CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eric’s palm on her shoulder brought them face-to-face. “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Shea. Carlson’s a sneaky SOB. He might’ve been casting doubt where there was none.”

It was so like him to offer hope, but this was bad. Still, Shea tied a knot in the end of that lifeline he’d just tossed, and chose to believe in her friends. There had to be an explanation for what Phoenix had done.

“What else did you record?” Eric asked, reassurance on his handsome face.

“Things,” she replied, quietly evading the question as her fingers wavered over the keyboard. Her heart was torn.

“So now we wait?” Murphy asked from his comfortable chair.

“It shouldn’t take long,” she assured, working on catching her balance. “He’s an important guest.”

Eric grunted. “At least he thinks so.”

As if on cue, Carlson’s smug voice slithered through Murphy’s computer speakers. “Alex Stewart? Well, well, well. What can I do for you?”

“My man will contact you tomorrow morning,” Alex informed their mark abruptly.

My man? As in—Eric?

Shea twisted around to Murphy, the guy sitting next to her with a cocky smile on his face, and his cellphone in his hand. “You told Alex to call Carlson?” She wished she’d thought of that.

“’Course. I might be an old fart, but I know how to text.”

Straightening, Eric grinned as he rubbed his hands. “Good thinking. I’m ready for some payback. How far to Ashford?”

Murphy leaned forward, his elbows to his knees. “That depends. It’s a good two hundred kilometers northwest of here if you plan on driving. Less if you want to fly. What’s the plan, Eric?”

“You heard the boss. The plan is I go in and get Jordan and the others out.”

“Shhhhh,” Shea whispered, her index finger to her lips while Alex and Carlson continued sparring. Her heart was stuck in her throat at this unexpectedly quick resolution. Why did Eric have to be the one to confront Carlson?

Shea brought up a map of the interior of the castle and pinpointed Carlson’s location. Her spiders had served her well. His room was located at ground level. West side. Oldest part of the castle.

She double-checked the spider’s findings against the hotel registry. My, my. Carlson occupied the two adjacent suites as well. That gave him sole access to that entire wing, including a private side entrance. He could come and go as he pleased.

“Expect Agent Reynolds at daybreak,” Alex snapped, “and trust me, he will be taking Hannigan with him when he goes. The others, too. They’d better be there.”

Shea nodded at Alex’s bold order. You tell him.

“Hold that thought,” Carlson’s gravelly tone pitched a note deeper. “I said I was willing to negotiate, but I’m not giving up my ace in the hole.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists, rich or not,” Alex hissed.

“You do now. You want your man? I want Finn Powers. Deal?”

“You’ll ensure Reynolds and Hannigan are safely out of Ashford by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow or—”

“Are you threatening me, Stewart? You? An American has-been?”

Silence. Click. Typical. Alex didn’t waste time negotiating. He’d hung up.

“Arrogant prick!” Carlson hissed as his line went dead.

Murphy chuckled. “How much do you want to bet Alex’ll be on the next plane to Shannon Airport to knock Carlson on his billionaire ass?”

Shea bit her lip while Eric and Murphy discussed their boss’s temper. Carlson had been every bit as hostile with Alex as he had with Gordie. Maybe it was time he got a taste of his own medicine. Her fingers wandered the world wide web until—

Oh look, the mighty Hugh Carlson’s website. With links.

She let her fingers do the walking all the way into his FAQs, his very pristine About Me page, his sizeable financial holdings…

Oh, look. I wonder how this happened. I’m inside his bank account. Make that, his bank.

Leaning into the monitor, Shea counted all those digits to the left of the decimal point in one of his many accounts. This guy could feed a few starving nations all by himself, and he could do it out of his petty cash—like never. Hugh Carlson wasn’t about helping others. But lookee here…

“Don’t do it.” Eric’s deep voice rumbled.

Busted. She swallowed hard. “I’m just looking, but see this?” She pointed at the screen and all those digits. “I could bring him down to our level…” She snapped her trembling fingers because they were tapping all over the screen. “…just like that.”

“We don’t want his money.”

“True, but others could use it.” As in other countries.

Eric placed a quick kiss to the side of her head. “One mission at a time. No.”

Shea leaned into the warmth of Eric’s male body to reassure him she wouldn’t defy his wishes, but the instant she did, her body revved up like that Harley she’d just had between her legs. Every last ounce in her body sang at his touch. A shimmering flame pooled between her legs, scorching her until she had to cross her ankles to ease the ache.

“But I could. If you ever want me to wreck him, just say the word.” Because I really want to humble this jerk, and damn it. I need sex. With you!

“Can you monitor his cellphone to track him at all times?” Murphy asked.

Shea nodded. She could monitor just about anything she wanted, and she could, umm, dabble at the same time. Easily, she skimmed Ashford’s event schedule. Dinner in the George V Dining Room was served promptly at five pm. An acclaimed chef prepared only the finest dishes. Slow roasted Rib of Beef. Nyangbo frozen Choco-latte Mousse. Blah. Blah. Blah… What have we here? A masquerade ball? Tomorrow?

“So strategize,” Eric declared. “All I know is I’ve got marching orders to be at Ashford at zero dark thirty.”

She straightened in her seat, startled that she’d missed part of the conversation.

“And if Carlson refuses to hand over Jordan and the others?” Murphy rubbed a clenched fist over his chin. “We’ll have to go dark, and that’ll be a two-man job, Eric. We’ll need to leave Shea here alone. Are you prepared to do that? Or do we take her with us?”

She shot Eric one of her looks. Despite the tension in the air, the corners of his mouth curled. Lust was simmering in the depths of those handsome eyes. She never got tired of looking at him. He was her worst addiction. Her crack. Her meth. All rolled into one, glorious hit. Stealing her breath like a sucker punch to her solar plexus with his sexy bod, and yes. They could both spell. S. E. X.

“I have an idea,” she said, not sure how to approach him, but she was going to try. “What about going to a masquerade ball?”

The smile dropped off his face. “A what?”

Murphy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Let’s hear what she’s got to say.”

Her heart climbed up her throat. This idea might be more dangerous than she wanted to handle, but it might also be the perfect solution. “Well, umm, a masquerade party’s scheduled for tomorrow at Ashford. It’s for lords and ladies. Invitation only. Royal attire. Masks. Pomp and circumstance. The whole nine yards.”

“Why do we care?” Eric asked, his head canted as if he knew where she was going with this. He always could read her like a book.

“I was thinking you guys could dress as lords to my lady and—”

“No.” He took a full step back from her, his hands on his hips and shaking his head. “I’m not putting you into play, Shea. Not with this crowd. No way.”

Murphy leaned into his comfortable chair, watching.

Shea didn’t offer another word. If Eric said no, then she wouldn’t argue. Not anymore. She wasn’t a covert operator, although she had fooled Phoenix and Gordie for over a year, and she’d fooled Eric until Finn had lain down in a bog. Come to think of it, she’d fooled Jordan, too. At first. Still, Eric was her first priority. Whatever he said would go.

“Now hold on,” Murphy muttered. “Your little woman might have a good idea. No one would suspect us if we’re in costume. Where will this shindig be held? Any chance it’ll be near Carlson’s suite?”

“Yes. The reception area is also in the older portion of the castle, only it’s in the lower level. It holds one hundred and twenty people, so it sounds like they’re planning on a large party. There will be musicians and heavy hors d’oeuvers. An open bar.” Palpitations set her heart hammering. There’ll also be danger. Too many eyes. Maybe a scimitar hidden in the sleeve of a billowing, black robe that wasn’t a costume.

“You can’t be serious?” Eric asked, rolling both shoulders because she’d just trapped him. “Send in an inexperienced woman to do what, Murph? Face a madman and his three goons while she’s wearing some stupid ruffled get-up and heels? Give me a break.”

“No. I was thinking she could charm the pants off the old bastard no matter what costume she wore,” Murphy focused on Shea. “Face it, Eric. Shea can accomplish what neither you nor I can. While Carlson’s distracted by her, shall we say, feminine persuasion, one of us relieves him of Jordan, and we all hightail it out of there.”

Shivers skittered up Shea’s back. Murphy almost made it sound doable, all except for that feminine persuasion part. Carlson hadn’t made a good impression the last time she’d seen him. How could she fake flirting with him? What if he was like Bagani, or worse. Her heart thundered. What if he was the murderer in the black robes? That almost felt—right.

“No.” The cords in Eric’s neck were tight, his jaw set, and Shea was beginning to agree with him. This was too scary for someone like her. “I won’t allow it. She’s not a narc or a merc, and she’s not one of us. You’re asking for trouble sending a novice into a black op, Murph. Besides, she’s been through hell. You’re asking too much. No.”

“But she is good looking,” Murphy said thoughtfully, “and, if I understand what went on during the last twenty-four hours, she had the nerve and the notion to outwit Abdul-Mutaal in the middle of a slaughterhouse. Most folks would’ve been too scared to move, but she one-upped the guy. And she managed to protect and smuggle out of Amsterdam the invention everyone’s hot and bothered over. By the way, where is it?”

Eric jerked his head at the backpack resting on the floor by the desk, anger swallowing the glow in his eyes. “She’s still not going.”

Shea lowered her lashes. Now that Murphy had reminded her of the last gruesome twenty-four hours, she wished she hadn’t brought the masquerade ball up. “Never mind. I can’t do it. Eric’s right. The last time I fooled anyone, I wasn’t myself. I was some guy in a fat suit, not a fancy dress. Besides, what if Abdul-Mutaal is there? I’d never recognize him behind a mask.” I might get everyone killed.

Murphy pitched forward, his elbows to his knees. “Exactly, Shea. Everyone’s still looking for the bumbling oaf in the fat suit, not a gorgeous woman in red sequins. It’s the perfect solution. Distract Carlson. Give him what he thinks he wants. Trust me. I know what happens when Moira slides into anything red. I have to fight off every guy in sight. They’ve all got their tongues hanging out. Funny thing, she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s like you. Single-minded. Eyes on one man and one man only.”

Eric dropped to one knee beside her chair. “No, Shea,” he said quietly. “It’s not because I don’t think you can do it. I know damned well you could. You’ve already proven you’re smart. It’s not you; it’s me. I wouldn’t... I couldn’t survive if anything happened to you. Not now.”

She cupped his jaw, touched at his blatant declaration of love. With all her heart, she yearned to prove to him that she was his single-minded woman again.

“Then it’s settled.” Murphy slapped his hands to his knees. “We do it your way. I’ll stay here with Shea and keep her safe. You go get Jordan.”

Eric pushed off the floor with a growl. He huffed. Pursed his lips. Chewed the inside of his cheek. He turned in a full, tight circle until—finally, he drew in a deep breath and snorted through both nostrils. “Oh, hell, fine. You’re both coming with me.”

Shea peered at him, not sure she’d heard right. “We are?”

He nodded at Murphy. “Shea might be scared, but she’s smart, and she’s right. Nothing dangerous, though. I want you standing close by, but not in play, so we all leave together once we get Jordan. That’s all. No damned masquerade party and no damned red dress.”

“Okay,” she agreed, barely able to breathe again. Being separated from Eric was the last thing she’d wanted.

“Then times a-wasting. Let’s get back on the road,” Murphy said with authority as he got to his feet. “We’ve got three hours of driving ahead of us.”

Eric pulled Shea out of her chair and into his arm. “Not until we shower. Where’s the head? A new set of clean clothes wouldn’t hurt, either, and Shea needs shoes. She’s been barefoot all day. You got any extras around here?”

Murphy scrolled his eyeballs up and down Shea, a gentle smile breaking over his fatherly face. “Right, I should have thought. You kids must be hungry. I’ll fix some soup and sandwiches while you take your showers, and I’ll check Moira’s closet to see what I can come up with.”

Shea’s heart set to beating. Food would be wonderful. A hot shower would be heavenly, but a shower with Eric? Perfect.