Reese: The Untamed. Susan Connell

don’t have time to make this up,” he said, unzipping his portfolio and withdrawing a bank statement with her name on it. “I know you don’t believe in vacations or long weekends or even something as frivolous as a good address, but I think the budget for this assignment will prove how important this is.”

      “I don’t know what you or the president want me to do,” she protested as he pressed the paper into her upturned palm.

      “You’ll get a full briefing on that tomorrow morning in my office.”

      “The only thing I know about the Riviera is what I’ve seen in the movies. I don’t speak French, Eugene,” she said, hoping if she hurried through the reasons, she would convince him along with herself that she couldn’t consider his suggestion. “I don’t have the wardrobe. And I’m in the middle of setting up the northwest trip for July.”

      “Everyone speaks English. Your wardrobe is already being assembled. Dress size eight. Shoe size six and a half medium. Buy whatever else you need when you get there. Someone’s already been chosen to replace you at headquarters. You’re booked on a flight out of Dulles tomorrow evening.”

      Half hearing him, she looked up from the paper he’d handed her. “This is crazy. There’s enough money here to buy one of these people a house. Two houses.”

      “What’s that slogan on your T-shirt read? You Can Make A Difference? Well, Beth, you can make a difference. But not by nickel and diming away your time in a place like this.” Sitting down beside her, he placed a reassuring hand over hers and spoke in a voice suspiciously reminiscent of President Pierson’s own Southern drawl. “If not you, Beth, who?”

       One

      “‘Never gamble what you can’t afford to lose.’ Isn’t that what you always tell me when I come to Monte Carlo?”

      Reese Marchand’s searching glance around the glittering casino came to an abrupt halt on his friend. “Always,” he said, absently tapping the stack of chips in his hand. “What’s the matter, Duncan? Baccarat’s not your game tonight?” Even as Reese spoke, his gaze began straying from his friend’s frown to the entrance of the private gambling salon.

      Duncan Vanos patted his empty pockets as he reached the roulette table. “Baccarat’s never my game. It’s your game. Remember that time in Las Vegas?” Duncan shook his head, his words dissolving into a chuckle. “She’ll be along any minute now.”

      Reese never took his gaze from the entrance. “Who are you talking about?” he asked, bluffing badly for his friend’s entertainment. He knew exactly who Duncan was talking about. The exquisite creature who’d been ducking behind columns out in the atrium tonight. The same one who’d been trailing him through Monaco for the past three days. Thank heavens she’d left off the sunglasses and head scarf tonight so he could finally get a good look at her face. He pictured her checking herself in the tiny mirror inside her purse when she thought he wasn’t looking.

      He couldn’t stop looking; that she wasn’t a perfectly poised clone of every other woman in a two-mile radius had intrigued him to the point of fixation. How many stalkers, he wondered, stopped every five minutes to check their lipstick and fluff their hair? No doubt about it, the lady was on a manhunt…for him. His body shook with silent laughter when he tried imagining what terrible things this fine-boned beauty with the brandy-colored eyes could do to him once she had him in her clutches.

      Duncan leaned closer, his voice reeling with melodrama. “The way she presses her hand flat against her tummy, then takes that calming breath just before she walks by you…” He gave an appreciative shiver.

      Reese narrowed his eyes in sincere curiosity toward his old college friend. “You’ve noticed that, too, have you?”

      “Along with every other red-blooded man here,” he said, as he moved to Reese’s side and looked toward the entrance with him. “They say she’s staying at Billy Waleska’s place over in Cap Ferrat while he’s away.”

      “Is she American?”

      “Do you really need to ask?”

      No, he didn’t. If there was one thing he could always recognize it was anything or anyone American. And he would happily bet his substantial night’s winnings to prove it by locating the Made In America stamp on her derriere. A twist of a smile was fighting for control of his mouth when he pictured himself uncovering the evidence.

      “Here she comes,” Duncan said behind his fingers as he ran one down his nose. “Listen, if you decide to join forces with your mystery lady, we can have our talk tomorrow.”

      As the croupier raked in the house win, Reese frowned at his friend. “It’s not going to happen.”

      “Come on. The thought of leaving the casino with that angel hasn’t crossed your mind?” Duncan asked as they watched her slip into the crowd on the other side of the roulette table to buy her chips.

      Reese watched as the other men there took a look, some less discreetly than others. He couldn’t blame them. Her décolleté dress was showing off the creamy curves of her breasts to perfection, but the choker of large white pearls at her throat added that odd touch of sexuality that was grabbing at his gut. He repositioned his body against the hard edge of the table as he continued to watch her. Knowing she’d dressed with him in mind had him musing about the parts of her he couldn’t see.

      Duncan lowered his voice to a comical level. “I don’t think she’s following you around for a contribution to the Red Cross.”

      Neither did Reese, but that was beside the point. With each of her subtle movements, she set his blood humming. Reese tore his gaze from the beauty in the curve-caressing white silk. “I was referring to your marketing strategy for my champagne. It’s not going to happen, Duncan. The timing is all wrong to start exporting it Stateside,” he said as he turned back to where he’d seen her last. A sense of alarm shot through him when he couldn’t find her in the crowd.

      “The timing’s perfect, Reese,” Duncan insisted. “Have you forgotten? It’s an election year. Anything’s possible.”

      Duncan kept talking, stirring up private demons Reese didn’t want to face. Not now, not ever. He plowed his fingers through the tousle of brown curly hair threatening to spill lower on his forehead. Straining, he squinted into the crowd, then rolled his eyes in protest over the state he was getting himself into. What was happening to his evening? Where had she gone? And why was it suddenly so important that he find her? He groaned inwardly. Why wouldn’t Duncan shut up? Clamping a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, he mugged for his friend. “I’ve got my mind on more immediate concerns here. Where in hell did she disappear to now?”

      Duncan sighed with resignation, then quietly scanned the area. “I think your angel flew away, which is probably a good thing. Maybe now we can talk some business.”

      “My angel?” Laughing out loud at the thought, he shook his head. “If she were my angel,” he said, stepping aside to allow someone to sidle next to him, “she wouldn’t have abandoned me to you.”

      A slow smile spread across Duncan’s face. “She hasn’t,” he said, subtly gesturing with his chin toward the person on the other side of Reese.

      Reese turned his head for a quick confirmation, but once he locked onto her profile he couldn’t bring himself to turn away. Close up, she was breathtaking, living up in every way to Duncan’s designation. The mass of white blond curls tumbling loosely around her face befitted an angel, not the aloof, sophisticated woman she was trying to be. Her lovely, long-fingered, soft hands fidgeted mercilessly with the clasp on her evening bag until she’d snapped it open. He knew his blatant staring wasn’t helping her nerves, but if she pulled out her lipstick and starting doing those sexy things with her mouth, he wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

      As the