Undercover Mistress

Chapter 15

Looking back on it, Roy couldn’t recall a Christmas Day so full of emotional ups and downs. A real roller-coaster ride.

First, there was waking up and finding himself where he had no business being, with Celia in his bed, all tangled up in warm and sinful ways, with an unforgivable smile of well-being on his face and a faint queasiness of guilt lying ignored in his belly.

After that, his first thought-okay, maybe his second or third thought, probably because, after the murmured and kiss-interrupted good mornings and Merry Christmases, it was the first coherent word out of Celia’s mouth-was the turkey!

They found it sitting in an inch or so of chilly water, maybe half-thawed.

“Don’t panic,” he ordered, after she gave him a stricken look, as if he’d let her down, somehow, and it was all his fault. “We’ve still got time.”

He filled up the tub with fresh water and left her to shower and dress while he went downstairs to make coffee and start clearing away the debris in the living room. After he’d got most of the wrappings mashed into a plastic trash bag and the empty boxes stowed in the garage, and about half a bushel of pine needles swept up off the rug, he went and got the gold foil bag with the wind chime in it and put it under the tree.

He was standing there looking at it, thinking how lonely it seemed there all by itself after the mountains of presents he was used to seeing, when Celia came down the stairs. She was wearing red, some sort of bathrobe-that was all he knew to call it, though he imagined it probably had some other, fancier name-and her hair was tied up on top of her head with a red ribbon, with a sprig of some kind of greenery-holly?-stuck in it. She was carrying a box in her hands, wrapped in Christmas paper and ribbon, and she sort of checked when she saw him, as if she’d been hoping to sneak it under the tree when he wasn’t looking.

Caught, she came to him instead, pink and excited as a child. She handed over the present, then stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and whisper, “Merry Christmas,” in his ear.

Touched and gravel-voiced, he said, “Hold on, I’ve got one for you, too,” and swooped down and snatched up the gold bag.

Holding it in her hands, she stared at him, as stunned and openmouthed as if Santa Claus himself had presented her with the gift. With a smile of pure delight and a breathy, “For me?” she clasped the gold foil bag to her chest. Then: “Open yours first,” she ordered, clamping her teeth down on her lower lip to contain her excitement.

Quailing a little, recalling what he’d been told about her gift-giving tendencies, Roy shook his head. “Uh-uh-you first.”

She didn’t argue with him. Holding her breath, teeth clamped down on her lower lip, she opened the bag and peeked inside. The cry she gave when she pulled out the crystal heart about made his heart jump into his throat. She held it up, trailing all those little teardrops, then slowly turned, enraptured, as countless tiny rainbows splashed across the walls and the room filled with tinkling crystalline music. When she rotated back to him, he saw her eyes were bright with tears.

“How did you know?” she said in a wondering, catching voice. “When I was really little, I used to think sunbeams-you know, those little specs of dust in sunlight?-were fairies. This reminds me so much of that. Oh, I love it! Thank you!”

She sat on the couch and laid the wind chime carefully across the cushions beside her, then clapped her hands gleefully. “Now you.”

Filled more with trepidation than anticipation, Roy tackled the gift-wrapped box. He untied the ribbon, peeled off the paper, took off the lid…and with hammering heart, lifted what was inside up from its nest of tissue paper. Then, for a moment, he simply sat and stared at it.

“It’s your boat,” Celia said, her voice sounding small, vulnerable and far away. “Is it…all right? Do you like it?”

“It’s…” He couldn’t look at her, so he went on gazing at the boat…the perfect miniature replica, obviously hand-made, of his boat, The Gulf Starr.

It had hit him so hard, so suddenly. He felt like he was holding his other life…his real life…in his hands. Except somehow, at some point, this life-the one with Celia-had become his reality. Now, that life-his boat, his charter business, his buddy and partner, Scott, even his family-all that seemed like fantasy to him, far-off and unreal. When had that happened?

He shot a blind look in her direction. “How did you…”

“I got a picture off your Web site. There’s this old guy in Topanga Canyon-he makes all sorts of models, sailboats, mostly-I have one my parents gave me when I was small-but I gave him the picture and asked him if he’d make me one like it, and…” Hunched and breathless, she gave a shrug. “I hope he got it right.”

He swiped a hand across his nose, then cleared his throat. “It’s perfect. It’s amazing. Thank you.”

But he couldn’t look at her, or take his eyes off the boat. He was still sitting there staring at it when he heard her get up and go in the kitchen to start Christmas dinner.

On the subject of which-Christmas dinner-Roy figured the less said, the better.

He tried his best to help her, he really did. But she kept chasing him off, evidently hell-bent on fixing him that Christmas dinner with all the trimmings he’d told her about and without making him peel, cut up, crack or chop stuff the way his momma did. The turkey went into the oven around noontime-Roy didn’t know whether it ever had gotten defrosted all the way, and decided he didn’t want to ask. By midafternoon the good smell of roasting turkey was beginning to override the odor of things burning, and Roy’s hopes rose a little.

Doc wandered in around that time, bringing with him two bottles of wine and some red roses for Celia. She stopped what she was doing in the kitchen long enough to give him his gift, which turned out to be a box made out of ebony wood, carved and inlaid with gold, lapis and mother-of-pearl.

“It’s the one from Mother and Daddy’s movie Pandora’s Box,” she told him. “They had two of them made-I think the other one’s in the Smithsonian.”

Doc gave Roy a “What did I tell you?” wink.

After that, he and Doc retired to the den and the big-screen TV, and by the time Celia called them to the table, they’d both drunk enough wine that lumpy mashed potatoes, burned gravy, underdone turkey and various unidentifiable dishes probably wouldn’t even register on their tastebuds.

Not that any of that mattered. As far as Roy was concerned, the vision he was going to carry with him for the rest of his life was Celia across the table from him, bathed in candlelight, flushed and sweaty in a food-spattered apron, with wisps of golden hair escaping from her red ribbon and a smudge of flour on her cheek, looking exhausted, radiant, happy…and more beautiful than he’d ever seen her look before. That image made everything else fade to insignificance.

That…and wondering how it was that the absolute worst Christmas dinner he’d ever eaten in his life could also be the very best Christmas present he’d ever received.

The day after Christmas, Celia went for her morning jog, as usual. When she came back, she went straight to Roy’s room to ask him for help hanging her new wind chime. Surely, she reasoned, a man raised in the rural South who captained his own fishing boat must possess the necessary masculine skills for such a task. And, somewhere in the house, she was sure, there must be at least some basic, rudimentary tools.

His bedroom door was pulled almost shut but not latched, the way it had been the night she’d almost gone to his bed. Remembering that night and all that had happened between them since, as she raised her hand to knock her heart had already quickened, though she sternly told it not to. I can’t think of him that way. Not now. Not until this is over.

Her mind slammed shut on the tag-along question: And then?

With her hand uplifted, she took a steadying breath-and froze. Roy was talking on the phone. His voice was pitched low but sounded tense and angry, and she could hear him clearly when he spoke following a prolonged listening silence.

“I told you I drew the line at that. I told you I didn’t want her anywhere near that boat. That was the deal.” There was more silence. Then: “I know she has. I’m not arguing that. But she’s still a civilian, and she’s got no business being…dammit, Max, I don’t want her in the way when this goes down…yeah, well…uh-huh…” His voice dropped to a furious mutter.

Celia realized she was still standing with her hand raised to knock on the door and that her whole body felt stiff and cold-literally frozen. From the other side of the door came a sharp explosive obscenity, then the thump of angry footsteps. And still she couldn’t make herself move. Her face and neck muscles hurt.

The door swung open and Roy stood there, eyes black as midnight, hair wild, mouth set in a hard and angry line-once more a pirate, now poised on the gunwales of a ship, about to swoop down on the hapless crew.

Uttering the same sharp obscenity, this time softly and under his breath, he gripped the doorframe, making of himself a barrier against her. “I suppose you heard.”

Every instinct she had wanted to cut and run. Every nerve, sinew and muscle in her body cramped in protest against the iron will that held her there to face him down in icy, trembling anger. “You asked Max to take me off the…the…” Job? Mission? Operation? That she didn’t know what to call it, thus proving Roy’s point-that she was, in fact, a civilian-infuriated her. “How could you?”

“Celia-”

“After I told you how I felt about it.” After I told you things…feelings I’ve never told anyone else before. “You knew how much it meant to me.”

“Dammit, that’s got nothing-aw, hell. Look, if it’s any consolation to you, Max said no…”

The last part was shouted to her retreating back, as she finally found the strength to turn and walk stiffly and swiftly away and leave him there.

In the living room, she paused, breathing hard, and pivoting back and forth in indecision. Upstairs to take a shower? Or back to the beach to run off some of this excess adrenaline? Dammit, she didn’t need exercise. She needed someone to talk to.

Out she went, across the deck, down her stairs and up Doc’s. She was pounding with her fist on his sliding glass door before it occurred to her that, by Doc’s reckoning, it was barely the crack of dawn. Too late to retreat; she could see him making his way toward her through the murky twilight inside the house like someone swimming through molasses.

He squinted blearily at her through the salt-crusted glass, then swept the door open and croaked, “Celia-oh, good God, don’t tell me you’ve found another body.”

“No-though I just may create one shortly.” She pushed past him into the house.

“So, it’s only angry she is, then,” Doc muttered in a fake Irish accent as he pulled the door shut behind her. He shuffled over to a table covered with clutter, picked up a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, stuck it between his lips and lit it with an unsteady hand.

Celia paused in her pacing to glare at him. “Let me have one of those.”

“I will do no such thing!” He looked at her as if she’d suggested he give crack to a kindergarten class. He inhaled deeply, sighed through a stream of smoke and, thus fortified, coughed and said, “Now, love…tell your Uncle Doc-what has our Roy done to put your back so far up?”

Celia told him. And was more than a little miffed when he merely shook his head and chuckled.

“And you haven’t a clue, have you, why he would do such a thing?”

“No. I haven’t. I don’t understand. I thought I’d done a brilliant job, quite frankly. I thought-” I thought we were good together.

Doc shook his head and gave another sigh. “God, it is true what they say, isn’t it? Love truly is blind.”

Once again she paused to glare at him. “What do you mean?”

“My dear, the man is in love with you.” She was shaking her head. “Yes, I’m afraid he is-completely besotted. He’s only trying to do what strong men do when they love someone a great deal-he’s trying to protect you, of course.”

Celia whirled away from him and covered her face with her hands, desperate to hide her face from him because she’d somehow lost the ability to control it. Lost the ability to keep all the powerful and confusing things she was feeling from showing there. Joy. Something overwhelming that felt like grief.

He loved her. And she loved him. What a lovely fantasy it was…a beautiful story! It would make a terrific movie, wouldn’t it? It would have a happy ending, of course-a “happily ever after” ending, as all good love stories do.

Except this wasn’t a story, it was life. Her life. And nobody knew better than she did that things didn’t always work out that way in life. This…whatever it was she and Roy were involved in together…would end. He’d go on to his next undercover operation, she’d go on to her next role, and no doubt fall in love with her next leading man.

But I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to move on! I want this…just this. I want him…Roy…forever.

She wanted very much to cry, but since she wouldn’t do that-she’d die, first-she whirled back to Doc and said snappishly, “That’s no excuse. All the more reason he should understand how I feel.”

“Yes, he should,” Doc said softly, “but as I said, love is blind.” He smiled his ironic smile and lit another cigarette.

All things considered, during the next few days Roy decided it was just as well Celia wasn’t speaking to him. Solved the problem of his wanting to take her to bed every time he got near her-or anyway, it prevented the taking. Definitely not the wanting.

At least, it made it a whole lot easier to keep his mind on what lay ahead of them.

And a whole lot harder to sleep at night.

During the day, he spent most of his time with Max, going over diagrams and blueprints, familiarizing himself with every inch of the yacht Bibi Lilith. Committing photos of known terrorists to memory, in case any of them turned up as members of the Bibi Lilith’s crew. Learning how to operate the various instruments they’d be taking on board the yacht with them.

“Speaking of which,” he said to Max during one of their joint briefings, “how are we getting this stuff on board? I can’t imagine they’ll be searching everybody’s luggage, but I’d hate to stake my life on it.”

“Won’t have to. We’re having some special luggage put together for you-complete with secret compartments, well shielded…should stand up to all but the most sophisticated sweepers. That’ll hold the laptop and other big stuff.”

“Weapons?” Max looked at him. He could feel Celia’s eyes on him, too, and he knew she’d be remembering what he’d said to her. We don’t kill people. He rubbed absently at his healing ribs and felt a chill go through him. “Just in case.”

“Sure,” Max said. “By all means. Okay. So, the small stuff, things you’re gonna want to keep with you at all times-bugs, GPS tracking devices, chemical, biological and radiation sensors, things like that-they’ll go in this.” He held up a woman’s leather handbag. “Celia, I’m assuming this’ll be your responsibility…” He held it out to her with a smile.

Roy shook his head and held up a hand. “Uh-uh. She doesn’t carry a pocketbook.”

“I do now,” Celia said as she took the purse, giving him an offended look before she began to inspect it inside and out with avid curiosity.

And a funny thing happened to Roy as he watched her, listening with somber attention to Max as he explained the various hidden compartments and bells and whistles in the custom-made bag. He felt most of his anger, and at least part of his fear, evaporate, and a more than grudging admiration for her come to take its place.

She means it, he thought. This isn’t a game to her, any more than it is to me. And she’s good at it. Damn good.

He was still afraid for her safety, of course. He was always gonna be that. Terrified. But at least he didn’t have to be afraid of having her as his backup. Fact was, she was good. She’d be okay.

He just hoped he’d be able to say the same for himself.

Evidently, Max had the same doubts, because after the briefing, when Roy walked with him out to his car, he dragged off his sunglasses, gave him a piercing look and asked, with a little motion of his head back toward the house, “How you doing? You gonna be okay with this?”

Roy dug his hands into his pockets and dragged in a breath. “Oh, sure. Hell, yes.”

Not looking much reassured by that response, Max said, “She’s gonna be fine, you know. She’ll do okay.”

“I know.” But he couldn’t keep some of the worry he felt from showing; Max knew him too well.

With his car door open, Max hesitated, squinting against the lowering sun. “Look-all you need to do is find us something-you know that. Anything that’ll give us a reason to move in. That’s all. No unnecessary chances, nobody needs to get hurt.”

“I know.”

Max nodded, got into his car and slammed the door. Roy stood where he was, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and watched him drive away.

Celia was on the upper starboard deck of the yacht Bibi Lilith, stretched out on one of the Balinese sunning beds-though “sunning” was hardly the right term, given that she was wearing slacks and a sweater, with a scarf wrapped around her head, a cashmere jacket buttoned to her chin and a lap robe covering her bottom half, from waist to ankles, against a biting December wind.

She was pretending to read, although a considerable amount of time had passed since she’d last turned a page of the book in her lap. Behind the cover of sunglasses, her eyes kept darting nervously toward the boat’s stern. It was from there that Roy, according to their arrangement, was to come to join her, once Abby had finished showing him around the “backstairs” part of the yacht.

He and Celia had both been given a grand tour of the yacht’s guest amenities shortly after boarding, of course. Then, using the pretext Celia had already planted for him-that he was planning to buy such a yacht for himself-Roy had asked to see the engine and control rooms, kitchens, crew’s quarters, storage holds and the like. Abby had seemed delighted to show off his new toy. Even better, several of the other guests-all male-had asked to be included, as well, which nicely diverted any undue attention from Roy.

There was absolutely no reason for Celia to feel nervous and apprehensive because he was fifteen minutes late joining her. But she did. Tension skated over her skin, crawled through her scalp and gripped the back of her neck like teeth. She told herself he was in no danger-how could he be? It was broad daylight, they were on board the sleek and beautiful yacht Bibi Lilith, cruising toward Mexico on a sparkling sunny sea, and on board with them were fifty or so other people, nearly all of them world-famous for one reason or another. What could happen to them here?

But she felt the danger. Felt it all around her.

I’m afraid. I wish I weren’t, but I am.

It was her damned imagination, she supposed. It insisted on showing her not a sunny December afternoon, but the dead of a moonless night and the yacht ploughing purposefully through a dark and lonely sea. And on board, one man, unarmed and all but naked, fighting to stay alive against impossible odds…

A powerful sense of awe and pride and love thumped her in the chest, and she thought: I must not let him see I’m afraid. I can’t…won’t let him down…

It was then, with those thoughts in her mind and awash in the attendant devastating emotions, that she looked up and saw their cause coming toward her…slim and elegant in blazer and slacks…sun glancing like sparks off the silver in his hair. Her breathing grew shallow and quick with desire…as it always did when she saw him dressed up in beautifully cut clothes. She thought: He should have been a movie star. In Hollywood’s golden age…my parents’ time. He’d have been a natural.

Oh, how she wished she could let him know how she felt. Wished she could let her desire for him show in her eyes…say flattering, seductive things to him with a smile on her lips and the promise of sex in her voice. If Doc was right about him being in love with her… Oh, but how could he be, when he only looked at her with coldness? With such an impassive expression and unreadable eyes?

And even if Doc was right…this wasn’t the time or the place for it-for love or sex. Or promises.

“You’re late,” she said and casually turned a page.

“Some of the other members of the tour had questions,” Roy said. Still mad, he thought as he gazed down at tiny twin images of himself reflected in her sunglasses. Just as well.

And if it was just as well, why was it beginning to irritate him so much? What had he done that was so awful? Just tried to keep her out of a situation that could get her killed, was all, and this was the thanks he got? Well, hell.

A white-jacketed waiter came by, offering glasses of champagne on a tray. Roy shook his head, and Celia waved the waiter away with her most charming smile.

Roy waited until both the waiter and Celia’s smile had gone, then said in an icy undertone, “You think you could try a little harder to pretend to be nice to me? I thought we’re supposed to be this…loving couple. What the hell are these people gonna think?”

“They’ll think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel, of course,” Celia said without looking up from the book she was reading. “I suspect next week’s tabloids will be full of the news of our impending breakup.” She flashed the twin mirrors at him again. “The timing should be just about perfect, shouldn’t it? Assuming this cruise goes the way we hope.”

She closed the book, keeping her finger between the pages to mark her place. “Speaking of which…did you turn up anything?”

He let out a breath as he sat on the couch…or bed, or chaise longue, or whatever…next to hers. “Nothing. Far as I can tell with these things, the damn boat’s clean.”

He leaned over and opened the handbag that was sitting on the deck beside her bed, carefully unfastened the strap that had held the palm-size instrument in place above his wrist, hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, and returned it to its concealed compartment in the handbag. Then, for the benefit of anyone who might have been watching, he took out a tube of sunscreen.

“What’s that for?” Celia asked, watching warily as he squeezed a small dollop of cream into the palm of his hand.

“Just in case we’re being monitored. Take off your glasses.” He waited, silent and dispassionate, for her to comply with his order, then dipped the tip of his index finger into the cream, leaned over and, ignoring her startled flinch, smeared it in a line down the ridge of her nose.

What the hell. He could deliver the cold shoulder as well as the next guy, if that was the way she wanted it.

Only trouble was, there wasn’t any part of him, including his shoulders, feeling cold just then. His heart was an engine bent on pumping heat into the farthest reaches of his body; sweat beaded on his forehead, pooled under his arms and trickled down his ribs. His skin felt feverish, as if he were the one who’d been too long in the sun.

He kept his eyes focused on what his fingers were doing and tried not to let himself think about what her eyes might be telling him. He couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be written in those incredible baby blues of hers that wasn’t going to make him feel worse than he already did.

Slowly, he wiped the slippery sunscreen all over her nose, then smeared some onto her cheeks…smoothed out the watermark frown in the middle of her forehead…massaged what was left in his palm over her chin and throat. And while he was doing all that he was remembering the way he’d felt when she’d done almost the same thing to him, that day in her kitchen with Max looking on. He wondered whether she felt the same way he had then-angry, helpless, half-suffocated with arousal.

He could only hope so, dammit. Serve her right.

“Don’t get burned,” he said as he rose, rubbing his hands together.

She calmly lifted her sunglasses, slipped them on and opened her book. “I don’t intend to,” she replied softly.

Had to have the last word, did she? After the briefest of hesitations, he decided to let her have it.

As the day wore on and the Bibi Lilith churned steadily toward Mexican waters, Roy resigned himself to a return to the role he’d grown accustomed to playing during the past weeks: that of R. J. Cassidy, Canadian billionaire and consort of Hollywood royal, Celia Cross. Whether in the lounge, the dining salon, or gathered around the hot tub on the yacht’s stern deck, his place was on the fringes of the crowd, where he lounged casually, sipped Mexican beer and watched Celia charm and entrance…keeping his own expression indulgent, perhaps just a bit sardonic.

Always when he did that, while he watched her and marveled at her beauty, her charm, her grace, he felt a sadness come over him and heaviness settle around his heart. How perfectly she fits that world, he thought. How easily she blends into it, how comfortable she is with all those wealthy, talented, famous and beautiful people.

And why not? They were her people. It was her world; she was born into it, had never known any other. She belonged to it.

He didn’t. And never would. It was that simple.

At that moment, as if she’d felt his eyes, or maybe the intensity of his thoughts, in the midst of a laughing conversation, Celia happened to look up and lock eyes with him across the crowded, noisy lounge. As her smile slowly faded, Roy lifted his beer bottle toward her in an ironic little salute.

He would have drained the rest of it then, but his throat ached too much to swallow.