Wendy Etherington - Her Private Treasure

He started off. “I’ll walk. Thanks.”

“Oh, Hamilton? By—”

“Do you think you could call me by my first name?”

“No, I really don’t think I can now.”

He scowled. “Then when?”

She shrugged. “When it’s the right time. And, by the way…” She let her gaze track down his body, long, lean and illuminated by the streetlight. “The Bureau couldn’t care less whether you wear boxers, briefs or nothing at all.”

“What about you?”

She had no doubt he’d look hot in anything. Or nothing. “I couldn’t care less either.”

BINOCULARS AROUND his neck, Carr leaned against the aft railing and stared at the moonlit water where his boat bobbed at the dock.

At nearly eleven o’clock on a Wednesday, the bar was the only place that was hopping. Jack’s boat was still out, so it seemed the only thing to do was wait.

His thoughts returned, as they had a million times, to the night before and the kiss he’d shared with Malina Blair. Of course, describing what they’d shared as a mere kiss diminished the encounter by miles.

Touching her had been like holding lightning in his bare hands.

She—

He halted his thoughts as he sensed movement behind him on the dock. He didn’t flinch or turn, but his heart rate picked up speed.

Were Jack’s buddies back?

He hadn’t seen them since that night he’d found the coffee grounds nearly three weeks ago.

Were more drugs being delivered? Were there even drugs involved at all? Something odd was certainly going on, but had he jumped to conclusions based on the coffee grounds? Malina had passed off the connection between drugs and coffee. Was she right, or was she simply trying to demonstrate that he had no business messing around in her case?

If these guys were drug dealers, they were certainly ruthless. And while he could hold his own in a courtroom, he acknowledged for a stark moment that he might just be out of his element in this particular world.

He could battle, but he wasn’t trained in any physical combat beyond the conniving elegance of the fencing ring. Brutality wasn’t part of his life. And, candidly, he was more brains than brawn.

As he heard a click on the starboard side of the boat, he spun on the balls of his feet and crouched at the same time.

“Smooth,” said a familiar voice. “But I still wouldn’t have missed.”

The next second, a powerful flashlight blinded him. Cursing, he rose and held his hands in front of his face. Malina Blair’s shadow was barely discernible. “Is that really necessary?”

The light flicked off.

He blinked and saw spots as his eyes adjusted back to the darkness. Before he’d fully recovered, she was inches from him.

She tapped the binoculars. “A little late for bird-watching.”

Dressed in black, her arm was a shadow that ended in a lethal-looking gun pointed to the sky. With her dark hair pulled back tightly from her face, the first thing he could see clearly was her startlingly turquoise eyes. He had the crazy, poetic urge to drown himself in them.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, narrowing those eyes as she holstered her pistol.

He wanted to see her hair loose and tangled around her beautiful face. He wanted to feel the strands brush across his bare skin. He wanted to bury his body in her softness and hear her breath catch as she lost herself in the pleasure of his touch.

“Contemplating a late-night cruise,” he managed to return finally.

She shook her head in disbelief.

If he admitted the truth—that he was imagining her in his bed—would she shoot him or throw him overboard?

Or would she respond as she had the night before? With need and heat and a longing for even more?

She poked her finger in his chest, backing him against the railing. “I thought I made it clear that you should keep your distance from this case.”

“Did you?” He angled his head and gave her a smile that she clearly wasn’t buying. “I recall that conversation a bit differently. I remember saying I understood what you thought my involvement in the case should be.” He paused significantly. “I never agreed to the terms.”

She paced away, then back. “Why do you think lawyers get a bad rap when it comes to honesty?”

“Because honesty and truth are two entirely different concepts. Do you have on black underwear, too?” When she glared at him, he shrugged. “I’ve always wondered about the wardrobe for the undercover espionage thing.”

She stopped pacing. Her fists were clenched by her sides, and he decided he enjoyed needling her almost as much as he enjoyed touching her. “How about you leave the espionage to James Bond and me to handle this case?”

“Sorry, my investment in the outcome is too great.”

“What investment?”

He made a sweeping gesture to the area around him. “My island, remember?” Among other beautiful things I want to hold close. “I need to see this through.”

“And I said I’d consult you. The stakeouts you need to leave to me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Stakeout? I’m just enjoying the night air.”

With a huff that was utterly female and so unlike her, Malina leaned back against the railing next to him. “How are honesty and truth different?”

“Honesty refers to integrity, candor. Truth is answering a question without lying.”

She cast him a surprised glance. “That’s a despicable distinction.”

He nodded, and the barb of criticism hit in ways she couldn’t imagine, even though he knew she’d read his case files. “It’s the law.”

“According to whom?”

“Anybody who’s called upon to defend themselves or someone else in court.”

“Someone guilty?”

The barb turned poisonous, spreading through him like cancer. “Everyone’s entitled to a defense—even the supposed guilty.”

“Is that how you sleep at night?”

With fury burning inside him, he faced her, crossing his arms over his chest. The fact that part of his anger stemmed from embarrassment only fueled his indignation. “Do you want to debate legal procedures? How about the merits of tort reform?” He nodded toward her holstered pistol. “As good as you might be with that, I’m better at the law, so don’t even think about screwing with me on that subject.

“A lawyer presents his or her case. A judge or jury determines guilt or the level of judgment. That’s it. That’s the system where we all work.” He leaned into her. “If, however, you want to screw me in other ways, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. And either his honesty or his crudeness had finally shocked her into silence.

Unable to face her or himself, he stormed across the deck and down into the cabin. He slammed the door behind him, then tore the binoculars from around his neck and flung them and himself onto the couch. Through the window above him the moon cast its haunting light.

Several moments later, the cabin door opened.

“I’m sorry I took my frustration out on you,” she said, flopping against the wall opposite him and crossing her arms over her chest.

For some reason, her frustration calmed him instantly. “I’m sorry I did the same. Why are you so annoyed?”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Why not?”

“The case. Concern for my job.”

“No other reason?”

She moved toward him. His heart jumped.

When she stopped beside the sofa, so close their legs nearly touched, he felt the heat pumping off her, as well as a seductive scent, which could have been perfume or simply the innate lure of her skin. Both twined their way around his senses.

“You,” she said. “I thought about you.”