Yours in Black Lace (16 page)

She felt a warm glow spread through her body. Her lashes fluttered down to hide the effect his support had on her. She couldn’t show her feelings in front of the men, but, inside, her heart swelled with elation. Despite the screwup on the beach and the way she’d left Little Havana, Emelio trusted her.

He trusted her.

Special Agent Solis reluctantly agreed to the idea. “All right, Ms. Madison. You’ve got your shot.”

Emelio looked at her and in his eyes she saw that he understood all the things she couldn’t say. The corners of his wide mouth tipped into a slight smile. “So, just how are you planning to get into this invitation-only, white-tie party?”

Excitement bubbled along her nerves and Stevie grinned mischievously. “I’m going to walk right through the front door.”

One problem had been eliminated and the other was about to be delivered to him like a saint’s day gift. This Stevie Madison thought, correctly, that Weston was soft, and that he would pay for her silence. But Braga had something else in mind for Sanchez’s woman.

Although Weston insisted that she had to be working alone because Sanchez always operated inside of the law, Braga knew otherwise. He might not break a law, but Sanchez had no compunction about bending the rules. After forcing Carolína into his bed, he’d terrorized her, promising to send her to jail as an accessory or deport her if she didn’t betray her family.

Braga closed his eyes against the pain brought on by memory. Carolína, his sweet lovely Carolína… Tonight, he would set another trap, using the Madison woman as bait to lure Sanchez out of hiding.

And this time, Braga would make sure there was no escape.

A twinge of apprehension danced along her spine. She was about to con her way into “the” social event of the Miami season. She’d been given the chance to do real undercover work and she wanted to prove she was equal to the task. She wanted to make Emelio proud.

Emelio.

She pictured him sitting in the hotel manager’s office, listening to the sound of her breathing through the hidden microphones in the earrings she’d bought at High-Tech Hardware. He was counting on her and she couldn’t let him down. She ignored the twinge of uncertainty that tried to surface. She could do this.

The registrar was still waiting for her reply. He eyed her expectantly from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She gave him a haughty look in return, tilting her head just enough to peer down her nose at his receding hairline.

“I don’t have my invitation.”

“In that case, I’m afraid—”

“I am, however, on the guest list.” She leaned one hand on the desk and thrust her chest out, drawing his attention to the revealing neckline of her gown.

His puppy-brown eyes gave her cleavage an appreciative glance before he pasted on a politely dismissive expression. “Without an invitation, ma’am—”

“Check the guest list for Bill and Sigourney Madison. My husband wasn’t able to attend at the last minute.”

The registrar still looked skeptical, so she tried her mother’s infamous “servant stare.” It worked every time, especially on Stevie. She shoved the thought aside and said a prayer for her gamble. Every year, her parents paid a thousand dollars per ticket, whether they actually attended or not. She just hoped that this time they’d taken the tax write-off and stayed in New Orleans.

She heard Emelio’s voice through the subvocal transceiver in her ear. “If there’s a problem, walk away. Don’t call any more attention to yourself. We’ll find another way to get you inside.”

There was no better way. She’d planned it out carefully and he would just have to give her more time. While the registrar ran a long, bony finger along the master list, she turned to the couple behind her. She didn’t have to fake her annoyance when she spoke.

“Really, I must say something to Garnett Easley about this. It’s a charity ball, for God’s sake, not a summit meeting.”

The patrician couple didn’t reply, apparently not wanting to waste their breath on someone who was about to get thrown out of the White Orchid Affair on her Armani clad butt.

The anxiety returned. Even when she’d been part of this kind of crowd, she’d never belonged, never fit in. The uncomfortable reminder of her past made her long for a chilled chardonnay… She swallowed hard, dismayed by how easily she’d fallen toward her old crutch.

Stevie clenched her fingers a little tighter around her handbag. She had a job to do and a career to jump-start. If she was going to play, she might as well play it over the top. “Oh, look, there’s Kryssie and Og. I didn’t realize they were an item again after— Well, after what happened.”

The couple shifted their attention from Her Royal Highness Maria Krystina of Greece and Baron Ogden von Erklentz back to Stevie with renewed interest. Her mother’s addiction to society gossip paid off. After all, everybody who was anybody knew what had happened.

The registrar cleared his throat contritely. “My apologies, Mrs. Madison. Of course you’re on the guest list. Please enjoy your evening.”

“Good work, Jayne. You did it.” Emelio’s tone was somehow intimate, even though the whole SOD team was listening. The sound of his lightly accented voice sent warm ripples of pleasure along her nerves, calming her.

Pzzzt. Shhhh. His words were followed by a burst of static and Stevie tried not to wince. She brushed her hair forward on the right side and nodded regally, both acknowledging the registrar’s apology and making sure the earpiece remained hidden. Then she strode along the corridor toward the entrance to the Grand Ballroom.

Beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, tables set with white linen, polished silver and glowing candelabra had been arranged along the gilded silk walls. A cool Atlantic breeze drifted in through the open doors, gently rustling the pure white butterfly orchids and Casablanca lilies in their towering vases.

The murmur and hum of countless conversations echoed off the peach marble floor, almost drowning out the music. This year the theme of the ball was Winterfest in Petrograd. The concerto orchestra smoothly segued from Tchaikovsky to a lovely piece by Rachmaninoff.

Pausing just inside the doorway, Stevie discreetly opened her evening bag to once again check the contents. Keys and lipstick. Compact mirror with miniature digital camera. Tiny transmitter pack disguised as a cigarette case. Cell phone and ballpoint penshaped voice recorder.

The name is Bond. Jayne Bond.

She snapped her bag shut and threw her shoulders back, head held high as she began to casually weave her way through the gathering as if she owned the place. She traded smiles and nods with guests as she passed, stopping occasionally to make inane conversation. Then she moved on as quickly as possible, searching for Weston.

“Try the foie gras, Mrs. Madison.”

A sandy-haired waiter approached her with a half-empty tray of hors d’oeuvres and some bad news. Jason leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Emelio wanted you to know there’s a problem with the transmitter, but don’t worry. We’ll get it fixed.”

“That’s just great. Tell him I have a backup in my purse, but it’s going to be muffled,” she whispered. Aloud she said, “I’ll pass on the duck liver, thanks.”

The “waiter” nodded before offering the tray among the nearby guests. A moment later, Jason was swallowed by the crowd and Stevie felt a twinge of unease over how quickly she’d lost sight of him. She wished Emelio were here with her and not just in her head. Knowing he was somewhere in the room would have been a comfort.

She circulated some more, her eyes roaming from face to face, listening to snippets of conversation as she walked by. Just then, she spotted Jack Weston on the dance floor with the wife of the Spanish ambassador. All of her doubts vanished in the space of a breath.

She hoped the earrings’ transmitter was working again and that the team could hear her. “I’ve got him. I have the target in sight.”

Like a heat-guided missile, Stevie cut a path through the crowd until she reached his side. Pasting a smile on lips suddenly gone cold, she tapped Señora Maravilla de Guzman on the shoulder. The couple stopped dancing and turned inquiring looks her way.

Stevie dipped her head in greeting to Mrs. Guzman before sliding her gaze to Weston. “Jack. How nice to see you again.”

His pale eyes conveyed recognition before he plastered a politician’s vague but friendly welcome onto his features. “Have we met? I can’t believe I’d forget a face as pretty as yours.”

She smiled brightly. “Still playing games, huh? Excuse us, señora. I’m cutting in.”

After thanking Mrs. Guzman for the dance, he held out his arms to Stevie. She hoped he didn’t notice her hesitation before taking his hand and letting him lead her in a waltz.

“So, Jack. You wanted to discuss my retirement fund?”

He sidestepped her question, instead nodding generally at the crowd. “Good turnout tonight. Are you having a nice time?”

“Marvelous.” She angled her head and fluttered her lashes at him. “Weren’t you going to convince me not to call a press conference?”

Weston finally looked at her, his eyes narrowed in derision. “Where should I direct my answer? I’m sure you want the best possible voice recording.”

Stevie glanced down at the bodice of her formfitting dress, secure in the knowledge that the microphone was actually part of her left earring. “You want to frisk me?”

A flash of sexual interest brought warmth to his pale eyes and she felt him relax a little. “I didn’t get the money. Your little story is nothing but opportunistic slander and I’m not paying.”

“Oh, you’re going to pay, Jack. Much more than you realize. You’ll lose everything.”

Weston swallowed hard and glanced around. “The dance is over, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“What if I won’t?” Stevie tightened her grip on his sweaty hand. As the orchestra struck up the next piece, she bared her teeth in a predatory smile. “Try to look romantic, Jack. Let’s give the folks something to talk about.”

She shifted closer, pretending to nuzzle his neck. When he startled and tried to back away, she simply moved in for the kill. She let her voice slide into a cool, condescending tone as she whispered in his ear.

“I think you’ll want to see the videotape I have. It’s only a copy, of course, but the picture and sound quality are excellent. Guess you didn’t realize the Stocktons had hidden security cameras.”

Weston made a choking sound and his skin took on an ugly flush before all color drained from his cheeks. She had him dead to rights and he knew it. His eyes darted around the ballroom again to see who might be watching.

“Why don’t we step out on the terrace where this conversation won’t be overheard?” There was a quaver in his voice and his attempt at a smile failed miserably.

She took the arm that he gallantly offered in order to keep up the pretense. Her eyes casually scanned the faces in the crowd, trying to catch sight of one of the “waiters,” but she couldn’t locate anyone from the agency in the sea of bodies.

Where the hell was the rest of the team?

He closed his eyes, imagining Stevie as she talked her way past the registration desk. She looked extraordinarily beautiful tonight, with smoky shadow elongating her beautiful eyes, her short hair curled into golden waves. The white gown she wore skimmed her body like water, shimmering softly as she moved.

Pale pink lipstick emphasized the fullness of her lower lip, turning her normal pout into a lush invitation he hadn’t been able to resist. He could still taste the intensity of her kiss. Once they wrapped up this case, he planned to take her away somewhere and discover exactly what she’d written in black-lace letter number nine.

He chuckled under his breath while Stevie talked about somebody named “Og.” Her spiel was brash, confident, however he detected an undercurrent of hesitation. Though she worked hard to hide it, her voice had an almost fragile quality that made him wish he could be there beside her.

But he knew how strong she was, both physically and emotionally. Even after all she’d been through, all she’d survived, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor or her grace. He also knew how determined she was, how much she needed to have control over her life.

Braga would be the last in a long line of people who’d threatened her independence and identity. The rest of the team was hell-bent on taking Braga down, but Stevie just wanted to make sure she never had to run or be afraid again.

“Of course you’re on the guest list. Please enjoy your evening.”

Emelio’s shoulders sagged in relief when he heard the registrar’s words. He grinned with pride as he softly congratulated her. “Good work, Jayne. You did it.” Just then static burst over the headset, followed by intermittent sound and silence.

“Uh, I think maybe we lost a couple of units.”

He scowled over at Elliott since he was stating the obvious, then reached out to flip on the microphone. “Double O Team, this is Team Leader. Sound check.”

Alex hovered over his shoulder. “Switch to the other preset channel.”

“Double O Team, can you hear me?”

“Double O Five. Yeah, Leader. I hear you,” Jason replied. Rick and Dave Heintz checked in, as well, but neither Stevie nor the other three agents answered.

Emelio kept his tone coolly professional, but his pulse quickened as worry crept along his nerves. “What’s the status on 007?”

“Double O Eight, here. I lost track of her.”

“Double O Six. I don’t see her, either.”

Emelio wavered between irritation and concern until Jason spoke quietly over the headset. “Double O Five. I’ve got her.”

What the hell was wrong with her transmitter? He wouldn’t be at peace until she was safely back upstairs. “Acknowledged. Let her know there’s a problem. Double O Team, maintain visual.”

“Double O Eight. Will do, Team Leader, but it’s a zoo in here. I’ve got to fetch another tray of hors d’oeuvres.”

Mierda.
He dropped his head into his palms. “Get the damned food and get back in the game.”

Alex clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Stevie’s okay, hombre. She’s in a ballroom full of people. Relax.”

Frustrated, he turned to offer a rude suggestion that made his partner laugh. Alex propped a hip on the edge of the desk and gave him a sympathetic look. “So, it’s that serious, huh?”

Emelio leaned back in the upholstered desk chair and sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t even see it coming.”

“That’s the way it happens, my friend.”

His mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “I didn’t want it to happen, you know. I thought I could keep it physical. But there’s something about her, something special.”

“She’s the one?”

Emelio pictured her face softly lit by the radiance of dawn, stubbornly determined during an argument, lost in pleasure as they made love. He thought about her passion and her sassiness, her temper and her vulnerability. Stevie was good for him. He needed her. “Yeah, she’s the one.”

Target in sight… Jack. How nice to…

“She’s got him!” He jolted when he heard the snippets of conversation and background noise come through the headphones.

Emelio activated the microphone again. “Double O Team, move in. Now. Don’t let that bastard out of sight.”

There was no answer. None at all. He flipped levers and turned dials to no avail. All he heard was more static and his own voice cursing in Spanish. Leaning down, he yelled at the radio tech scuttling over his feet beneath the desk.

“Get it in gear, Elliott! I want this thing up and running as of five minutes ago.” He shot to his feet, shoving the chair against the wall as he stripped off the headset and tossed it at Alex.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Ball. Cinderella’s in trouble.”

Alex pitched the headset back to him. “No way, Em. We can’t risk it. If Weston sees you now, he’ll know for sure he was set up. Let her do her job.”

Emelio thought of Stevie, taking on Weston by herself, and cursed some more.