she watched him.
Only yesterday she'd kissed Derek with enough fire and passion to brand a man for life. Now the sparkle in her eyes was for another man, like a fickle butterfly flitting from wildflower to wildflower.
Something inside him went very cold.
"I didn't realize you were back," she said mildly, as though she didn't care, either.
Derek didn't like the stab of possessiveness low in his groin. "How could you, when you were busy carrying on with that bellman?"
A slow smile curved her lips, those lips he'd feasted on the day before. "I find a man in uniform sinfully sexy," she answered glibly. "Airmen, firemen. Cops."
She was teasing him, Derek realized, and just like that, his anger turned to something far different. He didn't know how she did it, made him want to laugh, when only minutes before he'd wanted to give the too-pretty bellman a lesson with his fists.
"Uniforms, huh? Is that all I have to do?"
"I bet that little tassel hat would look dazzling on you. Or, maybe a snow-white sailor suit. You were a marine, right?"
"Merchant marine, not the same thing. And it's the navy that wears white." He grinned. "How about my birthday suit?" he couldn't resist asking. "It's a bit battered, but it's custom-made to fit, and I've never had a complaint."
The twinkle in her eyes intensified. "I was thinking more along the lines of a straitjacket," she said, deadpan.
He let out a shout of laughter. "Smart lady."
But she wasn't smiling anymore, didn't look lighthearted. "Look, I'd hoped we could just leave it alone, but apparently we can't. About yesterday—"
He stepped closer, killing her words by streaking his index finger along the side of her face. "I know, fearless. I hate unfinished business, too."
Her eyes widened, and an affirming rush of color suffused her flawless complexion. "Derek," she said, stepping back from his touch. "Please."
"Please what?" Countless possibilities surged, all erotic as hen.
"Don't touch me."
That wasn't one of them. "Why not? You liked having my hands all over you in the massage room."
She glared at him. "We've already discussed this—it's not a good idea to mix business with pleasure."
"Pleasure?" he repeated with a deliberately wicked smile. "No, I believe you mumbled something about socializing with your employer. The word
pleasure
never crossed your lips." To illustrate his point, he slid his finger along her slightly open mouth. "Until now."
He almost saw the tremor race through her.
"You know what I meant," she protested.
"Yes, I do," he said, leaning closer. "Just like I know what you want."
Rather than flinching the way he expected, she lifted her chin. "So you're aware of the fact I'd like nothing more than to use that overly inflated male ego of yours as a kickball, but you're standing here with me, anyway?"