Dead Ringer (12 page)

Reluctant to give in, she shook a finger at him. "Well, if I do, it's only because
you
asked." She nodded toward the garment bag. "What have you got for me?"

"A little black dress. At least, that's what Smitty called it. Oh, and the skirt and sweater thing is there, too." He shuffled his feet, thumbed over his shoulder. "I... I better get back."

"Or Simon Legree will whip you?" She walked him to the door. "Thanks, Jack. You're a real peach." She kissed him on the cheek and he gave her that sweet puppy-dog grin.

"You're not so bad yourself."

"Evidently that's a matter of opinion." She opened the door. "Tell Sharkman I'll be waiting."

Jack's grin widened and he lowered his voice as if imparting a deep, dark secret. "I think he knows that." He winked and left.

She shook her head in mock annoyance, but Jack's visit had lightened her mood. Grabbing the garment bag by the hanger, she went into her bedroom, unzipped it, and took out Smitty's reproduction of Carol Borian's little black dress.

It was simple and understated, not exactly boring but far from the spangly numbers Angelina was used to. She sighed and laid it out on the bed, wondering how she could spice it up and still stay true to the part she had to play.

Then a wicked, slow smile eased over her. She had just the thing.

* * *

Finn paced outside Angelina's closed bedroom door. What the hell was taking her so long? He pulled at the bow tie and tuxedo shut strangling his neck and caught Mike's amused glance.

"What are you laughing at?"

Mike shrugged, all innocence. "I don't know. What are you growling at?"

"Borian will have gone home by the time she finishes primping." A sharp jab of his head indicated Angelina's closed door.

"Uh-huh." Mike's eyebrows rose in a picture of doubt. "I thought maybe you were nervous. You've had a wild hair up your butt all afternoon."

Had he been so transparent? "Don't be an ass."

"You should be kicking your heels up at this party thing. If what you said about Borian's reaction at lunch is even half true, the ball will cinch everything."

Hell.
Mike was right. But as time for the Governor's Ball drew near, the knot in the back of his neck had grown tighter. He recalled Angelina's heady laughter that afternoon, the excited light in her green eyes. And in his mind that picture was replaced by the shocked, covetous look on Borian's face at lunch, as though he wanted to devour her.

Christ, he knew the feeling. He could almost feel sorry for Borian, if he wasn't such a slug.

And if exposing Angelina to him didn't put her in danger, he could almost sit back and watch the show.

Almost.

Finn checked his watch again. Damn the woman. She was a survivor. She didn't need him worrying about her. She'd be fine. Who was he kidding? She'd be great. This was right up her alley.

Right up her goddamn alley.

The door opened, and he swiveled his head to look as Angelina stepped out.

Jesus Christ.

Finn's mouth dried up instantly. Mike's jaw gaped open. Angelina smiled and pirouetted in front of them.

"What's the matter, boys? Never seen black before?"

"Oh, I've seen it," Mike said. "It just never looked this good."

Amen.
She transformed the simple cocktail dress Smitty had finished that afternoon. Black as a nun's habit but not as concealing. Not that it revealed a whole lot, either. The clean, smooth lines clung sedately to her curves, and a scoop of a neck skimmed her shoulders, partially exposing them without revealing her heart-shaped birthmark. In keeping with her pose as the demure Mrs. Montgomery, the dress stopped just below her knees. But the modest length didn't hide the rest of her long, shapely legs, which ended in a pair of black heeled pumps that added three inches to her height. Around her neck a single strand of pearls lay luminous and creamy as the skin it caressed. She looked expensive and elegant. And sexy as hell.

Finn nearly melted where he stood.

Mike whistled, low and admiring. "You look fantastic."

"Thank you." She turned to Finn as if she expected a pat on the head. Damned if he'd tell her she looked good. She always looked good, and she knew it. The trouble was, so did everyone else. He pictured Borian dancing with her, his hands on her arms, her shoulders, places where Finn had touched her the other night. His chest tightened for the hundredth time that day.

"I'm ready." She picked up the velvet stole draped over the back of the couch.

"Not quite." Her brows arched inquiringly, those sea-green eyes daring him to argue with her. "We need to wire you up."

"I am wired." She ran a hand over her breasts and torso, causing him to repress a groan. "Unless the TCF is going into the lingerie business?"

Mike wagged a finger at her. "Behave." And held up a thin, snaggly black cable with a tiny microphone attached. "We need a record of everything Borian says to you."

She lifted the cable with an indolent finger. "And do I push that in his face and ask him to speak up?"

Finn restrained his temper. "We tape it to you."

"Really?"

"Underneath the dress."

An amused look flickered across her face as her eyes met his.
Touching me again?
He could almost hear her sassy voice saying the words aloud.
Not on your life, Angel.
But despite himself, his fingers tingled with anticipation.

Slowly, she turned her back toward Mike, her eyes never leaving Finn's. Heat wanned his face under her challenging stare. "Would you mind?" Her voice held a note of promise and her luscious mouth tilted up in a slight, knowing smile. Mike unzipped the dress, and the sheath slid to the floor with a satiny hiss.

Oh, my God. If Finn believed in the power of saints, he'd call on one now.

She stood wrapped in a single piece of lingerie that clung like a second skin. Black lace, it started at her full breasts, barely contained inside the strapless bosom, then hugged her waist and hips and ended with beribboned holders that fastened onto the tops of a pair of sleek, black stockings. The only other items she wore were the black heels and the strand of pearls, and if Finn had been speechless before, he was dead dumb now. In front of him stood the living emblem of every man's fantasy.

In less than ten seconds he was steel hard.

Hands on hips, she cocked her head in an innocent expression. "Now, you want to put that... where?"

Finn bit down hard on the explosion about to erupt inside him.
You want to play games, Angel? I can play games.
With grim deliberation, he took two steps in her direction, reached for the cleft between her breasts, and tugged her forward by the top of the black lace.

She stumbled toward him awkwardly. "That's a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of French lace you're pawing, Sharkman." She smiled at him sweetly and for the life of him, he wanted to do nothing more than bury his mouth over her insincere lips.

"Give me the wire, Mike." In spite of the heat circulating inside him, his voice came out just the way he wanted it to: cold and harsh.

"Why don't you let me-"

"Give me the wire."

Mike handed him the device, and he began to slide the thin cable between her breasts. The nerve endings in his fingers jumped when they came in contact with her skin.
You can do this Carver. Without your hands shaking.
If it were possible to get any harder, touching the plush mounds of her cleavage made him hard to the point of discomfort. But he resisted shifting his stance to find a better position, and continued threading the wire between her breasts.

Her breathing changed when he touched her and she tensed to fight her reaction. Grimly, he smiled to himself. The soft, breathy sound told him she wasn't as indifferent to him as she pretended. Triumph zinged through him, and he knelt to finish the job. But when he was on his knees in front of her, his head level with her belly, he lost his composure all over again. Pausing for a moment, he longed to lay his head against her, to rub his hands over the lush curves encased in black lace.

Heart booming in his ears, he slowly raised his hands and placed them on her left thigh, above the top of the black stockings where her smooth, soft flesh was bare. He found the end of the wire and plugged a matchbook-size cassette recorder to it, then laid the recorder against her skin. God, she smelled good. He inhaled her scent, something lush and utterly feminine, and for a moment he forgot what he was doing.

"You going to spend the night at my feet, Sharkman?" Her words floated down to him on a sultry whisper, and he raised his head to look at her. She was looking right back at him, as if she knew what she was doing to him.

Suffocating him. Taking him by the throat and throttling him with his own desire.

"Mike." He was damn proud of the coolness in his voice. "Finish her up."

Finn rose and stalked over to the sideboard, where the hotel had provided a selection of liquor. He opened a bottle, not even checking to see what it was, poured himself a fast drink, and downed it in one gulp. Turning, he watched Mike finish taping the recorder to her thigh. Finn's hand tightened around the glass, fighting the urge to shove the other man away when he touched her.

He poured himself another drink. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER
7

The Civic Center had once been a Shrine Temple, complete with white minaret and an arabesque arched entry-way. Angelina took one look and had the stray thought that she'd fallen into a fractured fairy tale. Cinderella, as Jack had said earlier, but a cockeyed version where she goes to the ball to entrap the prince.

By the time Angelina and Finn arrived, the place was teeming with people. The Governor's Ball drew a large, wealthy crowd from all over the state, and guests stood in clusters clutching highball glasses or sat at their tables fingering gleaming white linen and talking politics. The women wore glittering gowns, the men tuxedos, some with bolo ties and sharp-toed boots polished to a high gleam.

Angelina's heart danced inside her chest as Finn guided her through the throng, moving toward the table they'd been assigned. Elevator music from the band up front filled the large room, but it was only so much background. She caught Mike's eye and then Jack's. Both were dressed as waiters and managed to look like they were putting finishing touches on the round dinner tables packed into the room when they were really keeping an eye on her and Finn. Jack nodded once, a signal of some kind, but she didn't stop to ask what. She didn't dare. Cut-'em-dead Carver was all business now, his voice curt, his body tense, his grip on her arm punishing.

Not that she blamed him. Not really. That little black number back at the hotel had pushed all his buttons, as she'd known it would. Served him right, too.

But a guilty voice way down deep kept up a nagging drumbeat. If she wanted him on her side, why did she antagonize him at every turn?

Finn's contacts had managed to get them placed at the same table as Borian. Would he be there? Suddenly, all thought of Finn vanished, and she forced herself to focus on one man only. Victor Borian.

But no one was seated yet at their assigned table, and Angelina couldn't help the small sigh of relief at the reprieve.

"Is he here?" she murmured softly as they took their seats.

"He's here," Finn said. "Jack spotted him."

She licked her lips, feeling queasy. Maybe she should go to the ladies' room and hide. Before she could, Finn squeezed her thigh under the table. At first she thought it a gesture of encouragement, even forgiveness for goading him back at the hotel, and a rush of warmth flooded over her. But she quickly bottled it when she realized he was only turning on the cassette recorder.

"Showtime," he said under his bream, and without another warning, a strangely smooth masculine voice spoke from behind her.

"Table five?"

Finn turned. "If that's where you're supposed to be, you're there." His voice was several degrees warmer than it had been a moment ago. He rose and extended his hand. "Stephen Ingram. Special aide to the governor."

"Victor Borian." The voice held the barest hint of a foreign accent.