Nanny (20 page)

She sank down on the bed, trying to shake the travel from her mind. Where was Gabe? She needed to see the maps of the clinic and review their cover before . . .

Weariness struck her in a wave, but she forced it down with sheer willpower. The sheriff was right, she needed to clean up, and the idea of food sounded wonderful. She closed her eyes, rubbing the knot of tension at her neck, wondering yet again where Gabe was.

Something hit the bed beside her. Summer sat up sharply, staring at a pair of red boots and an ornate red belt with silver buckles. An exquisite lace blouse and long silk skirt flashed through the air and covered her lap.

Not exactly FBI-approved dress style.

She looked up, raising one eyebrow. “Am I missing something here?”

“New clothes.” Gabe filled the doorway, a long unbroken line of black. “Bathroom's in there. Let's see if I pegged you about right.”

chapter
23

G
abe's first thought was that she looked exhausted. His second thought was that she'd never admit it in a thousand years. Even if she did, the painful truth was that they didn't have time to rest, because they had to be in Mexico that night.

“While you change, I'll go over the schedule.”

Summer looked uncertainly at the expensive cowboy boots on the bed. “You didn't tell me my cover included experience as a rodeo rider.”

“Very funny. We'll pick up a few more things tomorrow in the hotel. Meanwhile, these will get you into character.” Gabe handed her the skirt and belt. “We're Mr. and Mrs. Walker and we just got back to the States after four years in Asia, where I built heavy industrial sites for a Texas oil company and you—”

Summer stuck her head out of the bathroom “—danced in country and western bars?”

“Where you ran a small but highly profitable interior design company. Your work included corporate living quarters as well as private beach homes for the diplomatic community.”

“I'm impressed.”

“You should be.” Gabe heard clothing rustle.

“Except I couldn't tell you the difference between Palladian furniture and Neoclassical even if you had a hunting knife at my throat.”

Gabe purposely looked away as fabric swished with a sexy whisper. “Hence the cram course.” He opened the file that Izzy had handed him at the airport. “All you have to do is memorize a few key themes. If anyone asks you a question, tell them you suppose that some people may disagree, but you've always thought the Spanish Colonial Revival is the most livable aesthetic.”

Summer stuck out her head. “Huh?”

“Repeat after me.” Gabe ran through it again, while Summer dutifully followed suit. “Good. You hate pointless ostentation, but you strongly support a period attention to detail. Your turn.”

Inside the bathroom, silk rustled, and Summer repeated the words mechanically.

“You are also a firm believer in proper proportion and Old World craftsmanship.”

As Summer repeated the line, she pushed open the door.

Gabe swallowed, pretty sure that someone had pulled half the air out of his body. The skirt clung to those long legs, peeking over sexy boots, while the silk blouse hugged high, perfect breasts.

“I don't like silk,” Summer snapped, fiddling with the back of her blouse. “And this stupid thing buttons all wrong. How am I supposed to—”

“I'll do it.” Gabe walked behind Summer, who was glaring into a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the closet door. “And you don't look like an idiot.”

“Easy for you to say. You're not wearing a skirt that may rip if you sit down crooked and a blouse that shows every God-given detail.”

And those God-given details were amazing, Gabe thought. “You look good in Western clothes, so stop fidgeting.” He smoothed the blouse, nudging the first button closed. “You're perfectly dressed, Mrs. Walker. The general idea is for you to look expensive and feminine, and you do.”

Summer glared at her image in the mirror. “Feminine? I look ridiculous. I've never worn a silk blouse like this in my life.”

Gabe's fingers brushed her warm skin. “Maybe you should start. With your dark hair, this blouse is a knockout.” He realized his hands were tracing small circles on her back, and cleared his throat. “Even if it is a little tight.”

“A little? If I take a real breath, every button will go flying.”

Gabe frowned, realizing she was right. “I must have gotten a size too small. How about we leave a few buttons open until we reach the airplane, and tomorrow we'll get you something more comfortable. Not that I don't like how you look in this.”

She stood frozen, staring at him in the mirror while his hands rose slowly along her back, opening on her shoulders. They stood body to body in the twilight, her hair stirred by a warm wind from the nearby window.

“Gabe?” Her voice was low and uncertain.

“Yeah.” He touched one dark strand, uneven where he'd chopped it free of the cactus. Hell, she should have looked awkward and ugly, but somehow the uneven cut only made her look innocent and unforgettable.

“Gabe.” This time there was a hushed certainty in her voice.

“Hell,” he said, not sure why he did it—and then not caring as his lips brushed hers, even though he knew it was unprofessional.

But her mouth was full and soft, warm as if it held the last of the day's heat, and when he turned her in his arms, she made a small sound that could have been his name. Then she moved in against him, soft as sunlight.

His senses filled with her. He closed his eyes on a curse and drew her closer, nudging her mouth open with his lips until she shivered and her hands slid around his waist, the pressure of her body making his brain fog up.

He'd always enjoyed kissing, and Gabe fell into the sensations now, holding her still for a long, intimate exploration that left them both unsteady.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring over his shoulder, looking confused and flushed and a little stunned. She tried to speak, then drew a raw breath. “What was that about?”

“Hell if I know.” With a surge of possessiveness that shocked him, Gabe drew her back into his arms and ran his hands slowly down the perfect line of her back until they settled against her hips.

Desire hit him, sharp and sudden. It was the same feeling he'd felt too many times to count, except something was different about it this time.

Damned if he could figure out what.

Summer took a jerky step backward. “That was—” She waved a hand. “Something.” She took another breath. “I'm still trying to find the right word.”

“You and me both, honey.” Gabe wanted to stay here all night, tasting the smooth skin of her mouth, listening to the breathless little sounds she made when he bit her bottom lip gently and pulled off her blouse.

Hell.

They had work to do.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I must be losing my mind.” Angry at the lust he was feeling, Gabe released her and grabbed the file he hadn't remembered dropping. “Let's get on with the job and go over these notes like nothing happened.”

Summer ran her fingers slowly along her arms. “
Did
something happen?”

“No. Yes.” Gabe jabbed a hand through his hair, muttering. “Damn it—
no.
” He opened the file and slapped it down on his lap. “We're working together, watching each other's back. It's not a normal situation and—that means control can slip.” He nodded, pleased with his cool, sensible explanation. “It's nothing we can't handle. We're smart and we're strong, which means the curiosity is over now. Back to work.” Confident, he checked Izzy's careful notes, tracking the next part of their wholly fictional biography. “Proper proportion,” he muttered. “Old World craftsmanship. Your favorite building is St. Peter's in Rome,” he said. “And your favorite painter is Delacroix, because he—”

He looked up and every sane thought flew out of his mind. Summer was frowning as she yanked at the fine silk, trying to free her arms while she clutched the blouse to her chest. He coughed hard. “Did I miss something?”

“I'm taking this
stupid
thing off. The buttons are just about to pop.” One arm came free. “Being partially naked isn't a good way for me to start our visit.” Summer pulled her other arm free. “I'll wear my own white shirt.”

“It makes you look like a banker—or an FBI agent,” Gabe said hoarsely. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it to her. “Put this on and I'll see if Sheriff McCall's wife has something that will fit you.”

“You want me to borrow clothes from a complete stranger?” Summer pulled Gabe's jacket up, her arms stabbing up and down beneath the leather. A moment later her blouse drifted to the floor.

“Thank God, that's done. I couldn't even breathe.”

His jacket opened, and Gabe saw the pink swell of one nipple beneath her sheer bra.

He felt the air leaving his body again. “Could you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“Moving around. Making me nuts.”

“Am I making you nuts?”

“Close enough.”

She pulled Gabe's leather jacket closed. “Then finish it.”

The air was leaving the room again, and his pulse was annoyingly loud. “Finish what?”

“The biography. The one you're crushing in your hands.”

Gabe rubbed his neck, trying to make sense of what he'd been reading before Summer had pulled off the lace blouse. “You like Delacroix because of his vibrant colors and sheer emotion. Got all that?”

Summer rattled off the details flawlessly, which impressed the heck out of Gabe, because he could barely talk. “Okay,” he went on resolutely. “Now for tonight. After registering in the hotel as Duke and Marie Walker, we'll stroll a bit and make ourselves visible in the lobby. Holding hands will be expected, as will a few overt signs of affection.”

Summer stopped struggling under the jacket. “How overt?”

“Whispered comments. Knowing laughter and a few hot kisses. We're supposed to be madly in love, desperate to conceive a child, remember?”

Summer gnawed ruthlessly at her lip. “Fine.”

“So who's your favorite painter?”

“Delacroix.” When Summer handed Gabe his jacket, her old blouse was back on. “After that comes St. Peter's in Rome. And proper proportion. And Spanish Colonial Revival.”

“Clearly, you were one of those all-A front-row students I hated in high school.” Gabe's smile faded as he took out a stack of photos. “These are shots of the clinic and the offices.”

“Who's our informant, one of the doctors?” Summer mused. “A disgruntled nurse?”

“A researcher who's been with the clinic for six years.”

“Can we trust him?”

“We don't know yet. But even if he bails out, we can still pump the staff.”

“Not as useful as a trustworthy contact on the inside.” Summer held up the photo of a slender man with wire-rim glasses.

“That's our man, Terence Underhill.”

Summer thumbed through three other photos of the clinic grounds, stacked them neatly, and handed them back to Gabe.

“Don't tell me,” he said irritably. “On top of everything else, you've got a photographic memory.”

“You've been watching too many movies. There is no infallible ability to process visual information. Mostly, you need reference points. With faces, you look for the details that can't be changed, like eyelid shape. Space between lip and nose. General jaw outline. Just about everything else can be distorted, colored, or reshaped.”

“Something tells me you've seen through a few disguises.”

“Enough.” She turned away, frowning. “The one that really mattered was the one my partner didn't bother to check for.”

“That wasn't your fault,” Gabe said quietly.

“No? Maybe I could have argued a little harder, insisted a little longer. I didn't put up much of a fuss when Riley hit the bushes without checking out the garage first.”

“You can't go back.”

“I let things slip once—I told myself it was fine to bend the rules, that nothing would go wrong.” She stared at Gabe, her eyes filled with regret. “I won't make that mistake again.”

Gabe started to argue, but she raised her hand. “A man died because I should have made him go by the book, Gabe. End of story.” She shook her head once. “So I'm going to second-guess every single thing you tell me and everything anyone else tells me, too.

“When do we meet Terence Underhill?”

“Our contact is working on the details right now. I'll tell you more as soon as I know for sure.”

There was a light tap at the door. “Dinner's ready, folks.”

“Coming right out.” Gabe held out one arm. “Ready, Mrs. Walker?”

“Just as long as I don't have to call you Duke,” Summer said dryly.

 

After two servings of grilled salmon with anchiote peppers and corn salsa, T.J. McCall's wife, Tess, appeared with a tray of chocolate desserts that left Summer groaning. Sipping strong coffee out on the porch was a strange experience, the air heady with sage and mesquite smoke that seemed to catch in the long hollows of dry arroyos.

When it was time to leave, Summer felt a pang of regret. The sheriff and his wife had been affable hosts, asking no questions, and Tess had loaned Summer a soft blouse to replace the damaged one.

Again with no questions asked.

“Mrs. Walker?”

Standing in the small airport, Summer stiffened, realizing her fictitious name had been called. A smiling staff member directed her to the plane, where Gabe met her a few moments later, after a final conversation with the sheriff. Then the doors were locked and the engines throbbed and they droned down the runway.

Summer turned to study Gabe's face in the dim cabin lights.

His hand was open on his knee, rubbing idly, and though his face held no expression, Summer sensed he was in pain. Something to do with his knee, she guessed. How had she been so preoccupied that she hadn't seen it before?

There in the snug, humming darkness, she caught a sense of secrets, closely held things that skated just below the surface of this man she hardly knew. Not that his secrets held any importance for her. She
was
the job, that was the pure, absolute truth. She could play at being a loving wife all day, but at night, back in the privacy of their room, all warmth and affection would fade until they turned away from each other, strangers once more.

The thought left Summer with a sense of emptiness. Or it would have, if she allowed herself to dwell on what might have been.

But habit had its uses, and habit kept her to the work at hand, whispering that it was better to be cool and unattached. Without distance, people started to matter—and for Summer, the people who mattered always went away and didn't come back.