Jami Alden
ISBN 978-0758225474
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Ethan and Derek Taggart: they’re the men of Gemini, and when it comes to sheet-scorching undercover work, nobody does it better. The only one they answer to is big brother Danny—that is, until the right women come along to grab the reins and crack the whip as hard as the Taggart men like it…
Security is Derek Taggart’s game, and he plays it straight—no margin for error, no time to fool around…except with one hot little number who changes everything. He takes her home when she needs a ride—one she’ll never forget. The problem is Derek can’t forget her, a total about-face for a guy who keeps his enemies closer than his lovers. Then he finds out the sexy dynamo is Alyssa Miles, notorious party girl and darling of the gossip rags. It’s time to walk away and never look back, which would be a hell of a lot easier if his agency didn’t desperately need the high-profile gig her family’s offering: a minor detail that consists mainly of Derek watching Alyssa 24/7. Keeping an eagle eye on every inch of Alyssa’s nubile body isn’t exactly a hardship—the problem is keeping his hands off and his brain on when things go dangerously wrong…
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Where the hell does she think she’s going? Derek Taggart watched the woman dart around a matron dressed in a heavily beaded ball gown and a thickset older man in a tux as she made her way to the back corner of the ballroom. Derek had been tracking her movements for the past twenty minutes or so from his vantage in the gallery above, ever since a bloated, self-important toad in a tux had run his fat finger up and down her bare arm and said something that had made her smile falter and the color leach from her carefully made-up face. Even from a distance, he’d seen the way the muscles in her slim bare arm had tensed, like she’d wanted to smack the guy.
Derek found himself hoping she’d do it and was a little disappointed when her smile came back double strength as she said something and walked away. Too bad. A little tussle between a hot woman and an old lech would provide a little excitement to an otherwise snooze-worthy Saturday evening spent working security. This high-society charity function benefiting some socialite’s desire to save the wetlands was so boring, Derek resisted the urge to sink into a padded, upholstered chair and settle in for a nap.
Emma Bancroft had requested Gemini; he’d gotten stuck with the assignment. Remembering her strained smile when he’d showed up a few days earlier to go over the mansion’s floor plan, he wondered if she regretted it yet.
Derek couldn’t blend in if he tried. Too big, too muscular, too uncomfortable in the confines of his expensive suit. He wasn’t good at polite smiles and idle chitchat. He was there to do a job—mainly to make sure none of the party goers went where they shouldn’t. Especially given the Bancrofts’ concerns after last year’s event, when several pieces of jewelry had gone missing from Emma Bancroft’s bedroom as well as from the necks of several guests.
Which brought him back to Miss Thing, winding her way through the crowd, offering a smile here, an arm squeeze there, but never pausing as she moved purposefully across the room. It wasn’t hard to pick her out of the throng, her slender, red clad form moving like a lick of flame. Unlike the stiff gowns of most of the female guests, her short, silky dress left a good portion of her arms and legs bare, coming up to her throat in the front, dipping almost to her waist in the back. Even from this distance she seemed to glow, her skin and hair catching the light cast from the gaudy crystal chandelier hanging high above the ballroom.
She cast a quick glance over one silky shoulder and then ducked through a door hidden in a dark corner of the ballroom. He knew damn well she wasn’t headed for the bathroom.
Not only was the guest bathroom on the other end of the ballroom, but there was a low velvet rope propped in front of the door. The most polite KEEP OUT sign he’d ever seen. Now she was in a hallway that led to David Bancroft’s study and a back stairway that led to the second story. Maybe she just needed a quiet moment. Maybe not. Derek wasn’t about to give her the benefit of the doubt. The last time he’d let something slide based on gender, one of his informants had ended up dead, along with his wife and two kids.
Big surprise that Derek didn’t fall for the damsel-in distress thing anymore.
Not that Miss Thing had enough room for a bomb under that dress, but the way she’d looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching told him she was up to something she didn’t want anyone to see.
He started to speak into his headset—to tell one of his guys on the floor to check it out—and then stopped himself. Something—curiosity—nudged at him. Curiosity that had nothing to do with the supple curve of her back or her lean, tanned legs, or the silky fall of light brown hair across her shoulders, Derek thought as he moved quickly down one side of the gallery to the back stairway. He spoke quietly into his mic, alerting Alex Novascelic, the Gemini specialist who was working the main floor, to move up to the gallery to keep an eye on the crowd.
A caterer in a white shirt and black vest gave him a wary look and a wide berth as he passed. Derek did nothing to soften the expression on his face as he jogged down the stairs in hot pursuit. He was a cold, hard motherfucker, and the quicker Miss Thing realized that, the quicker she’d abandon any illegal activities she might be entertaining.
He slowed his steps as he hit the dim hallway, his feet silent on the Persian runner. As a sniper for the Army Rangers, he’d perfected the art of moving silent and undetected through all kinds of terrain.
He cornered her in Bancroft’s study, taking a moment to observe her before making her aware of his presence. So far, she wasn’t doing much of anything, leaning her butt up against Bancroft’s desk, her fingers tunneled in her thick, sun-streaked hair as she massaged her scalp and temples.
From a distance, she’d looked attractive. Up close, she was beautiful in a slight, delicate way that didn’t usually do much for Derek. He tended toward taller, sturdier, more understated types. Women who looked like they had more on their mind than what color of lip gloss to wear, women who looked like they could take care of themselves, because Derek sure as hell didn’t have the time or the interest to cater to anyone’s needs but his own.
But she was small and slender, like she might break if he grabbed her too hard with one of his big, calloused hands. She was leaning against the desk, but he’d bet that even in those lethal-looking heels, the top of her head wouldn’t come much past his shoulder. In profile, her nose was straight and small, her chin pointy.
