Kylie Brant: Entrapment

Juliette stood frozen, his words swirling around her. “But…there’s no need. I’ve already agreed to cooperate.” A feeling of desperation rose that had nothing to do with their deal and everything to do with the feelings he stirred inside her. “You can’t stay. I don’t want you here.”

Sam gave her a thin smile. “I trust you exactly as much as you trust me. That’s to say, not at all. You and I are going to be joined at the hip for the duration of this assignment. Get used to it.”

“This isn’t acceptable.” She hurried after him, protesting again as he ducked into her bedroom. “No, not that one…”

He turned around so suddenly that she ran into him. The heat from his hands on her shoulders seared into her. The hint of a drawl in his voice sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I’m in charge. You’re in no position to bargain, or to make demands. The sooner you learn that, the better for both of us.”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings! She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com. Her Web site address is www.kyliebrant.com.

For Jared—

who gets to be first, because being the oldest has its privileges! I love you, honey.

Mom

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

The lady was a thief.

Sam Tremaine watched the woman waltzing around the large ballroom, passing laughingly from one man’s arms to another. Even among the glitz and glitter of the Parisian consulate party, she stood out in a way guaranteed to draw the men’s eyes and the women’s envy.

He stroked his index finger absently along the stem of the crystal flute in his hand, the expensive champagne forgotten for the moment. He wasn’t surprised to find her at ease in the elegant social circle. He imagined she’d accepted the invitation he’d arranged on her behalf as her due. Beautiful, unattached women were sought after by hostesses looking to attract wealthy, powerful men to their parties. There would be no reason for any of the guests to see beyond her glamorous laughing surface. No reason to suspect that her beautiful, passionate face hid a soul as black as sin.

Her pictures hadn’t done her justice. The errant thought occurred, and he considered it objectively. He had a file bulging with photos of her, taken by telephoto lens when she was unaware. The flat two-dimensional likenesses hadn’t captured the energy that crackled around her, the incredible vivacity. In contrast to the heap of pictures was pitifully little background information. Juliette Morrow was shrouded in mystery. Most created identities were.

Sam set his half-full glass on a tray carried by a white-jacketed server and declined a replacement. He preferred to keep all his wits about him for the next step in this game. For it was a game; a contest in wits, bravado and cunning. And as in all games, it was one he intended to win.

He’d been watching her since she’d entered the room and he’d made certain she knew it. But far from the welcoming smile with which she graced her dance partners, she made a point of not looking in his direction too often. Perhaps she sensed a threat from him. If so, she had excellent instincts.

Purposefully, he began cutting through the dancing couples with deliberate strides. He noted the exact instant she saw him coming for her. That polite mask slipped a little, giving him a glimpse of…not fear. Wariness, maybe. And then her glance flicked away as if making note of the nearest exits.

“Excusez-moi. Est-ce que je puis emprunter cette belle dame?”

The portly balding man dancing with Juliette shrugged good-naturedly at his request and stepped back. Sam barely missed a beat before taking her in his arms and whirling her away. Because he was watching her so closely, he could see the struggle taking place in her expression, before she smoothed it with almost imperceptible effort.

“Monsieur Tremaine, the American lawyer. What brings you to our city?”

The flirtatious tone couldn’t disguise the very real interest behind the question. He’d shaken her by his unswerving regard this evening, just as he’d intended. The quiet sense of satisfaction that filled him at the realization was derived as much from the personal as the professional. “You know my name. Should I be flattered?”

“I doubt it. You don’t look like a man susceptible to flattery.”

Sam almost smiled. Her observation was right on the mark. Instincts hummed to life as adrenaline spiked through him. Without a worthy opponent, even the most noble games lacked challenge.

“With you, I may make an exception.” There was a painful twinge in his thigh, reminding him that the damaged muscle there hadn’t completely healed. To take some of the strain off his leg, he adjusted his movements until they were barely swaying to the music. She followed him effortlessly, but he could feel the rigidity in her spine beneath his palm.

“I know your name, too. Juliette Morrow.” He waited a beat before adding, “Or do you prefer the nickname the French press has for you? Le petit voleur. The little thief.”

He watched her reaction to his words with interest. There was a flicker of something in her wide dark eyes, there and gone too quickly to be identified. Then she tipped her head back and gurgled out an infectious laugh that had heads turning toward them.

“Do all Americans have such an offbeat sense of humor?” she inquired, once she’d recovered. There was real amusement in her voice. If he hadn’t been so certain he was right, he might have doubted the conclusions he’d drawn. But he didn’t doubt them. Which made her a liar, as well as a thief.

“I’ve been told I have a dry sense of humor, but I’m not joking now. And I think you know it. That’s why your pulse is racing.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her pulse, felt it gallop beneath his touch.

“It isn’t often I find myself in the arms of such an attractive man. What a pity to find that you’re demented, as well.” Her voice was cool, her gaze direct. “They say that mental illness is on the rise in your country. Perhaps in your line of work you find that quality an asset.”

Despite himself, Sam grinned. Her English was flawless, as was her aim. “Lawyer jokes…the bond that unites cultures. I’m too used to them to take exception.” Deliberately, he brushed his hand along the silky line of her back, left bare by her gown. He was gratified to feel her shiver in response, then used her reaction as an excuse to pull her closer.

She pressed both her hands against his chest, maintaining a small distance between them. “I’ve heard that Americans often romanticize criminals. Is your joke supposed to serve as some sort of compliment? A word of warning—few women find it flattering to be called thieves. If that’s your idea of flirtation, you really need to get out more.”