Jeff hadn’t exaggerated the romantic atmosphere of this place. Kat couldn’t help but relax and enjoy the ambience of the beachside restaurant. Their table sat under a private tent on the sand. White gauze curtains fluttered around them, and the sounds of silverware on china and clinking glass blended with the rolling crash and retreat of the ocean only a few dozen yards away.
She had to admit he looked…amazing. He wore a charcoal turtleneck, its sleeves pushed up to reveal muscular, tanned forearms. He didn’t appear remotely dangerous, even though she knew him to be so. He was elegant. Urbane. Some chameleon.
Of course, he was probably thinking the same thing about her. The Medusas included girly clothes and makeup in their standard operating equipment. Sometimes their best disguise during a mission was to look as feminine and harmless as possible. Hey-sex worked. Get a target thinking about maneuvering you into the sack, and a pistol in your purse or a microphone down your bra was the last thing on his mind.
Tonight she wore a plum silk dress with a high hem and a low neck. Spaghetti straps held up the whisper-soft fabric.
“This spot is beautiful.” She sighed appreciatively.
Jeff smiled. “I’m glad you approve. I thought it would be a good place for a beginning between us.” He picked up his wineglass. “A toast.”
Was he still hung up on that Cupid’s Bolt thing? Alarmed, she picked up her crystal stem.
“Here’s to a long and fruitful relationship between us,” he murmured.
Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about catching the Ghost. She took a sip of the crisp Chardonnay he’d ordered for them and, setting down her glass, said, “Tell me about the stolen art.”
“It’s an interesting assortment. All the pieces are by masters. Various schools of art, though. A Holbein, a Turner, a Cézanne, a Brecht.”
“How valuable?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to place a price tag on these high-end pieces unless you actually take them to auction and see what the collectors are willing to pay. But we’re talking two to ten million apiece.”
“Why haven’t these thefts been all over the news?”
“Shockingly enough, these aren’t particularly large thefts. Pieces worth a hundred million or more have been stolen. Those make the network news shows.”
“I can’t imagine any painting being worth that much,” she confessed.
“It’s all about covetousness. Having something famous and beautiful all to yourself. You get to look at it and nobody else.” He reached out to where her left hand lay on the white linen tablecloth and twined his fingertips with hers. His voice went low and husky. “It’s a lot like possessing a beautiful woman. Except a painting transcends time. People the world over, for decades or centuries, have coveted that piece, and now it’s yours.”
She replied wryly, “Plus, there’s the added advantage that a painting won’t get PMS and act bitchy or divorce you and take all your money.”
He chuckled and released her hand. “There is that.”
Odd. She was faintly disappointed that he’d let go. The feel of his fingers had been nice. “Personally, I’m not crazy about the notion of being possessed by some man.”
His smile ran as lazy as a river on a hot summer day. “Then the right man has never possessed you, darlin’. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not about owning another human being, body or soul. It’s about cherishing her. Savoring her, doing anything for her. Making her feel like the most special woman in the world.”
Wow. She’d never imagined any man might actually want to treat a woman like that, let alone imagined finding one for herself. Uncomfortable, she retorted lightly, “I dunno. Sounds almost creepy.”
He gave her a reproachful look. “There’s no need to be evasive with me. If the idea of being loved that deeply scares you, you can tell me. I’ll still love you even if you have a human weakness or two under your superhero skin.”
She had to catch her jaw to keep it from sagging. First, she was stunned that he’d read her that well. Nobody ever saw past the impassive mask she’d been trained from earliest childhood to show the world. Second, he’d pegged her as superhero material? Granted, she’d tossed him around and employed an old ninja climbing trick, but he’d put his finger on her most closely guarded secret within a few hours of meeting her. She couldn’t count the number of times Hidoshi had told her through the years never, ever, to let anyone know what she was truly capable of. He’d warned over and over, “If you show them your skill, they will insist upon testing it.”
He was so right. She’d gotten distracted by Jeff’s sex appeal in the gym and let down her guard for an instant. A single, simple takedown of the man, and already he’d tested her reflexes twice more-once with a gun. She’d bet the men who’d seen her drop Jeff were just waiting for their chance to have a go at her, too.
As usual, Hidoshi’s advice was spot on. Too bad he’d never given her any advice on how to react to a gorgeous lunatic who was convinced she was destined to be his.
The rhythmic crash of the ocean gradually soothed her inner turmoil. As she neared the end of her scallops in cream sauce, she asked, “What do the stolen paintings have in common?”
“None of them are particularly famous, but they’re all excellently executed. Perhaps most notable is the fact that all of the pieces have been held by private collectors for most or all their existences.”
Kat frowned. “And that’s significant why?”
“Museums publish extensive catalogs and prints, and publicly display paintings. Which is to say, museum pieces are vastly more identifiable than privately held pieces.”
“Ergo, the privately held piece can be stolen and hung on a new owner’s wall with less chance of being recognized as a stolen work.”
“Exactly. If a shady collector wanted to flaunt his trophies, he’d need to acquire little-known pieces.”
“Is the thief stealing on behalf of a specific collector, or is he stealing pieces he can fence more easily because they’re less well-known?”
Jeff smiled broadly. “Well done. That is, indeed, the sixy-four-thousand-dollar question. For a newcomer to the art world, you’ve put your finger on the heart of the matter astoundingly quickly.”
“And you’re not a newcomer to it?” she asked in surprise.
“My family has owned an art gallery in New Orleans for over a hundred years.”
“Did you work in the business to have learned so much about the art world?”
He winced. “Not entirely. I-” He paused, embarrassed. “-majored in art history in college.”
She stared. “How in the world did you end up-” Aware of other ears nearby, she finished circumspectly, “-in our line of work?”
“Easy. Art history majors don’t get the hot chicks.”
She laughed, startled. “You got into the biz to pick up women? And how’s that working out for you?”
His gaze took on a heat that stole her breath away. “So far so good, if I had to make an initial assessment.”
“Oh, really?” she asked lightly, butterflies flitting in her stomach. “What makes you think that?”
He tipped the wineglass in his hand slightly in her direction. “The lady’s wearing a sexy dress for me. I’d say that’s an excellent start.”
She shrugged. “It’s just what happened to be in my gear bag.”
“You haul around sexy little numbers like that in your work gear?” he blurted.
She nodded casually, studying the remnants of her meal. No sense telling him she had several other dresses to choose from and this one had been the sexiest of the bunch. His ego was already big enough. She glanced up to find him staring at her in open consternation.
“What?” she demanded.
“What exactly do you ladies do in your line of work?”
“The same thing you do. Why?”
“Is that all you do?”
She laid her fork down very gently. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Neither do I,” he replied grimly.
She leaned forward and spoke with quietly intensity. “I’ll say this once and once only. The Medusas have never been asked to nor have they done anything remotely like what you’re thinking in the execution of their job. Understood?”
“Loud and clear, darlin’. And may I say, I’m relieved to hear it. I’d hate to have to ask you to choose between me and your work.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, once we’re officially together, I’m not going to be a fan of sharing you with anyone else, particularly some hostile target you’ve been ordered to romance.”
“Jeff. We are not together. Not that I’d personally be comfortable romancing a hostile anyway, but that would be my decision to make-not yours. My job. My career. My decision.”
He looked pained. “I never thought I’d end up with a career woman, especially a military one. I wasn’t planning on facing these sorts of issues.”
“Gee. I’m sorry to have fouled up your grand plan for a nineteenth-century marriage-or did you have something more fourteenth century in mind?”
He grinned. “I have to say, now that I’ve found you, I’m surprisingly okay with you having a career. Even the one you have.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks so much for giving me permission to do my job.”
His grin widened unrepentantly.
Now that he’d found her? He said that like he’d been looking for her. Those pesky butterflies were knocking around her stomach again. “For what it’s worth, most of the men who’ve gotten involved with my teammates seem to have struggled initially to accept the danger we place ourselves in.”
He frowned. “What sorts of ops do you run?”
Thankfully, the wind had picked up, pushing the waves more noisily onto the beach. With one eye trained on the nearest tents, she replied, “Exactly the same kind you do. Only exception: The missions are profiled to include less heavy lifting and fewer long-distance ingresses and egresses. We’re the first to admit that we can’t begin to match the strength and stamina of a male team. Our job is to work around that limitation.”
He blinked, looking startled at the admission.
“For example, my sniper rig is modified to weigh less than a standard model. I sacrifice some range on my shots, but it’s a trade-off. Pass out of exhaustion trying to hump in the weapon to a target, or work my way in for a closer shot and actually make the kill.”
“So you’re a short-range specialist, then?”
She nodded. “I don’t do half bad with a long-range rig. But if I’m hauling my own gear to the kill zone, I usually go short. If I were as big and strong as some of my teammates, I might consider doing more long-range work, though.”
“It’s daunting to consider women stronger than you. I felt you take me down this afternoon. You’re no wimp, honey.”
“Nah, I’m the little, quick one on the team. Python and Sidewinder are a lot stronger than I am.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Six, plus one prospect in training.”
“Any plans to expand the team?”
“You’d have to take that up with General Wittenauer or the president. We’d like to expand the program, though. We’ve been talking about how to recruit and train more women and the sorts of skills sets we’d look for.”
“Like what?”
She smiled. “Well, a big, strong sniper for one. More linguists with a broader range of languages. And-” she broke off. Jeff probably wasn’t ready to hear the next idea they’d been tossing around.
“And what?” he prompted.
“Nothing.”
His gaze narrowed. “And a few high-priced call girls with a penchant for guns, perchance?”
She jolted. How had he picked that thought out of her brain? She schooled her face to perfect stillness. “An interesting idea. What do you think of it?”
He frowned. “My knee-jerk reaction is to hate the idea of asking women, regardless of previous experience, to use their bodies to do my job.”
“And your reaction after you give it some thought?”
He shrugged. “I can see the usefulness of a…skill set…like that. It could certainly open some avenues of intelligence collection that the Special Forces have not traditionally had access to.”
“But it would be controversial.”
He snorted. “As if the idea of women running around in the Special Forces killing people and blowing stuff up isn’t?”
“Well, there is that.”
They traded smiles.
He murmured, “I gotta confess, I’m having a little trouble wrapping my brain around the whole idea of women operatives. Had I not seen you do what you did today, I’d be highly skeptical.”
“And now you’re only moderately skeptical?”
“My shoulder still aches from where you twisted it, my thumb is sore from when you dropped me the second time, and my ego’s definitely bruised. When pain’s involved, I’m a quick learner.”
Hidoshi used to say she would never become a great warrior because she spent all her time trying to avoid getting hit and not attacking. But she’d learned. She could take pain with the best of them now.
She commented. “Lots of male operators get cranky when they first find out about us. They forget we’re all playing for the same team. That we uphold and defend the same Constitution and fight for the same values.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “You’re not going to make that mistake, are you?”
He sighed. “Honestly, I had about as Neanderthal a reaction to the idea of female operators as the next guy.” He looked up at her and grinned. “But then you planted me on my butt. Twice. I guess I’d have to say I’m convinced.”
“I didn’t really hurt you, did I? I was trying not to.”
He grinned ruefully. “I’d hate to see you go at it when you really mean someone harm. Nah, I’m not hurt. Nothing that won’t recover. Except maybe my ego. Sometime I want to go one-on-one with you on a mat…when I’m prepared for you to jump me.”
She grinned impishly. “It won’t help. I’ll still win.”
He laughed. “Oh, really? Care to place a small wager on that?”
Finally. A natural response to her that he might give to one of his male counterparts. She smiled. “Anytime, any place, big guy. Name your bet.”