Undercover Man Read online

  She stopped just outside the director's office and drew in a deep breath. Feeling the effects of that breath on the slippery halter, she hastily let it out. If this little number didn't get a reaction from the iron-spined Adam Ridge­way, she thought with an inner grin, nothing would.

  It did.

  With a dart of sheer feline satisfaction, Maggie saw his blue eyes narrow sharply as they swept her from the tip of her silver-blond head to the toe of her thousand-dollar-a-pair ostrich boots, lingering for long, heart-stopping moments on parts in between. When his gaze worked its way back to her face, it held a combination of blatant masculine appreciation and an almost reluctant ap­proval.

  Feeling unaccountably pleased with herself, Maggie sauntered into his spacious office and took her favorite perch, on the corner of the huge conference table.

  The two men who waited while she made herself com­fortable couldn't have been more different. Tall, dark, and leanly handsome, Adam exuded an aura of unshak­able authority and sophistication that only a moneyed background and a Harvard education could produce. Most Washington insiders thought he'd been appointed to the juicy sinecure of special envoy because of his hefty campaign contributions and first-name familiarity with the man who now occupied the Oval Office. Few knew that, in addition to his largely ceremonial duties as spe­cial envoy, Adam Ridgeway also directed a dozen or so highly trained OMEGA agents.

  The operative who stood beside him was one of the most skilled in the agency, although few would have guessed it to look at him. If Maggie had been forced to come up with one word to describe David Jensen, it would have been solid. Brown-haired, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, he had honed his muscular body to tempered steel through rigorous self-discipline and reg­ular exercise. He moved, spoke and thought with the precision of an engineer, which he was. His code name, Einstein, referred to his reputation in his civilian life as a world-renowned expert in electronics, although the OMEGA agents had shortened that to Doc.

  Doc had been recruited into OMEGA from the navy, where he'd been their foremost demolition expert. He'd pulled a number of combat tours, and could detonate explosives underwater, on land or in the air. Maggie sin­cerely hoped he wouldn't have to use his expertise on this particular mission.

  His smoky gray blue eyes now looked her up and down with careful precision. Maggie hid a smile, knowing that Doc was cataloging her appearance in minute detail and filing it away for future reference. When they met again in Cannes tomorrow afternoon, he would know if she'd altered so much as...

  Well, there wasn't much she could alter about the two pieces of clothing she wore. "Nice," he told her with an approving smile. "How nice?"

  Doc's brows rose at the husky, sensual purr. "Very nice. Did you pick that accent up from Meredith Ames?"

  Maggie nodded. With her extensive training in lin­guistics, duplicating Meredith's distinctive southern-California accent had been a piece of cake.

  "Miss Ames was very cooperative," she confirmed. "In fact, she was so frightened, she spilled her guts—lit­erally and figuratively—as soon as I got her alone. You must have scared her half to death at the airport."

  "I had her under surveillance from the time she left L.A.," Doc said with a small frown. "She was scared before I approached her."

  "With good reason," Adam put in dryly. "She faces espionage charges for trying to smuggle technology that's still highly classified. What's more, the last courier sus­pected of carrying information like this was found dead in a Cannes hotel room, of a supposedly accidental drug overdose."

  Maggie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, taking in Adam's cool air. Although he rarely displayed any emotion, she knew that even the unshakable Adam Ridgeway had to have his breaking point. One of these days, she sincerely hoped, she'd find it.

  "Supposedly?" she asked, watching his face as he tapped a gold fountain pen against his desk blotter.

  "Supposedly. There's no proof her death wasn't acci­dental, but she was transporting a prototype of the same technology you're now carrying." Adam's blue eyes skimmed her face, their expression unreadable. "A lot of people would go to any lengths to get their hands on that microdot. Be careful."

  "I will, Chief."

  "Have you memorized the list of potential buyers I put together?" Doc asked quietly.

  Maggie smothered a grin. Doc's lists were famous around OMEGA. In his quicksilver but methodical way, he could pull together seemingly random facts and scraps of information, analyze them, and draw parallels others had missed. He also made lists of his lists, and occasion­ally cross-indexed them. People like Maggie, who tended to operate more on instinct, could only watch him in awe.

  "I've memorized the list of buyers," she assured him. "And the list of possible middlemen. And the long list of ramifications to international command-and-control systems if this technology is compromised. I've got so many lists floating around in my head, it's a wonder there's any room for anything else under this fluff of—" She brushed a hand through the wispy tendrils. "This fluff of white."

  "Silver," Adam said.

  "Platinum," David amended in his precise way, then his handsome face softened into a crooked smile. "It happens to be one of my favorite shades. It's very simi­lar to my fiancée’s, although perhaps hers has a few more gold tints."

  "Really?" Maggie tilted her head in surprise.

  Although David had been engaged for almost a year now, he kept his civilian life and his undercover activi­ties so separate, so compartmentalized, that none of the close-knit OMEGA cadre had ever met him outside the environment of a mission. And no one had even glimpsed so much as a photo of his longtime fiancée.

  "Really," Doc replied.

  Maggie tapped an ostrich boot impatiently. When no more details were forthcoming, she shook her head in exasperation.

  ''Just when are we going to meet this elusive fiancée of yours, Doc? You could introduce us without blowing your ties to OMEGA. A few of us have socially accepta­ble covers in our civilian lives, you know."

  The tanned skin at the corners of his eyes creased. "You wouldn't think so, to look at you now. But I was hoping I could convince you to stay an extra day or two in Cannes after this mission," he added, reaching for his trench coat. "To act as a witness. I've already cleared it with Adam."

  "Witness?"

  "At the marriage ceremony."

  "Wait a minute!" Maggie yelped. "You're getting married? In Cannes?"

  "If we complete this mission within acceptable time parameters. If not, I'll have to reschedule the ceremony for after our return." He picked up his briefcase and turned to Adam. "I'll leave this list of contacts with Elizabeth and—"

  "Doc!" Maggie jumped off the edge of the confer­ence table, remembering just in time to keep her shoul­ders back and the halter snug against her chest. "For Pete's sake! You can't just announce you're getting mar­ried and leave me hanging like that."

  "Like what?"

  "How on earth can you plan a wedding when you're about to leave for a mission?"

  He stared at her in genuine puzzlement. "The two are hardly incompatible. I've built enough flexibility into the agenda to allow for unforeseen circumstances. My fiancée understands that the 'symposium' I'm attending may extend indefinitely. Assuming I don't pack it in on this mission," he added with a small shrug, "she'll fly to France when I call her."

  "I should have known," Maggie groaned. "I'll bet she has a detailed timetable sitting on the kitchen table."

  His lips curved. "On the nightstand, actually. I've laid out her agenda from the hour she leaves L.A. to the minute she arrives in Cannes."

  Maggie couldn't help wondering what kind of woman would live her life to one of Doc's precise schedules. "I'm looking forward to meeting her," she said honestly.

  "You'll like her. She doesn't have your confidence and exuberance, perhaps, and she's a little timid at times, but she's... she's..."

  Maggie waited in surprised anticipation. If the articu­late, precise Doc
had to fumble for an adjective to de­scribe this woman, he must have it bad. A tiny pang of envy curled through her. Carefully she avoided looking at Adam.

  "She's sweet," Doc finished.

  With a final nod to Adam, he picked up his trench coat and folded it over his arm. His eyes held a gleam that only two people who have shared dangerous, desperate hours could understand.

  "See you on the Riviera, Chameleon."

  "See you, Doc."

  Maggie's soft sigh floated on the air for a moment af­ter Doc left to catch his plane. She turned to find Adam's inquiring gaze on her.

  "I wish I could manage my life as well as Doc does," she said with a small shrug. "I have enough trouble just working in the care and feeding of one small house pet, let alone a fiancée or even a significant other."

  "Perhaps if you got rid of that repulsive reptile you call a pet," Adam suggested dryly, "you might find it easier to acquire a fiancée or a significant other."

  Maggie refused to rise to the bait. She and Adam had agreed to disagree about the relative merits of a large iguana as a companion.

  "Something tells me I won't have too much trouble 'acquiring' male companionship in this little outfit," she responded, with a seductive toss of her shining white gold hair.

  To her absolute delight, Adam's jaw squared a frac­tion. Maggie couldn't have pinpointed exactly when ruf­fling his formidable equilibrium had become such a personal challenge to her. In the three years they'd worked together, he'd never given any indication of any­thing other than a professional interest in her well-being. And she would've died before admitting how much the media shots of the dashing special envoy out for an eve­ning on the town with any one of his several elegant and very eligible companions disturbed her.

  Yet there was no denying the intensity of the aware­ness that arced between them. Or the way her heart seemed to flip-flop in her chest whenever they were alone together. Or how much it secretly delighted her when Adam raked her face with those steel blue eyes, as he did now.

  "I have no doubt any number of men will try to pur­chase your services during this mission," he said after a moment.

  Flashing him a mischievous grin over one shoulder, Maggie headed for the door. "I just hope they can af­ford my price."

  For long moments after she left, Adam stood still and silent, one hand in the pocket of his tailored gray suit. Without realizing he was doing so, he fingered a gold money clip that held a fold of hundred-dollar bills.

  Chapter 2

  Paige could sense the Mediterranean before she saw it. As her tiny rental car putt-putted up steep hills, then coasted down winding inclines, the air took on a softer, balmier feel. Even the scent from thousands of acres of roses and jasmine and mimosa and wild lavender around the mountain town of Grasse, the perfume capital of France, couldn't disguise the tang of the sea only a few more miles ahead.

  Double-clutching to downshift around a hairpin curve, Paige winced when the gears growled a protest. After three days of driving through the French Alps, she still hadn't quite mastered either the winding roads or the art of changing gears on an incline. Sending the gearshift an apologetic glance, she wrapped both palms around the steering wheel and aimed the little car forward.

  When she crested another steep hill, she gave a sudden gasp. Tires crunched on loose shale and brakes screeched as she pulled off onto a narrow overlook. While the en­gine shuddered and died, Paige gazed, awestruck, at the dazzling vista before her.

  Laid out below in a hazy, shifting pattern of azure and ultramarine and indigo was the Mediterranean. Far out to sea, huge tankers plowed through the waters, while closer in, smaller ships weaved through the waves and left sparkling white wakes. They were cruise ships, Paige mused, or those fabulous yachts she'd read about, with their own helicopter ports and twenty-six staterooms. In the distance, a gray green island rose out of the blue. Corsica, she thought. Or Sardinia.

  But it was the spectacular shoreline that drew her awed gaze. The famous, sun-drenched Riviera.

  Almost directly below her, the city of Cannes clung to the curve of the bay. A narrow strip of sand and a wide boulevard lined with palms and flowering shrubs sepa­rated the city from the sea. Tall luxury hotels faced the Mediterranean on the inland side of the boulevard, like a row of white-fronted sentinels guarding Europe's most unselfconscious pleasure port.

  Crossing her wrists on the steering wheel, Paige propped her chin on top of them. She couldn't believe she was here. She couldn't believe she'd actually torn up David's careful, typed instructions, called the airline and booked her own flight. She wasn't supposed to arrive in France for another week, at least. She certainly wasn't supposed to have rented a car in Paris and driven the long, tortuous route through the Alps to reach the sea. By herself, yet!

  The first few days on the road, she'd been terrified of losing her way, of unintentionally offending someone with her execrable French, of ordering the wrong things from the menu. Even now, her stomach gave a funny lit­tle lurch every time she remembered the calf brains in a rich brown sherry sauce she'd been served her first night on the road. She hadn't realized what they were until the second or third bite.

  She'd almost turned around right then. Almost scur­ried back to Paris and called home to leave a message for David on her recorder that she'd wait for him there. But the same desperate need that had driven her to leave L.A. early had kept her on the road. She'd needed this time by herself, away from the bustle of the city. She'd needed quiet to think. Privacy to sort through her jumbled feel­ings. She'd needed to find a way to tell David she wasn't going to marry him.

  Painfully, Paige swallowed to ease the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her throat since the day David had calmly suggested they combine his business trip to the south of France with their honeymoon. Blinking back a sting of tears, she shook her head. She wouldn't cry again! She wouldn't! She'd cried all she was going to.

  Still, her throat was raw as she lifted her left hand and stared at the square-cut emerald on the plain white-gold band. The ring was simple. Unadorned. Filled with a quiet, soothing beauty, David had said, like Paige her­self.

  So quiet, she could only nod when he'd slid the ring onto her finger.

  So simple, she'd believed that his deliberate restraint when he made love to her was a mark of respect.

  So soothing, that even now, after almost a yearlong engagement, he still kissed her with that same combina­tion of fond affection and control. He could ignite every one of her senses with his skilled hands and mouth, yet he always kept a small part of his inner self distant from her.

  Only a woman who loved a man as desperately as Paige loved David Jensen would ache with longing at the memory of his kisses. And be so devastated by the knowledge that she wasn't woman enough to engage his whole heart.

  He deserved better, Paige told herself in a now-familiar litany. He deserved a woman who would make him lose himself in her arms. One who would throw him into a tailspin once in a while. Would make him forget his careful schedules. Toss out his endless lists. One whose wedding he wouldn't work in neatly with an interna­tional symposium on digital electronics, she thought with a little spurt of resentment.

  That tiny spark of indignation gave her the courage to tug the emerald over her knuckle and off her finger. She fumbled in her purse for a tissue, then wrapped it around the ring. Still, she had to blink furiously to hold back her tears as she tucked the wad of tissue into the zipper pocket of her purse.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Paige reached down to shove the little car into gear. An agonized screech made her jump, then hastily tromp down on the clutch. This time the gears engaged, and the mini edged back onto the road.

  As perspiration gathered between her breasts, Paige pressed the heavy knit of her sweater with one hand to blot the dampness and tried to ignore a small niggle of guilt. David had left specific instructions about what clothing to bring. He'd even given her the range of tem­peratures to expect, and t
he average number of sunny days—three hundred!—that the Riviera enjoyed each year. But the weather in L.A. had been gray and over­cast and decidedly chilly when she impulsively tossed her things in a suitcase and dashed to the bank to transform her entire savings account into travelers' checks. It had been just as cool in Paris when she landed, and down­right cold driving through the Alps.

  Now that she'd left the snowcapped peaks behind, however, Paige was forced to admit that David had been right. As usual. The Riviera was not the place for heavy sweaters and plaid wool jumpers.

  Feeling utterly depressed, she realized that the first thing she'd have to do after checking into her hotel was buy some clothes. She sighed, thinking of the neat list of shops David had left for her. Boutiques suitable for her own quiet style, he'd told her, in the deep voice that al­ways sent shivers of delight down her spine. Shops where she could pick out her trousseau.

  As she inched around the hairpin turns, Paige sighed again. She'd left the careful list of shops in L.A., know­ing that she wouldn't be shopping for her trousseau. She'd just have to find something suitable on her own before the shops closed for the afternoon.

  Two hours later she pushed open the door of yet an­other boutique. The store window displayed only one item, a sequined ball cap in lavender on a black marble stand, so Paige wasn't quite sure exactly what she'd find inside.

  As soon as she saw the single rack that ran the length of the small shop, she almost turned around and walked back out. A quick glance told her the beaded and jew­eled garments weren't the kind of clothing she wore. What was more, she knew they would be well out of her price range.

  Paige paused with her hand on the door latch. She was tired and hungry and absolutely appalled at the prices she'd encountered. Unfortunately, she was also smotheringly hot and not in the mood to search for the kind of shops David had indicated carried items more to her taste. Gritting her teeth, she closed the door and walked over to the rack. Maybe they'd have something on sale.