Chapter 4

MATT LOOKED UP from the film binder when Nadia flung open the door.

“I agreed to this arrangement only because I want to help Sari. And I owe her.” She stopped dead, shoulders rigid, her eyes flashing green fire. A good bet she’d been arguing with the princess about his undercover role. She tilted her head, and her gaze softened. “You’re not wearing your eye patch. Don’t you need it for protection?”

Dammit, he’d forgotten. He shook his head. How could he explain? Take the easy route. “Yeah, but it’s hot. Itchy.” Which was true, as far as it went. He snatched up the black demon and snapped it in place. “Satisfied?”

“Not even close, but it seems I’m stuck with you.”

Working with her wouldn’t be any easier on him than on her. For now he had to forge a truce so this undercover gig would fly. He joined her on the other side of the metal table. “We might as well lay out the real issue. I get that you resent the hell out of my presence.”

Nadia folded her arms beneath her breasts. Only a few inches shorter than his six feet, she didn’t have to look up much to glare at him.

He tugged his gaze up from the cleavage in her V-neck to meet her eyes. “My being here isn’t why you’re angry. Investigating your father was DARK’s job. My duty.”

She tapped one foot on the carpet. Her eyes glistened with emotion. “But why the Domestic Antiterrorism Risk Corps, as if my father was a terrorist?” She swiped away moisture. “Dad’s not one, but he did sell documents to terrorists, I concede that. But I don’t know why.”

What? The trial didn’t bring out his motives, but her dad had never explained it to his only daughter? Now wasn’t the time to ask.

She shook her head as if shaking away the trauma remembering had brought back. “Was your Romeo act also part of your duty? Was everything you told me a lie? Like the foster care and the group home?”

He’d forgotten he’d shared that with her. DARK officials knew, but he never told anyone casually. Other people had families. He didn’t. “No act. I never lied to you. Everything I said to you was true. My parents… died. I was a kid. And I did grow up in foster care and a group home.”

She huffed as if she still didn’t believe him. During the investigation, he hadn’t been able to stay away from her. Kisses, fooling around, hot words. He lost count of his cold showers. But having sex with her would’ve crossed a professional line. And his personal line. That he’d wanted her and held back burned a fuse through him now.

He heaved a sigh. “My interest in you had nothing to do with DARK. I hung out with you because I liked you. I admired your loyalty to your dad, no matter what. Beyond that, the attraction was real — hormones, desire, sex — not pure but simple. I never meant to hurt you. I apologize.” She probably didn’t believe him. He still liked her and admired her, but she wouldn’t believe that either.

When they’d found the damning evidence that led to her father’s arrest, he felt rotten. He wanted to tell her the truth then, but DARK ordered him not to contact her. He hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the case. Or his career. He needed DARK. Now the omission sat in his belly like an anvil.

She didn’t respond, only turned away and plopped onto the chair at her computer. “I have to check e-mail.” She pressed a key. An email program popped up, covering the desktop image of an island tower. The logo of Monte Cristo Productions, he assumed, gritting his teeth at the irony of her choice. She tapped keys.

He liked her voice and watching her expressive eyes as emotions chased across her face — even when she fired both barrels at him. He homed in on her creamy skin, her dark lashes and the smooth column of her neck. Her lush mouth thinned as she tapped furiously on the keyboard. She’d kicked off her shoes.

The sight of her toenails painted hot pink sent a shimmer of sensation to his groin. Damn. He was in trouble if even her toes turned him on. He’d had the same reaction to her when they first met. He’d been with a few women since then, but none who jazzed him like Nadia. His desire for her had intensified as he got to know her. She crackled with vitality and passion.

Would she focus all that juice on a man in bed? On him? Not a chance in hell he’d find out.

Five years ago she’d concentrated on her commitment to her old man. Looked like she still did if she was raising funds for his appeal and not for her ambition. Family loyalty was admirable, although misplaced here. Isaac Parker, a graphic artist illustrating technical manuals for intelligence agencies, had sold government secrets to a splinter group of Al-Qaida. Lying to his daughter until his guilt became too obvious to hide lowered the man to fungus status. And Matt had added to her pain.

He’d like to prove to her she could trust him, convince her he hadn’t used her to get the goods on her old man.

But what would be the point? Even if she could forgive him, he saw no real chance of them picking up where they’d left off. Would she go for a long weekend together, dinners and hot sex? Because that’s all he could offer any woman. He’d grown up without control over his life and wouldn’t give up his freedom for anyone. No matter what happened with his vision.

She’d have to talk to him soon to show him the ropes. He didn’t want to push her but time was short. Made shorter by today’s attack. Neither DARK nor Sarika knew how much time they had to flush out the damn mole and worm out of him the rebels’ other plans.

She’d had a rough morning. Give her a minute. Or two. He sank onto the other desk chair at the table.

Nadia couldn’t focus on the screen in front of her. She hated this storm of emotions inside her. His hesitant words about foster care, barely above a whisper, and his shuttered expression meant the story was true. Did that mean the rest was true — that he’d genuinely liked her and wanted her? If he was waiting for her to confess she’d felt the same until he’d betrayed her, he’d have to wait into the next century. Dammit, she didn’t want to feel this awareness of him. Or this anger at him. Or this sympathy for him. Or this confusion over which emotion made her heart pound like a runaway locomotive.

She was stuck with him, wasn’t she? For as long as it took to find the traitor. He was here only to keep Sari safe. She could handle it. She could.

But she needed this segment of the film to be a go — without much delay. King Bernard wanted the entire documentary in the can by winter. His PR offensive, he’d told Sari. Even spring would be a tall order, given all that would have to be filmed and edited once in Modena. Then she needed time and leisure to look for her mom’s family. If any existed. Why wouldn’t Mom ever talk about them? Or Dad? Was she ashamed of them?

A sneaked glance at Matt sent warmth up her spine. He reclined with a casual grace that set her blood humming. His eyes were half closed. Sleepy. Sexy. Seductive.

To stop her foot tapping she crossed her ankles.

He always seemed to move in low gear. Or was it a dangerous calm, part of his duplicity? How did he keep those powerful biceps and the broad chest and shoulders? Fighting bad guys? Chasing terrorists?

Since she couldn’t concentrate on the email from the network, she might as well get more answers. “What does your undercover gig here entail? How will it affect filming?”

“My presence in your crew gives me access to embassy people, the chance to talk to some and observe.” Nadia’d never considered a Boston accent sexy, but in Matt’s baritone, the clipped inflection danced along her spine. “I’m here to identify the traitor, not take him down. As long as my cover as the documentary writer holds, you and your crew are in no danger. In spite of what happened this morning.”

Danger? His presence already endangered her sanity. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “That’s so comforting to know.”

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “Nadia, what you did was brave. Acting as my lookout at the window put you in the line of fire.”

She fought the warmth his words kindled. She never would’ve expected praise. Along with indolence, the man possessed ego and arrogance. Leoni — aptly named for the king of the beasts. She suppressed a grin. “Sari’s my friend. I want to protect her as much as you do.”

“Sari, not Princess Sarika. How’d you become friends?”

“Your DARK spying didn’t tell you?”

“I know a lot about you. Not this. Care to explain?”

No reason not to. “I’ve known her since I was little.”

“Through your mom?”

Her mom had died too young. Only months after giving Nadia her first camera for her twelfth birthday. She had to swallow before she could reply. “My mom was born in a small town on Modena. She worked for the royal family before she came to the States, was close to Sarika’s mother before she became queen. The two women phoned a lot when Sari and I were little — she’s six months older — sometimes about us girls. After Mom died, the queen continued to keep in touch, and Sari and I emailed almost daily. When we studied at GW, we shared an apartment. She was instrumental in getting this film job for my company.”

“I’ll try not to screw things up for you too bad.” He lowered his feet to the floor and turned toward her. “Sarika said you were short on staff. Problem?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Indie filmmaking is competitive. Skilled crew migrates with the money.” And she couldn’t offer big. Or close to big. “Anyway, the embassy limited me to four personnel, including me. Security reasons. For this segment of the shoot, a small crew will do.”

“You’re producer-director. That’s one. You lost guys to another company. That it?” He propped his left elbow on the table and edged his chair closer.

Too close. His scent swept her with longing — gum, spearmint this time, and faint perspiration, a remnant of that horrible car chase. He’d told her once that he’d taken up gum chewing as a sort of defense. He didn’t want to waste what little money he had on smokes the others in his group home would cadge or steal. Given his earlier hesitant confession, she supposed that story might also be true. How sad. She wanted to ask him more about his parents. But no, cut off the sympathy, the nostalgia. Was he manipulating her again? She crossed her legs and let one foot jiggle. She should back up but the other table blocked her.

“Ken Burns is starting a new six-part miniseries. Anyone not already contracted elsewhere headed his way. And my usual DP — that’s director of photography, a fancy term for cameraman — and the sound tech, his wife, had a car accident yesterday in Chicago. Drunk driver, I think. They’re out.”

“Injuries bad?”

Tears swarmed in her eyes and she blinked them back. “Concussion, maybe broken bones. They’ll mend. But it’s so criminal. Jamal and Vivian were pumped about this gig.”

“They’re your friends.”

Perceptive of him, drat the man. About the only real friends she had, moving from gig to gig as she did. Maintaining relationships was a tough order, and not just with friends. She’d lost a fiancé and chances with other men. No way would she include Matt in that assessment. Emotion squeezed her chest. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry. So that leaves you with only me?”

Thankfully, no. She almost sighed in relief. “I found replacements online. I don’t know how good these two guys are, but they’re here in the city. They start tomorrow.”

Concern flickered in his eyes. For her or for his mission, she couldn’t guess. “So what job do you have for me in addition to writer?”

She’d mulled that over during the walk back from complaining to Sari. Much as it galled her. She wound her legs together to stop the damn twitching. “This segment of the documentary is more manageable than it will be on Modena. Mostly interviews, walk-and-talks, B-rolls in the embassy.”

“B-rolls? Is that lunch?”

Refusing to take the bait, she bit her lower lip. She would not let him charm her. Not this time. On a huffed sigh, she said, “B-rolls are anything other than interviews. Voice-overs are dubbed in later.”

Shifting in her seat, she drummed the fingers of her right hand on the table.

“How about best boy? I’ve always wanted to be the best boy.” Mischief gleamed gold in his dark gaze. His mouth curved, waking his dimples and sucking the air from her lungs.

Since she couldn’t speak, she frowned.

When she didn’t bite, he shrugged. “So what am I doing? Sound assistant? Lighting assistant?”

“The DP does his own lighting.” Matt would grasp technical skills in no time. But nuances and artistry came only with experience. “For now, you’re the production assistant, otherwise known as the grip. For you that means anything extra, like moving equipment. Manning the boom mic. Setting up once you know how. The new guys won’t question that the writer would need training to double as grip.”

“I’m cool with that. So what’s next?”

“Um, I have pre-production work. Scheduling interviews, the script, stuff like that. Mostly things to finalize.” Too inane. Next she’d start to babble.

A glance at the yellow pad by her elbow reminded her of another chore. “The camera and sound guys will have their own equipment, but I have to place an order for lighting, cables and other equipment. Then I have to pick it all up.”

“Ordering stuff is something a new production assistant can do without training as long as you have a list and the website or a phone number. Unless you have some training in mind? Or something I can grip?” He waggled his eyebrows, to startling effect, given the scars and the pirate patch.

No, she would not think of him as a pirate.

He was so close she could see the gold rim around his slumberous eye. Awareness filtered into her every pore, sapping her resistance. He bent closer, twirled a finger in a tendril of her hair.

Was he going to kiss her?

She knew the heat of his mouth on hers, the taste of his tongue and the strength of his arms around her. Her traitorous body wanted those sensations again. And more.

She should push away. Protest. Probably. Positively.