CYNTHIA BAXTER was the answer to his prayers. A sexual wildcat with a head for numbers.

Jake wanted to stand up and cheer. Making himself slow down, he vowed to check her out thoroughly, but he had a feeling Mrs. Lawrence and her daisy-watering dog had done him a huge favor when they’d recruited him to help one of his new neighbors.

He was getting absolutely nowhere on the Oceanic investigation. No chance of getting an agent inside; Neville Percivald was too smart and too careful.

In spite of his sissy-boy name, Neville had a fondness for wild women. It was the only exploitable weakness Jake’s relentless research had uncovered. Percivald had been followed to a couple of underground clubs that catered to the leather and whips set. If Jake could trust her, and get her inside Oceanic, Ms. Baxter might just be able to find the evidence he needed to launch a full investigation.

Jake had a hunch Neville and Cynthia would go together like leather and studs.

“Where do you work?”

“A cement company.”

“Really?” He led the way back into her living room, away from the distracting scent of heavy perfume and the sight of that bed, which reminded him of her trim little body naked and ready. He cleared his throat. “How long have you worked there?”

“Nine years. Do you have to fill out a report on me or something?”

“No,” he reassured her, “Just being neighborly.”

Cynthia Baxter wasn’t a cop or an agent. She’d worked at the same job for almost a decade, as an accountant. And they just happened to be short one accountant at Oceanic Import-Export. Cynthia was perfect; not only was she qualified for the job, but, if his hunch was correct, she’d check out cleaner than the laundry waving on Mrs. Lawrence’s line.

And to debrief her after work each night, all he had to do was jump a couple of fences.

“How long have you worked at the FBI?” She sounded like a society hostess, but he heard the snotty undertone. She wouldn’t intimidate easily. Good.

“Twelve years. Guess we’re both heading for a gold watch, huh?” If she really loved her job at the cement company, they might be able to work something out, but the fewer people who knew anything about his plan, the better. And it was a good plan. He was getting a feeling he’d finally caught a break.

If Cynthia landed the job at Oceanic, she’d be his own personal insider, working there by day and passing on what she heard to her new neighbor. It was so perfect he wanted to kiss her red, red hooker lips.

They were full and pouty under the not-so-subtle makeup job. If more accountants looked like her, no red-blooded male would ever get behind on his year-end tax return. Neville Percivald certainly wouldn’t.

Excitement churned in Jake’s gut. “May I call you Cynthia?”

She stared down at the driver’s license still in her hand, then jerked her head up. “You can call me Cyn! Cyn’s my name and sin’s my game.”

He chuckled softly. It just got better and better. If he hadn’t sworn off her kind of woman, he could go for her himself. Something about the way her trashy looks were so at odds with the innocent expression in her wide-spaced, green eyes.

A devastating combination, all right. But, Jake reminded himself firmly, Neville Percivald was the one who was going to end up tied in knots over her.

Not him.

CYNTHIA ENTERED the swooshing glass door of Très Chic! feeling like a bag lady at a Parisian catwalk. Her bemused gaze caught leather, lots of leather, faux animal prints, patterned boots and clothing she couldn’t even identify.

She was chewing on her thumb, ready to bolt, when a young woman strode up. Her jet-black hair had a dramatic white streak in the bangs and she wore designer jeans with a snug-fitting cherry red top which showed off her tattoes. On her feet were Chelsea boots. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that suggested Cynthia was way beyond help.

She took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes you can.” She glanced helplessly down at her tweed suit and sensible pumps and stated the obvious. “I need a miracle.”

“You looking to update your image?” The girl appeared doubtful she could pull it off. “Looks like whatever catalog you shop from’s out-of-date.” The girl glanced past her out the window, doubtfully. “You might try—”

“I’ve been living in Moscow.”

“Huh?”

The girl had been going to throw her out of Très Chic! and Cynthia would never have the nerve to come in here again. It was now or never. Desperation lent her ingenuity. “In Russia?” She shrugged. “I’ve been living there for the last ten years, as a—as a secretary in the American embassy.” She gestured to her suit. “This was all I could get, and I had to trade three cartons of Marlboroughs just for the skirt.”

“Shoulda hung on to the smokes,” the girl muttered.

“I missed the American fashion—uh—scene so much!” Cynthia gushed. “In Moscow, they think Prada is a car!” She laughed at her own joke, gaily. She imagined Muscovites were ten times as fashionable as she, but her ploy seemed to be working. The girl had stopped gazing down the street, looking for another store to pawn her off on.

“That’s tough. I’ve seen those fur hats on TV. Everyone aways looks so cold.” She grimaced. “So, how do you want to look?”

Cynthia took a deep breath. “The opposite of cold. And sexy.”

The girl chuckled and eyed her more carefully before nodding slowly. “Sexy’s my specialty. Come on.”

Two hours and a whole lot of bags later, Cynthia’s credit card carried a hefty balance and she owned blue jeans and black jeans, in a smaller size than she’d ever owned, dresses, cute little tops, boots, bags, costume jewelry. The works.

She was still wearing the last outfit she’d tried on, a tight black and white skirt and a little white cotton shirt that looked to her like underwear. On her feet were chunky black shoes.

“You look awesome,” the girl assured her.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Pass me that garbage can.” Cynthia thrust the two-piece tweed suit and the color coordinated blouse in the wastepaper basket and dusted off her hands briskly, as though she could trash all her dowdiness at once. “Thanks, I needed that. After I’m gone will you take that out and donate it to charity?”

The girl laughed. “You got it. Come in anytime for advice. You look great, you know? Once you get your hair cut—”

“Hair cut?”

“I just assumed…um, I’m sure they cut hair real good in Moscow, it’s just that here, styles have changed a bit in the last ten years.”

Cynthia put a hand to her hair. When she’d taken her mom to get her hair done it had seemed quicker to get her own done at the same time by Miss Priscilla at The House of Charm. Somehow, she’d never lost the habit. “Oh, of course.”

“I know a great stylist. Michael. He’s a genius with hair.” She dug out a dog-eared card for a place called Ecstasy. “Put yourself in Michael’s hands. He’s the best.” The salesclerk paused. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but if you’re going for the complete new look…?”

“Oh, I am.”

“Those glasses aren’t doing you any favors, style-wise.”

“The glasses, of course. Thank you. Anything else?”

She shook her head. “You make sure and come back when you’re all done. I bet I won’t even recognize you.”

Since Cynthia was a big believer in never putting off till tomorrow what you could do today, she immediately went home and made appointments, with her eye doctor and, after a good talking-to about taking risks, with Michael at Ecstasy. She just hoped she didn’t come out of the salon with black-and-white hair. She wanted to look different, but not like Cruella de Vil.

Michael turned out to be a flamboyant trivia buff with a passion for tropical fish. After putting herself in his hands, Cynthia forgot to watch what he was doing as she tried to keep up with his conversation.

“My God, what did those Russians do to you?” he gasped, as he turned her this way and that in the mirror. “Email hacking isn’t enough damage?”

She grinned weakly.

After she’d been shampooed and returned to his chair, Michael picked up a pair of scissors and started snipping. “You know, ten years in Russia has probably faded your hair color. I’m sure it wasn’t always this mousy.”

“No,” she agreed with a straight face. “It used to be much nicer.”

“I’ll give it a rinse. Kind of mahogany with a touch of burgundy in it. How does that sound?”

Anything that wasn’t in zebra tones sounded good to her.

When at last he was done, she could barely believe it. He’d left the length but given her bangs that softened her face and brought out her eyes, and whatever he’d done with those scissors had given her hair body and a soft wave. “I love it!” she cried.

The stylist nodded. “Me too. I think it works.”

“I think so, too.” She giggled happily, touching her mahogany-with-a-touch-of-burgundy bangs. “I definitely think so.”

“Got a hot date tonight?”

She had a date with Walter, but as to the heat level, she wasn’t too sure. She forced herself to be optimistic. She’d surprised him with the magazine; maybe she should have updated her appearance first. “I don’t know. But I hope so.”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE to your hair?” Walter’s eyes bugged out when she opened the door to him.

Her smile faded slowly. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s red. It’s too young for you. It’s—it’s…” Although he couldn’t seem to find the words, the horrified expression on his face sent a clear message.

She turned away, stalked into the living room and began rearranging the Hummel figures, putting Fishing Boy beside Choir Girl instead of beside Hiking Boy where he belonged. Let anarchy reign, she decided. Better still, she should pack the little pottery figurines away in a box and redecorate—entirely in animal prints and edgy avant-garde sculptures.

But the Hummels had been her mother’s, and Cynthia was sentimental. With a sigh, she put Fishing Boy back beside Hiking Boy and snapped on a lamp.

All her life, except when she’d been away at college, Cynthia had lived in this house—first as a child, then after her mother was widowed. Maybe she needed a change.

Walter stood warily at the edge of the British India rug that had been Cynthia’s grandparents’ obviously uncertain how to handle her. A worried frown played around his eyes.

How well he fit into this room, she thought. An old-fashioned man in an old-fashioned room. He probably had no idea his tie was too wide, or that he’d been wearing that sweater so long it was almost back in style.

She used to belong in this room, too. Now she no longer did. In fact, for a while she hadn’t felt like she fit into her own body. But in the last week, despite the ghastly disaster of the sex thing, she felt like she was starting to get it right.

She hadn’t seen Walter since Friday, when he’d left her naked, tied up and forgotten. Oh, he’d called later that night, sounding tired and harassed. The delivery had been difficult. He was sorry he’d had to leave. He was doing hospital rounds for the next few evenings, but why didn’t they have dinner at her house Tuesday?

Cynthia thought about the mother and baby; she was glad they’d survived and Walter had made it happen. She forgave him, of course, but still felt he should grovel a bit after what she’d been through.

Now here he stood. No flowers, no apology, no wine. Not even an invitation to a restaurant. As usual, she was cooking dinner for Dr. Tightwad. If he’d come across the room, take her in his arms and whisk her off to bed, she’d forgive him completely.

She glanced toward him with what she hoped was a sultry, come-hither look.

He rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. “Is that pot roast I smell? I’m starved.”

Her mother, who’d been over forty when her only child was born, had a rule about controversy at the dinner table: it was bad for the digestion, bad manners, bad, bad, bad. So Cynthia, who had spent her entire life until last Friday being good, made polite conversation while inside she was more stewed than the pot roast.

She did the dishes while Walter read the paper. After the dishes were finished, she made coffee and they drank it in the living room like a normal pair of seventy-year-olds.

She gazed down at the cup and saucer in her hand. Red cabbage roses covered the china, faded after thirty years to old-bathrobe pink. Cynthia made a discovery. She didn’t like the china.

Not only was she drinking out of her mother’s china, she was living her mother’s life. Only she’d skipped the part about being young, and morphed right into advanced middle age.

The cup began rattling on the matching saucer, like frenetic castanets. The body-hugging little top felt a couple of sizes too small. She couldn’t seem to get her breath.

Across the room newspaper rustled as Walter turned a page.

A scream built in her throat. It was a year since her mother had died. And Cynthia had this sudden science fiction vision of herself returning from the funeral service to become her mother.

She’d loved her mom. And her father. But somehow she’d lost herself, and she had to do something to get back on track. Maybe it wasn’t Walter and her sex life that was the problem.

Maybe it was this house.

“I’m thinking about selling the house.” She said it aloud, rolling the idea in her head as the words rolled off her tongue.

“Hmm?” The paper rustled again as Walter neatly folded it in quarters and placed it on the table beside him.

“I’m thinking about selling the house.”

After staring at her blankly for a moment, Walter smiled. She recognized that smile. It was the patronizing don’t-worry-everything-will-be-all-right-I’m-a-doctor smile that always made her want to smack him. “That’s perfectly normal.”

“Pardon?” Maybe she hadn’t heard him correctly.

He rose and crossed the room to settle beside her on the gold damask couch. He gazed right into her eyes and spoke soothingly. “You’re a woman in a delicate stage of her life. You’re approaching your mid-thirties—”

“I’m thirty-one!”

He carried on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Your biological clock’s ticking.” He brushed his finger across her nose as though she were a fretful child. “I think we should move up the wedding date.”

The tightness in her chest was becoming a burning. “Why?”

He patted her knee. He actually patted her knee. “You’re acting out, exhibiting behavior that’s out of character. I think you’re sending me a pretty clear message.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a postpartum patient. I’m your fiancée.” And where were the words of love she equated with choosing a mate? The romantic gestures, the sex?!

“I just want to help you, guide you.”

Control me, she thought, and the burning intensified.

He took her left hand, where a tiny diamond gleamed weakly. She’d tried to convince herself the ring was tasteful, but really it was just cheap. “I could make some room in my schedule in April. We could get married then.” He glanced at her head doubtfully. “Will your hair be back to normal by then?”

Maybe she wasn’t being fair. For him, deciding on a wedding date a mere seven months away was being spontaneous. She tried to kindle a little enthusiasm. “We could take some of the money I get from the house and go on a really great honeymoon.”

He gave her that smile again. “Do you have any idea how property values are rising in this neighborhood? We’re only forty-five minutes outside Seattle. The house is close to my practice and your job. It’s a wonderful place to raise a family. After we’re married you’ll settle down.”

Their clasped hands were starting to sweat. Visions of Venice and Aruba faded. “What about our honeymoon?”

“It’s already arranged. I’m swapping Myron Slavinsky an extra week of hospital rounds for a week at his timeshare in Palm Desert.”

“Practicing your golf game for your retirement?” She pasted on a phony jovial smile. The burning was so bad she gasped. Maybe she was having a panic attack.

He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Golf is growing in popularity with younger people, too. You’d be surprised.”

She pulled her hand away. “I can’t do it, Walter.” Funny how calm she felt now she’d made her decision. If she married Walter, she wouldn’t just be settling, she’d be sinking to subterranean depths. She’d be buried alive. No wonder she couldn’t breathe.

“But Myron says the course is very good. And anyone staying in the timeshare gets a discount on the golfing.”

“Then maybe you and Myron should go, since you both like to golf and I hate it.” The burning was spreading, from her chest to her whole body. Kind of like a heart attack, she supposed, except instead of blocking, her arteries felt like they were unclogging. New life pumped through her veins. She jumped up.

“Since when do you—”

“Since always. I’ve always hated golf. And bridge. Only you never listened to me. I think you should listen now, and listen carefully. I’m not marrying you, Walter. It would be a disaster.”

To her absolute fury, his patronizing smile didn’t falter. “You’re upset, irrational.”

“I’m angry!” And she was, angrier than she’d ever been. She stalked across the living-room carpet, energized by her fury. She felt sharp, as if all the fuzzy edges of her brain had burned clean. “I’m so angry I want to throw things, swear, have sex with a stranger.”

Walter cleared his throat. “It keeps coming back to intercourse, I see. I don’t want to hurt you, Cynthia, but perhaps I could arrange for you to speak with one of my colleagues who understands these stages women go through—before you do something you regret.”

Her pacing stalled for a moment. “Talk to a colleague? You mean a psychiatrist?”

“There’s no need to use that tone. It’s perfectly all right to seek professional help when you’re feeling confused, and acting irrational.”

“But I’m not different. Or irrational. This is the real me. I’ve only just realized it. And we’d be terrible together, Walter. I—I want different things. Excitement, romance, travel. I don’t want to spend my thirties saving for retirement.”

She’d hit him where he lived, she knew. The man was obsessed with money and security. She had a hunch it was her accounting background that had first attracted him to her.

He looked lost for a moment, sitting there staring at her. “Don’t do anything rash. Take a week or so to think things over and we’ll talk again.” He gazed at her, looking truly troubled, and for a moment she thought maybe he did love her after all. Then he said, “Promise me you won’t put this house on the market.”

“Goodbye, Walter.” She tugged the engagement ring off her finger and passed it to him. He opened his palm and she dropped the ring into it.

He glanced at the ring and then at her. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Her laugh held a note of hysteria. “Not even a little bit.” And it felt good. No more planning for retirment in her thirties, no more wasting her youth.

After he left, Cynthia felt as if she’d come out of a tunnel into fresh air. She was bursting with the need to get started on her new life.

No wonder the FBI agent hadn’t believed this was her house. It didn’t reflect her personality at all. The Hummels stared at her from their big-lashed innocent eyes, as though anticipating their doom. “Sorry, guys,” she said. “You’re the first to go.”

She ran down to the basement and collected a few boxes and mounds of tissue, then ran back up to the living room. She wrapped each little figure carefully before stowing it in the box. Aunt Lois, her mom’s younger sister, would love them.

Cynthia packed up the cabbage rose china, the hand-crocheted doilies, the pinwheel crystal and her mood rose. Music, she needed music.

Katy Perry gave way to Carly Rae Jepsen as she worked, and reminded herself she was young. Vibrant. A woman in charge of her life.

After Cynthia finished in the living room she had four boxes neatly packed and labeled.

Next she hit her bedroom. Ruthlessly she dragged out every suit more than twenty-four months old, and a few that were newer. If her colleagues at the cement company didn’t like her new image, that was their problem. She gazed at the stifling array of suits, which had most likely been designed for middle-aged women. She must have been crazy to have bought them. She chucked the works in a big green garbage bag to be donated to charity.

She dragged the bulging bag into the living room to join the boxes. She was just wondering whether she had enough energy to haul it out to her hatchback when the doorbell rang.

Her lips thinned. She’d made Walter return her house key before he left—she glanced at her watch—less than two hours ago. He’d been smugly certain she’d change her mind and resume their engagement, but did he really think she was going to change it in two hours?

It wouldn’t take her two minutes to set him straight.

She marched to the door and flung it open.

Jake Wheeler stood there, all he-man tough and dangerous, lounging in her doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. “You should have checked through your peephole first,” he said by way of a greeting.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“Your jaw’s hanging open. Either you have an advanced case of lockjaw or you’re surprised to see me. I’m guessing you get a regular tetanus shot.”

It flashed through her mind, as she took in the blue, blue eyes and the black hair, the craggy face and the body, that he could have been a model for Raunch Magazine’s fantasy issue.

Even as the thought germinated, a blush began on her cheeks and spread. This man had seen her naked. She shut her mouth with a snap. “You’re right. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I like the hair.”

“You do?” The color probably matched the full-body blush.

He chuckled. He had a very attractive chuckle. “Let me guess—you change your hair color as often as you change your men.”

She laughed back, realizing it was absolutely true. She’d colored her hair once and dumped her first boyfriend. In only thirty-one years. “You’ve got me pegged.”

“You going to invite me in or are you already entertaining?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. Come in.” She stepped back, and he walked into her house and straight into the living room, where he jerked to a stop.

“You’re not moving, are you?” He sounded almost panicked.

“I’m thinking about it. No. I’m finished thinking. I’ve decided. I’m moving. Yes. Yes I am.”

“But this is a great neighborhood, safe, stable, a—”

“Great place to raise a family? I know. I was raised in this house.” She sighed. “I need a change, that’s all.”

“So redecorate. It’s a lot easier.”

“You sound like Walter.”

His eyes crinkled. “The doctor who makes house calls? I get the impression that’s not good.”

Why would he care if she moved? He wasn’t planning to arrest her or something—was he? It hadn’t been illegal, what she’d done. Criminally embarrassing, yes, but surely she and Walter were old enough to—to what? They hadn’t even got started. She crossed her arms over her chest as she shook her head. “I’d rather move.”

“Look. If it’s about me seeing you naked, I barely peeked.”

The hot sweat of embarrassment prickled her neck and underarms. “What exactly do you want?”

“I dropped by to introduce myself properly. Just being neighborly.”

“You’re new to the neighborhood. I’m supposed to call on you.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up at my door with a Bundt cake. I was getting lonely.” He rubbed his stomach. “And hungry.”

In spite of herself she had to smile. When he wasn’t scaring her, he had an odd sort of charm. “I’m all out of cake, but I do have some double-chocolate ice cream in the freezer.”

“Sold.”

When she returned with two bowls of ice cream, she found him relaxed on the gold damask couch, staring down at a single Hummel figurine. The little girl feeding birds looked absurdly small and frail in his big hands. “What happened to all her buddies?”

Cynthia pointed to the neatly labeled box.

A glimmer of amusement threaded his voice. “How come she’s missing the party?”

A shaft of guilt shot through her. “Mother bought that one when I was a child. She said the little statue reminded her of me. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of her.”

He gazed at Cynthia consideringly. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the sentimental type.” He placed the little figure back on the antique piecrust table beside the sofa and accepted the bowl of ice cream. “Please don’t leave the neighborhood.”

“Why would you care?”

“You’re the only other person around here who’s both single and not collecting social security.”

Her heart rate increased. He’d mentioned they were both single and that he didn’t want her to move. Could a gorgeous guy like this be interested in her? She gazed at the stunning tough-guy. No. He must have an accounting problem.

“It is mostly young families and older people,” she said. “Why did you move here? There are plenty of condos downtown. That’s where the single people live. That’s where I’m moving.” She stuck her chin out a little, just so he’d know she could fit in just fine in a swinging condo block.

“I moved here because I hate living in a concrete cube. I like the character of these homes. I bought mine from my great-aunt when she moved into a nursing home.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Jorgensen is your aunt?”

He nodded.

“But she lived only two doors down. Beside Mrs. Lawrence.”

He nodded again, as if he were enjoying a private joke.

“You won’t tell her, will you? Please don’t tell either of them.”

“That I found you buck naked, chained to your own bed?” He chuckled, a richly evil sound. “I don’t want to send either of them to the ER, so don’t worry.”

Her hands trembled as she realized how truly ghastly that experience had been. Every time she saw Agent Wheeler she’d be reminded of how they’d met. “I’m definitely moving.”

“You’d hate a condo after all this space.” He glanced around the living room. “You just need to redecorate. I’ll help. I could be your own personal painter.”

“Just what I need. A nosy guy in overalls to come home to. Anyway, I thought you already had a job. Or was that FBI badge fake?”

“No. It wasn’t fake.” Suddenly his face grew serious, and she recognized the man who’d terrified her when he’d burst into her bedroom with a gun. He put down his ice cream and leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “All right. I’m not just being neighborly.”

For some reason, goose bumps danced up her spine.

“I need your help, Cynthia. The government needs your help.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, and her heart began to pound. She’d feel just the same if a guy from the IRS sat here and said, “It’s about your taxes.”

“You could be instrumental in helping the FBI crack a drug smuggling operation.”

“Drugs?” Her voice rose. “In this neighborhood? The only drugs you’ll find around here are blood pressure and bladder control medication. Hardly illegal. But very funny, hah hah.” Jerk. He’d got her all scared for nothing. She scooped up a spoon of melting ice cream and let the delicious flavor soothe her.

“It’s not in this neighborhood.” He hadn’t cracked a smile, so maybe he wasn’t joking after all.

* * *

Jake didn’t know how to approach this. He’d checked Cynthia Baxter out. She might be a sexual adventurer, but she’d never been arrested. She was a certified accountant who had indeed been with the same employer her whole working life. His original hunch was bang on the money. She was perfect. She was the rosy answer to a thorny problem and she lived two doors down. Now he just had to convince her to quit her job of nine years, take a new one and spy on her boss.

He had to figure out what would tempt her. He stood and began to pace while she watched him, her hair gleaming like old copper.

Everybody had a hot button. Money? Danger? Excitement? Patriotism?

What was hers?

Her green eyes were huge in the lamplight, and somehow guileless. Must be a big turn-on to guys that a woman so innocent looking went for the kinky stuff in bed. He swallowed a mental image of her naked and helpless, the way he’d first seen her, lying there like an open invitation.

Except he didn’t attend those kind of parties anymore. Not since he’d walked in on his wildly exciting girlfriend getting wildly excited with two other men and another woman. She was his ex-girlfriend now.

Cynthia Baxter reminded him of his ex. It wasn’t so much the kinky stuff that put him off, it was the revolving door to the bedroom. He was already the second man through Cynthia’s door tonight. Who knew how many were on their way? He paced. “I saw your boyfriend leave earlier.”

Her lips pinched. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Chew them up and spit them out like grapes. She probably ate them in bunches, too.

She gasped. “Walter’s not involved in some kind of drug thing, is he?” She answered her own question even as Jake shook his head. “No. Not Walter.”

He had to forget the way she intrigued him, one minute sexy as a centerfold, the next as innocent as one of those damned big-eyed pottery figurines. It didn’t matter what she did in the privacy of her own bedroom, so long as she didn’t do it with him.

How to reach her. She didn’t need money. He’d done his homework and knew that, in addition to this house, she’d inherited a nice chunk of change from the folks, had no siblings to split it with, and had managed to accumulate a pretty impressive portfolio of her own.

His eyes scanned the room, which resembled a half-dressed woman with so much of the stuff packed away. She hadn’t touched the bookshelf, though. A full set of leather-bound matching classics that must be from some club were mixed in with books of poetry, modern novels, a few paperbacks and a line of glossy hardcovers as new as her hair color.

He moved closer and squinted: Me, Myself and I, Flying Solo and Loving It, was shelved next to Time for a Change! and Be the Change You Want to See Happen. Apart from supporting an entire industry of smarmy pseudo-shrinks, she was sending a definite message here.

Change. The woman was looking for change. He couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t quit her job in nine years when she’d obviously changed her hair color and men more often than he changed his razor blades.

She wanted change and he was the man to give it to her. “I want to offer you a job.”

“The FBI needs another accountant?” She licked the last of the ice cream off her lips, her pink tongue teasing the glossy copper lipstick. No wonder they called her Cyn.

His own lips felt dry. “It’s undercover work. Very hush-hush.” The James Bond script people would be embarrassed to use a line like that, but it brought a gleam of excitement to her eyes and she jumped up to face him.

“Undercover?”

He was going with his gut, but it seemed like he’d punched the right button. He nodded gravely, glanced around as though her house might be bugged, and dropped his voice. “Top secret. You’d be on a need-to-know basis.”

He could have been 007 himself the way she was staring at him with rapt attention. “What do I need to know?”

“We’re watching an import-export company. We believe they’re a link in a worldwide drug smuggling operation, but we’ve had no luck putting an agent in place inside. One of their accountants recently left the firm, then hopped a plane to Hong Kong before we could get to him.” Jake experienced again the frustration he’d felt when Harrison had slipped through their fingers. “So I know there’s a vacancy in the accounting department.”

Some of the sparkle had dimmed from her eyes. “You’re asking me to be an accountant? That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“Ninety percent of undercover work is mundane,” he told her truthfully. “But you’ll be able to see things, hear things. You’ll be on the inside.”

He’d had no luck at all infiltrating the shipping and receiving end of the company, where he was certain the action was. But they sure as hell wouldn’t be expecting a plant in the front-office staff. And when they checked Cynthia Baxter out, they’d discover just what he had. She was an experienced accountant with no links to any kind of law enforcement. Lived alone, nice quiet life on the surface. No criminal activities that could bring attention to her. Her bedroom was a fun house with a revolving door. With any luck, she’d take Neville Percivald for a ride and get him talking. She was perfect.

Her job would be dull, dull, dull. But, Jake thought, salving his conscience, it couldn’t be any more dull than her current position with the cement company.

“When the action heats up, you’ll be there, right in the thick of things.” In a pig’s ear. Long before they made a move, he’d get her out. She’d be safely at home playing hide the salami with some beefcake if and when they had cause to move in on Oceanic.

“Will it be dangerous?”

His gut hadn’t led him astray. She was falling hook, line and sinker. Her eyes shone with expectation.

Her new job would be about as dangerous as night watchman in a nursing home. “Very dangerous.”

Her breathing quickened, sounding like a woman becoming sexually aroused. His body responded to her even as his mind told him to keep his mind on work. No way was he going to get a thing going with the neighborhood nympho. He just wished his brain and his johnson had the same taste in women.

“What do I have to do?”