Jean Thomas - Lethal Affair

Sitting there in the booth, Casey felt himself growing aroused just thinking about that night. Damn, he didn’t want this.

He dragged his cell phone out of his back pocket. He hesitated only briefly before, his mind made up, he dialed the number of another FBI agent at the Chicago division of the bureau over on Roosevelt Road. To his satisfaction, Ken Boynton, a trusted buddy, was at his desk and picked up immediately.

“What’s up?” Boynton asked after Casey had identified himself.

“Hey, Kenny, I need a favor. I’d like you to check and tell me if there’s anything on the bureau’s radar about Marcus Bradley.”

“The Marcus Bradley?”

“That’s the one.”

“Jeez, Casey, you don’t ask much. You know the records are classified, and with you on suspension...”

“Who’s going to know if you don’t tell them?”

There was an audible sigh from the other end followed by a reluctant “All right, hold on while I look.”

Casey heard the tapping of keys as Ken called up the files on his computer. He waited patiently until the agent reported back.

“Okay, here it is.”

What Casey listened to wasn’t much, but it was enough. Just enough to convince him, after he thanked Ken and hung up, that he needed a holiday in the sun.

Chapter 1

Brenna gazed out across the bay, frowning at the scene. It wasn’t the narrow, palm-studded spur of land giving her trouble. That she had already managed without difficulty.

As she always did, she’d chosen her subject with care, convinced that, simple though it was, it would make a highly effective painting. The colors were the problem.

Without question, the waters of the Caribbean were the most gorgeous she had ever experienced, ranging from a rich aquamarine to a deep, inky blue. But to capture these incredible colors on canvas and make them believable...well, this was what eluded her.

Come on, you can conquer them, she reminded herself.

With that stubborn self-promise firmly in mind, Brenna swung her attention away from the view, prepared to mix the pigments she needed on her palette. Along with her brushes and tubes of oil paint, the palette rested on the wide tray attached to her easel.

She was reaching for it when, out of the corner of her eye, she discovered something moving off to her left, ambling in her direction along the volcanic black sand beach. A tall, barefoot figure wearing a pair of snug white pants rolled to mid-calf and a matching white shirt carelessly open down to his waist.

There was something distinctly familiar about that long-legged, easy gait. It couldn’t be him. Not here on St. Sebastian.

But there was no denying his identity when he neared her, sporting that big, goofy grin on his bold mouth. A mouth whose sensual talents she was incapable of forgetting. Casey McBride.

Brenna never wore sunglasses when she was out on location. She felt they interfered with the truth of her painting. That was why it was necessary for her to squint her eyes against the brilliance of the tropic sun as she watched him approach her.

He did wear sunglasses, whipping them off when he reached her. Without any greeting, he leaned over the easel to inspect her painting in progress. That left Brenna free to examine him.

He hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d parted. Casey was still the rugged figure he’d always been with that angular, good-looking face. And, much to her disgust, he still had the power to set her pulses racing with his mere appearance.

Careful. You can’t let him know that. He’ll take advantage of you if you do.

Nodding, he placed a stamp of approval on the painting with a brief “Nice.”

“Thank you. Now would you like to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

He turned to face her. “That isn’t a very friendly welcome.”

“I didn’t intend it to be. Do I get an answer?”

His only reply was to keep on looking at her, still wearing that stupid grin. All right, it wasn’t stupid. It was sexy. So, somehow, were the beads of perspiration on his powerful, bare chest. At least the portion his open shirt revealed. The sun, after all, was hot.

“Never mind explaining. I can guess. Will sent you, didn’t he?”

“Could be.”

“You know he did. What I can’t figure out is how you found me in this particular spot.”

“Now, see, I just happen to be renting one of the cottages back there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction he had come from where she could see a palm-thatched roof peeking out from the trees. Below the roof was a deck projecting over the beach.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, and I was out on the deck taking in the view—great, isn’t it?—when I spotted this woman working at her easel. ‘Could that be Brenna Coleman?’ I asked myself.”

“And what did you answer yourself?”

“Didn’t. I had to kick off my shoes—you know how I love to go barefoot—and go out on the beach for a better look-see.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, then I knew for sure. Who else, with that copper-colored hair blowing in the wind, could it be but Brenna herself? Lucky coincidence, huh?”

“Very,” she said dryly.

She knew it was no accident, his discovering her like this. Casey had always specialized in locating the targets the FBI assigned him. She could have pursued it, but she didn’t. It didn’t matter, because she had a more important challenge for him.

“Let’s cut the games, McBride. Exactly what did my brother have to say to convince you to come after me?”

“Not much. Hey, it’s still cold back in Chicago, and being in the mood for a vacation in a warm place—”

“I’ve never known you to take a vacation.”

“Kind of forced on me. I’m on suspension from the bureau.”

Knowing how dedicated he was to his work, she realized how hard this had to be for him. “I’m sorry, Casey. What happened?”

“Long story. Why don’t we save it for another time? Anyway, the island here sounded just about right. ‘That’s great,’ Will said. ‘While you’re there and if you have the chance, you can check in on Brenna.’”

“He said that, did he?”

“More or less.”

“No, he didn’t. I’ll tell you what he said. He said, ‘Gee, Casey, would you mind watching over my sister for me? I don’t like the company she’s keeping.’”

“He didn’t put it exactly like that. But, okay, close enough. He’s concerned about you, Brenna, and maybe he has reason to be.”

“What reason?”

“This is for your ears only. Something I wouldn’t tell you if you didn’t need to be aware of it. Happens that your friend, Marcus Bradley, is a member of a cabal of elitists, a group suspicious enough that the FBI is keeping an eye on them.”

Brenna blew out the breath she’d been holding with a sound of exasperation. “You’re as bad as Will. Like I told him, and I’m telling you, there are always rumors about the very rich. And in this case, FBI or not, they’re crazy rumors. Marcus is not only a friend, he’s a generous benefactor. Along with his other charitable projects, he’s building a resort here on St. Sebastian in order to bring much-needed revenue and jobs to the island’s poor.”

“Heard that. Good for him. Meanwhile, you’re staying with him in his villa. Cozy.”

She was close, very close to snatching up a brush, dipping it in fresh paint and swiping it across his nose. “You’ve been investigating me, Agent McBride, and I don’t like it. You don’t deserve to know it, but I’m not staying in the villa. I’m staying in the guesthouse.”

“That so?”

“Yes. Furthermore, whatever my connection with Marcus, it’s not your business or Will’s. Nor do I need you or anyone else playing watchdog.”