It was where Edward, Prince of Wales, first met Wallis Warfield, and where Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon filmed the old classic, Some Like It Hot.
Ordinary government employees could hardly afford to stay at a world-class resort like the Del, but then working as an undercover agent for the Naval Investigative Service hardly qualified as your average government job. Still, this particular assignment was definitely a step up from busting sailors trying to smuggle in dope from Tijuana just 20 miles south. Her pulse quickening at the thought, Em strolled through the magnificent lobby and paused beside a bellman.
"Any sign of our quarry?" she murmured.
Special Agent Kosloski shook his head. "Not in the past eight hours."
"Okay, I’ve got the stick."
Relieved of his post, Kosloski wheeled away his brass luggage cart. Like Em, he was part of the task force drawn together to surveil the International Symposium on Global Warming. With scientists from all over the world driving, flying, and even boating into San Diego, the FBI had called on local Navy investigators for help.
Their task — to bust the traitor who’d offered to sell the latest technology to spot heat flares of even a few degrees anywhere on the surface of the earth. Since the U.S. military had developed that top secret technology to instantly detect missile launches, the government wasn’ t particularly anxious to see it sold to the highest bidder.
An intercepted phone call in an overseas embassy had alerted the U.S. authorities to the deal. They knew the sale would take place here at the Del, and that the traitor would be carrying a tan pigskin briefcase with one broken lock. That was all they knew.
Sauntering through the crowded lobby, Em worked her way toward her chosen spot. In her trendy outfit of turquoise capris and cropped top, she blended right in with the guests. She was preparing to grab a chair and pretend to bury her nose in a newspaper when she froze.
There it was! The pigskin briefcase! Sitting on the floor beside a bank of phones.
Her gaze whipped up, took in the man on the phone. She barely had time to catalog his sandy hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and short-sleeved white shirt before his glance drifted across the lobby and caught hers. A frown formed on his face, and Em knew she had to act fast or she’ d blow her cover.
She sailed past the suspect...and right into the arms of the tall, solid male walking her way. "Darling," she cooed. "You’re late!"
Piercing blue eyes narrowed in a face too rugged for handsome and too square-jawed for Em’s comfort.
"Please," she hissed, thinking fast. "Just play along. That’s, er, my ex-fiancé over there. I don’ t want the jerk to think I’ve been waiting for him."
His glance flicked to the man on the phone and back to Em.
Beaming a bright smile, she sang out gaily, "I’ ve missed you."
He hesitated a second or two, then his mouth curved. "I’ve missed you, too."
Em was still registering the impact of that slow, devastating grin when he lowered his voice to a sexy rumble. "We might as well make this look good."
Before she guessed his intent, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his.
Whoa! This wasn’t part of Em’s hastily contrived plan. But she had to admit the man certainly knew how to kiss. She was more breathless than any undercover agent would ever admit when he finally raised his head.
A challenge gleamed in his blue eyes. "Why don't we finish this upstairs?"
She was all set to give him a polite brush-off and find a corner to whip out the radio tucked in her little turquoise beaded bag when he added a casual kicker.
"Hang on while I get my briefcase."
Turning, he claimed the pigskin bag. Em’s jaw dropped.
Just in time, she snapped it shut and tucked her hand in the arm he offered.
Em couldn’t believe it! She’d just waltzed straight into the arms of the man an entire FBI task force was searching for. Not only that, she’d kissed the guy.
Okay, he’d kissed her, but Em ignored such minor technicalities as he made good on his suggestion that they continue their little charade up in his room. His hand grazing her back, he steered her past the nerdy looking scientist she’d originally mistaken for the suspect. The sandy-haired man blinked owlishly through his black-rimmed glasses when she sailed past.
As she stepped into the old-fashioned elevator, Em’s fingers itched to dig into her little beaded purse and pull out her radio. She needed to inform the FBI that she’d bagged their quarry. Or he’d bagged her. In either case, she wasn’t letting him — or his briefcase — out of her sight.
She slanted the man beside her a quick look. Her trained investigator’s eye noted the midnight hair, the muscled shoulders, the nose with its interesting bump. He’d taken a punch or two in his time. Thrown a few, too, she guessed.
"The name’s Trask," he said, catching her eye. "Dave Trask."
"I’m Emerson Andrews. Em, for short." Sticking to her hastily assumed role, she pasted on a breezy smile. "Thanks for helping me out back there."
"My pleasure."
While the elevator whirred upward, Trask raked a glance over the curvaceous blonde who’d started his testosterone pumping with her hip-swinging stroll across the lobby, then shot it right off the charts with a single kiss. She was good, damned good. And not at all what he’d expected.
For some reason, he’d thought the shadowy, unknown figure who’d offered astronomical sums for stolen technology would show up wearing a hand-tailored business suit. Or dark sunglasses and a nervous air. Maybe the flowing robes of an oil-rich Arabian sheik. Certainly not turquoise silk pants that hugged long, killer legs and a sexy rear.
Cursing silently, Dave wrenched his gaze from the rear in question. He had no business noticing the woman’s curves! Not when he was playing such a dangerous game.
He still couldn’t believe his own brother-in-law had dragged him into this mess. The physicist who’d helped build Trask Laboratories from the ground up. Who’d provided the scientific genius behind the lab’s string of technological breakthroughs. Who’d been married to Dave’s sister for 10 years!
Just two days ago, Allen had broken down in Dave’s office, confessed that someone had slipped him a mickey at a conference last year. He woke up the next morning in bed with a woman he’d never seen before and had been paying steadily increasing blackmail demands ever since.
Driven to the wall, afraid of losing the wife he loved desperately, he’d agreed to sell the top-secret heat-flare technology to meet the blackmailer’s latest demands. But he couldn’t do it. At the last minute, he’d begged Dave to fly to San Diego, take his place at the symposium, deal with the blackmailers.
Dave intended to deal with them, all right. Starting with the luscious blonde who’d taken one look at his briefcase, concocted that absurd story about an ex-fiancé, and sailed into his arms.
His jaw tight, Dave unlocked the door to his suite. A salty sea breeze spilled through the open French doors that framed a spectacular view of the Pacific. Might as well bait the trap, he thought sardonically. With deliberate carelessness, he deposited the battered briefcase on the dining table.
"Make yourself comfortable," he told his guest. "I need to wash up. I’ll be right back."
Waiting only until she heard water start to gush behind the closed bathroom door, Em whipped out her radio. Excitement sizzled in her veins as she identified herself and reported the startling events of the past few minutes.
"His name’s Trask," she hissed into the radio. "David Trask."
"We’ll get right on him," the task force leader snapped. "In the meantime, stick to the guy like superglue. Get as close as you can without blowing your cover. And be careful!"
"Roger that."
Her pulse pounding, Em slipped the radio back in her purse. The briefcase drew her like a magnet. She cocked her head, listening to the gushing water. Slowly, she drifted toward the table.
Her fingertips had just brushed leather when a hand shot out, manacled her wrist, and spun her around. With a startled yelp, she slammed back against the wall.
"You want to tell me just what you think you’re doing?" Trask demanded, his ice-blue eyes narrowed and lethal.
With 200-proof adrenaline still shooting through her veins, Em planted her fists on her hips and raked a glance over the man she’d just tossed on his buns. Slack-jawed with surprise, Trask returned her stare. Five seconds clicked by, maybe 10, then one corner of his mouth kicked up.
"Nice move, Andrews."
It was Em’s turn to swallow surprise. For a suspected traitor, Dave Trask packed one heck of punch into a crooked grin. Despite herself, Em felt an answering smile tug at her lips.
"Thanks."
Something arced between them at that moment. Something crazy and illogical. Something that might have been worth pursuing under different circumstances. Very different circumstances, Em reminded herself. Whatever it was, the feeling evaporated the instant Trask rolled to his feet. His eyes once again narrowed and dangerous, he faced her across the battered pigskin briefcase.
"I guess you do that sort of thing often in your line of work."
Belatedly, Em realized her instinctive response to his cave-man tactics had blown her cover, big time. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about it now except lift her shoulders in a philosophical shrug.
"Often enough."
The casual reply tightened Dave’s jaw. For a moment there, he’d almost forgotten he was dealing with a blackmailer. Or someone sent by a blackmailer to collect stolen technology, which was just as bad in his book. Remembering how his brother-in-law had gotten into this mess in the first place, he eyed the little beaded bag lying next to the briefcase. He’d bet next quarter’s profits that it contained the same knock out drug that had landed Allen in bed with a woman he’d never seen before.
Dave’s gut twisted at the thought. Another time, another place, he wouldn’t require any artificial substances to tumble Emerson Andrews into his bed. Calling himself 10 kinds of a fool for the erotic images that leaped into his head, Dave closed his fist around her purse. If she was packing lethal drugs, he wasn’t going to give her a chance to use them.
"Hey!"
Ignoring her startled protest, he dumped the bag’s contents on the table. The usual feminine clutter tumbled out along with what looked like a small radio and a black leather case. Frowning, Dave flipped open the leather case. One side held a photo ID. The other, a nickel-plated badge with "U.S. Naval Criminal Investigative Service" emblazoned in blue and gold.
His incredulous gaze locked on the shield for a long moment before snapping back to hers. "You’re NIS?"
"Yes."
"Well, hell!"
Em blinked at his expression. In her experience, do-wrongs caught in the process of criminal acts usually displayed white-faced fear or desperate bravado, not this wry, mocking self-disgust. But then, she admitted silently, nothing about Dave Trask added up to the kind of sleazoids she usually dealt with.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he aimed another of his potent grins her way. "Looks like we’ve both been chasing the wrong quarry, sweetheart."
"I don’t think so."
Keeping a wary eye on her suspect, she retrieved her radio. Thankfully, Trask made no move to stop her. She could take him down again if necessary, but without the element of surprise it might get messy. Cool as ice, she keyed the radio, identified herself by code name, and requested backup. She’d no sooner flipped the radio shut than she heard thudding footsteps stop outside the door to the suite. That was quick.
Too quick!
With warning bells pinging like crazy in her head, Em snatched for the briefcase at almost the same instant the door flew open. The nerdy-looking scientist she’d first mistaken for her suspect strolled in and tossed aside the key card he’d somehow obtained. Two muscular goons crowded in on his heels. All three held automatics equipped with lethal-looking silencers.
Eyes glinting behind his black-framed glasses, the sandy-haired newcomer gestured to the briefcase Em clutched in both hands. "I’ll take that."
"I don’t think so," Trask drawled, echoing Em’s words of just a moment ago. He took a single step and placed himself between her and the guns. Muscles corded, he looked ready to spring.
Em knew she had just seconds to act before bullets started flying. Her first instinct was to shove Trask through the open bedroom door, dive in after him, and slam the lock into place. Her second, to step around him and hand over the briefcase to save his life.
She was taking a chance.
A big chance!
But Em’s mission was to collar the man suspected of offering to sell top secret technology to the highest bidder, not stand by while his potential customers gunned him down, which they appeared likely to do at any moment.
Her stomach clenching at the thought of Dave Trask’s powerful body riddled with bullet holes, she exploded into action. One all-or-nothing lunge shoved Trask into the bedroom, away from Dr. Charles Gregory and the two thugs who loomed behind him. Em dived in after him, twisting in mid-air to kick the door shut.
She hit the floor with a thud and breathed a fervent prayer of thanks for Trask’s quick reflexes. He sprang to his feet and snapped the lock, then ducked for cover as bullets ripped through the door. Wrapping a fist around Em’s arm, he half dragged her toward the side window.
Luckily for them, fire codes dictated outside fire escapes for these old, historic wooden structures. Em had one leg over the sill before she realized she was still clutching the bulky briefcase.
"Leave it," Trask ordered.
"No way!"
She thrust her arm through the grips just as another round of bullets chewed up the wood door. Cursing, Trask pushed her through the window. The briefcase banged against Em’s side as she went down the old-fashioned iron ladder hand over hand. She hit the ground running. Trask was right behind her. Only 10 yards of manicured green lawn and a wooden boardwalk separated them from the dunes.
She was already kicking up sand when the first bullets splatted into the dune behind her. Zig-zagging like crazy, she raced alongside Trask through tall sea brushes swaying in the frisky Pacific breeze.
"Over there," he shouted. "The marina."
The cluster of boats tied to a floating dock some yards down the beach offered the only cover. Em spared one glance over her shoulder, spotted the figures scrambling down the iron ladder, and took off. She pounded down the dock’s gangplank and almost mowed down a jaunty-looking sailor in a white cap and silk ascot who was tying up his sleek sailboat.
It was a Saber 362, she saw. The keys dangled from the starter!
"I’m Lieutenant Emerson Andrews," she shouted to the startled boat owner. "United States Navy Criminal Investigative Service. This is an emergency. I’m commandeering your boat."
"Huh? What emergency? Hey, hold on a minute!"
Ignoring the owner’s protest, shouting an order to Trask to untie the lines, Em swung aboard, dumped the briefcase, and keyed the starter. The powerful 45-horsepower engine kicked over with a well-mannered growl. Trask jumped into the cockpit as the boat cleared the slip. With a spin of the wheel, Em aimed for blue water and shoved the throttle full-forward.
Off to her left, she saw their pursuers rush into the surf, firing wildly at the fast-moving boat. One shot pinged off the aluminum mast, then the Saber plunged through a wave and surged out of reach.
Salt spray thrown up by the keel and the wind stung Em’s cheeks. Elation sang in her veins. She was still on an adrenaline high when Trask ducked under the mast with its neatly folded sail and moved to her side.
"Know how to handle a little beauty like this, Trask?"
"No."
"You’re about to learn from a master. North Island Naval Station is just a few nautical miles away."
Dave couldn’t help himself. She looked so cocky, so pleased with herself. So incredibly sexy with the wind whipping her blond hair and plastering her clothes to her lush curves. Sliding a hand around her nape, he bent and claimed her lips with his.
Em’s hands fisted on the wheel as sensation after sensation tumbled through her. His mouth was pure magic. His touch started a trail of goose bumps that raced from her neck to her knees. With everything in her, she ached to rise up on her toes and lose herself in his kiss.
Duty fought a ferocious battle with sizzling, searing desire. To Em’s profound regret, duty won. Sighing, she pulled away. "I can’t do this. Not when I know what’s in your briefcase."
He stared down at her, his blue eyes glinting, then swung away. A moment later he dumped the battered pigskin case at Em’s feet. "Open it."
"Now?"
"Now."
Nudging her aside, he took over the wheel. Em dropped to her knees and struggled with the one working lock. It finally gave. She peered inside, sank back on her heels, and shot Trask an accusing look and asked, "Is this what I think it is?"
"A baloney sandwich?" Thoroughly indignant, Em shot Trask an evil glare. "I’ve been dodging bullets to protect your lunch?"
His tanned cheeks creased in an unrepentant grin. "You’re the one who insisted on hauling the briefcase with you when you nose-dived out the window, remember?"
Em opened her mouth, snapped it shut, opened it again. A dozen contradictory emotions tumbled through her, not the least of which was a sudden, blinding relief that Dave Trask wasn’t selling top secret technology. He confirmed that a moment later, when his grin slid into a tight, lethal smile.
"There was no way I was letting that creep blackmail my brother-in-law any longer or steal the technology he and I worked so hard to develop."
"That creep being?"
"I wasn’t sure until he showed at the hotel door with a gun in his hand, but I suspected Charlie had to be mixed up in this some way. Dr. Charles Gregory," he added at Em’s blank look. "He was conducting heat flare research for the Department of Defense before they fired him five, six years ago and gave Trask Labs the contract. He swore he’d get even someday."
"Well, he just blew his chance," she replied, recovering swiftly. "Now that you’ve told me who we’re after, we’ll run him to ground. I left my radio and purse in your hotel room but there should be a transmitter on board. I can contact the head of the task force and — "
She frowned as a series of coughs and sputters rose from the engine well. Moments later the inboard motor died. Silence descended, broken only by the slap of waves against the hull as the sleek little sailboat rode the swells. Em didn’t need to read the fuel gauge to guess what had happened.
"The owner must have just docked and was preparing to refuel when we commandeered his boat."
Moving to Trask’s side, she checked the auxiliary tank. It, too, read empty. With a tilt of her head, she eyed the wind gauge atop the mast. There wasn’t enough breeze to move the little plastic cups, much less fill the sails.
"Great," she muttered. "We’re out of gas and completely becalmed."
Some sailor she was! Graciously, Trask didn’t mention her boast that she was a master at handling boats like this, although his blue eyes glinted as he followed her below the deck.
The galley was a symphony of gleaming brass and polished teak. The stateroom beyond was pure decadence. While Trask explored, Em fiddled with the radio. Her naval officer’s soul cringed at having to broadcast an SOS, then report to the Coast Guard radioman who responded that they were adrift.
After assuring him they faced no immediate danger of sinking or foundering, Em requested he launch a cutter to tow them in. The radioman then patched her through to NIS. Succinctly, she reported her location and the information Dave Trask had just fed her.
"So what do we do now?" he asked when she signed off.
"We wait. The currents around here are pretty strong, but it shouldn’t take the Coast Guard long to reach us."
"How long is long?"
"An hour. Maybe more, since they won’t classify this as an emergency."
"An hour, huh?"
With a look that came close to short-circuiting Em’s entire nervous system, he cocked his head. Salt spray glistened in his black hair. His eyes telegraphed an invitation that started her heart to hammering its own SOS.
"I can think of better things for us to do than just wait."
"Oh, boy," Em murmured. "So can I."
Their first kiss set off fireworks. The second started a nuclear meltdown. Em’s knees folded like tissue paper, but somehow she made it from the galley to the stateroom.
Along the way, Trask grabbed a chilled bottle of champagne from the mini-bar he’d found during his explorations. Em had no idea how much time passed, but her blood was singing in her veins when she picked up the sound of a distant engine. Groaning, she cursed the Coast Guard’s efficiency.
Once back up on deck, however, she saw it wasn’t a Coast Guard cutter that sliced through the waves toward them.
"Who is it?" Trask asked.
Dave Trask squinted at the vessel throwing up plumes of lacy white spray as it sped toward their becalmed sailboat. "Those look like Navy markings."
"They are," Em replied. "It’ s the Zephyr. She’ s a PC — a patrol coastal boat — out of the Naval Amphibious Base here on Coronado. And unless I’m seriously mistaken," she added on a strangled note, "that’ s my boss’s boss on deck."
"Your boss’ s boss?" Dave speared her a quick glance. "Is that bad?"
"Only if you’re on his wrong side," she answered glumly.
Okay, so she’ d once busted an undercover operation wide open when she took down a sailor for smuggling contraband. Was it her fault NIS hadn’t bothered to inform its other field agents they’d set up a sting, or that they were cracking down on the erotically exotic items that had flooded the base after an aircraft carrier returned from a cruise to the eastern Med?
And speaking of erotically exotic —
Hastily, Em tugged at her little cropped top to straighten it and shagged a hand through her tangled hair. She’ d give her soul for a comb or a touch of lip gloss right now. Anything to disguise the fact that Dave Trask had tumbled her onto a bunk and kissed her senseless just moments ago. She could only hope the admiral wouldn’t notice her swollen lips and whisker burns.
That hope died a swift death when the PC pulled alongside. The sailors didn’t try to disguise their grins. The admiral, on the other hand, never cracked so much as a smile when he stepped aboard the sailboat. Ramrod straight in his summer whites, he returned Em’ s salute and raked her with a hard look from the top of her windblown hair to her bare feet.
"We received a report that a U.S. Naval officer hijacked a civilian vessel," he announced. "Somehow, I wasn’t surprised when I heard who that officer was."
"I wouldn’t exactly call it hijacking, sir."
"What would you call it, lieutenant?"
"I believe I informed the owner I was, ah, commandeering his boat."
"I see." Locking his hands behind his back, he rode the swells. "And what would you call a dive out of a second-story window of the Hotel Del Coronado after an exchange of gunfire ripped apart one of its best suites?"
"Escape and evasion."
"I see."
She shook her head in disgust. "I can’ t believe I let those goons gain the advantage over me. Did you get them?"
"We got them." A tiny indentation appeared in one of the admiral’s cheeks. As far as Em knew, that was as close as he ever got to a smile. "Good work, lieutenant."
She was still reeling from that bit of unexpected praise when his piercing gaze settled on Dave. The smile — if it was one! — disappeared.
"I understand you mounted your own undercover operation, Trask."
"You might call it that."
"Not a smart move. Next time, I suggest you advise the proper authorities and work in tandem with our agents instead of on your own."
"I’m not planning on a next time," Dave drawled, "but I don’ t have a problem with working in tandem with your agents. With one of them, anyway."
His lazy grin was for Em alone. To her consternation, a blush started somewhere around her nose and worked its way down to her toes. For Pete’s sake! She hadn’t blushed since junior high. Wrenching her gaze from Trask’s, Em turned to find the admiral's habitual scowl had returned.
"I was going to take you aboard, tow the sailboat back to the marina, and give you some time off for a job well done, lieutenant."
Uh-oh. She heard a ‘but’ in there somewhere. Sure enough, he delivered it in the next breath.
"But I think we’ll just transfer some fuel and let you bring this little beauty in." His gaze swept the gleaming teak decks. "When you get around to it."
Her jaw dropped.
Trask recovered before she did. "Sounds like a helluva plan to me, admiral."
"Carry on, then."
Snapping out of her stupor, Em whipped up another salute. "Aye, aye, sir!"
Twenty minutes later, the PC spun slowly away and left the sailboat bobbing in its wake. Turning his back on the still grinning sailors, Trask slid an arm around Em’ s waist and drew her against him. His chest was warm and wide under her palms. His blue eyes gleamed down at her.
"Now," he murmured, "where were we?"
Laughing, she rose up on tiptoe. "Right about here!"