Lying in Bed. Jo Leigh

       “We need to kiss …”

      Angie knew exactly what was at stake. To kiss Ryan until it felt right. As if they were a real couple.

      To get to a comfort level would take a considerable amount of kissing. And touching. Could she really handle that? If she blew this sting because of some ridiculous secret crush on an impossible man …

      His hands squeezed her shoulders. “You’re right.”

      His gaze locked on hers. “We have to get rid of this awkwardness between us, or risk the operation.”

      “I agree. Totally.” She forced a smile, casually placed a palm on his chest, as if kissing him was no big deal, and hoped he didn’t see her pulse leaping out of control.

      This was it. The moment of truth.

      He took a step. Stopped. “I’m getting a scotch.”

      Her whole body sagged in relief, but before she asked for a drink of her own, the stakes flashed through her mind.

      So she grabbed Ryan’s shoulders, pushed herself against his body and pulled him straight down into the kiss of her life …

      About the Author

      JO LEIGH is from Los Angeles and always thought she’d end up living in Manhattan. So how did she end up in Utah, in a tiny town with a terrible internet connection, being bossed around by a house full of rescued cats and dogs? What the heck, she says, predictability is boring. Jo has written more than forty novels for Mills & Boon^®. She can be contacted at [email protected].

      Lying in Bed

      Jo Leigh

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       1

      SPECIAL AGENT RYAN VAIL tossed the brochure on the bed. The amazingly comfortable-looking bed, which was a far cry from most of the rat holes he’d been stuck with on various FBI stings and stakeouts. The Color Canyon Resort and Spa was a decadent oasis in the middle of the Las Vegas desert built for people with cash to spend and a yen for excitement and being pampered.

      Ryan settled against the headboard, the puffy comforter billowing around him. Straight ahead was a forty-two-inch flat-screen TV. There was a wing chair, a leather love seat, an extravagantly stocked minibar and, if he turned his head to the right, beyond the private patio was a view of a nice little courtyard with a pool and spa pool all in the shadow of the Spring Mountains. It might be February in the rest of the world, but in the Vegas desert it was a balmy seventy-two degrees with copious sunshine on the docket for the rest of the week.

      He grinned, pulled out his cell phone and went right to speed dial text.

      You’re gonna die when you see the bathtub.

      He hit Send, adjusted the pillow behind him and checked out his work stuff. Another email update on Delilah Bridges, one of the cotherapists in charge of this barbecue. Four people ran the Intimate At Last retreat weekends, all suspects in a major blackmail scheme. Unfortunately for them, they’d unwittingly targeted a friend of James Leonard, the Deputy Director of the FBI.

      Ryan’s phone rang, and he knew it was his partner without even looking. “Jeannie Foster. How’s my favorite witness for the State?”

      “Shut up, you bastard,” she said, her voice echoey, as if she were speaking in a vast hall. Or a toilet stall.

      Of course, he’d taken a picture of the big-enough-for-a-party whirlpool tub, which he promptly sent her. A moment later, the mother of two cursed him with her usual flair.

      “I hate court. I hate lawyers. I hate judges. And don’t even get me started on juries. Get me the hell out of here, Ryan.”

      “It should be over soon, right?”

      “Probably around the time of the next ice age. Jesus, they love to hear themselves talk.”

      “In a few hours you’ll forget all about them. This place is something else. If I’m going to be forced to sleep with you, I’m glad it’s in this beauty of a bed. Which is actually more comfortable than mine at home.”

      Jeannie laughed. “It’s not the bed, honey, it’s all your extracurricular activity. I think you’d have to find a titanium mattress to keep up.”

      “You’re hilarious.”

      “Nothing is hilarious today,” she said. “You get the new updates on Delilah?”

      “Yeah.”

      Her sigh was long and filled with frustration. “Interesting about her father and his criminal record, but dammit, still nothing usable. With all the data we’ve collected, you’d think we’d have uncovered something more viable.”

      “Everyone makes mistakes. But,” he added, “I’m going to be such a perfect mark, they’re gonna wet themselves waiting to get to me. We’ll be out of here in a few days.”

      “I thought you said the accommodations were super deluxe?”

      He grinned. This is why he liked his partner, despite the fact that she could be a stick in the mud, what with being married and a mom. She was quick … and needed a vacation as badly as he did after the intensity of the past two months preparing for this sting. “Right. Maybe it’ll take the whole week.”

      “There we go. I have to get back to the torture chamber. I hear they’re planning on using the rack next.”

      “Hey, I’m gonna sign off on this phone, but Ryan Ebsen’s cell and laptop haven’t finished charging. If there’s a God, I should be asleep when you arrive, so don’t wake me.”

      “Coming off another late night, Romeo?”

      “None of your business. Go be a witness.”

      “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” she said, and then she was gone, and he was faced with the prospect of what to do with the rest of the afternoon.

      It would be more fun to play craps or hang out in one of the casino bars, but from the moment he’d checked in, FBI Special Agent Ryan Vail was locked in a vault for the duration of his stay, replaced by the fictitious Ryan Ebsen. Husband of the equally fictitious Jeannie Ebsen. Son of Felicia and Bob from Reseda, California.

      Ryan sifted through the file, studying the cover story he already knew inside and out. But when you pretended to be someone else, there was no such thing as too much prep. Ebsen was a regional manager for a business software firm. His lovely bride of nineteen months didn’t work because she didn’t need to. Not because he brought in enough money to live their extravagant life, but because she had a trust fund. A very hefty trust fund.

      But Mrs. Ebsen had been spending a little too much time at the club lately with a very handsome tennis coach, which made Ryan itchy. He doubted they were sleeping together, but there was always a risk that if she started to feel as if the honeymoon was over, she could find solace in the tennis pro’s arms. It had been Ryan Ebsen’s idea to attend this couple’s retreat week, where they would “Learn how to transition to the deeper, more meaningful stage of a committed relationship.”

      Mr. Ebsen, the scoundrel, really, really wanted to make the marriage work. He’d grown attached to their Brentwood home, the Manhattan pied-à-terre, his Ferrari, the first-class travel. He’d even decided to break things off with Roxanne, the gorgeous receptionist at his office. He was nothing if not serious about this intimacy crap.

      He continued to read the email from his team in White Collar Crimes back in L.A. The first report of blackmail had come shortly after a weekend Intimate At Last retreat in Los Angeles, and since it dealt with some historic artwork and blackmail,