“What the—” Ryan sat up so fast the whole bed shook. His hand flailed in his search for the light switch, but even after he’d found it he didn’t blink.
It wasn’t Jeannie. The woman next to him. Wasn’t. Jeannie. Jeannie smelled like baby powder and bananas. The woman next to him smelled exactly like …
She groaned and as she turned over, he whispered, “No, no, no, no.”
Special Agent Angie Wolf glared back at him with red-rimmed eyes. She wasn’t supposed to be here. In the bed. With him.
“Jeannie is being held over in court,” she said, her voice as gruff as the hour. “They weren’t able to get a postponement. If you’d answered your phone or picked up your messages, you would know that. Palmer asked me to take her place. I would prefer not to be here, but we really don’t have a choice if we want to salvage the operation. Now, turn off the light and go back to sleep. Please.”
It took him a minute to digest what she’d said. Eventually he nodded. “Okay.”
She punched the pillow, looked once more in his general direction and said, “Oh, and if you wake me before eight, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” then pulled the covers over her head while Ryan thought of five different reasons he should get up and go straight back to L.A.
That would end any chance he might have had for the D.C. job, but hey, he was a good agent. He could still rise to the top, even if he had to climb stairs instead of ride the elevator. Which would leave one of the other candidates to slip right into that sweet, sweet position working for the Deputy Director. For example, the woman sharing the goddamn bed.
What he couldn’t do was pretend to be married to Angie Wolf. This operation was possible because Jeannie and him, they had seen each other in their underwear before. It had been funny. No embarrassment whatsoever. Hell, he was pals with her husband. He played with her kids. They were cool, him and Jeannie, no matter what cockamamie new-age tantric yoga tofu-covered bullshit they might have to sit through.
Angie Wolf was a whole different kettle of fish. She was hot, for one thing. Hot as in smokin’ hot. Tall, lean, small up top, but on her it worked, and legs … Man, those runner’s legs. Her dark hair was straight and thick and flowed halfway down her back, and he’d found himself too often staring into her cocoa-colored eyes.
Worse than that, he’d almost broken one of his cardinal rules because of her: he did not cross the line with anyone connected to the job. But at last year’s Halloween party they’d come uncomfortably close. He’d been joking, sort of, but then there was this heat between them, and he’d realized that the fire had been smoldering for a long time, probably since they’d met. But A.D. Palmer had interrupted what had been dangerously close to a kiss and she’d stepped back. He’d laughed as if it was no big deal, as if his heart hadn’t been beating a wicked drum solo in his chest or that he’d been half-hard just from the scent of her perfume. They’d kept their distance since. Sixteen months later they still had to be careful because the pull hadn’t diminished one iota. At least not for him. She was kind of hard to gauge.
God, just a few hours ago, he’d been laughing about the Intimate At Last brochure. Body work. Couples massages. Delightful homeplay assignments. Shit. How was this supposed to work now?
Once the light was off, he stared into the shadows of the room. He wasn’t about to fall asleep anytime tonight. Angie Wolf was going to be his wife. For a week. Holy hell.
THE FIRST THING ANGIE thought when she woke up was how surprised she was that she’d slept at all. She’d assumed sharing a bed with Vail would have kept her wide-awake for the entire night, but the exhaustion of the day had won out. At least the bed was big enough that they wouldn’t have to touch. The thought of feeling his bed-warmed body brush against hers was enough to cause a surge of panic that woke her more efficiently than a cold shower.
“I’m ordering coffee,” he said, shifting behind her. “You want?”
She exhaled as she remembered her role. Not the one as his wife, but as his partner. “Yeah, thanks.”
The sound of the bedding rustling as he reached for the phone caused her muscles to tense and her jaw to tighten. So much for her resolve. She’d made a choice yesterday. She could have refused the assignment. As with everything worth having, and there was no doubt that the job in D.C. was, compromise and sacrifice came with the package.
No matter what her personal feelings were toward Ryan, her only task this week was to play his loving, entitled, slightly insecure wife so that Ryan became the perfect target for blackmail. The end. Nothing else mattered. Not sharing a bed, not the intimacy exercises they would participate in, not the inevitable touching. As long as they were both completely clear that no “optional” nudity was going to occur under any circumstances, they’d be fine.
Behind her, Ryan hung up the telephone, then the comforter shifted as he stood. Angie stayed frozen on her side just long enough for things to get really awkward. A quiet huff broke the silence and a moment later, the bathroom door closed.
She rolled onto her back and the way she relaxed told her just how tense she’d been. She hadn’t moved all night. Good thing because she’d been so close to the edge she could have very easily fallen right on the floor.
A shower would help things immensely. Personal issues aside, yesterday had been a killer. She’d barely made it on the last flight to Vegas. Getting into character had been insanity. While she’d had to suffer a mani/pedi, two of the L.A. team had hit Rodeo Drive armed with her measurements and crossed fingers to pick up a complete designer wardrobe. Underwear. Bras. Shoes. Earrings. She hadn’t had someone buy her panties since she’d been twelve.
Her own style was business casual, built around the fact that she carried a Glock in a shoulder holster. She’d be more comfortable dressing up as a vampire than pulling off Prada or bebe.
The bathroom door opened, and there was Vail. Shirtless. Wearing UCLA Bruins sweats that hung low on his sharp-edged hips. Of course, he was sculpted like a professional athlete, a swimmer, damn him. Even worse, he had a Hollywood-handsome face to go with it. Dark hair, piercing green eyes, goddamn chiseled jaw. She let out a groan but immediately stretched, trying to make it seem natural, and not a reaction to the six-pack and the shoulders-to-hips ratio.
He tried to fight a grin, not very convincingly, then took a few more steps toward the big dresser. “The bathroom’s all yours. I showered last night.”
Angie threw the covers back and swung her legs over, determined to get her act together. What she needed was to talk to Liz, who couldn’t have picked a worse time than yesterday to be incommunicado.
“You gonna sleep in your clothes every night?” Ryan asked. “I suppose it wouldn’t blow the gig, but I imagine it won’t be very comfortable.”
“Yeah, no, it was late,” she said, keeping her head down as she went to get her suitcase. Why wasn’t the room bigger? Like the size of Montana? “At least the room’s nice.”
“So is the minibar.”
She didn’t look up at him. “I don’t think the budget’s going to cover twenty-dollar beers.” The snick of the pull handle on her suitcase seemed alarmingly loud, but then everything since she’d agreed to this … situation had felt excessive.
To give Ryan credit, he was being extremely civil. She’d been worried he’d be in her face about the change in plans. She’d also imagined him very, very pissed. But then, they were officially on the job, and working for the government made acceptance of the absurd a necessity.
Ryan was a good agent. He was dedicated. More than that, he was smart. He wasn’t as concerned with rules and regs as the brass would like, but that wasn’t a big deal, not to her. He got