“I told you I’d be watching.”

His voice sounded gravelly, filled with craving as he stared at her from the shore.

“Are you stupid or just suicidal?” he asked.

“Neither.” She shot him a taunting grin.

“You have to be one or the other to walk into the jungle alone.”

“You managed to find me, Officer Edwards.”

“Special agent.”

Her smile grew.

He waded into the water and grasped her ankle. She thrashed and rolled.

“Let me go!”

“Not a chance.”

With his free hand he reached down to grab her arm. Instead, he got a palmful of silk-covered breast.

She stilled. Her face was blank, but her eyes burned as she watched him. They’d both been fighting this for days.

His lips pulled down into a frown. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she whispered.

Dear Reader,

I have to admit that the ideas for my ISLAND NIGHTS trilogy didn’t exactly come in order. In fact, Elle in Take It Down appeared to me first and really sparked off the entire series.

Sometimes characters just take over, and that was the case with my little firecracker. Elle is daring and impulsive, and I had so much fun finding her an equally strong hero in Zane—a man who could not only go toe-to-toe with her, but also balance out that impetuous nature.

Elle first appeared in my head breaking in to hotel rooms, although she was quick to point out that she didn’t actually take anything. That brought up so many questions. What was she looking for? Why hotel rooms? And who would be the worst possible man for her to fall for in the middle of all this? The rest of the story just sort of snowballed from there.

I had so much fun writing Elle and Zane’s story. They struck sparks off each other from the first moment and it was a joy to put them into precarious situations that fought against their idea of what they should/could want.

I hope you enjoy Take It Down as much as I do! I’d love to hear what you think. You can contact me at Kira@KiraSinclair.com or visit me at www.KiraSinclair.com.

Best wishes,

Kira Sinclair

About the Author

When not working as an office manager for a project management firm or juggling plot lines, KIRA SINCLAIR spends her time on a small farm in north Alabama with her wonderful husband, two amazing daughters and a menagerie of animals. It’s amazing to see how this self-proclaimed city girl has (or has not, depending on who you ask) adapted to country life. Kira enjoys hearing from her readers at her website, www.kirasinclair.com. Or stop by writingplayground.blogspot.com and join in the fight to stop the acquisition of an alpaca.

Take It Down

Kira Sinclair

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I’d like to dedicate this book to three strong, savvy

and supportive women—Vicki Lewis Thompson,

Rhonda Nelson and Andrea Laurence. You guys

are not only a font of information, but also a well of

support that I’m so lucky to have in my life.

I couldn’t do this without y’all!

Prologue

“WHY THE HELL ARE THESE people in my bedroom?”

Zane Edwards leaned back into a dark corner—the only spot in the place that wasn’t buzzing with activity—and prepared for an excellent show. Between the photographer shouting instructions, his assistants moving furniture, light stands and anything else that got in their way, and Marcy constantly flipping through a clipboard of papers she hugged to her chest like a lifeline, the normally large space suddenly felt pretty small.

And Simon Reeves, his boss and longtime friend, was about to make it smaller.

Even from his melt-into-the-background location, Zane could see Marcy, the resort’s manager, grind her teeth. Her skin paled before flushing an angry pink. Oh, goody, the fireworks were about to start. Up until now, his day had been pretty damn boring.

Marcy had asked him to shadow the production team there to take marketing and publicity photographs. Not exciting, although not much about his job as head of security for Escape, an adults-only Caribbean resort on Île du Coeur—an island just off the coast of St. Lucia—was.

He knew how important this shoot was to Marcy, though, so he’d do his part. She needed these photographs for a magazine ad campaign, and the deadline was fast approaching. They’d intended to feature a couple, but the pair they’d had an agreement with backed out at the last minute—after the photographs had already been taken.

The couple, Colt and Lena, had paid for the photographs and compensated the resort for the cost of production, so Escape wasn’t out any money. But they’d definitely lost time. Marcy’d had to regroup and brainstorm an entirely new concept, since she didn’t have time to hire more talent.

Apparently, Simon had forgotten he’d given Marcy permission to shoot in his private space. Not unusual when the man had his nose buried in that computer—which was always.

With a cutting tone of voice that reminded Zane of his high school calculus teacher, Marcy said, “This marketing campaign is going to bring us the kind of exposure that draws guests, Simon.”

“We don’t need more guests,” was Simon’s rather predictable response. It was entirely possible that Zane was the only person on the island who understood why the man had no desire to fill the resort to the rafters.

Fewer guests meant fewer disruptions, giving Simon the space and time he needed to write. Simon had his reasons for keeping his career as an author a secret—even from Marcy. Betrayal by someone you trusted could make you rather…reluctant to let people in. And Simon had definitely been betrayed. Courtney, his ex-girlfriend, had really done a number on him, stealing his work and passing it off as her own.

The only reason Zane knew the truth was because he and Simon had been friends since their fraternity days. They might have gone their separate ways after college, but they’d always had each other’s backs. When Zane’s life had imploded, Simon had been the first to offer him somewhere to stay, and when Zane had refused the handout, Simon had given him a job. Hence his position at Simon’s resort.

Not everyone knew Simon had bought Île du Coeur not as a business investment but as a secluded place to come and lick his wounds. Apparently, the island was good for that. Marcy didn’t know the truth, so she didn’t understand. All she saw was a man who’d bought a resort and then didn’t give a damn about actually making it run. Which was actually far from the truth. Zane knew Simon needed the place to support itself. The man had some money, but the upkeep for Escape was unbelievable and he needed to cover operating expenses.

“We have empty rooms, Simon. We need more guests. Especially during the off season.”

Simon leaned languidly against the door frame, completely uncaring that every person in the room had stopped moving to turn and stare. “I like the off season just fine. I enjoy the peace and quiet.”

Zane figured he had exactly thirty seconds to step in or Marcy was going to lose it. Her blue eyes flashed a warning that Zane knew Simon would ignore. A smile played at the corners of Simon’s lips, almost as if he were looking forward to the fallout of whatever was going to come next.

And if there hadn’t been an audience, Zane might have slipped quietly out of the room and let it happen. The two of them had been striking enough sparks off each other lately to light the bonfire they held on the beach. But they weren’t alone, so …

On silent feet, Zane moved between Marcy’s glaring gaze and Simon’s impish grin and said quietly, “Not the time or place, guys,” tipping his head to the spectators.

Simon looked over Marcy’s shoulder at the people staring, and his lips tightened into a straight line. Oh, that was worse. Marcy pissed he could handle. Simon angry was unusual and therefore infinitely more volatile. Even though Zane was an ex-CIA agent trained in fifty ways to kill with household objects, he tried to avoid Simon when the man’s temper flared.

Simon’s eyes narrowed as he looked around Zane to Marcy. “I don’t want strangers in my space. I need to work.”

Marcy snorted. Probably not the smartest thing she’d ever done. Zane widened his stance and braced for the consequences.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. The marketing director for the campaign specifically asked to photograph your private rooms, Simon. And you agreed.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You’re on the highest floor, with the best view. From this vantage point, we can show a luxurious room with the jungle behind surrounded by deep blue water.”

It was uncomfortable, being at the center of their angry standoff. They stared at each other, through him, but Zane figured this way at least he wouldn’t have to witness a murder.

“You’re not going to go away until I let them do this, are you?” Simon finally asked.

“Nope,” Marcy responded.

“Fine,” Simon said, whirling around on his heels and heading for the door. “But I start throwing people out the window if you’re not done in an hour.”

Most people might think Simon was kidding. It was hard to take a man who dressed like a surfer seriously. But Zane knew firsthand that surf-god exterior hid a spine of steel and a drive to succeed. Hell, even he forgot sometimes. It was easy when Simon smiled that crooked grin.

With a huff, Marcy prowled over to his former corner and stood there, glaring at the production crew. They quickly found something to do and somewhere else to look.

Crossing his arms and returning to the piece of wall he’d been holding up, Zane didn’t look at her, either, when he asked, “Want to talk about it?”

“Some days I want to kill him,” she grumbled.

“I know.”

“How do you stand him? How can you still be his friend after all these years?”

“Because he’d give me the shirt off his back if I needed it. Practically did. He’s loyal to the people he cares about, Marcy. Trust me when I say you don’t know the whole story.”

She shot him a pointed look. “No one will tell me.”

Zane raised his hands in an unarmed gesture. “Not my story to tell.”

“He just…drives me insane. He knows how important this photo shoot is. And he knows what I went through to get this set up in time. If Colt and Lena were here, I might be tempted to wring their necks.…”

“You know that’s not true.” Zane bumped her hip with his own, hoping to jar a smile from her. “You liked those two. And you could have refused to sell the photographs back to Colt. But you didn’t. Admit it, you have a romantic soft spot beneath that drill-sergeant exterior.”

The ghost of a smile played at the edges of her lips. “If you breathe a word of that to Simon, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m shaking in my shoes.”

1

ZANE STARED OUT THE CLOSED window to the panoramic picture of tropical beauty and sighed. It was perfect and he was bored.

He shouldn’t be. This laid-back, no pressure lifestyle was exactly what he’d signed up for—the complete opposite of the life he’d left behind.

For good reason.

He swiveled in his desk chair until his full attention returned to the bank of security screens that occupied the wall in front of him. He should probably run back the tapes to check those sixty seconds he’d been distracted. But he wouldn’t. In the eighteen months he’d been on the island, not a single exciting thing had ever shown up on those screens.

And why would it? The resort—the only thing on Île du Coeur—might have plenty to take, but there was only one way off the island. The chances of a thief being caught before the ferry arrived were pretty damn good. Especially with him on the job. None of their guests had ever had so much as a candy wrapper taken. The worst thing he’d had to deal with since he’d set foot on the island was a drunk who’d fallen through one of the thatched huts along the beach.

The only thing hurt had been the hut.

Zane looked at the timer in the bottom right corner of one of the screens and registered that Tom, his replacement, would be there in about twenty minutes. So far the boy was working out, and Zane was happy he’d hired him.

After Tom arrived, Zane planned on walking the grounds, checking that no guests from the couples side of the resort had left their cabana doors standing open in their romance-fueled haze.

The resort specialized in adult vacations. Singles came not only to relax but to also meet other successful singles. They tended to stay in the main building of the resort. Couples came for the romantic, secluded atmosphere Escape excelled at creating. And since they usually wanted more privacy, they occupied the bungalows on the far side of the resort. In between were various buildings and shared amenities—a bar, five-star restaurant, gym and spa, water sports equipment and instructors, tennis courts, a large pool complex and, of course, the beach and jungle. Somehow the entire resort managed to maintain an untouched, romantic feel, while still offering the latest in modern amenities.

Part of that could be attributed to the remnants of the French plantation house, the face of the entire complex. The house itself had been expanded and updated over the years, but it still retained the air of gentility and mystery. The public rooms were more than two hundred years old, keeping their period pine floors and rich interiors. The guest rooms had been added on to the back of the existing house at least fifty years ago when it had first been converted to a resort. Since then, the structures had been updated and modernized several times over, the latest when Simon purchased the place.

After Zane had verified that everything and everyone was locked up tight, he was going to head to his own quarters at the back of the resort to see if there was anything interesting on TV.

That was his plan.

Until sirens began blaring overhead. Zane jackknifed in his chair, his eyes immediately sharpening and scanning the bank of monitors before him.

The information screen blinked fire zone six just as the telephone at his elbow rang. He punched a command into the system, his screens filling with every camera they had in zone six. Nothing. No flames. No smoke. All he saw was panicked guests running around. He shook his head at the pandemonium. Picking up the ringing line, he spoke to the nice woman from the alarm company on the other end.

Insurance required they maintain the service, although he had no idea why. No one from St. Lucia could get here in time to be of any help. Even with boats, it would take the fire department forty minutes to reach the island.

However, they were prepared. Even now, the head of the grounds crew was mobilizing the pump truck that they painstakingly tested once every month.

Not that Zane thought they’d need it.

Dropping the phone into the cradle, he immediately snatched it back up.

“Marcy, I don’t see an actual fire. Evacuate the guests just in case, but I’m thinking this was either a short in the system or a drunken guest playing a prank.”

“Zane, you know better than that. Our guests don’t get drunk…they get happy.”

“Yeah, yeah, feed me the line tomorrow, when I’m not dealing with a crisis.”

The grumble in his voice belied the rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins…the first zing of electricity he’d felt in months. He’d missed it, this flurry of activity that meant he had a purpose.

“The staff is already implementing fire procedures. I’ll let you know when all guests are accounted for,” Marcy said.

“Let me know if anyone finds sign of a fire while you’re at it.”

Marcy chuckled.

Slamming down the receiver, Zane began to furiously type in commands, systematically scanning each zone, starting with five and seven before backtracking to one.

He didn’t get much further.

Halfway through scanning the fourth-floor hallway, he watched a woman disappear inside one of the guest rooms.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. She’d obviously heard the fire alarm. Hell, it was practically spiking into his brain and making his eyes throb. God only knew what she thought was more important than meeting a fiery death.

He was halfway out of his chair when she reappeared…and went to the door immediately to the right. Ten seconds flat and she was inside that room, too. Because the main guest rooms were housed in the old French plantation house, they didn’t have modern keycard technology.

He’d argued with Simon about the need to upgrade to that sort of system but the other man had grumbled something about old-world charm and authenticity, tacking on a statement about cost and headaches. Zane had managed to talk Simon into adding security cards to the restricted areas and the executive suite on the top floor, but that was as far as he’d been able to push. He wondered if the man would listen to him now.

He watched the woman on his screen appear and disappear one more time. Alarm bells—the ones inside his head—started clanging. Something wasn’t right.

Picking up the two-way radio beside him, he yelled into it for Tom. “Get your ass up to the Crow’s Nest,” he said, using their nickname for the security hub. “I’ve got a situation, but I want eyes up here in thirty seconds.”

A crackle of static floated up from his hand as he raced into the stairwell. “But …”

“Now,” he yelled again. Whatever the other man was doing could wait.

Zane’s mind raced just as fast as his feet, putting the pieces together as he flew down the two flights of stairs.

The fire alarm had been a diversion.

He burst through the door just in time to see the red-haired woman slip into yet another room. He’d barely gotten three doors down when she reappeared.

“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?”

Zane reached automatically to his hip, searching for a piece of his past that was no longer there. He hadn’t felt the need for a sidearm in almost two years.

His body tensed for the chase. He expected her to run—they always did. Instead, she stopped in her tracks and turned to face him.

“Thank God.” He could see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she took a step toward him. Warily, he slowed.

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for my room, but I couldn’t find it and the alarm is making my head hurt and I started to panic and …”

Her rambling words trailed off as one of those tears slipped free and rolled down her cheek.

He might have bought it, if he hadn’t seen her go in and out of several locked rooms with his own eyes. With a speed that would make his trainer at The Farm weep.

He went to step behind her and she spun, her eyes going wide and her mouth opening in a silent protest.

“Turn around.”

“Wait. Why? What are you doing?”

He took out his badge—nothing like the one he used to carry, this one was white plastic with his picture and title as head of security for the resort in big, bold letters—and held it in her face so she could get a good look at it. “Turn around before I put your face in the wall.”

Reluctantly, she took a half step sideways, presenting him with just enough of her arm to grasp and spin. Snatching the other one, he had her wrists locked into one hand and his other pressed between her shoulder blades, just enough to keep her uncomfortable and cooperative but not enough to damage.

“Now, we’re going to take a little walk. And you’re going to tell me exactly what you stole from those rooms—” he couldn’t help himself, he really wanted to know her secret “—and how you got in and out so fast.”

“I swear, I didn’t steal anything.”

“We’ll see about that.”

WELL, SHE OBVIOUSLY HADN’T gotten away clean. Giselle Monroe wanted desperately to rub the throbbing pain centered right between her eye sockets, but she couldn’t. Her wrists were currently locked together behind her and tethered to a rickety chair. Her mind flashed back to the one other time she’d felt the cold steel of handcuffs against her skin. Not her finest hour.

She’d been sixteen, rebelling against her overprotective father and brothers—all three of whom were cops—and had been caught, breaking into the school gymnasium with her friends. They’d honestly been doing it for a lark, nothing else. The fact that the cop hadn’t found any spray paint or drugs or anything else had gone a long way in getting them community service and two weeks suspension instead of a stiffer sentence from the courts and the school.

Well, that and the pull of her family’s name.

For a teenager, community service had been bad enough. When her father had found out she was the one who’d picked the lock, he’d tacked on six months’ house arrest. Sneaking in and out of the house had become a skill she learned for survival during those months.

Her father would be so proud to see how she’d put those old skills to new use. The sarcasm and cold metal cut into her skin, reminding her she was far away from home, with no father or brothers to save her this time. But she wasn’t about to show the tight-jawed giant who’d unceremoniously dumped her here any weakness, especially the fear snaking through her belly.

Okay, so her assessment of him might be a bit unfair, considering the guy was just doing his job, but he’d locked her inside a closet-size room with stale air and the permeating smell of industrial-grade cleaners. And then left her here. Alone.

She had no doubt that she was being watched. She could practically feel his eyes on her. Waiting for her story to crumble.

The beauty was that it wouldn’t.

By now, he’d probably questioned the guests of the rooms she’d been in and discovered that nothing had been taken…because she hadn’t been lying. She hadn’t broken into the rooms because she’d wanted to steal anything, and certainly not from the guests. Recover what was rightfully hers? Absolutely. Steal? She wasn’t a criminal. There was a difference, not that the Wall of Silence was likely to understand that.

The door squeaked open.

Without turning around, she asked, “Are you going to let me out of here?”

“Probably not.”

“Wha—” she squeaked, craning around in the chair as far as the handcuffs at her wrists would let her. “What do you mean ‘probably not’? I didn’t steal anything. You have no right to hold me!”

Elle rattled the metal rings against the wooden slats of the chair, using their noise to punctuate her protests. “The minute you let me out of here, I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll own this place when I’m done.”

Which would actually make her search measurably easier. For a brief moment, she indulged the vision of booting everyone off the island so that she could run from one room to the other until she found the painting of her grandmother that her sleazy ex-boyfriend had stolen from her four years ago.

The piece was far from priceless, at least in art circles. It had been semivaluable. The man who’d painted it, a lover from her grandmother’s own misspent youth, had achieved a moderate amount of success after their time together. The painting had gone up in value somewhat over the years, but the emotion behind it had always meant more to Elle.

The colors were lush. Burgundy, gold, black, green. Her grandmother, a young woman just beginning to taste the world, was looking over her bare shoulder, caught in the act of dropping her robe to the ground. The mischief and passion in her bright gray eyes, so familiar and yet so different, had always called to Elle. Nana had never married the man. In fact, she’d gone on to devote her life to someone else. Very happily, to hear her tell it, although Elle had never met her grandfather. But caught in that one moment of time, there was no mistaking that the young woman her grandmother once was desperately desired the man staring at her with a brush in his hand.

The painting was the one and only possession of her grandmother’s that she’d had, but it was also so much more. The skill of the painter was evident in the layering of color, the shadow and light. The way he’d captured the hint of daring in the sparkle of her grandmother’s eyes. That image had been evidence to a struggling teenage girl that the world didn’t revolve solely around strict rules and unbreakable laws. It had been proof that there was a world outside her father’s house, one she’d someday get to experience, just as her grandmother had.

Nana had been the only female influence in Elle’s life after her mother had died when she was very young. She’d also been the only one to understand Elle’s reckless artistic bent and had encouraged her to explore her talents. She wished Nana could see the success she’d found in the past few years—the sale of her paintings finally supporting her.

Nana had understood her. And for Elle, the painting represented that bond of understanding, as well.

She’d been heartbroken when, disgruntled over the fact that she’d kicked his sorry, mooching, jobless ass to the curb, Mac had ransacked her place, taking anything in her apartment worth more than a dime. Her computer, TV, DVD player…everything.

Although, all she’d cared about was the painting. It was the only thing that couldn’t be replaced.

Mac had disappeared along with all of her stuff. She’d filed a police report, but she had enough cops in her family to realize her possessions had vanished right along with him. She’d wanted to protest as the officer who’d taken her statement had written down miscellaneous wall art when she’d listed her Nana’s painting.

She’d cried herself to sleep that night, knowing it was gone forever.

But then eight weeks ago, she’d opened Worldwide Travel and seen the glossy picture of a resort and the painting of her seminude grandmother against the backdrop of lush green walls and sparkling ocean. She’d known she needed to get it back.

Her father and brothers had told her the foreign location of the resort made recovery next to impossible. The lawyer she’d consulted had said the same thing. Foreign courts were complicated enough, but she couldn’t even prove the painting was hers. It had been gifted to her grandmother, who’d gifted it to her. There was no paper trail. She could prove that the painting was of her grandmother, but that didn’t mean she’d ever owned it.

She’d thought to reason with the owner of the island. If he’d bothered to return any of her letters, emails or phone calls, she might not have had to resort to treachery in order to recover what was rightfully hers.

She had to assume that the owner knew the piece was stolen and had no intention of returning it to her.

That freed up her moral obligations to the commandment about stealing rather nicely. While Sister Mary Theresa wouldn’t approve, Elle’s conscience was clean.

A picture slammed onto the surface of the rickety table before her, pulling her from her self-righteous anger and making her jump. The handcuffs rattled again, only this time it wasn’t for effect and the jarring sensation jolted up her arms and into her shoulders, making her want to double over—if she’d had the freedom of movement to do so.

It took her a moment to focus her attention on just what was sitting in front of her. Her eyes squinted at the grainy black-and-white image as a coil of unease began to tighten in her chest.

“I do have the right to hold you, considering this photo proves that you were the source of a false fire alarm. The same one you claimed made you disoriented and unable to find your own room.”

Yeah. This was not good.

Elle fought the urge to open her mouth and let words start spilling out. She had no doubt the hard-ass who’d delighted in clamping her to this chair wouldn’t understand why she was here or believe her without the proof her lawyer had pointed out she didn’t have.

He rounded the table to stare across the scored and dirty surface and placed his palms flat onto the center, leaning forward into her space. Her only thought was damn, the man is tall. He was big, too, with broad shoulders and the kind of muscles that clothes couldn’t disguise. Any other time, she’d have enjoyed staring at him.

At this precise moment, not so much.

“Feel free to call your lawyer. You won’t get a damn thing.”

His eyes bored into her and, for the first time since she’d come to the island, she began to squirm. They were a mix of green and gold and gray that shouldn’t have been mesmerizing but somehow was. The expression in them was hard, disconnected almost. She’d seen that expression before, in her dad’s eyes on the nights he’d come home late after working a particularly horrendous murder.

She licked her lips, fighting the urge to reach out to him in the same way she’d always tried to bring the light back into her dad’s face. But this wasn’t the time. And he wasn’t her problem.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the loud bang of the door as it slammed into the wall.

“Zane, what are you doing?”

His mouth pinched before his focus switched to the man who’d just entered.

“Questioning a thief.”

“That’s not what Marcy said. According to her, this woman didn’t take a damn thing and we have no right to hold her.”

“She pulled the fire alarm.”

“I don’t care if she put on a rabbit suit and paraded up and down the halls, pretending she was the Easter bunny. Let her go.”

Elle craned her head around until she could see her would-be savior.

He wasn’t what she’d expected. While the man’s words had certainly been stern enough, his posture was anything but. He lounged against the open doorway, one hand lodged in a pocket at his hip and the other dangling loosely at his side. His shorts were slack around his hips. He had on a Hawaiian shirt, a dark cord of some kind wrapped around his tanned throat.

The man was the picture of laid-back island life. Elle thought it was a lie. A core of steel lurked somewhere deep inside. There was certainly no question he had some level of authority over Hard-Ass. She hoped he was about to use it to her advantage.

“Now, be a good boy and unlock those handcuffs before she calls her lawyer.”

“She’s already threatened to do that.”

She watched as a grimace crossed his face. “I’m sure there’s no reason for that. I apologize for Zane’s behavior. He’s ex-CIA.”

He made the statement as if it explained absolutely everything there was to know about the other man. And dragging her gaze back over to him, she thought it just might.

Hard-Ass’s…no, Zane’s jaw tightened even more as he pulled a key from his pocket. His eyes stared down at it as if he wished for the ability to bend it and render it useless so he’d have a legitimate reason to keep her here against orders.

With heavy, reluctant steps, he walked behind her. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew that he towered above her. His long shadow dropped over the table, the curve of his head obscuring the single light from above.

His fingers wrapped around her elbow, smoothing down the inside curve of her arm until they slipped over the sensitive sweep of her wrist. A shiver of unwanted awareness spiked up her arm and into her body. She sucked in a breath at the unexpected reaction to the contact.

She was so unnerved that it took her several seconds to register her freedom when the tension that had bound her wrists together finally disappeared. Elle shot from the chair, almost knocking over the table in her haste to get away from his intimidating presence behind her. She spun to face both of the men.

The contrast between them was astonishing. One had sun-kissed cheeks and a genuine smile, the other’s face was tight with a frown of disapproval.

“There. That’s better. Ms. Monroe, my manager has arranged for you to be upgraded to a suite. Your luggage will be moved shortly. If you need anything else during your stay, be sure to let Marcy know. Zane, behave.”

Pushing up from his permanent perch at the door, the man offered his hand, which she reflexively took. He was gone before she realized she had no idea who he actually was.

Turning to the scowling man, she asked, “Who was that?”

“Your guardian angel apparently.”

With the open door and the promise of no retribution for her stunt, Elle was feeling a bit cocky…cocky enough to do something she probably shouldn’t have.

Turning her focus fully to the man left behind, she said, “My guess is he definitely has a higher security clearance than you.”

Zane’s jaw tightened and he took a menacing step toward her. Her bravado disappeared rather quickly when he entered her personal space. The cells in her body seemed to react, standing at attention simply because he was nearer to her. It was galling.

His huge hand wrapped around her arm once again, pulling her close enough to his body that she could feel the heat of him radiating into her own skin. His scent, dark, spicy and all male, filled her lungs despite the fact that she tried not to breathe.

“I am the highest security clearance in this place.” His head dipped down toward hers and her lips parted automatically. His mouth brushed against the sensitive outer shell of her ear as he whispered, “And I’m going to be watching you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I’m going to be watching.”

A shiver of awareness, anger and anticipation racked her body even as she jerked her arm from his grasp. He easily let her go.

Elle schooled her features and looked up into his face. “Then it’s going to be a boring week for you.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

2

ZANE WATCHED AS THE WOMAN walked away. The taunting swing of her hips and the way she tossed her red hair behind her as she threw a knowing half smile over her shoulder made his fists clench.

He stomped down the hall after her. Not to bring her back, but to give Simon a piece of his mind. He was pissed, and someone was going to get the brunt of his anger.

His knock on the suite door was perfunctory to say the least. He didn’t bother waiting for Simon to acknowledge him before he pushed into the other man’s domain.

The living area before him was immaculate, not a single thing out of place. Of course, that had absolutely nothing to do with Simon and everything to do with his efficient director. He and Simon had shared an apartment during college, so he had firsthand knowledge of the man’s messy gene. Not that he’d cared much back then. They’d both focused on women, partying and studying, in that order. There’d been little energy left over for domestic things such as scrubbing toilets or washing dishes.

Luckily Simon had an entire staff to do those things for him now.

Zane strode into the lion’s den. That’s what everyone liked to call it behind Simon’s back.

Very few people ever saw the inside of his sanctuary. Simon liked his privacy, and Zane understood why. However, at the moment, the last thing Zane was worried about was protecting the sanctity of Simon’s hidey-hole.

“Simon!” Zane bellowed walking into the center of the room.

“Took you longer to get here than I expected.”

Simon’s slow drawl came from behind. Zane spun in surprise and immediately felt his body falling into a fighting stance. He was going soft, if Simon could startle him.

“What the hell are you doing? She started a false fire alarm. She might not have stolen anything—yet—but she did break into several guest rooms. And you’re rewarding her with an upgrade? I can’t do my job if you countermand every decision I try to make.”

Simon walked across the smooth wooden floor to a bar set into the far wall. Leaning over and reaching behind it, he pulled out two glasses and a bottle of brandy. “Want some?”

“No, I do not want a drink!”

He shook his head, frowning and said, “You really should relax more, Zane. You’re going to have a heart attack before you’re forty.”

The dark amber liquid splashed into the bulb of the glass. “As we speak, her bags are being transferred to the Crow’s Nest, where you can look through them before sending them to her new room. And I’m surprised you haven’t realized that the room I upgraded her to happens to be located in a corner and covered by two more cameras than her previous location.”

Simon looked up at him, narrowing his eyes over the edge of the glass as he took a sip. “You’re welcome. Hey, look, I managed to play the good cop to your bad cop. Without any training, too.”

Great. He’d gone from working for the CIA to playing cops and robbers with a man who had a Peter Pan complex. Never mind that Simon had made a smart move. One Zane should have thought of. He really was getting soft.

Simon clapped his hand on to Zane’s shoulder. “Give it a rest, man. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to frown? Your face could stick that way.”

“I’m not frowning.”

“The hell you say. I’ve known you for how long?”

“Too long,” Zane mumbled.

“Exactly. I can tell the minute you start castigating yourself. You get this really ugly furrow in the center of your forehead. Used to get the same thing when I went after some girl you liked at the bar.”

Zane growled deep in the back of his throat. A warning they both knew Simon would ignore. Their relationship had always been complicated. They annoyed the hell out of each other, had always been competitors for everything and each would take a bullet for the other without a second thought. Neither of them had siblings, and Zane often thought they filled that role for each other.

Simon pulled no punches, and Zane trusted him to tell the truth…whether he wanted to hear it or not.

Zane turned to leave. He was halfway out before Simon’s voice stopped him.

“Let me know if you find any red lace panties. I could use a little distraction right now. That woman is quite a firecracker, and I wouldn’t mind getting a little singed.”

Zane’s hands wrapped into fists as he spun on his heel. Simon lounged against the bar, a taunting half smile and a twinkle in his eye. Zane relaxed his body again.

“Bastard.”

The man had always known which buttons to push.

ELLE RUMMAGED FRANTICALLY through her luggage, looking for the picture she’d torn from the magazine. She’d been staring at it every night for the past two months and now that she couldn’t find it, panic began to rise in her chest. She needed that picture. It held the only clues she had to finding her grandmother’s painting.

She tore into her suitcase, flinging clothing every which way, hoping that she’d simply missed it the first time.

She never should have let them touch her things!

A warm wave of relief flooded through her. There, placed neatly at the very bottom of her suitcase sat what she was looking for. Picking it up, Elle ran the pad of her thumb across the glossy image. How had she missed it the first time?

The picture was fairly large, taking up most of the space on the page.

She had to admit, the ad had done its job. She’d wanted to come to Escape even before she’d noticed the painting hanging on the wall in the background.

The vista the camera lens let the audience into was just as breathtaking as the lush tropical surroundings that stood outside the walls. The angle the photographer had chosen accentuated the perspective, elongating the lines of the comfortable living room, through what she assumed was a bedroom and out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the ocean beyond.

All of the furniture was heavy wood, looking as if the pieces had stood there through years of love and use. Tranquil blues and greens decorated the walls and dotted every surface. And in between two towering bookshelves hung the painting of her grandmother, somehow even more lavish surrounded by the tropical beauty outside.

The artist in Elle could appreciate the composition and structure of the photograph. The way the photographer had staged the shot to convey a feeling of lush peace and beauty. The little girl she’d never really got to be wanted the only memento of her grandmother back so desperately her lungs tightened with the need to run screaming through the place, ripping doors open until she found what she’d come for.

But that would just land her back inside the dank, cramped space with Officer Zane standing over her, asking questions she really didn’t want to answer.

Instead, she concentrated on trying to find some clue within the picture. A clue she hadn’t found the hundreds of times she’d stared at it before.

The entire resort had a sort of lived-in feel, as if you were vacationing with a long-lost aunt who just happened to be a billionaire. Each of the guest rooms that occupied the French plantation house was decorated differently…which should have made her search easier, but so far hadn’t. Yes, she’d been able to glance into each of the rooms she’d seen and know whether or not it was the one. But there were so many of them and she had no way to narrow down her search. Not to mention that once she had searched the rooms inside, she had to cover all of the bungalows reserved exclusively for couples, the common areas and the restricted spaces.

She hadn’t gotten into nearly enough rooms today. And to make matters worse, she had no doubt that Zane had been telling the truth and would be watching her every move now.

Elle sighed, mentally rearranging her schedule in her head. She had a couple of commissioned paintings she should be working on, but both clients could be put off for a little while. An Atlanta gallery had expressed interest in a showing. But that was months away. Really, there were worse places on the planet to be stuck than an exotic Caribbean island.

The place was stunning. And her upgraded room had a killer view.

Unfortunately, it didn’t contain her grandmother’s painting, either. That would have made her life too easy.

Flopping back onto the bed, she let her body sink into the luxurious comforter. She stared up at the beautiful crown molding that ringed the ceiling and, for the first time, admitted she hadn’t exactly planned. She could hear her dad’s voice in her head now. “You went off half-cocked again, didn’t you, girl?” Even in her own brain, the stern voice couldn’t disguise the indulgent humor beneath.

So, she was guilty of rushing into things, of responding passionately to a situation before she’d fully thought out the consequences. There were certainly worse ways to interact with the world. She could have a stick up her ass like Officer Zane. She’d bet he thought out every angle for absolutely every decision before he took a single step.

Mind-blowing.

A vision of him standing over her flitted through her mind. Unwanted warmth snaked through her body to pool between her thighs. So he was…ruggedly handsome. That didn’t give him the right to push her around the way he had. Well, okay, maybe he did have the right, but she wasn’t about to admit that out loud. She forced the image of his towering body and tight jaw out of her mind. She didn’t have time to indulge in pointless yearnings.

What she needed was a plan.

And in the absence of one, a margarita. Or five. The answer would come to her. It always did.

“YOU SHOULD TAKE A break.”

“No.” Zane didn’t even bother turning around to look at Marcy. His eyes were glued to the screen in front of him and the woman who currently filled it.

She’d been sitting at the bar for the past two hours. Alone. Sipping on several frothy drinks and ignoring the several men who had tried to pick her up.

“She isn’t going anywhere, Zane. The last ferry has run for the day.”

“I promised I’d be watching her and I intend to do just that.”

“Who’d you promise? We both know Simon didn’t ask you to do this. Leave the poor woman alone.”

Poor woman, his left nut. The screen might have washed everything to varying shades of gray and white, but his mind remembered the vivid color of her hair and the unsettling combination of her gray eyes. They were so pale. So piercing. And they hid a secret he was determined to figure out.

“Don’t make me put you on administrative leave for the next forty-eight hours.”

His head whipped around to look at the compact fireball of a woman standing behind him. No doubt about it, Marcy was small but she packed a hell of a punch. And they both knew she didn’t bluff worth a damn. If she said it, she meant it.

Zane thought about threatening her with Simon, but decided not to. Technically Simon might own the place, but everyone knew that Marcy ran it. He had no desire to get on her bad side by throwing his friendship with their boss in her face. Besides, he wasn’t entirely certain that Simon would choose him over Marcy. After all, he could find another head of security tomorrow, but Marcy…she’d be damn hard to replace.

He was curious, though. “Why would you do that?”

“So that my week doesn’t go to hell because you’re bored and can’t admit that you miss your old life.”

“I do not miss my old life.” Rather, there were things about his old life that he didn’t miss, such as seeing murdered bodies or chasing terrorists and drug dealers and rapists. And knowing that for every bad guy they caught, another was ready to step up and take his place.

The guilt of knowing he’d failed Felicity, his fiancée, had been the last straw. Her death was entirely his fault and there was nothing he could do to change it.

“It does not escape my notice that you didn’t protest being bored. I’m sending Tom in here in five minutes. If I don’t see you walking through this doorway, heading to your own cottage five minutes after that, then consider yourself benched.”

Zane fought the urge to grumble as Marcy disappeared and he waited for Tom to arrive. Now that he’d been booted, he could admit that his eyes were starting to sting from watching the grainy screen for hours.

He scanned all six of the monitors, taking in the normal vista of swaying palm trees, necking couples, and water lapping against sand. Until his gaze returned to the picture of Giselle Monroe. As he watched, yet another guy drunk with rum-soaked bravado sat on the bar stool beside her. Zane could see the man’s mouth moving.

Giselle flicked her gaze to the guy for no more than half a breath before dismissing him again. She didn’t even bother wasting words, simply shook her head in response to whatever the young buck had asked her.

Zane almost felt sorry for the guy as he stood from the bar and walked back to the cluster of his friends, to be razed for the rest of the night, Zane had no doubt.

She’d been doing that all evening. What kind of woman came to a singles resort specifically designed to facilitate vacation flings and then turned down every man who made a pass at her?

One who wasn’t here for a hookup, obviously. So what was she here for? The question he desperately wanted an answer to burned inside his chest.

The lock clicked behind him, signaling that Tom had arrived to relieve him from the Nest.

Zane quickly made a decision. What could it hurt if he stopped at the bar himself just to check on things? After all, it was his job to make sure all ran smoothly.

DAMN, SHE WAS TIRED OF fending off drunk men. If one more guy came up to her with some lame pickup line and an offer to “fulfill all her fantasies” she was going to knock someone’s block off.

All around her, desperate women in skintight clothing, inch-thick makeup and sky-high heels giggled and hair tossed. Pathetic.

She could feel the presence of another male as he slid onto the empty stool beside her. It had been vacant most of the night. And that’s how she preferred it.

Without turning around, she said, “Don’t bother. I’m not interested. Try the blonde at the other end of the bar.”

That one was definitely looking for a quick lay…probably with more than one man. Possibly at one time.

“Does that mean you won’t accept my apology drink?”

Her head whipped around. The dark voice slipped down her spine as if he’d dropped an ice cube straight from the drink in front of him down her exposed nape.

He still had on the same clothes—dark black jeans and a tight black T-shirt—but somehow he looked more laid-back than he had before. Maybe it was just the change in scenery. Everything looked laid-back with a thatched roof over your head and a fruity drink in your hand. As opposed to adorned with handcuffs inside a utility closet.

“No, thank you.”

Her voice was tighter than she’d meant it to be. He was making a peace offering, after all. But it was hard to take the gesture at face value. He was up to something and she wouldn’t put it past the hard-ass she’d met earlier today to slip something into her drink. Like truth serum.

Elle deliberately turned her head away, presenting him with her back, as she’d done with every other man who’d sat beside her tonight. Unlike the rest of them, Officer Zane settled into the chair anyway, throwing his arm over the rounded edge of the back and signaling to the bartender. Magically another of the frothy pink concoctions she’d been drinking all night appeared at her elbow.

She frowned, throwing a daggered look over her shoulder. “You don’t take no very well, do you?”

“Not usually. And you don’t mingle very well.” He threw a hand out behind them, gesturing to the crowd of rowdy twenty- and thirty-something singles laughing and having a good time.

“Maybe I just don’t feel like chatting right now.”

“What kind of woman comes to a resort that specializes in providing fertile hunting grounds for prowling singles, and doesn’t bother to actually prowl?”

A flush of anger and embarrassment suffused her skin and, before she could stop herself, she swung around in her chair to fully face him.

“I don’t know. The kind who had her hands unjustly handcuffed to a chair a few hours ago. Let’s just say, I’m not exactly in a partying mood.”

“Oh, we both know my actions were justified.”

“So much for that apology.”

He shrugged. “I tried.”

“Let me guess, the mystery man made you do this. I bet it galls the hell out of you that he believes me.”

Elle’s gaze strayed to his lips as they twisted momentarily into a grimace. There was something enticing about the expression, about the way his upper lip was slightly larger than the bottom and the corners pulled down even when he wasn’t frowning. Which, from what she’d seen, wasn’t very often.

“Jeez, you guys are all the same.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“The minute they tell you they don’t need you on the force anymore—you’re too old, you’re injured, you made some bonehead mistake—you all turn mean and nasty. Can’t stand to sit with your hands under your ass, useless and restless.”

He raised a single eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

“So, what was it? My guess is you got shot, because you’re way too young to be benched at a desk, and despite the fact that you’re acting outside of orders at the moment, you’re too by the book for a bonehead mistake.”

She regretted the words almost the minute they left her mouth. She looked into his eyes and saw the pain lurking there, deep in the back. She’d hit her mark, all right and injured an already wounded man.

She didn’t want to feel guilty, not about hurting the good officer. But she couldn’t help it. She’d grown up around guys exactly like him. They were all tough as nails. Until they weren’t.

“I’m sorry.” The words were low as they left her lips. Part of her hoped the loud music and laughing crowd would drown them out. The other part knew she wouldn’t sleep tonight because of the guilt if he didn’t hear them.

“I’m sorry,” she said louder.

His eyes cut across at her from beneath smoky lashes. “I heard you the first time.”

Elle sighed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure.”

“Not your fault.”

“Maybe.” Picking up the glass in front of her, she threw it back and let the semimelted rum-soaked ice fill her mouth.

“You wanna make it up to me? Tell me what you were really doing this afternoon.”

She wasn’t feeling that guilty.

“I already told you.”

“And we both know that was a lie.”

This time, it was her turn to shrug.

“Then I guess you’re just going to have to add this to your long list of disappointments.”

Elle pushed up from the bar, ignoring the way it spun lazily around her. She wobbled on her low-slung heels for a moment before the world finally righted itself.

“Are you okay?”

Before she could blink, Zane was standing beside her, his hand wrapped around her elbow again. The moment felt like déjà vu in a not very pleasant way.

Jerking her arm out of his grasp, she said, “I’m fine.”

So the—one, two, four, five? Dang, she’d had more than she’d realized—fluffy drinks that had seemed rather harmless while sitting down had gone to her head. She had only a short walk to the main building and a ride in the elevator before she could crash in her own room and sleep off the alcohol haze. Maybe when she woke up, she’d have a brilliant solution to her problem.

“At least let me walk you to your room.”

“I don’t think so.” Giving him her back, she strode away.

Outside the bar, the salt-tinged air began to clear her head. It was a beautiful night, the slivered moon just barely gilding the silky sand and the crystal-clear water.

What she wouldn’t give to have a paintbrush in her hand right now. To capture the beauty of this place forever.

The loud music and bright lights of the bar faded, leaving her feeling alone in the tropical paradise. If she’d been here for any other reason, she might have enjoyed the sense of peace that stole over her. It was an unexpected gift at the end of a rather trying day.

Stopping in the middle of the deserted path, she closed her eyes and breathed in the perfectly warm air.

A burst of laughter from behind galvanized her into motion again.

The sandals she’d thrown on only because they matched her sundress clicked loudly against the concrete path. So loudly that it took her a minute to pick up the sound of the second pair of footsteps following behind her. They were quiet and, if her own overprotective father hadn’t trained her, she probably never would have picked up on them. But, living in Atlanta, her daddy had made sure she was always aware of her surroundings and could defend herself.

Her sluggish brain reacted a little slower than she would have liked, but it took her only a few moments to assess the situation. She was alone on a dark path, surrounded by thick landscaping and plenty of nooks and crannies that could be used to pull her into the shadows.

The parade of men she’d grown increasingly harsher with as the night had gone on marched through her brain. Crap, she should have been nicer.

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