Dead Ringer (8 page)

"Takes one to know one." He sucked in a deep breath, then spoke into the phone. "Let me call you back." He disconnected, then turned to her. "We're having clothes made to match the pictures of your mother." His words were overly calm and distinct as though he were barely able to say them without shouting. "Seems it takes a while to get them tailored. If I can get the measurements now they can start tonight and might have something ready in the next couple of days. So, do you or don't you have a tape measure?"

"Maybe. Somewhere..." She left to look for one, returning a few moments later with a crumpled yellow strip. Finn removed a small notepad from his inside suit pocket and a pen. "I need chest, waist-"

She thrust the tape into his hands, dying to see him squirm. "Go to it."

"You can do it yourself."

She smiled lazily at him. "More accurate if someone else does it for you. You want those clothes to fit, don't you?"

I dare you, Sharkman.

"Jesus Christ." He yanked her arqund to face him squarely, then placed the tape around her shoulders, sliding it down so it fit just above her breasts.

"Right through the center, please." She lowered his hands so the tape went over her breasts. His knuckles grazed her nipples, and she met his eyes as the nipples rose to meet his hands. And now the joke was on her, because something blazed hot and wild between them, a feeling that raked through her like Texas brushfire. Her heart hammered, setting off a pulse between her legs, liquid and quivery as fear. She clamped down on it, pushing it away so she couid control it, but the heat shimmered inside her, even after she told it to go away.

She grabbed the tape out of Finn's hands. "Thirty-eight, right?"

She refitted the tape around herself, glanced down at the number. 'Thirty-eight. I don't need the damn tape. Thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six."

He nodded, mute. Then he gathered himself and a moment later wrote the numbers down in the little book. She thought his hand was shaking but she couldn't be sure.

He cleared his throat. "Two more." She jumped when he touched her shoulders, turned her around, then stood stiff as a spiked heel while he measured the width of her shoulders and the length of her back from neck to waist. By the time he was finished, her own hands were trembling.

"That it?" she said through clenched teeth.

"That's it."

"Good. Get out."

For once, he didn't have a snappy comeback. He left without another word.

Angelina sank into the couch and closed her eyes. No man had ever affected her that way before. And no man ever would. Especially Sharkman.

Forget about him, party girl. Your date is with Uncle Sam.

Her brandy was still on an end table where she'd left it to let Finn in. Now she swallowed the rest in one gulp. She breathed deep and poured herself another. Carrying it with her, she retreated to the bathroom and slid onto the padded bench at the vanity.

Opening a drawer set into the marble, she fished out a bottle of nail polish remover, some cotton balls, an emery board, and a sturdy nail clipper. She swallowed more brandy, then extended her hands in front of her. They trembled just the tiniest bit and she hastily buried them in her lap. He was gone, she could breathe now. Nice and slow and even. She tried again and this time her hands held steady, the deep red of the polish glistening back at her from each long, perfectly manicured nail. She sighed. Twenty bucks a pop.

This better be worth it, Sharkman.

She picked up the clippers and with one crisp bite cut off the first of all two hundred bucks.

CHAPTER
4

The trip to Montana was interminable. No one flew from here to there, not in a direct line anyway, and after three takeoffs, the first at the crack of dawn, Angelina was sick of the smell of jet fuel. On the last leg of the journey, she watched the clouds drift by her airplane window, wishing she could hop aboard one and float away. The plane was nearly empty, the usual murmur of bodies and activity replaced by the hum of jets and an anesthetized quiet. In the silence, a wave of nervousness set her heart pounding. She'd never make it. Somehow, some way, she'd screw up. She always did.

"Let's go over it again," Finn said.

Turning away from the view outside, she stared at the empty seat in front of her, rather than Finn, dark and intense beside her.
Give me a break, Sharkman. Ten seconds without thinking about nuclear holocaust.
Ten seconds without thinking about him.

"We've been over it a hundred times," she said.

"Make it a hundred and one."

She struggled for calm; she was not going to let him get to her. "You know, you have a real problem with trust." She reached for the vodka on her tray. Finn stopped her with a hand on her wrist. A hand that burned through her skin.

"And you have a problem with booze."

She wrenched her hand away, letting the anger come. Anger was a lot easier to deal with than the ragged, edgy buzz of awareness of him sitting next to her. "One drink is hardly a problem."

He glanced down at the bottle. "Until one drink leads to two, three, and four."

For a moment she felt as though he'd physically slapped her.
Bastard.
Hadn't she done everything he'd asked? She was stuffed into a dainty little suit with tricking pearls at her throat She wore sensible, no-heel pumps and her hair was pulled back into her mother's boring little bun. She'd cut her nails, thrown out most of her makeup, packed her bags, and agreed to put her life on the line without so much as a whimper. Why couldn't he pat her on the head and tell her what a champ she was?

Because he's a cop, stupid. And they're not human.

Deliberately, she poured the vodka into her glass and brandished the empty bottle at the passing stewardess. "Another please." She smiled at Finn, raising her glass in a toast. She had no intention of touching the second drink and was carefully sipping the first, but if she was going to be condemned as a bad girl, she might as well let him think she was the baddest girl around. 'To the grand and glorious U.S. of A."

Finn's eyes narrowed. "Keep this up and you'll blow whatever shot you get at Borian."

"Borian is my job, not yours. You don't have the right equipment, remember?" She smoothed down the front of her suit, watching the subtle change that came into his eyes whenever she reminded him she was a woman. The change that said,
Iwant you.
She smiled to herself, feeling her power over him. "But just so you don't have a stroke, I'll be happy to review the plan with you."

He grunted in reply, which she supposed in his vocabulary meant "continue."

In a voice pitched for Finn's ears alone, she said, "I am Angelina Montgomery, a young but well-connected widow, interested in land-use issues. On an invitation from my dear friend, the governor, I'm taking my hot little fanny to the wilds of Montana, where Mr. Victor Bo-rian resides, to study Montana's efforts in promoting development while preserving the land." She glanced over at Finn's cold, dark face. "How'm I doing, coach?"

He didn't reply, and a small swell of satisfaction rolled over her. God, she loved goading him.

"Tomorrow is Friday. Every Friday, Victor Borian comes into town to do business. He eats at the same restaurant, where I will happily float by like the ghost I'm supposed to be. This Friday night, he attends the Governor's Ball. I will be conveniently seated at his table. I meet him, and by the power vested in me as a dead ringer for his dearly departed wife, I lasso him, reel him in, and as we used to say in Ruby, Texas, hog-tie Mm 'til the rope burns. Oh, and don't forget, let him poke me if he wants."

"That's enough." Finn grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "You may not take this seriously, but I guarantee Borian will. He's interested in two things: money and power. And don't think for a minute he won't crush you in order to protect them."

For half a minute, she saw genuine concern in his eyes. The sight startled her.

"Afraid of losing me, Sharkman?"

His eyes iced over. "I'm not going to let your adolescent self-destractiveness put this operation in danger."

"Oh."

Don't be stupid, party girl. J. Edgar Hoover Jr. here doesn't give a damn about you.

Finn released her and slumped against his seat. He was sweating again. Christ, he was always sweating when he was around her. The last thirty-six hours had been sheer torture. In spite of everything he knew about her, his fingers still itched to touch her, feel the soft expanse of curve and skin. Every time he thought about Victor Borian getting near her, he wanted to punch something.

And she knew it, damn her.

Now he not only had to worry about stifling his response to her, he had to worry about stifling her recklessness. He was responsible for the case, which meant he was responsible for her. Somehow he had to keep her safe, even when everything indicated she dittn't want to be safe.

If she didn't give a damn, why the hell should he?

Because she'll endanger the mission.

Yeah, right.

He heard Roper's voice inside his head.
Try being nice to her instead of your usual charming self.

Being nice meant caring. And he'd already served his time in that army.

* * *

They flew into Helena a little after seven. As the plane approached the city, Angelina could see it laid out in a broad valley between mountains and deep rolling hills. Trapped between two weighty forces, just as she was.

They secured their luggage and caught a cab to the hotel. Ensconced in the backseat, she tried not to think about tomorrow, when she would see Victor Borian and set their scheme in motion. An electric tingle of excitement nested in her chest, as though she were on the verge of stepping off a cliff into either the greatest adventure of her life or certain death. Half of her wanted to take that step, and the other half was terrified. Exhausted by the struggle, and from fencing with Finn, she couldn't wait to arrive at the hotel, shed her government escort, and soak in a tub for hours.

In keeping with her status as a wealthy widow, the TCF had arranged for them to stay in the priciest suite at the Colonial Hotel. Not without a little fuss, of course, because it was expensive, but Borian always stayed in the best when traveling, and Finn thought Angelina should do the same.

When they got to the room, she couldn't help but be glad. The hotel was no Trump Tower-Helena had no high-rise accommodations-but the VIP suite at the Colonial was spaciously designed with a living area, dining area, wet bar, a large bedroom with private bath, and an adjoining bedroom. Plenty of room so they wouldn't knock into each other. Finn poked his head into both of the bedrooms, then nodded toward the one attached to the suite.

"You take the room in here," he said. "I'll take the adjoining bedroom, but keep the door between unlocked. I'm going downstairs to scout the place, maybe map out an escape route in case we need one."

Fine.
The less she saw of Special Agent Carver the better. She went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water for the bath, desperate to get out of the stifling suit and into something more comfortable. Stripping out of her clothes, she sank into the tubful of water and let the warmth soak away her lingering resentment She knew she was bad news, but would it kill Finn Carver to like her just a little?

She didn't know how long she spent in the tub, but Finn must have been doing a whale of a job because she hadn't heard him come back in all that time. When the water had saturated her muscles and melted into her bones, she climbed out and reached for the towel. Slowly, she dried off, realizing she didn't have clothes to change into; they'd left their luggage downstairs for the bellhop to bring up. Holding the towel against her, she opened the door and peeked out to see if the suitcases had arrived.

"Sharkmanr

No answer. He must still be in the lobby. Or wherever the hell TCF agents go to "scout" things.

She found the luggage in the living room, and was hunting through a suitcase for a pair of leggings, when the latch clicked and the door swung open. Whipping around, she clutched the towel tighter,around herself as Finn came in.