She and Alex McMullin were alone in a very small bedroom

“Alex!” Gillian gasped, taking in the reality of the man in a split second, starting with the wavy, jet-black hair and the piercing blue eyes. “You…. What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing—lying in wait for me?”

He laughed. “I’m giving you an illustration of the dangers you’re going to be facing—if you let your lieutenant talk you into this job.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for a training session.”

When she tried to brush past him, he put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Yeah. It’s already started. I’m your trainer for the afternoon. We’re going to be working together, so we might as well get comfortable with each other.”

Both of them knew there was no way for them to be comfortable with each other. Not with pictures flashing in her mind of the hot and steamy sex they’d enjoyed before he’d ended the relationship. Was he thinking about that, too?

“I thought I was going over self-defense strategies,” she blurted. “This isn’t supposed to be anything sexual.”

He turned to face her. “You are playing the part of a prostitute. So, by its very nature, your assignment has sexual implications. Depending on how things shake out, you and I could easily end up in bed together.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Temperatures are rising this month at Harlequin Intrigue! So whether our mesmerizing men of action are steaming up their love lives or packing heat in high-stakes situations, July’s lineup is guaranteed to sizzle!

Back by popular demand is the newest branch of our Confidential series. Meet the heroes of NEW ORLEANS CONFIDENTIAL—tough undercover operatives who will stop at nothing to rid the streets of a crime ring tied to the most dangerous movers and shakers in town. USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca York launches the series with Undercover Encounter—a darkly sensual tale about a secret agent who uses every resource at his disposal to get his former flame out alive when she goes deep undercover in the sultry French Quarter.

The highly acclaimed Gayle Wilson returns to the lineup with Sight Unseen. In book three of PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD, it’s a race against time to prevent a powerful terrorist organization from unleashing unspeakable harm. Prepare to become entangled in Velvet Ropes by Patricia Rosemoor—book three in CLUB UNDERCOVER—when a clandestine investigation plunges a couple into danger….

Our sassy inline continuity SHOTGUN SALLYS ends with a bang! You won’t want to miss Lawful Engagement by Linda O. Johnston. In Cassie Miles’s newest Harlequin Intrigue title—Protecting the Innocent—a widow trapped in a labyrinth of evil brings out the Achilles’ heel in a duplicitous man of mystery.

Delores Fossen’s newest thriller is not to be missed. Veiled Intentions arouses searing desires when two bickering cops pose as doting fiancés in their pursuit of a deranged sniper!

Enjoy our explosive lineup this month!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue

Undercover Encounter

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Rebecca York

Ruth Glick Writing As Rebecca York

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories, she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.

THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT’S PLEDGE

I hereby swear to uphold the law to the best of my ability; to maintain the level of integrity of this agency by my compassion for victims, loyalty to my brothers and courage under fire.

And above all, to hold all information and identities in the strictest confidence…

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Alexander McMullin—He was a tough cop who quit the NOPD. Now he’s working for New Orleans Confidential on a top-secret case.

Gillian Seymour—A rookie cop, she takes a dangerous undercover assignment to clean up the streets of the Big Easy and forms an uneasy alliance with the man from her past.

Wiley Longbottom—The retired director of Colorado Department of Public Safety came to New Orleans to have a good time and ended up close to death.

Conrad Burke—As head of NOC, he’s determined to find out who put Wiley Longbottom in the hospital.

Seth Lewis—A rough-around-the-edges Confidential operative.

Tanner Harrison—This world-weary ex-CIA agent has problems he doesn’t even know about….

Maurice Gaspard—The pimp who cracks the whip at the elegant bordello called the McDonough Club.

Madame Cynthia Dupré—She keeps the working girls in line and the customers satisfied at the McDonough Club.

Jack Smith—This bartender mixes drugs with drinks at Bourbon Street Libations.

Lily—This frightened teenage runaway is “working” at the McDonough Club, but she didn’t volunteer for the job.

Ricardo Gonzalez—Evil to the core, he plans to overthrow the government of Nilia, a South American country.

Jerome Senegal—This ruthless and wealthy New Orleans businessman is in over his head with Gonzalez.

Sebastion Primeaux—Both powerful and corrupt, this district attorney knows how to keep the right people happy.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“It’s not your fault,” Alexander McMullin said from the doorway of the hospital room.

Conrad Burke, who was standing by the window with his head bowed, looked up, his countenance a mixture of determination and anger. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes—in the prime of his life. A stark contrast to the other occupant of the room who lay in the narrow bed, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.

The unconscious man had once been slightly rotund. Now his body seemed to have shrunken and his thinning dark hair was plastered to his head.

As Alex stepped across the threshold, Conrad turned to face him squarely, the way he always faced what life threw at him. Yet he couldn’t hide the haunted look in his eyes.

Until a few months ago Conrad had been with the Colorado Confidential operation, run out of the Royal Flush Ranch by Colleen Wellesley. Then he’d been tapped to set up New Orleans Confidential, so he’d moved his wife and twin babies to the city.

One of the first agents recruited for the new branch, Alex was determined to keep Conrad from doing something he’d regret.

His new boss gave him a direct look. “What do you mean, this isn’t my fault?” Conrad gestured toward the unconscious man. “I’m the one who invited Wiley down to New Orleans. I’m the one who took him out for a night on the town. If I’d just left well enough alone, he’d be fine now.”

Keeping his voice even, Alex said, “You didn’t slip him the drug that put him in that hospital bed. Nobody could have anticipated that would happen.”

Conrad’s expression only became more self-accusatory. “I’m supposed to know what’s going on in this city.”

“You just moved back here. New Orleans Confidential isn’t even operational yet.”

The other man ignored him and plowed on. “Why the hell did I have to take him to Bourbon Street Libations, of all places?”

“Because you didn’t know the bartender was drugging the customers.”

It had all started so innocently, Alex thought. Wiley Longbottom, the man who lay in this hospital bed close to death, was the former director of the Colorado Department of Public Safety, aka Colorado Confidential. A heart condition had forced him into early retirement.

And Conrad Burke, who’d worked with Wiley at the secret government agency, had invited his old boss down to the Crescent City for a big, blowout going-away party.

The first few hours had been a blast—with the new agents like Alex listening to the old hands play “can you top this” as they exchanged stories about shoot-outs and undercover operations. Wiley and Philip Jones, one of the Confidential recruits who’d worked as a P.I. in the city for years, had everyone else convulsing with laughter at their escapades.

Unfortunately, the evening hadn’t turned out the way anyone expected—because good old Jack Smith, who tended bar at Bourbon Street Libations, had slipped something into the retired director’s drink.

Something very nasty and very potent. And not just one dose of the stuff. It was a drug they were now calling Category Five because it swept through the unsuspecting victim like a major hurricane. It had made straight-arrow Wiley horny as hell. When one of the prostitutes who frequented the bar came on to him, he leaped at the chance to leave with her. Everyone at the table thought he’d wake up in the morning with a hell of a hangover and an embarrassed grin on his face—until they checked his hotel room and found that he’d never come home that night.

After a frantic search, they’d found him in the intensive care unit of St. Charles General Hospital, suffering from a massive heart attack.

Conrad’s voice interrupted Alex’s dark thoughts. “We’re going to get the bastards that did this to Wiley. We’re going operational next week.”

Alex had expected something like that, although he knew they weren’t nearly ready. They’d just gotten their undercover operation—a trucking company called Crescent City Transports—in halfway working order.

“How do we justify jumping in two months early? I mean, what’s the official explanation?”

“I’ll come up with something.”

Privately, Alex didn’t like the setup. But he understood where Conrad was coming from. So all he said was, “Tell me what you need from me.”

Chapter One

“Hey, buddy, hurry up with that damn beer,” a sharp voice cut through the babble of voices and music blaring through Bourbon Street Libations.

“Coming right up,” Alex McMullin answered as he pulled back on the tap and filled a glass, then delivered the brew to an impatient tourist. Next, he wiped up a spill on the polished bar and pocketed a generous tip from a customer. Working undercover as a bartender had its advantages, although he sure hadn’t thought he’d end up dispensing booze when he’d joined New Orleans Confidential.

But this was the bar, Bourbon Street Libations, where Wiley Longbottom had been drugged. Which was why Alex was presently making a Singapore Sling for another boozy tourist—while keeping the small, wiry figure of the other bartender, Jack Smith, in his peripheral vision.

A noise coming from the direction of the door made Alex’s head jerk up. A big, muscular guy named Tony was supposed to be at the entrance, politely turning away anyone who was too plastered to whistle “Dixie.” But he’d gone on his break a few minutes ago, leaving the belligerent drunk who’d just staggered into the bar free to take a swing at another patron.

Alex looked at Jack, who shrugged and bent his balding head toward the drink he was mixing. Alex also glanced at Mason Bartley, the most unlikely member of the Confidential team, a forty-year-old loser with short brown hair and shifty blue eyes. At the moment he was acting true to form, looking down into his rum and Coke.

With no one else prepared to keep order, Alex rounded the bar and headed for the drunk, who immediately tried to pop him one.

“No, you don’t,” he growled. Spinning the guy around, he propelled him toward the door.

Instead of going quietly, the guy made a furtive motion toward his boot, and a knife that could gut a pig materialized in his hand. Only, he wasn’t after pork this evening. With a curse, he made a vicious slash at Alex’s midsection.

Acting instinctively, Alex aimed a kick at the guy’s arm, sending him sprawling on the barroom floor and the knife flying.

The jerk was stupid enough to lunge for the weapon again. Alex kicked it out of the way, wondering if he was going to have to do some serious damage.

Someone in the back must have alerted Tony because he came rushing into the fray and scooped up the pork sticker. Of course, by this time, the little altercation was attracting a crowd, from both inside and outside the bar. Tony must have figured Alex could take care of the intruder, because he turned his own attention to settling down the rest of the patrons.

As a former police detective, Alex’s instinct was to call the boys in blue and let them haul this guy’s ass away. But Bourbon Street Libations had a pretty strict no-cops policy. Unless somebody got killed, you kept the law out of it.

So he frog-marched the drunk onto the street where they were instantly enveloped by the heat and humidity of the night.

“Need some help?” a voice from the crowd asked. Alex looked up to see Rich Stewart—dressed in a nicely authentic biker outfit—ambling toward him. A former navy SEAL who still kept his dark blond hair in a short military cut, he was another of the Confidential agents. With a grin, he helped Alex propel the inebriated jerk several paces down the block.

When Alex turned, he saw Tony stepping onto the street. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Sorry, I was in the can when the excitement broke loose.”

“No problem,” Alex answered. Actually he’d been enjoying the action. Standing behind a bar didn’t give him much opportunity for aerobic activity—unless you counted wielding a cocktail shaker.

Now that he was away from his post, he allowed himself a few minutes of relaxation. Dragging in a breath of the humid air, he watch the boisterous crowd parading up and down the most famous street in the French Quarter, past bars, strip joints, boutiques selling cheap souvenirs and voodoo hexes, and, of course, the all-essential condom shop up the way.

Music blared from the bars and jazz clubs, mingling with the raunchy conversation of the crowd. Bourbon Street at night was a party animal’s playground. Or a trap for the unwary.

The doctor had told Conrad that the hospital had seen several older men come in under circumstances similar to Wiley Longbottom’s. They’d all ingested an unidentified drug that stimulated the libido but had the dangerous side effect of elevating the heart rate to the extreme. Demanding answers, Conrad had contacted Police Chief Henri Courville, who’d immediately gone into defensive mode, claiming that his department was putting all the resources it could spare into tracking the source of the new designer drug.

After some initial finger-pointing, Conrad and the police chief had calmed down enough to play ball with each other. Which was why New Orleans Confidential was now running a joint operation with the P.D.

The arrangement didn’t exactly thrill Alex.

His last couple of years as a police detective had been marred by red tape and departmental screwups. The final straw had come after he’d busted his butt to get the evidence for a capital murder case—and the conviction had been thrown out due to a legal loophole.

After that, the job simply hadn’t been the same. He’d taken a leave of absence from the force, done some freelance investigative work and spent a lot of time fixing up the house he’d bought, wondering if he could support himself as a private eye. Then Conrad Burke had tracked him down and made him an offer, and he’d jumped at the chance to work for a man he respected.

Unfortunately now he was stuck having to make both Conrad Burke and Henri Courville happy.

Down the street, a man was leaning over one of the wrought-iron balconies and tossing newly minted faux “doubloons” and cheap necklaces to a rowdy crowd. Once such activity had been strictly a feature of Mardi Gras. Now you saw it all the time down here. He eyed some of the girls down below, wondering if one of them would take off her T-shirt and bra to get some loot thrown her way. When all the ladies kept their shirts on, he went back into the bar.

Jack gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Nice of you to join us. We’re pretty busy in here.”

Alex shrugged. He and Jack had a pretty prickly relationship. “The next time we get a guy with a knife, you can take care of him.”

“Not my job.”

Alex didn’t bother to answer. He already knew that Jack was pretty busy—mixing drinks and pushing drugs. A dangerous combination. It was only a matter of time before the little squirt got himself into serious trouble.

They stayed out of each other’s way for the next half hour. Then a group of five overdressed older businessmen, looking like they were out slumming, came into the bar and took a table on the right. After the scantily clad cocktail waitress wrote down their drink requests, she headed for Alex. But Jack signaled her to come to him instead.

“I owe you one,” he said to Alex as he scanned the order, then began making Hurricanes. Alex gave him a thumbs-up and went back to work on a batch of Margaritas for some wet-behind-the-ears college kids. But he kept tabs on Jack. The guy bent down below the level of the bar. When he came back up, it looked like the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt was bulging just a little. As he mixed one of the Hurricanes, a fine mist of white powder fell from underneath the cuff into the drink. Not powdered sugar, Alex thought as he watched the bartender stir the stuff into the drink.

He’d bet his nonexistent New Orleans P.D. pension that it was Category Five.

The prime targets for this deadly designer drug were older affluent men. It aroused them sexually—allowing prostitutes to prey on them—but if too much was contained they could die of heart attacks. The cop in him wanted to warn the businessmen. But, since Wiley’s heart attack, nobody else had ended up in the hospital. And giving out warnings would jeopardize the joint undercover NOC-PD operation.

So he watched the waitress swish her hips over to the table and chat with the guys while she distributed the drinks. He kept an eye on the men, seeing the symptoms develop in one of them, the same signs he’d seen in Wiley. The guy with the spiked drink got red in the face, shifted in his seat and began talking pretty loudly.

Obviously embarrassed, the others in his group tried to calm him down, but he wasn’t willing to be restrained. Over the next twenty minutes, he became increasingly obnoxious.

When a little working girl at a nearby table caught his eye, he left his friends and went over to sit with her. Probably they were glad to get rid of him.

Mentally taking notes, Alex watched the guy indiscreetly paw at her in public before they headed for the front door.

Alex wanted to find out where they were going. Since the crowd in the bar had thinned, he tossed an “I’ll be right back” in Jack’s direction.

Before the other bartender could object, he hurried down the hall toward the men’s room, then made for the back exit where he ducked into the alley, gagging at the smell of garbage bags waiting to be picked up in the morning. The couple had gone out the front door. He charged down the alley and through a passageway that led from a private garden back to the street. There he scanned the crowd. But his quarry had disappeared. He couldn’t take a chance on passing Tony at the door. His only option was to search in the opposite direction—toward the far end of Bourbon Street where the lights were lower and the crowds were thinner.

He thought he’d lost the pair. But his luck held and he caught a glimpse of the happy couple just turning the corner.

Probably the guy wouldn’t realize he was being followed. But the woman might catch on. Playing safe, Alex hung back, watching them make for a sprawling stucco building with Ionic columns holding up a small portico in front. When they disappeared inside, he hugged the shadows across the street and strolled past, looking at the name above the door. The McDonough Club.

He blinked, thinking he’d read it wrong. But the words stayed the same.

He’d heard of the place. It was an old and distinguished men’s club, named after one of the city’s benefactors. Could the working girl really be planning to take her date here?

Well, they’d gone inside. He’d report that at the morning meeting and check out the vital statistics on the club.

Meanwhile he’d better get back before he lost his job.

By sprinting all the way, he arrived at the alley door of the bar about ten minutes after he’d left. Ducking into the men’s room, he took a couple of deep breaths and washed his hands. When he glanced at his watch he saw that it was half past midnight. In a couple of hours he could go home and catch a little sleep. Then it was on to his other assignment—playing truck driver.

Jack gave him a dirty look when he returned. But he pretended to be oblivious.

He was hoping that the rest of the evening would be less eventful. But no such luck. Twenty minutes later, as he drew another draft of beer, his attention zinged to the front door when three dark Latino men swaggered into the bar. All of them were large and muscular, with slicked-down black hair, new jeans and dark T-shirts. Actually, Alex was surprised when Tony stepped aside and let them in, since they looked like trouble.

They took a table in the back, speaking Spanish and acting as though they owned the place. As he glanced at them from time to time, Alex began making connections. They looked as if they could be some of the Nilia rebels due to arrive in town.

The rebels were the reason the Department of Public Safety had opened this new branch of Confidential in New Orleans in the first place. Their leader, Ricardo Gonzalez, aka “Black Death,” was bent on overthrowing the government of a country that reminded Alex a lot of Venezuela. Gonzalez wanted to squelch the peaceful democracy that existed there and grab the considerable oil resources. And he was willing to use any means at his disposal, including wiping out whole villages to make an example of them.

CIA agents who had been in-country following his movements had discovered that a group of Gonzalez’s men was headed toward New Orleans.

Alex watched them without being obvious. He’d heard that everyone who worked for Gonzalez had a scorpion tattooed on his upper body. If he tore the shirt off one of them, would he find the mark?

He was pretty sure there wasn’t much chance of undressing any of them in here. He saw that Rich Stewart had drifted into the bar and was glad the other agent was keeping tabs on the action, since the newcomers’ behavior was definitely something to worry about. Looking up, he saw one of them deliberately bump his chair into that of another patron, apparently for the sheer pleasure of seeing if he could start a fight.

The other guy moved out of the way, and the group went back to their drinks—until one of them made eye contact with a blond coed. When she smiled at him, he made a spontaneous decision that he was going to separate her from her boyfriend.

Clearing a path through the bar, he moved in on the kids, leaning over the girl with his big hand on her shoulder and his fingers coming down over her breast.

Rich and Alex exchanged glances. Rich edged a little closer to the group, but stayed out of their way.

With the noise level in the room, it was impossible for Alex to hear anything that was being said. Still, it was obvious that the college boy was mad as hell—but also afraid to tangle with the hulking Hispanic.

Alex clenched his fist around the spout of the soda and soft drink dispenser, wishing that he could help the kid out. But he’d already called enough attention to himself for one night.

The other members of the macho group sat back, enjoying the fun, laughing among themselves. But just as their amigo was about to chew the kid up and spit him out, the others mercifully stepped in to drag their cohort out of the bar. And Alex breathed out a little sigh. Disaster averted, and he hadn’t even stuck his nose into it.

He glanced up, seeing Rich give a small nod before following them into the street. Mason stayed where he was. Over the past few days Alex was getting the impression that his specialty was avoiding trouble.

Alex spent the next half hour tending bar and feeling almost like he was on break.

But his antenna went up when another prostitute walked through the door. She’d picked a slow time, which immediately made him think she was one of the police recruits getting some training when there wouldn’t be too much chance of fending off propositions.

She was wearing a lot of makeup, but as she stood inside the door scanning the room, Alex got a good look at her face.

His heart clunked inside his chest, then started up a rapid beat that made it hard to breathe.

The prostitute was Gillian Seymour. He’d know that fiery redhead anywhere, even dressed in a low-cut blouse, a miniskirt that barely covered her crotch, fishnet stockings and little black boots.

While he’d still been with the N.O.P.D., he and Gillian had dated. Well, that was a pretty mild word for the torrid affair that had rocketed to life between them.

Truthfully, she’d been the best thing in his life at the time. But even as the two of them had driven each other to ecstasy in bed, he’d known that he was no good for her. So he’d broken it off.

For a painful second he allowed himself to envy his boss. Conrad Burke was married to a wonderful woman named Marilyn whom he’d met on one of his previous assignments. They were raising a set of twins—a boy and a girl. That was the way life was supposed to be. A man and a woman fell in love, settled down and raised a family.

Unfortunately it hadn’t been that way with his own parents. Mom and Dad had each been married five times. Alex was their oldest kid. The one who’d been born while they weren’t hitched to anyone. And he couldn’t even keep up with all the stepsisters and brothers from the various unions—the shortest of which had lasted four months.

As a kid, he’d been shuffled from one parent to the next and back again—often feeling like he’d gotten lost in the cracks of his parents’ new relationships.

And he’d vowed never to do that to a child of his own. He knew he wasn’t a suitable candidate for marriage. It just wasn’t in his genes. So he’d always kept his dealings with the fair sex superficial.

Which was what had scared him about Gillian. He’d wanted her on a level that he wasn’t prepared to accept—which had finally sent him running in the other direction.

But in the two years since breaking off the affair he’d thought of her often. And when he’d heard she’d entered the police academy, he’d wondered if her idealism would last once she started patrolling the city’s mean streets.

How long had she been in uniform? She’d have started out as a beat cop. But if she was already doing undercover work, then someone had noticed her potential and put her on the department fast track.

Which was too damn bad. She’d burn out as fast as he had if they kept pushing her into the “choice” assignments. And one thing he knew from the way she clasped her hands together in front of her; she was nervous. Which proved she was too green to be playing the tricky undercover part of a prostitute.

He studied her for half a minute. Lord, that red hair looked like it could set the place on fire. Or burn a man’s fingers. And the skimpy outfit displayed the nicely curved figure he remembered very well.

Under the makeup that she’d applied with a trowel, he could see that her features were still striking.

He kept his gaze on her, willing her to look in his direction. He knew the exact moment when she spotted him standing rigidly behind the bar. Her jaw didn’t exactly drop open. But she froze, standing near the doorway for a couple of electric seconds, then tilted her chin up and looked deliberately away.

It was all he could do to keep from charging around the bar and demanding to know if she’d lost her mind.

But he stayed where he was, his eyes narrowing as he watched her survey the room, then head for a table where two guys were sitting. Both were wearing short-sleeved, button-down shirts. Both looked like they’d had about three drinks too many. The French Quarter had that effect on civilians, Alex mused. There were too many bars, too many strip joints, too many places to score a cheap drink or your drug of choice. Hell, you could even buy liquor in a plastic cup from bars right on the street and walk around with the booze in your fist.

With a saucy smile Gillian started up a conversation with the woozy duo. It didn’t take long before she’d struck up a deal with one of them. As Alex watched in horror, she strolled out of the bar with the guy.

He cursed under his breath. He’d already taken one unauthorized break that evening. He should stay at his post until closing time. But he was damned if he was just going to stand here worrying about Gillian.

Daring Jack to stop him now, he walked to the back again, then hurried around to the street, thinking that he’d like to throttle Gillian Seymour.

Chapter Two

Outside, noise and heat and the smell of the nighttime crowd enveloped Gillian. But it wasn’t the crowd that worried her. The look in Alexander McMullin’s eye had curdled her stomach. And he wasn’t her most pressing problem.

That would be the inebriate with his hand on her arm, a hand that was inching toward her breast.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go back to my hotel room and have some fun.” The invitation was issued in a drunken slur.

“I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression,” Gillian answered, politeness taking over from her former party-girl persona. “But I have to go home to my sick mother.”

The man’s hammy hand tightened on her arm and he leaned forward, his bourbon breath almost choking her. “You said you’d put out.”

In her peripheral vision, she could see several spectators taking in the little drama. But nobody sprang to the aid of a working girl.

When the bad actor dug his fingers painfully into her flesh, she came down on the toe of his shoe with one of her stiletto high heels and he yelped, letting go of her arm.

“You whore! What the hell do you think you’re doing? We had a deal.”

“I’m an independent contractor and I can choose what jobs to accept. If you can’t behave yourself on the street, what are you going to do in a hotel room?” she asked.

He blinked at her, apparently sobering up quickly. But before he could answer, she dashed away, hoping nobody in the crowd was planning to follow her.

Her first night as a prostitute, and she’d blown it. Well, not exactly, she corrected, cringing at her choice of words.

She sent an invisible dagger in the direction of Lieutenant LeBarron, who was probably home in bed at this very moment.

From the second she’d come under his command, he’d taken an interest in her career, which meant he’d urged her to grab this “choice” assignment.

It wasn’t easy being a female cop in a big-city police department. The guys forced you to prove yourself—over and over. You had to shoot better than they did. Hold your own in hand-to-hand combat and stand up to their locker room comments. This assignment was a chance to show what she could do. And to shut off the supply of a dangerous new drug threatening the health and welfare of her city. Category Five was what they were calling the highly addictive drug that they suspected was being riddled by prostitutes to increase their business.

Truthfully, she’d been nervous about playing her assigned role, which was why she was out here tonight—practicing.

She’d known that a supersecret government agency called the New Orleans Confidential was teaming up with the N.O.P.D. for this operation. She hadn’t known that Alexander McMullin was working for that agency. But there was no other explanation for his presence behind the bar in Bourbon Street Libations. She knew the man pretty well. He was a straight arrow and he certainly wasn’t working as a bartender because he liked mixing drinks.

Once, when she’d been in a squishy, sentimental mood, she’d looked up his name in a baby book. Alexander meant “Great Protector.” It fit. Except where she was concerned. He’d sworn to protect humanity. With a capital H. The big picture. He just wasn’t too good when it came to relationships with women.

As she headed for the darkened side street where she’d parked her car, she found there was no way to avoid thinking about him.

“Damn you!” she muttered, then pressed her hand against her mouth. Mom hated cursing, and she rarely indulged in bad words, even mild ones.

But apparently Alexander McMullin brought out the worst in her.

As he’d stood with the solid barrier of the bar between them, she’d felt those blue eyes of his pierce all the way to her soul. And she hadn’t liked the sensation. Because it made her feel as though she was back where she’d been two years ago.

For long stretches of time, she’d been able to forget about him. Then he’d come leaping back into her mind. Something as simple as a whiff of spaghetti sauce could do it. He hadn’t been much of a cook, but that had been his specialty.

He’d said one of his stepmothers had taught him to make it. When she’d asked how he’d had more than one—he’d clammed up. Which wasn’t unusual, because he never talked much about his family. Except another time when he’d said he’d arrested one of his half brothers. For car-jacking. From what she gathered, he hadn’t gotten his values from his parents or siblings. And, as far as she knew, he tended to avoid them. And long-term commitments, as well.

She grimaced. Two years ago he’d broken her heart. And she damn well should have known better.

They’d had a relationship that had been as fast and furious as it had been passionate. And then he’d told her it wasn’t working for him.

Before they’d dated, she’d heard a lot about Alexander McMullin. He was tall of body, lean of hip, a real heartbreaker with wavy jet-black hair, a firm jaw and sensual lips. Other women she’d known had gone out with him. And the relationships had always ended the same way. If he was interested in you, he gave you the big rush.

Then he left you with your head spinning, wondering what went wrong.

She’d boldly told herself that she was the woman who was going to change things. For a while she’d dared to hope that she was the exception to the rule. She’d lasted longer than his average. Over four months. But in the hidden depths of her soul, she’d been waiting for the crash. Still, it had been a bitter shock when he’d told her it wasn’t working for him anymore.

After Alexander McMullin she vowed to be a lot more careful about getting involved with anybody. Unfortunately, since Alex there hadn’t been many guys who’d made the cut.

As she headed back to her apartment on one of the less gentle side streets off St. Charles, she couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. In the next few weeks she was going to meet a lot of guys, but she was pretty sure none of them were going to be suitable marriage material.

Lord, what if Mom and Dad found out about her undercover assignment? They’d been upset enough when she’d worked as a cocktail waitress to pay her college tuition. “Quit that job and do something respectable,” she’d heard almost every week. How were they going to like hearing she was playing prostitute?

Well, she’d just have to make sure they never found out.

ALEX WOKE FROM A BAD dream, where he was shouting, “Where the hell are you going?” as Gillian Seymour disappeared into the fog.

Sitting up in bed, he ran a hand through his dark hair, then turned off the alarm before it could ring. The automatic coffeepot filled the house with the aroma of French roast, so he got up and ambled toward the kitchen.

After grabbing himself a cup, he leaned against the counter and took a sip.

He’d bought his traditional courtyard house in a foreclosure sale almost two years ago, not long after breaking up with Gillian, and he’d poured a lot of energy into making the rundown place into an oasis where he could walk inside the garden gate and shut out the world. It was proof that he could create a life for himself that had nothing to do with his miserable past.

He’d installed a flat-screen TV and a king-size bed in the bedroom, then remodeled the bathroom to include a huge soaking tub. After that he’d outfitted the kitchen with new appliances and tile countertops. He’d stripped and stained all the woodwork. And he’d refinished the floors himself.

Mostly he was content here. But seeing Gillian again had brought back the loneliness that he could usually hold at bay.

So he dealt with his negative emotions the way he always did, with heavy labor. This morning he started adding a better mix of soil to the garden. After an hour’s early morning work, he cleaned up and went online to do some research before heading for the New Orleans Confidential headquarters on Tchoupitoulas Street, down near the river, where the rent was cheap and the buildings were rundown.

The cover for the operation was a trucking company called Crescent City Transports, and the location requirements had been very specific. Conrad Burke had needed two back-to-back warehouses—one where the main trucking operation was located. There was a fleet of trucks in the cavernous garage, a nicely appointed executive office complex and a secret entrance to the other building through the common wall.

Although only in business for a few months, Crescent City already employed fifty drivers who carted everything from fresh produce to small appliances around the city. Backing them up was an office staff of six—including Burke.

The New Orleans Confidential’s secret headquarters were in the other warehouse around back, which also housed part of the trucking operation. But it was kept separate from the regular delivery service. Although the trucks driven by the special agents looked the same on the outside as the ones assigned to the regular drivers, the undercover vehicles were jammed with state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment.

There were many similar warehouses in the industrial area, so the new company fit right in. But, like the special trucks, the exterior hid a boatload of surprises. The interior was soundproofed and bug-proofed and hooked up to a spy network that included satellite feeds, access to the CIA intelligent computer system, and secret transmitters. The walls also hid a weapons room, a science lab, a communications room and an electronics room.

When he’d first come to work here, Alex had been impressed. Today, seeing the buildings brought back his anger of the night before.

“Get a grip,” he muttered as he resisted the urge to slam the car door.

From the collection of cars in the small lot, he could see that Rich, Mason, Philip Jones and Seth Lewis were already on site.

There was no way of knowing whether Conrad had arrived since the director parked in the front and entered the secret headquarters from a locked door to his office.

Alex raised his face and stared into the lens of the security camera mounted over the entrance. In addition to taking his picture, it scanned his retinas, making sure he was authorized to enter.

When the computer inside confirmed his identity, the door lock clicked open and he stepped quickly through the door.

He headed directly for the conference room, then stopped short when he heard somebody inside mention the name “McMullin.”

The speaker was Mason Bartley. While Conrad had still been working as a U.S. Marshal, he’d caught the bastard red-handed in a liquor store robbery attempt. Mason had a rap sheet as long as Conrad’s arm, but the new head of New Orleans Confidential had seen his potential and had him released into the agency’s custody. In exchange for putting this case to bed, he’d walk away with his freedom. At the moment, it sounded like he was trying to win points by ratting on one of the other agents—namely Alexander McMullin.

Eyes narrowed, Alex listened to the jerk’s version of the events of the night before. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have assumed they were staking out two different bars.

“So, I think you should know that he left his post twice last night. And he barged into a fight at the door. If he’s not careful, he’s going to get his ass fired. And why is he late now?” Mason pushed.

“Business,” Alex answered.

Keeping his expression neutral and his temper under control, he stepped into the room, taking in the men seated around the conference table at a glance.

Mason’s blue eyes glinted with defiance. He and Alex had disliked each other from the first. Now Alex knew the guy had been looking for an excuse to stab him in the back. And the events of the previous evening provided what seemed like a great opportunity.

Everybody else, including Conrad Burke, who sat at the head of the table, looked slightly embarrassed. The short, curly haired Philip Jones slouched down in his seat, almost disappearing from view. Seth Lewis rolled his broad shoulders and stretched out his athletic legs under the table, but he kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the floor.

Alex liked these guys. Each had his strengths and weaknesses, but they were all top-notch agents and he’d trust any of them to guard his back in a firefight. Any of them except Mason Bartley, of course.

Now he was sorry the conflict between him and Mason was making them uncomfortable, but he was glad he’d walked in when he had.

It was Rich who spoke up. “Well, the way it looked to me, Alex was doing the bouncer’s job—while the guy was taking a break.”

Mason didn’t back down. Raising his head, he gave Alex a direct look. “What about when you disappeared down the hall a little later? You were gone for ten minutes.”

Alex fought the urge to cross his arms defensively over his chest. “We’ve been waiting to catch Jack Smith making another move. Last night I saw him slip some white powder into a customer’s drink. One of the businessmen who came in after that fight. Like Longbottom, he left with a prostitute. Why didn’t you follow them?”

Mason’s complexion turned a dull shade of red. “I didn’t see Jack do anything.”

“Well, I was closer to him,” Alex said, giving the ex-con a way to save face, when what he wanted to do was ask Mason why he hadn’t taken a seat nearer to the bar. “Since I knew what he’d done, I wanted to see where the couple was going.”

“And?” Conrad asked.

“They went around the corner, then inside the McDonough Club.”

“Which is?” Mason asked.

Conrad answered. “For years it was a prestigious men’s club in the city. Recently, I heard it changed hands.”

“Yeah,” Alex agreed as he took one of the empty chairs around the large conference table. “I did some research on the place this morning. That’s why I’m a little late.” He paused for a beat to let the explanation sink in, then continued. “I checked out the ownership on the city tax records. The deed is in the name of a Cynthia Dupré.” He took out a photograph he’d downloaded of a woman with a rounded face and dyed blond hair who appeared to be in her mid-fifties.

Phil studied it carefully. “She looks familiar, but the name sounds wrong.” He tapped his finger against his lips, looking thoughtful, and Alex waited for some bit of buried information to come out. Phil gave the impression of being an easygoing, fun-loving guy with no other purpose in life other than being a party animal. But he was sharp, and he’d been working around New Orleans for years. One thing he brought to the Confidential network was a working knowledge of most of the lowlifes in the city.

“Unless I’m mixing her up with her twin sister—which I don’t think she has—she was arrested for running a house of prostitution. I recollect that she paid some bribes and got off with probation,” he said.

“Very interesting,” Alex murmured. “I also checked out the liquor license for the establishment. It’s supposed to be a private club, bar and dining facility—with a small hotel upstairs. I’m wondering if the rooms are rented by the night or by the hour.”

Rich laughed. “Good going, Alex. It looks like we need to do some digging into that place.”

“Bartley, you get a report on my desk by tomorrow morning,” Conrad said, giving the sour-faced agent some extra work to do.

Mason answered with a tight nod.

“Did you already discuss the Latin types who came in later in the evening?” Alex asked.

Rich nodded. “I followed them after they left the bar.”

“Where did they end up?”

“In a stretch limo that looked way out of their price range.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m going to talk to the rental company.”

They discussed more of the previous night’s activities. Then Conrad asked, “Is that it?”

Alex took that opportunity to say, “Not quite. I’d like to ask some questions about the liaison with the police department.”

Conrad nodded.

“Last night a rookie cop named Gillian Seymour came into Bourbon Street Libations dolled up as a prostitute. I assume she’s part of the undercover sting set up by the N.O.P.D. to help crack the suspected prostitution ring and finger the drug distributor. She left with one of the patrons.”

“And?”

“She just graduated from the academy a few months ago. She’s too green for the job.”

“The police commissioner approves department personnel,” Conrad said.

Alex was aware that the rest of the men around the table were listening to the exchange with interest.

“You mean, the redhead?” Rich asked.

“Yeah.”

“She looked nervous,” Rich observed.

“She should have,” Alex rasped.

Mason jumped in. “You know her?”

Alex swung his gaze toward the ex-con, knowing he’d made a strategic mistake. He should have waited to bring Gillian up when he and Conrad could speak in private. “Yeah.”

“I don’t envy her the job,” Mason said. “Getting pawed by horny guys can’t be fun.”

“If she can’t handle them, perhaps we can ask for a personnel change,” Conrad offered.

Oh yeah, Alex thought, suddenly struck with the perfect way to get her off the case.

TWO DAYS LATER, just as Gillian had been about to leave the station house to go over to her mom and dad’s for dinner, she got a message from the lieutenant’s office. It seemed she wasn’t off duty, after all. A training meeting for her undercover assignment was scheduled at an apartment off Esplanade Avenue, the dividing line between the French Quarter and the city’s downtown Creole neighborhood.

She changed out of her uniform and into a conservative beige pantsuit with a navy blouse—something that shouldn’t call attention to her on the street. Then she made a quick call to her parents, apologizing for canceling the evening. Already late, she tried to get to the meeting on time. But she had to fight traffic all the way from the station house. By the time she arrived in the area, the only parking space she could find was a block away.

It was getting dark as she hurried down the cracked sidewalk, all her senses on alert. And she found herself thinking about when she’d been a little girl and Mom had told her never to walk home from school alone.

If she’d been given the choice, she would have picked a better location and a better time. But that was simply par for the course. It went along with the serious second thoughts she was having about the assignment.

If anybody asked why she’d taken the undercover assignment, she could come up with some kind of idealistic answer. And it would have been true, as far as it went. She certainly wanted to help get that Category Five off the streets. But now that she had a little taste of playing prostitute, she wasn’t so sure she could handle the role. And what made it worse was the knowledge that Alexander McMullin would be sitting there watching her. She could deal with the remarks she was getting from the guys at the station house, but McMullin was another matter. With him it was personal, because he’d make it that way.

What if she asked to be reassigned? Would that be a black mark on her career? Something that would follow her through the department for years to come?

The tight feeling in her chest that she’d been fighting since she’d left the station house suddenly threatened to choke off her breath.

She’d been trying to keep her mind off the specifics of the assignment. She had to face some nasty questions. For instance, how was she going to work as a prostitute for a couple of weeks without having real sexual encounters with any of the johns?

A vivid picture of herself and a man like the one from last night alone in a bedroom came into her head, momentarily distracting her from her surroundings.

Bad mistake, because in the next second she had the feeling that someone was watching her.

She quickened her pace, scanning the immediate area, seeing nobody on the street and hearing no sound. But she felt a sudden malevolent stirring in the air—just as a hand closed around her arm. Before she could blink, a man with considerable strength pulled her into the nearby alley.

When she tried to use her police department martial arts training, the assailant was one step ahead of her, as though he knew what she was going to do before her body moved.

Another hand clamped over her mouth at the same time her body was pulled backward against a hard male form.

Desperate to escape, Gillian tried to bite the assailant. But he had anticipated that move, as well. The only thing she accomplished was to dig her front tooth into her own lip. When she winced, he pulled her deeper into the shadows.

They were several yards from the street now and she cursed herself for getting into this situation. She tried another tactic, going limp in the attacker’s arms. He was ready for that maneuver, too. When she tried to wrench away from him, he pulled her into the shadows, even farther from help.

Chapter Three

Beyond the iron gate of a courtyard, Gillian could see potted plants and a small gurgling fountain. It looked quiet and peaceful in the courtyard, a strange place for violence.

“Open the lock,” a man growled, his mouth close to her ear, the low, intimidating timbre of his voice grating at her nerve endings. She understood that he was trying to frighten her. And she strove to keep her cool. That was difficult when she couldn’t even see him.

But she knew he was big and solid and dangerous. And she sensed a simmering anger or some other dark emotion coursing through him.

Unfortunately she was pretty sure that in the first few seconds of their encounter, he’d evaluated her strengths and weaknesses.

She didn’t want to go into that enclosed space with him, but she could feel something hard pressing into her back and had to assume he was holding a gun—and that he was prepared to use it. He could already have taken her purse, if that’s what he’d wanted. A sick feeling rose in her throat as she thought about what he probably had planned for her.

With unsteady fingers, she fumbled for the latch.

“Hurry up,” he growled.

She gritted her teeth and did as he asked. He shoved her through, kicking the barrier closed with a decisive clank behind him.

She tensed, prepared to make her move. But again he was ahead of her. In one smooth motion, he reversed her position, whirling her around to face him.

She was primed to fight for her life or to keep from being raped. But as she caught sight of the guy’s face, she felt as though a large animal had kicked her in the pit of the stomach.

“Alex,” Gillian gasped, taking in the reality of the man in a split second, starting with the wavy jet-black hair and the piercing blue eyes that had bored into her in the bar. She’d been thinking about him only minutes earlier. Maybe, deep down, she’d known he might try something she wasn’t going to like.

A few nights ago she’d been thrown off balance by the hard stare he’d aimed at her. He was having the same effect on her now. Well, it wasn’t just from the way he was looking at her. This afternoon, it seemed he’d deliberately set out to scare the spit out of her.

She knew her own eyes hardened as she said, “Alex, you…creep. What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing lying in wait for me?”

“Is that any way to greet your savior?” he asked, his voice low and even, yet the anger she had sensed earlier was still simmering below the surface.

He was angry? Yeah right!

He was also excellent at pushing her buttons. She’d be smart not to let him get to her. Yet too much had happened in the past few minutes for her to keep her cool.

“Savior—my posterior,” she snapped.

He laughed. It wasn’t entirely a pleasant sound. “I’m saving you from a life of prostitution.”

“Get real.”

“Okay. If you want to put it another way, I’m giving you an illustration of the dangers you’re going to be facing—if you let Lieutenant LeBarron talk you into this job.”

Lieutenant LeBarron. So he’d been poking into her chain of command. Who did he think he was?

A few moments ago she’d been questioning her ability to deal with the undercover assignment. Now all her determination and righteous indignation came bubbling to the surface. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m a key player in this operation and I intend to complete the job.”

“A key player! Is that what the lieu told you?”

She felt her chin jut upward. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re not going to be a key anything if you end up dead in an alley. Which you could have if somebody else besides a fellow law enforcement officer had grabbed you.”

She folded her arms over her middle. “You took me by surprise. And you’re not playing fair. You’ve had the same training that I have. And you used it against me.”

He ignored the second part of her objection and focused on the first. “That’s the way it happens in real life. You don’t get to pick the place and time where the bad guy is waiting for you.”

“I know that.” She yanked her gaze away from him and made a show of looking at her watch. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m late for a training session now.”

When she tried to brush past him, he put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Yeah. It’s already started. Let’s go on to the next phase.”

Her head came up and she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“In case you haven’t gotten the message, I’m your trainer for the afternoon.”

“No.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice. Of course, if you want to confirm that assignment, you can give Lieutenant LeBarron a call.”

She thought about doing just that, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t do her much good. “No,” she said again through gritted teeth. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Then you’re with me for the next few hours.”

She wedged her fists on her hips. “What strings did you pull to get me into this position?”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable, then recovered quickly. “As you might have figured out the other night, I’m an integral part of this operation,” he said, paraphrasing her previous statement.

“Which means what?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s an undercover operation. I’d rather not talk about it out here.”

“But if you’re in on it, then we’re supposed to be working together! Not playing games,” she added in a gritty voice.

“I’m not playing anything,” he snapped. “If you got exposed and interrogated, you can’t blab what you don’t know.”

Interrogated! She tried not to think about the implications of that.

“We’re going to be working together, so we might as well get comfortable with each other,” he said in an easy voice. But she was sure his apparent conciliatory demeanor was just an act. Both of them knew there was no way for them to be comfortable with each other. Not with pictures flashing in her mind of the hot and steamy sex they’d enjoyed before he’d ended the relationship. Was he thinking about that, too?

He was walking in front of her now, so she couldn’t see his face, and she didn’t like the eager way he crossed the courtyard, his footsteps echoing on the paving stones. Just what did this training session involve?

She figured she’d find out soon enough as he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked a door on the far side. When she glanced at the number over the door, she noted that it was the address where she’d been told to report.

He paused and looked back over his shoulder. Managing a casual shrug, she followed him inside.

Alex led her into a dimly lit chamber. As soon as she’d cleared the door, he reached behind her and pushed it firmly shut. The sound of the lock turning was like a gunshot in the confined space. The drapes were drawn. Ignoring her, Alex moved several feet farther into the room and switched on a table lamp. In the warm glow from the light, she glanced nervously around the confined space and saw a chair, a chest, a night table. They were battered and old, like the furniture in her parents’ house. But this room lacked any of the warmth her mom had given their home. And the piece of furniture that dominated the room was a double bed covered with a dingy chenille spread.

It registered then that she and Alex McMullin were alone in a very small bedroom.

“I thought we were going to go over self-defense strategies,” she blurted, the words difficult to pronounce because her mouth was so dry. “This isn’t supposed to be anything sexual.”

He turned back to face her, looking her up and down, his gaze pausing at her breasts and then rising to her face again. “Well, there are two answers to that implied question,” he said as though conducting a lecture at the police academy. “First, you are playing the part of a prostitute. So, by its very nature, your assignment has sexual implications. And second, as I said, the two of us have to be comfortable with each other. Depending on how things shake out, you and I could easily end up in bed together.”

The implications of point two had her reacting instantly. “Now wait a minute!”

“I mean, we might have to act like we’re on very friendly terms,” he said smoothly.

As he spoke he took a step closer to her and she struggled not to back up. He was right, but she was pretty sure there was no way in hell she could act like she was pleased to be around him.

He stopped a few inches from her, well inside her comfort zone. Reaching out a hand, he stroked his finger lightly up her arm. Under any other circumstances, she would have turned him in for sexual harassment. But the assignment had given him the right to step over the line. Or had it? She wasn’t thinking too clearly because her reaction was instantaneous. A shiver went through her body, quivering in all the sensitive places, and the only thing he’d done was touch her with one finger.

It took all her concentration to keep from looking down to see if her tightened nipples were poking out the front of her suit jacket. At the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. His hand dropped away from her and she saw him press his fingers against his thigh. She wanted to take that as evidence that the touch had affected him as startlingly as it had affected her. But she knew that her assumption would never stand up in court.

For several heartbeats, neither one of them moved.

Finally, Alex cleared his throat. “So, you joined the N.O.P.D.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Keeping her features even, she scrambled for something that would sound like the truth. Certainly she didn’t want to admit that it had made her feel closer to him. That would be much too revealing. And she didn’t want to say that his idealism had rubbed off on her. She settled for, “It was a way to better myself.”

He made a snorting sound.

She reacted with an angry question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t say that your reaction was nothing.”

“You could have done better.”

“How?”

He crossed his arms. “You got yourself a college degree. There are lots of jobs.”

“What—were you checking up on me?”

He flushed, then recovered. “You don’t get into the police academy without a degree.”

She was still thinking about his response when she answered, “In case you haven’t noticed, the job market sucks. There aren’t a lot of terrific positions out there for college graduates who don’t go further in school. I could have gone back to being a cocktail waitress. Or I could have accepted a red-hot offer to sell copy machines. Both of those were dead ends.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “So you like playing prostitute?” he asked.

She knew he was baiting her, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying to explain. “Of course I didn’t join the police force to be a prostitute. But I can’t say I’m ashamed to be involved in this task force. It’s a good opportunity for me,” she said, repeating what Lieutenant LeBarron had said to her.

“Have you told your parents about this assignment?”

“Now wait a minute! That’s none of your business.”

“You haven’t.”

“And don’t you dare blab to them,” she said, punching out the words. “Maybe I can’t get you for sexual harassment. But if you mess with my family, I’ll report you.”

They glared at each other across several feet of charged space. Then his expression softened. “You always did protect them, didn’t you? Like you never introduced me to them.”

He made it sound as if she’d been ashamed of their relationship. That hadn’t been it at all. If she’d taken him home, Dad would have seen that she’d been gaga over Detective McMullin. And she’d wanted to hide her feelings from them.

“Actually, I was protecting your hide. I didn’t want Dad to go gunning for you after we broke up.”

“Good point,” he muttered.

To her relief, he stopped asking personal questions and made another quick change of subject. “Maybe you should get into uniform.”

Turning away from her, he walked to the closet and opened the door. Inside were various garments draped over hangers. As far as she could see, none looked like police uniforms. The colors were flashy, the fabrics slinky. And her stomach clenched as she watched Alex slowly sort through the clothing, stopping to stroke his fingers over a skimpy knit top.

She wanted to protest when he pulled out a short shirt and transparent top, which he examined with interest. When he put them back, she breathed out a little sigh.

Her nerves jumped again as he fingered a lime-green dress—if that’s what it could be called. The skirt was so short that it looked too skimpy for a skating outfit. And the low-cut bodice was adorned with large shiny buttons.

Alex held it toward her. “I’d like to see you in this.”

“No.”

He tipped his head to one side, regarding her with a deceptively bland expression. “What do you have against putting this on?”

“It’s indecent.”

“Yeah, that’s right. But it’s no more indecent than last night’s fetching little outfit.”

“Right, but I don’t have to put it on in front of you now.”

“I beg to differ. We’re having a training session. Your life may depend on what you learn here today. Therefore, you’ll comply with my orders.”

“You’re ordering me to put that on?”

“Yes.”

She could have kept arguing. She wanted to keep arguing. She wanted to tell him that the charade was over. She had half a mind to call LeBarron to ask how Alexander McMullin had ended up being the boss of her. But if she didn’t like the answer, she would be in a worse position than she was now. And she wasn’t going to let Alex come out on top in this encounter. If he was determined to have her looking like a whore while they were alone in this room, then she was going to comply.

“I assume I don’t have to change my clothes in front of you,” she snarled.

“Of course not,” he answered mildly.

“Good.” Snatching up the outfit, she stomped past him and into the bathroom. She might have slammed the door, but she thought better of that act of defiance. She was going to keep this on a professional level if it killed her.

After closing the door quietly, she took off her jacket, then started to pull her knit top over her head. Instead she turned and glanced back toward the bedroom. Maybe getting undressed in here without turning the lock would be her first mistake.

Certainly it would make her vulnerable to the man waiting for her. Determined to show him that she was aware of safety precautions, she clicked the lock, pretty sure that Alex had been listening for that small sound. She clamped her teeth together, then deliberately unclenched her jaw. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what she would feel like if some other man were out there in the bedroom.

She’d be nervous and embarrassed. But not to the degree she was now. Alex was the reason she was reacting so strongly.

“Are you still alive in there?” a voice called through the door. His voice.

“It’s not so easy to get into this outfit,” she answered.

“Hmm. Maybe we should talk to the wardrobe department. Guys are going to be disappointed if it takes you forever to get naked,” he answered.

She pulled off her blouse and slacks in record time. Just as quickly, she undid the gaudy buttons that secured the front of the slinky dress and pulled it over her head. The skirt was as short as she’d feared. When she looked over her shoulder, she could see her underpants in the mirror. Cursing under her breath, she tugged the skirt down, but that only made the vee at the front of the bodice worse. Working as quickly as she could, she struggled to do up the buttons. It was too tight across her breasts and too low to cover the tops. And the color made her look like a neon sign.

A pair of strappy high heels had been attached to the hanger. But there was no panty hose. Probably too inconvenient for quick sex. Since they were missing, she simply stepped into the shoes, then turned to face the mirror. A quick glance convinced her that she didn’t want to take a closer look at herself.

Deliberately she made a mask of her features, then unlocked the door and stepped back into the bedroom. If she’d been planning to show how cool she was, Alex had completely foiled her effort. He was lying on the bed, his legs comfortably crossed at the ankles, his shoulders propped against the two pillows, looking relaxed and ready for whatever the evening would bring.

All that was bad enough. The fact that he’d removed his shirt and unbuckled his belt made the breath freeze in her lungs. She remembered lying in the circle of his large muscular arms. Remembered the tantalizing feel of the coarse dark hair on his chest against her breasts. “What are you doing?” she asked, hearing the breathy quality in her own voice.

“Getting comfortable.”

“You’re not supposed to be comfortable.”

“I’m supposed to be pretending that you and I are in this room to have sexual intercourse. Or maybe I’m the kind of customer who’s more interested in deep throat.”

The way he said that made a shiver travel down her spine. That wasn’t the only reason for the reaction. He was looking her up and down, taking in the green fabric stretched across her breasts and the way the short skirt brushed against her thighs. And from the look in his eyes, it was apparent that he liked the view.

“Come here,” he said, his voice rough. That tantalizing grating sound gave her hope that he was as affected by this encounter as she was herself.

What if she played this sexy? What if she gave him a dose of his own medicine? As soon as the idea surfaced, she decided that it was much too dangerous. He was much too dangerous.

“Sit down,” he said.

She might have defied him. Instead, to prove that she could handle a close encounter, she perched on the side of the bed. When he reached out and captured one of her wrists with his hand, she quivered.

“Jumpy?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed softly. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you get on with the training?” she demanded. “You don’t have to show me how to have sex. So what’s on the program?”

His hand tightened around her wrist. “You may be on this assignment for a few weeks. How do you plan to avoid doing the dirty with the guys who are paying for your services?”

Once again, her mouth was so dry that she could barely speak. When she licked her lips, she knew he was following the movement. “They told me there was something I’d be able to use. Some drug or something…” Her voice trailed off and she gave a small shrug. “But they haven’t worked out the details yet.”

He made a snorting sound. “An experimental drug. Oh great!”

“I have faith in the department.”

“A long time ago, I did, too. And you probably heard what happened to me.”

She knew he’d been burned out. She knew he’d quit. But she was just getting started and she wasn’t going to let his cynical attitude poison her relationship with her bosses. “Don’t try to undermine my resolve.”

“Why not? Maybe you need a dose of reality.”

“I need to keep my focus.” She had been looking at his hand around her wrist. Now she raised her eyes to his and saw that he was watching her with burning intensity.

She almost lost her nerve, but she kept her voice even as she said, “Alex, I accepted this assignment, and I need to do well. For my own sake as much as for anything else.”

His face turned hard. “Did some jerk give you a hard time?”

She wanted to tell him that the jerk had been him. He’d dealt a killer blow to her self-esteem when he’d walked away from her. But she wasn’t going to let him know that.

Instead she shrugged. “I’ve had my share of bad times along the way. You know how the men treat female cops. I’m always being tested, so I appreciate the chance to show I can handle a difficult assignment—and put some prostitutes and drug dealers where they belong. Your role isn’t so easy, either. You’re working as a truck driver during the day and tending bar at night.”

It was his turn to demand, “Have you been checking up on me?”

“No more than you’ve been checking up on me. Actually, after I saw you the other night, it wasn’t difficult to find out what you’re doing. There’s a lot of interest in you around the department.”

The moment she’d said the words, she wished she could call them back.

His expression had turned fierce. “Oh yeah?”

She imitated his shrug. “You can’t walk out on the N.O.P.D. and not expect people to be curious whether or not you landed on your feet.”

“More like, they want to hear I landed on my butt.”

“No,” she denied. But she knew that was partly true.

FOR A MOMENT Alex’s mind drifted to the recent past. He’d made enemies when that murder case had gone sour, even though he’d done his job and never violated the chain of evidence. But somebody had screwed up. When he’d tried to find out who it had been, he’d hit a blank wall.

He pulled his attention back to the present, to the scantily clad woman sitting beside him.

He’d made an error in judgment inviting her onto this bed with him. And now he had to do something about that.

Focusing on her with laser intensity, he asked, “So what are you going to do if a john gets aggressive? What if he pulls a blade and gets ready to cut you up?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, he could see from her face that he’d hit a nerve. While he had her on the defensive, he reached under the pillow and pulled out the knife he’d hidden there when she was in the bathroom. It wasn’t as sharp as it looked, but it could do damage, just the same.

In a quick motion, he brought it down toward her breast. To his vast relief, Gillian reacted instantly, chopping the side of her hand down on his wrist, making him wince as he dropped the weapon onto the spread beside them.

“Good going,” he muttered.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked anxiously.

Machismo had him answering, “No.” Although it was difficult to utter the syllable without wincing. Carefully he picked up the knife and slapped it onto the bedside table.

She was sounding a little cocky when she said, “What other nasty tricks do you have planned? By all means, bring them on.”

He debated his options, thinking there were a couple of ways he could go. He was betting that if he wanted to, he could tie her up and do any damn thing he wanted. But he chose to give her a fighting chance. Or maybe he was the one who needed the chance.

“Okay. When a prostitute is with a john, he can request all kinds of sexual services. But the one thing he’s not supposed to do is kiss her. What are you going to do if some bastard tries the forbidden?”

She opened her mouth to speak. But no sound came out. There was a charged moment when they stared into each other’s eyes. He was thinking that he’d trapped himself. Then, without giving himself time to question his own sanity, he brushed his mouth against hers. It was only the barest contact, but it made him understand why kissing was forbidden commerce in the oldest profession.

His whole being absorbed the intimacy and the power of that simple act. He was instantly so hard that he was in pain.

He waited, his heart pounding, for her to give him a quick shove. That was what she should do, but she stayed where she was.

They’d come to this room as enemies, although neither of them had articulated that state of affairs.

Suddenly they were catapulted into another time and place as the well-remembered essence of this woman surged through him, overwhelmed him with the taste of warmth and honey and desire.

He was helpless to hold back the low sound of need that welled in his throat as he deepened the kiss. He had tried to forget the mind-blowing reality of kissing Gillian Seymour. But it had come flooding back before he could put up any defenses.

Slowly he experimented with remembered sensations, rubbing his mouth back and forth against hers, increasing the pressure, nibbling, taking her lip between his teeth, then plunging deeper into her mouth.

Somewhere in his brain he silently begged her to put a stop to what they were doing. But her arms only tightened around him.

The kiss went from heated to white-hot in the space of heartbeats. Unable to stop himself, he angled his head, his mouth hungry and demanding, staking a new claim as his tongue slid against hers, tasting and stroking and stoking his arousal.

How could he have given this up? he wondered with the part of his mind that was still capable of putting one thought in front of another.

Perhaps it was the same for her. He hoped it was the same as he pressed her body to his, glorying in the twin pressures of her breasts against his chest.

He needed more. Yanking at one of the gaudy buttons on the front of her dress, he eased it open so that he could stroke the inner curve of her breast.

She made a small, gasping sound, fueling his need. He had told himself he could control his reactions, but suddenly it was impossible to deny himself the feel of her body against his aching erection.

Hastily he pushed the pillows out of the way, then wrapped his arms around Gillian and lay back, pulling her on top of him, sighing at the wonderful weight of her body pressing down on his.

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