Wendy Etherington - Her Private Treasure

In fact, he radiated heat—especially from his dark brown eyes, sharp and intelligent, standing out from that spectacular face, absorbing her from head to toe.

Moving gracefully, he rounded the desk and extended his hand, which was tanned and long fingered, elegant as everything around him. “Thank you for coming, Agent Blair.”

Jolted into remembering she was there on a professional mission, she managed a nod as she took his hand. A shock of desire raced up her arm. “Sure thing.”

His gaze lingered on her face, and she resisted the urge to pull her hand from his. There was something powerful, even meaningful, about that stare, and she didn’t like the sensation that she’d lost control and perspective so quickly. In that moment, she was a woman, not an agent, and that was entirely the wrong tone for this meeting.

“Coffee, Mr. Hamilton?” the receptionist asked from behind Malina.

“Yes, Paige. Thank you. I imagine Agent Blair would prefer the Kona blend.”

Paige turned and left the room, presumably to get coffee, and Malina forced herself to both step back from Hamilton’s enticing touch and simultaneously hang on to his compelling gaze. “Kona?” she asked.

“You are Hawaiian, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She clenched her back teeth to avoid asking him how he knew her heritage, but he simply nodded in response to the unspoken question.

“I’m good with faces.” He extended his hand to one of the club chairs in front of his desk, then returned to his position on the other side, lowering himself into his blood-red leather chair only after she’d done the same. “Also, Sam mentioned you’d grown up on Kauai.”

Gorgeous, intelligent and honest. Three very good reasons to get to know a man. Unfortunately, he was part of her professional and not her personal life.

And never the twain shall meet.

She’d seen too many careers wither and die from office bed-hopping. And falling into the wrong bed in the world of politics landed the offenders a one-way ticket to early retirement. No way was she going down that road.

“I understand the SAC is a personal friend,” she said, leaning back in the club chair and tucking her neglected libido neatly away.

He nodded. “Special Agent in Charge Samuel Clairmont.” He lifted his lips in a smile that made Malina’s heart jump. “He’s come a long way from third string on the Yale fencing team.”

“I guess you were first-string.”

“Of course.”

From any other man, that admission would be bragging at best, pretentious at worst. In the capable, elegant hands of Carr Hamilton, it was charming.

Paige returned at that moment with a silver tray, holding a pitcher, mugs and tiny silver spoons.

She set the service on Hamilton’s desk, then turned and left the room. As he poured the coffee, Malina took a moment to let her gaze roam the office, noting the dark wood floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with volumes, a few pictures and knickknacks. A wide-screen laptop sat on the left side of his desk. A sideboard served as a bar, displaying cut-crystal glasses and decanters filled with amber liquid.

Class, style and old money permeated the room.

“Cream and sugar?” the man across from her asked.

She almost said yes simply to watch those graceful hands move. “No, thank you.”

“Strong coffee for a strong woman.”

Since she had no idea what to say to that statement without heading the conversation down a personal path, she sipped from her mug. The Kona was bold and flavorful, just as it should be.

He looked amused as he settled back into his chair, no doubt realizing she was attracted to him. A man with his looks and style wouldn’t miss such an obvious detail.

Despite the near certain futility and mundane nature of her task, she had to be careful not to take the wrong step with this man. He stirred something in her better left unturned. She had a singular goal and couldn’t afford any distraction.

But she so hated being careful.

“So, what do you think of my observations?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what to think at this point. I’d like you to tell me what you saw in detail.” From her pocket, she pulled out a microrecorder, which she set on the desk in front of him. “For the record.” She recited the standard warning about testimony and giving false information to law enforcement, then settled back to listen.

He gave a report as organized and detailed as any cop. He was careful not to speculate and left out personal feelings, as she would expect from a lawyer. From the file the SAC had given her, she’d read about his success litigating civil cases in a variety of antitrust suits, products liability and environmental issues. She could well imagine him living like a king on the proceeds of his powerful voice and structured mind.

Still, the likelihood of an everyday citizen cracking a drug-smuggling operation was about as likely as her suddenly deciding to lay down her Glock and become a pole dancer.

“Drugs are smuggled in coffee grounds,” he said in conclusion.

“Twenty years ago,” she said drily as she turned off the recorder and returned it to her pocket. “Things have gotten a bit more sophisticated these days.”

“I don’t envision Jack as a major drug kingpin. This is a small operation. Unsophisticated methods would suit them better.”

Despite herself, she was impressed he’d thought through the conclusions of what he’d witnessed. “So why did you come to us? If Rafton is dealing drugs, this is a matter for the DEA.”

“I have reason to believe he’s smuggling more than drugs.”

“How?” she asked, though she suddenly knew.

“I’ve been watching him.”

She sighed heavily. Random citizens playing at being cops was a surefire way of getting somebody killed. “I’d prefer you leave this to the professionals.”

“You mean the professionals who don’t believe anything illicit is going on?”

“I haven’t come to any conclusions yet.”

Clearly annoyed, he tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. His gaze locked with hers. “The FBI do investigate major thefts, don’t they?”

“Last time I checked.”

“And art theft would still fall in that category?”

“It would.”

“Then I’ve come to the right agency.”

It would still mean she’d have to give the DEA a heads-up, and interjurisdictional cooperation with those cowboys was one of her least favorite job requirements.

Hamilton leaned forward. “I didn’t ask you here on a whim, Agent Blair. I’m not a panicked or bored islander looking for attention. There’s something to this case.”

“It’s not a case yet.”

Those elegant hands, linked and resting on the desk in front of him, clenched. “Why are you so skeptical of my information?”

“Why do you think Jack Rafton’s stealing art?”

“Because two nights ago, he unloaded a box shaped like a large painting.”

She’d asked the obvious; she’d gotten the obvious answer. “Maybe he’s just buying art with his drug-smuggling proceeds.”

“Maybe he is. Why are you so skeptical of my information?”

Because the SAC would never, on purpose, give me anything with teeth.

She bit back that response, though, and stated facts, which she was sure the sharp lawyer would appreciate. “Drug smuggling is an extremely risky and dangerous pastime. Only the very desperate or very foolish would choose that route. The drug kingpins are protective to the death of their product’s distribution and often disembowel those who cross them.

“From the quick background check I did on Jack Rafton, summa cum laude graduate of the College of Charleston and longtime insurance broker of Palmer’s Island, I don’t see him blending well in that violent world.”