Hart's Last Stand. Cheryl Biggs

black mustache that followed the curve of his upper lip and ended bluntly at each corner. She thought instantly of a weasel. A very dapper, very slick and very polished weasel.

      The maître d’ motioned with his hand, and both men began to cross the room toward Suzanne and Hart.

      She stiffened.

      The maître d’ breezed past.

      The man from the pool caught her eye.

      A slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded.

      Suzanne cringed and instinctively pushed against the back of her seat. Was that his way of telling her she was being watched?

      Hart saw Suzanne’s reaction to the man passing their table. He glanced over her shoulder and watched as the man took a seat at another table. Was he Suzanne’s accomplice? Or had she recognized a federal agent? Was that a warning to the man he’d seen in her eyes or fear of him?

      “Who was that?” he asked, deciding his waning patience wasn’t going to abide anything at the moment but a direct approach, even if all it garnered him was yet another of her lies.

      “I don’t know, but I saw him earlier. He was watching me.”

      “Watching you?” He nearly scoffed at what was most likely a lie, and his mind raced to figure out where to put this piece of the puzzle. Feigning concern, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Where was this, Suzanne? And when did you notice him watching you?”

      “When I—”

      “Excuse me, señorita.”

      They both looked up to see that the man in question had returned and was standing beside their table. He nodded to Hart, then looked back at Suzanne and smiled widely, but there seemed a sadness in his dark eyes that didn’t disappear with the warm gesture of his lips.

      Hart saw Suzanne’s fingers tighten around the delicate stem of her water glass, but the move didn’t completely obscure the fact that she was trembling. At least, it didn’t obscure it from him.

      Fright or nervousness? he wondered.

      “Yes?” she said.

      “Excuse me,” the man repeated. “I am Salvatore DeBraggo.” He offered a curt bow, at the same time scooping up Suzanne’s free hand and raising it to his lips. “Are you not Señorita Cassidy from Casswell’s Gallery in Beverly Hills, California?”

      His accent was extremely thick, but Suzanne understood every word. Mainly because they’d brought her a rush of relief. She’d almost expected him to pull out a knife or gun. She smiled, feeling foolish. “Yes, I am, but I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr….”

      “Oh, no, señorita, we have not met. You see, I have been dealing with your associate, Señor Weller. I have a very extensive collection of antique jewelry, my late wife’s, actually. But—” he waved a hand, as if in dismissal “—we had no children, so there is no one to give the jewels to and I could use the funds.”

      “I see,” Suzanne said.

      “Yes. I would like to place them up for auction, and when I spoke with Señor Weller today on the telephone and he realized you and I were both here in the same city, he assured me you could—”

      Hart felt his temper rising. He was trying to handle the possibility of losing his career, deal with espionage, treason and betrayal, and keep his burning libido under control, and this overly polished dandy was trying to arrange an auction? The rein on his patience snapped.

      “Look, Braggo,” Hart interjected.

      “Señor DeBraggo,” the man politely corrected, still smiling but not taking his gaze off Suzanne.

      “Señor DeBraggo,” Hart repeated with more than a touch of sarcasm purposely instilled in his tone, “Ms. Cassidy is here on vacation, at least for the next few days, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

      The man handed Suzanne a card. “Of course. Again, please excuse me, señorita. I apologize humbly for the interruption. It was only that Señor Weller insisted I contact you here right away. He made no mention of a vacation. I am sorry to have bothered you.”

      “It’s all right, really, Señor DeBraggo,” Suzanne said, shooting a glare of reproof at Hart. “I often mix business with pleasure. It’s no problem at all.”

      DeBraggo smiled. “Then I will await your call, Señorita Cassidy. I am also staying here in the hotel and have written my room number on the back of my card, in case you have the time to look at my jewelry. Until we talk again, at your convenience, of course.” He snapped his heels together, then turned and walked away without even so much as a “drop dead and goodbye” to Hart.

      He watched the man walk back to his own table. There was something about him that made Hart uneasy. Instinct warned him that the man was not what he seemed, that he was someone who could be very dangerous. Maybe even deadly. The glint in his eyes was too cold and hard.

      Hart looked back at Suzanne. “Do you get that sort of thing a lot when you’re out?” he asked sharply, unable to rationalize just why his temper was still smoldering. What in hell did he care if the man had insultingly ignored him? Or that Suzanne didn’t mind mixing business with pleasure? If indeed that was what had happened. And if it was and his instincts were on the wrong course, it was certainly none of his concern if her partner sicced inconsiderate clients on her.

      “No, not often,” Suzanne said, staring at DeBraggo’s card.

      Hart took a long swallow of ice water, hoping the coldness of it would somehow miraculously put a chill on both his overactive libido and his temper. Could he mix business with pleasure? he wondered, watching her. Could he draw her into his arms, kiss her, taste her passion as he’d wanted to for so long and still seriously consider that she could be out to destroy him? That she could be guilty of treason, possibly even murder?

      A frown dug deeply into Suzanne’s brow as Hart studied her. He suddenly found himself wondering if she could read his thoughts.

      “Hart,” she said softly, cutting into his musings.

      He saw new fear in her eyes.

      “I didn’t tell Clyde what hotel I was going to be staying in.”

      Hart instantly shoved out of his seat and darted across the restaurant in the direction Salvatore DeBraggo had gone. His gaze swept over the other patrons, but there was no sign of the Spaniard anywhere.

      Hart lay on his bed and stared into the darkness, running everything that had happened that evening through his mind again. Right after leaving Suzanne he’d called Private Roubechard about the background checks he’d requested, but there was some problem with getting the files downloaded and transferred from the Armed Security Agency, so they weren’t going to be available until morning.

      He mulled over the incident at dinner again. Had the whole thing with DeBraggo been a setup? Something the man and Suzanne had staged just for him? Maybe so she could gain a little more of Hart’s trust? Look a bit more innocent, a bit more vulnerable, so that he’d believe and help her?

      He threw back the sheet and swung his feet to the floor, annoyed by his inability to turn off his thoughts and go to sleep. That wasn’t usually a problem. He’d slept in everything from a sagging feather bed to a foxhole to a leaf-filled muddy crevice in the Peruvian jungle. He’d slept through artillery fire, bombing raids and silence so deep it was deafening.

      He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Almost 3:00 a.m. If he wasn’t going to sleep, the least he could do was think. Rationally.

      Why had she really come back?

      Frustrated and annoyed by the traitorous bent of his thoughts, Hart settled down at the desk in his bedroom and flipped on the computer. If his libido and sudden bent for nostalgia kept getting in the way, he was most certainly going to end up either behind bars or dead. Especially if the woman heating his libido and stirring that nostalgia