Code Name: Bikini. Christina Skye

door, wishing he had an excuse to leave. Any excuse.

      Trace realized that Wolfe was talking to him. “Sorry, sir. What did you say?”

      “The senator’s wife just told me that a case of vintage champagne is held up somewhere down in the hotel’s receiving department.” Wolfe motioned toward the door. “You are hereby ordered to go find it. It’s that or keep explaining to people why you look like you hate these events, so get moving. And I want you back before this thing is finished, clear?”

      “Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.” Trace scratched his cheek. “But it might take me longer than I think to find that missing champagne. Probably a real mess down there.”

      “Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Wolfe muttered.

      Trace grinned. With luck, he’d be back just in time to say his goodbyes.

      THE HOTEL LOADING BAY was deserted, half in shadow.

      The mixer was still in its box, wedged in a corner next to a row of folding chairs.

      Gina tried to lift the box and staggered back, gasping. She’d forgotten how heavy a commercial mixer could be. And there was no one around to help her move the stupid thing.

      On the other hand, there happened to be a forklift parked by the wall, and it was screaming her name.

      Gina had spent two summers working in a warehouse, so she knew her way around forklift trucks. She hopped aboard, scanned the controls and gunned the motor. It took her less than a minute to maneuver across the small loading area and center the metal arms. She nudged the mixer into position, raised it four inches, locked the long arms in place and then swung wide.

      “You mind watching where you aim that thing? I kind of like having my chest in one piece.”

      And it was such a gorgeous chest, Gina thought, staring at her rescuer from earlier that afternoon.

      The broad wall of muscle showed off his white uniform and rows of medals to perfection.

      “Mind if I borrow your forklift for a few minutes?”

      “Yes,” she snapped. What was he doing here? She didn’t have time to be distracted, not with two hundred people upstairs expecting a killer pastry presentation to begin any second. “Sorry, but I’m late. You’ll have to find your own ride. It’s every man for himself right now,” she said grimly.

      Wheeling, she balanced the mixer and turned with small, precise movements.

      “You’re pretty good at that.”

      “Summer job,” she called over her shoulder.

      Learning to drive a forklift had been easy. Getting along with the macho male warehouse staff had been the hard part. But she’d held her own and made good money those summers, enough for all her tuition and more. When summer ended, her male coworkers had been sorry to see her go.

      She had almost finished her turn when a man’s voice echoed from someplace inside. Abruptly the heavy metal door of the loading bay started to slide shut.

      “Hey, stop!” Gina shouted, trying to maneuver back out of reach.

      But the door kept right on moving.

      In her concentration, she barely saw the Navy officer jump up onto the area under the closing door. “Hold on,” he called over the din of creaking metal. “There has to be a manual override here somewhere.”

      He wouldn’t find it in time, Gina thought desperately. She maneuvered sideways, her gaze locked on the moving door. Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow. She was yanked off the truck and pulled against a rock-hard chest.

      “No. My beautiful Hobart mixer—”

      “Can be replaced. You can’t,” the man said roughly. “That door probably weighs eight hundred pounds. You’d be hamburger, trust me.”

      “Do something,” Gina whispered. Her presentation was going up in smoke before her eyes.

      Caught against his chest, she watched in horror as metal ground down against metal. The forklift shuddered, crumpling slowly, with her mixer caught firmly beneath.

      The man blew out a breath. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this.” He set Gina back on her feet, scanned the out-of-season tools and supplies lining the walls and grabbed a thick rope.

      He circled the mixer and pulled hard, bending to the task, his face taut and arms rigid. As the door came lower, the space was plunged into shadow.

      Gina heard the scrape of metal as she searched vainly for any kind of wall control panel or power button, but finally she had to give up. “Forget it,” she called. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

      He didn’t seem to hear, so she gripped his shoulder and yelled over the growl and grind of metal. “Let it go. It’s not your problem.”

      As her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowed light, she saw that he had worked the big steel mixer several inches closer, but it wasn’t far enough. She flinched as the crucial piece of equipment was mangled by the door.

      Finally the metal stopped moving. She took a shaky breath and sank against the wall, frantically trying to plan around the loss of the mixer.

      “Are you okay?” The man’s voice was cool, precise. He’d recovered incredibly fast, Gina noticed. He wasn’t even breathing hard now. She, on the other hand, was a total wreck.

      “Okay as in not hurt or maimed? I think so. Okay as in anticipating a happy life and a prosperous future? Definitely not. I’ve got two hundred people upstairs waiting for me and that mixer, and I am so screwed.” She looked up, stabbing a hand through her hair. “Thanks for trying, Mr.—”

      “Trace.”

      “Gina,” she said without really thinking. She stuck out one hand and felt a tug at her sleeve. Furious, she tried again.

      No luck.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I can’t move, that’s what’s wrong.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      SHE LEANED RIGHT and left. This time there was a definite snag on her right side.

      Trace moved closer. “Stay still.”

      “But I—”

      His hard body nudged hers. “Stop twisting around.” He ran a hand along the wall and then across her shoulders.

      “What’s wrong? What did you find?”

      “Give me a minute here. The light’s not great,” he said shortly. “I’ll get my cell phone.”

      “Check the left pocket of my skirt,” Gina shot back. “Outside corner right under the snap.”

      She felt his hand slide along her arm and into her pocket, searching to the bottom.

      “How deep are these pockets?” He searched some more. “This feels like plastic. Do you always carry thermometers in your cargo pockets?”

      “Knitting needles. Hand them over.” Gina turned a knob on the bottom of the long piece of plastic and instantly her hand was bathed in a blue-white glow. “They’re for knitting in the dark. I never leave home without them.” She held up the bright needle, trying to look over her shoulder, but Trace moved her back against the wall and angled the needle downward.

      “I think I see the problem. A big piece of your sweater is caught in the joints of the loading-bay door. It must have happened when you were trying to find the control.”

      She would never, ever knit bell sleeves again, Gina swore. She gave an experimental tug with her arm.

      The man was right. Her sleeve was caught in the cross joint.

      “You want me to cut it?”

      Her