Smoke and Mirrors (4 page)

The glitter in his green eyes communicated his warning.

"Quit being such a brute—" she laughed for Ruth's benefit "—he's the boss." Some thought Cass and Gray involved in a torrid affair, a rumor far safer than the truth. "We can finish later."

She shrugged free of his hand, gave Ruth an exasperated smile, then hurried toward the elevator.

The twenty-fifth floor arrived quickly. Cass could feel the adrenaline stream through her. Questions. Caution. But no time existed to indulge any of
it,
she had to be a dutiful employee, obeying her boss's summons.

The thought nearly made her laugh out loud.

She'd been on the penthouse floor before, at least the wing Brent occupied. Cloyd directed her to the wing she'd been chomping at the bit to gain access to for months now. Here, too, gilded frames of ancestors watched her progress, and yet there was something different about these portraits.

Dark, restless eyes. Insolent smiles. The "been there, done that" expressions. These weren't just random ancestors, she realized with a start.

They were
Mansfields
.

A shiver ran through her. She paused a moment before she forced her legs to move. The uneasiness didn't abate, nor did her excitement.

The hall seemed to stretch forever, but finally she arrived at the entryway Cloyd had described. No door, only a panel in the wall, marking what looked to be a secret entrance. The panel slid open, revealing an immense chamber. Quite certain she was supposed to, and unable to do anything else, Cass stepped inside. The panel slid shut behind her.

It took every ounce of willpower she had not to gasp. The vast chamber conjured images of another world, another time. Further back in time than manor houses, this room reminded her of the great hall in a once impregnable castle. The vaulted ceiling sported huge wooden beams spanning its width. Toward one side sat a massive table, obviously used at one time for eating, now for meetings.

On the other side of the room resided a desk. Not a dainty
Chippendale, nor
an elegant Louis XIV like Brent used. It was simple, classical. With its claw-foot legs, the desk suggested the man who occupied it didn't need frivolities to make a point.

Because he didn't.

The enormous burgundy chair swiveled to face her.
Mansfield
reclined there, the size of the chair doing nothing to dwarf the size of the man. Actually, chair and man looked tailor-made for each other.

"It was my grandfather's," he said by way of greeting. The intensity of his voice, his eyes, sent her heart racing.

"It's breathtaking."

"So are you."

The words hit hard. She'd heard he was lethal when he zapped up the charm, she just hadn't realized how overpowering his energy would feel.

Feel.
She mentally batted the offensive word aside, knowing it had no place in her interactions with
Mansfield
.

"Why, thank you," she drawled, as she always did when ducking behind a shield. "Ruth said you wanted to see me?"

"What man wouldn't?" A predatory gleam moved into his cobalt eyes. "Come closer. Have a seat."

Despite his silky voice, his orders emerged crisp and clear. She moved forward, acutely conscious of how snugly her scarlet-and-black uniform clung to her body. In that moment she wished she still wore clothes a size too big, that Gray's wife hadn't convinced her to buy the eight instead of the ten.

If only the office didn't feel so hot, her body so damp. Only one chair faced his desk, a straight-back with a leather burgundy seat—no armrests. The structure didn't invite occupants to hunker down, but to sit at attention. She did just that, demurely crossing one leg over the other.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

His smile turned insolent. "That's what I'd like to find out."

"Oh? How's that?"

He lounged back in his chair, swiveled it a degree to the right, then a degree to the left.
Those intense eyes
never left her face. He looked supremely male sitting there, confident, bordering on arrogant. Sexy. No, make that dangerous.

"Mr. Mansfield?"

From the corner of his desk he retrieved a leather portfolio, opened it,
laughed
. "
New Orleans
—I should have known."

Suspicion jackknifed through her. "Known what?"

"Only daughter in a family of five kids. Four older brothers. Father's a French Quarter cop. Mother stayed at home with her brood. Catholic
girls
school, followed by Loyola. Graduated with honors."

The made-up litany of her life echoed in her ears. The extra details she'd created for her alias had categorically
not
been on her résumé. The department had manufactured a past for her, yet she'd requested one to mirror her own. The fewer lies, the better. There could be no linkages to the Thibodauxs of New Orleans, she reminded herself, nor to Cassidy Blake, the name on her marriage license. The department made sure of that. But still, that
Mansfield
had discovered details of her fictional life made it clear she'd caught his attention. The man had done more than a little homework.

"Sure are a long way from home," he mused.

Situations like this were nothing new to her; she'd been trained how to interrogate, and be interrogated, time and again. "Sometimes a girl needs a change of venue."

"Change of venue from what?"

"From the South to the North," she answered simply, knowing that was no answer at all. "Kind of like joining the merchant marines, wouldn't you say?"

His lips curled into an uncivilized smile. "So that's how it's to be," he drawled. Not one drop of anger or suspicion marred his low, rumbly voice. Only intrigue. "Not many people would say that to me, but I think you know that. Care to tell me how you learned to be so brave?"

Ah-h-h-h, the chase. There was nothing like it. "And if I do care?"

He cut her a sharp look that told her what she thought didn't matter.

"You said it yourself, Mr. Mansfield. I grew up in the French Quarter." She served up an extra thick drawl, with just the right
New Orleans
clipped tone. "There a girl learns to do what a girl has to do to survive."

"Mr. Mansfield,"
he mocked. Oh, he was enjoying this all right. "Now there's a nice Southern touch. Doll, you can't be more than five years younger than me. I'd prefer you use my given name."

Doll. The endearment was crude, insulting and one hell of a call to arms. "But
Mr. Mansfield,"
she said through gritted teeth. "That wouldn't be proper—you're
the boss."

"Precisely, doll. That means you do as I say."

She licked her lips, fighting the urge to sink her teeth into him. Figuratively, of course. "So it does."

"And right now that means I want to hear you say my name—
my
first name."

Cass shifted in the uncomfortable chair, milking the moment for all it was worth. She uncrossed her legs,
then
recrossed them, again leaving her calves exposed. A long time had passed since she'd felt this exhilarated, this heady, so she went with it, deciding there was no law against enjoying her job.

Mansfield
watched her with an expectant gleam in his cobalt eyes. He had that edgy look some women found irresistible, the kind they naively thought masked vulnerability. An intriguing theory, Cass noted, but not one she could afford to explore.

Her gaze met his, her smile widened, and when she spoke, her voice held an extra dose of Southern honey. "Dare-ek."

The two syllables whooshed out more like a caress than an address.

He leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. "Again."

"Dare-
ek."

"Again."

She shifted in the chair. Never before had merely saying a man's name felt like foreplay. "Derek."

This time her voice betrayed her, delivering the word softer than before, huskier, like a satisfied lover might coo as she rolled into a pair of strong arms.

A smile curved his lips. "A man could get used to that."

"So I've been told."

"Have you, now?"

The role of sultry
New Orleans
beauty, fish out of water in cold, brutal
Chicago
, was one she looked forward to exploring. "Just curious. Did you call me up here for a reason, or did you just want to hear me say your name?"

"Is that a crime?"

She conjured an innocent smile. "Would you care if it was?"

He leaned back farther, bringing his crossed feet to rest on his desk. "What do you think?"

That you are one dangerous man. She pushed the truth aside, refused to linger on his blatantly sexual position. "I don't think you give a damn."

He laughed. "Not only beautiful, but smart, too."

She knew better than to let him bait her, but couldn't let his sexist comment pass. "Not only insolent," she tossed right back, "but a real charmer, too." She slid up the sleeve of her jacket and made a show of checking her watch. "Now, if we're done, I should head back downstairs."

"What's the hurry? You don't like playing truth or dare?"

She stilled. At least ten feet separated them, including his desk, but the way he looked at her made her feel like they were pressed body to body. "Is that what we're doing?"

"It's a great way to get acquainted, wouldn't you say?" He punctuated the question with a razor-sharp smile she hadn't found in any picture, any video.

"Is this how you welcome all new employees?" she asked.

"This has nothing to do with you being my employee, Cass." The glitter faded from his gaze, leaving only challenge. "This has to do with the way you took on a roomful of drunks last night with no fear in your eyes, but acted like a butterfly on a spring day the second I put my arm around your waist. Not many people are bold as sunshine one minute, mysterious as
midnight
the next. I was just curious why."

The observation knocked the breath from her lungs. "I didn't realize you were into pop psychology, Mr. Mansfield."

"It's Derek," he corrected, "and I'm not."

"Sure sounds like it to me."

He laughed. "Relax. I'm not trying to steal all your
secrets,
I just make sure I know who I'm dealing with." He lowered his feet to the floor and leaned across his desk. "You can go on downstairs now. We've covered enough for one day."

He was toying with her, she realized, dismissing her just when their conversation was going somewhere. His instincts were clearly as lethal as hers.

"How gallant of you," she murmured, drawing her braid over her shoulder. "But what if I'm enjoying our conversation? What if I'd rather continue our little game of truth or dare?"

Surprise sizzled in his eyes. He recovered quickly, that supremely male expression easing back into place. "Hate to shatter your illusions, honey, but I learned a long time ago you can't always get what you want. Sometimes wanting only makes it more impossible."

"Ohh, I don't know about that." She absolutely refused to consider that she might not bag her man. "Guess I'll have to wait and see."

She stood, pivoted, sauntered from his office. Her pace was slow and steady, remarkable considering how wildly her heart thrummed.

A long time had passed since anything, anyone, had burrowed beneath the mechanics of the job and tapped into her core of femininity. She could play the role of sultry hotel worker, and she would if that's what the job demanded, but as she recalled the seductive invitation in
Mansfield
's eyes, she realized how careful she needed to be.

The line between woman and cop had blurred once before, and the consequences had been deadly. In the five ensuing years she'd carved the line as deeply as she could, made it as dark and uncrossable as possible.

She stayed on the side of the cop exclusively. It was smarter that way, safer for everyone.

Even though there was no one.

Mansfield
's arrival changed nothing. Heightened everything. She couldn't let the line blur now, couldn't afford to pay attention to the side of her that was the woman.

Not with
Mansfield
primed to pounce.

* * *

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a cloudless black sky in its wake. Far above, a canopy of stars flirted with the earth, a brisk wind stirring to their fierce command. Many a night had been spent like this, lying on deck of a ship and watching the sky. Out in the middle of the ocean, thousands of miles from land, everything seemed more vivid. No towering skyscrapers to taint the view, no airplanes to interfere with the deafening
silence,
no lies to obscure the truth.

But Derek was no longer a merchant marine, no longer a rebellious youth getting back at his family and searching for his identity. He was a man who knew the score.