Risking It All: The Proposition / The Dare / The Favour / The P.I. / The Cop / The Defender

Now they were using the hotel gym. It was located on the lobby level, and offered weight machines, tread-mills, free weights and a large pool that started indoors and ended outside. Four glass walls made the room about as private as a fishbowl.

Lifting the weights to her shoulders, she began to follow Chance’s lead through a combination of lunges and squats. When he finally set down his weights and took hers, he said, “You’re good.”

Her brows shot up. “I’m a cop, remember.”

“Not all cops stay in shape.” Then turning, he led the way to a mat. “Let’s see what you can do in hand-to-hand combat.”

For a moment she stared at him. “You’re serious?”

He smiled at her. “Unless you think you can’t take me.”

Unable to resist the challenge, she stepped onto the mat and began to circle slowly. He knew what buttons to push. She’d have to remember that and push a few of her own. He was bigger than she was and stronger. On the job when she’d had to use physical force, she’d always been able to play the looks-like-a-fragile-woman card. That wouldn’t work here. So her best option was distraction.

Keeping her eyes on his, she said, “What’s next? Target practice?”

He laughed, and she very nearly allowed herself to be distracted by the sound as she moved in and hooked her foot behind his. Once she had him off balance, she aimed her elbow at his stomach. An instant before it connected, she found her arms pinned to her side and before she could blink, she was lying beneath him, facedown on the mat.

While she struggled for a breath, she was vaguely aware of applause. But she was much more aware of Chance’s body pressing hers into the mat, of his voice in her ear. “You’ll have to work on your eyes. They give you away.”

She would work on that, she vowed as she got to her feet.

This time she let him make the move, and she blocked it.

“Good,” he said. “Now try this one.”

He moved fast as a snake, but she moved faster. He didn’t talk after that, and neither did she. She wasn’t even sure how much time had passed as he made one move after another and she attempted to block them. She lost count of how often she ended up pinned to the floor. But each time, he helped her to her feet and taught her the countermove that would have stopped him.

He was very good, better than any martial arts instructor she’d ever trained under. But she would have bitten her tongue out rather than tell him. Nor was she about to tell him that she’d never before responded to martial arts instruction like it was foreplay. Her mind might be calculating countermoves, but her body had become very sensitized to his touch. In the course of their workout, his forearms had brushed against her breasts. His hands had gripped her calves, her thighs, her hips. Twice when they’d rolled on the floor his leg had been between her thighs. When he finally called it quits and grinned at her, in spite of her annoyance, she wanted to jump him.

If there hadn’t been an audience with their noses pressed against the glass walls surrounding them, she might have. Instead, she smiled at him, shook his hand. As they walked together toward the shower rooms, she bided her time. When he was least expecting it, she gave him a quick shove into the pool.

Then with the applause of the spectators in her ears, she waited until he surfaced and grinned down at him. “Thanks for the tip about the eyes.”

“Anytime,” he said as he gripped the side of the pool. “I don’t suppose you want to give me a hand out of the pool.”

She grinned down at him. “Do I have the word Sucker written on my forehead?” Then she turned and walked away.

CARLO BRANCOTTI sat in his office, looking over the file that Lisa had just handed him. Sun streamed through the open French doors and a breeze from the ocean played with the wind chimes on the patio. When he finished reading Lisa’s report, he glanced up. “So—which one of these would a clever insurance investigator choose to impersonate?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t able to eliminate any of them.”

Carlo studied her for a moment. Lisa was a very cautious woman. He paid her to be just that. “Take an educated guess. If you wanted to trap Carlo Brancotti, which one of these people would you attempt to impersonate?”

She thought for a moment. “I’d choose Steven Bradford. But you don’t pay me for guessing.”

“Why Bradford?”

“I suppose because he’s so squeaky clean. He’s never entered this kind of a market before. Plus, he avoids the press. The only picture I was able to come up with was from his college days. If Interpol wanted to slip someone in, we’d be hard-pressed to see through the disguise.”

It wasn’t Interpol he was worried about. Carlo studied the picture of a thin young man with long, brownish-blond hair. Bradford would be twelve years older now, a man instead of a boy. The body would have filled out, the hairstyle changed.

“Good choice,” he murmured. Then he glanced at the photos of Steven Bradford’s current girlfriend.

She hadn’t been a model long. The one layout that Lisa had come up with featured a tall blonde modeling a bathing suit while playing volleyball. She was wearing sunglasses in each picture. He picked one up and studied it more closely. Steven Bradford was a lucky man. “What about the woman? This…” he paused to find the name, “Calli? The government doesn’t always send a male agent.”

Lisa frowned. “But you won’t invite her to the actual auction. She won’t have access to the diamond.”

True. Still, he wasn’t going to dismiss the possibility that the model known only as Calli wasn’t as harmless as she appeared. He was going to enjoy getting to know her better when she arrived. He picked up the next picture. “What about Armand Genovese?”

“He would be my second choice. He’s wearing a hat and sunglasses in every picture, so we can’t be sure what he looks like either. Also this is his first venture into the black market.”

Now Carlo smiled. “Only because he has other sources for stolen art and jewels. Ones that don’t always require top dollar.”

“True. Which makes it a little surprising for him to contact you. Perhaps because of his methods of acquisition he’s made a deal with the government.”

“Good point.” This was precisely why he paid Lisa McGill a very good salary. She had a razor-sharp mind as well as a knack for computers and research.

For the first time since she’d come into the room, Lisa relaxed slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

Carlo turned his attention to the third photo. When it had been taken, Risa Manwaring had been the toast of Hollywood. That had been at least twenty-five years ago. “And why might a very clever insurance agent choose to impersonate Risa Manwaring?”

“Because once she married that British lord, she shunned the press, so no telling what she looks like now. And as you said yourself, the government doesn’t always send a male agent.”

“True. Good work, Lisa,” Carlo said as he slipped the file into a drawer and locked it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“When Bradford arrives, we’ll put him in the Venetian room. That way we can keep very close tabs on him. Signore Genovese will stay in the Tuscan room, and Ms. Manwaring in the Neopolitan room. Make sure that all three rooms are wired and that the security cameras in the walls are well hidden.”

“I’ll see to it myself, sir.”

When Lisa left the room, Carlo rose from his desk and turned to the painting that hung behind him. After moving it aside, he opened his safe and took out two velvet pouches. One was red and the other was black. After setting them on his desk, he removed a diamond from each pouch, then carried them out through the French doors to his patio. It was early, not yet eight o’clock, but the sun was pouring directly into the courtyard. It shot light into both stones and the facets in each captured that light and seemed to glow from within.

Both were a rare shade of canary-yellow, and only one of them was real—the Ferrante diamond. The other was a very carefully crafted fake. Only a skilled gemologist would be able to tell the difference.

Carlo smiled as he looked down at them. He would use them both to set a trap for “Chance Mitchell.” There was nothing that he enjoyed more than a game of cat and mouse with a worthy opponent.

Too bad that he would have to end the game for good this time.

7 (#ulink_4bf35af2-4e5e-5375-8f7d-26af1f8cdbe6)

BY THE TIME Natalie arrived at the Blue Pepper, second thoughts were attacking with a vengeance. Not that the “Rachel Cade” part of her was having any. No, it was good old Natalie who’d called her sisters for an emergency meeting. She’d told Chance she had to talk to her “cousins” and inform them of her change in plans.

The restaurant was crowded. And the number of patrons, more than the quick glance she gave her watch, told her that she was running more than half an hour late. And she was never late. At least Natalie wasn’t ever late. Plus, she was exhausted. Both conditions, she blamed completely on Chance Mitchell.

During a long, grueling day of cramming, shopping and packing, she’d discovered a whole new side to the man—one that made her think of Simon LaGree. Not in a million years would she have suspected that the laid-back man she’d known as Chance Mitchell would turn into such a taskmaster.

The run in Rock Creek Park and the workout had just been the beginning. When she’d passed those little tests, he’d dragged her back to his room at the Meridian to study. He hadn’t been satisfied until she’d known everything there was to know about Carlo Brancotti.