Are you sure we can’t order in?” Nikita was looking at the cocktail-dress clad woman in the mirror.

“Not a chance!” Zoe had been fussing with Nikita’s hair, trying to make it look like something. “We are so taking you to the salon tomorrow. Hair, manicure, the whole bit. You look fabulous though. Again, wish I had your body.”

“Will you cut that out?” Because Zoe looked fabulous herself in a classic little black dress. Offset by her pale skin, blond-dyed hair, and bright yellow pumps with flirty bows that matched the one clipped into her hair, Zoe looked perfect for the first evening’s dinner.

The woman in the mirror, on the other hand, looked like a trussed turkey. Her bright-red dress was a curve-hugging sheath above the waist and a fanciful floral lace over the pleated skirt that ran down just past mid-thigh. The only saving grace had been her refusal to buy heels of any sort, but the red leather strapped sandals weren’t much better, even if they were easier to walk in. The dress covered far more of her skin than anything else she’d worn today, but it made her feel far more revealed. This wasn’t merely sexy—which would be confusing enough—this dress shouted, “Look at me!”

“I look—”

“Seriously hot. Now remember. Your life’s purpose is to make Drake happy.”

“Slave girl doesn’t suit me well. Can’t I just kill him—or myself, either one—and be done with this,” she turned the other way and tried smoothing the lace that insisted she had very womanly hips.

“Not slave girl. You’re the woman so amazing that no one but the great Drake Roman could deserve you.”

“You’re fast climbing onto my shit list of people I would maim to get out of this.”

Zoe laughed and pushed her out of the master bedroom that Altman had made very clear that the women would be sharing. Their clothes were stowed as couples so that the maids wouldn’t notice anything amiss, but their sleeping arrangements would not be.

Nikita decided that was probably just as well.

But she would still rather stay here tonight, in the suite. The bathroom was nearly as big as the bedroom, and definitely larger than her room in the 5E’s barracks. A generous tub for two, toilet and bidet, two sinks, and a shower stall that could accommodate a party of six. She could get room service and never leave.

She stepped into the living room at the same moment Drake stepped through the opposite door from the small suite next door. He had looked good in white Armani and black t-shirt. In the Armani with a dress shirt almost as dark as his eyes and a tie the same red as her dress, he was startling.

“You need a shave,” was all she could think to say.

He rubbed a hand across his chin, “Altman thought I should leave it.”

“Ye-ah!” Zoe placed her vote and Nikita knew it was a lost cause.

Drake looked both sophisticated and, with the shadow of a beard, rugged. It made her remember more about his kiss some forever time ago like this morning. Hot and rugged.

“My question though,” Drake leaned toward Altman in a conspiratorial whisper, “is how did we luck out to get to escort the two most beautiful women on the ship?”

Altman’s answer was an equally conspiratorial fist in the ribs—except Drake winced like it actually hurt.

The pre-dinner mixer in the Wave lounge included the occupants of the ship’s eight high-end luxury suites, the captain, and Norma the hotel manager. It also included a hosted, high-octane bar and a small flock of stewards constantly circulating with tiny amuse-bouches: oysters served in those white Chinese soup spoons with a Thai salsa, prosciutto-wrapped shrimp on tiny metal Neptune’s tridents, eggrolls the size of his pinky with more flavor than any he’d ever had before.

Drake opted for whisky, in keeping with the Crown Royal XR that had been delivered to his room, and handed Nikita a flute of effervescent champagne that practically made her giggle. Altman had somehow talked a beer out of the bartender, and Zoe had the champagne as well.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be saying to anyone. Oddly, it was the deeply reserved Nikita who took the lead in the introductions.

“Drake is in project management, specializing in conflict resolution at the international level.”

“Oh, Drake took me to Rio last month. He had work there, not for me to know about, of course. I stayed in the Fasano Rio spa—really, you must go. The Filipino face massage is to die for. After that we went to one of those nature reserves and stayed in a treehouse where the only way in or out was on a zipline.”

“Drake is in international transport of specialized equipment. We just returned from Kenya. If you ever need to get away, you simply must rent Kilulu Island. The villa is charming. It has a pool, a full staff, and the whole island is so very private.” She actually managed a coy look and a blush as she told that one.

He wasn’t the only one with an acting background. Nikita was practically dripping with brainless, fawning jetsetter—until he wondered quite who she was.

By the time he could get her aside, he’d been introduced twelve different ways to stockbrokers, bankers, an airline executive, mistresses, and somebody’s boy-toy. He could overhear Zoe doing the same thing in her effervescent tone as she sometimes hovered at Nikita’s side and other times at the silent Luke’s.

“What happens when they compare notes?” He kept his whisper urgent.

“They already are,” Nikita replied with a perfect placidity, slipping back into her normal self, which was a relief. At least the cool and soft-spoken SEAL he knew, even if he didn’t understand her any better than the flirty airhead.

“But—” Drake had been saying that a lot lately. “I’m not—” But he was. Every description had, in a way, said the same thing. However, Nikita had said it so many different ways that it was making his head spin. He looked at his glass. Still half full, he’d been careful to pace himself. Maybe drowning his woes in a glass would be a better choice.

“Everyone here now knows that you’re an international man of mystery who is wealthy, can afford to send me to the highest-end spas and resorts—which I know about because Mom likes watching the travel channels and we do it together whenever I’m home—while you do dangerous, secret work. We’re giving you an instant reputation.”

“For what reason? Wait,” the pieces began clicking into place. “Because word has a chance of getting back to Arthur, the art auctioneer, and whoever his cronies are.”

“Precisely; can you imagine a circle of people more likely to buy his ‘art’?”

Drake scanned the room. His mom was a banker and his dad a named partner in one of the major Boston law firms. Dad came from old money, which had opened the doors to Boston society. The joke was that none of the four of them had enjoyed the society events, but Dad’s parents were deeply enough rooted in it that his family couldn’t avoid attending.

Drake could practically hear his sister Hennie giving them a running commentary on each person.

I know that black coral is illegal, but I just had to have it. So I had Henry purchase a vintage piece at ten times the market value.

My yacht may be twenty feet shorter than yours, but mine has a chef trained by Mario Batali himself.

Oh, the tourists on Martha’s Vineyard are just hideous this year, so we’ve rented a villa in Nice.

Their family was always the slightly odd group giggling among themselves during the various mandatory outings.

Hennie would have a blast with this crowd. Old men with jewel-bedecked twenty-somethings. Widows and widowers on the prowl for someone of the proper class—money. One bruiser who just had to be with the Russian mob. There were only two couples who looked happy to be together and were making a real point of ignoring everyone else in the room. Under normal circumstances, they would be the ones that Drake would gravitate toward.

These were not normal conditions.

“Mr. Roman?” Drake tried desperately to remember who was the man now shaking his hand.

Banker—Ranker— “Mr. Rankin.” Drake resisted the urge to crush down on the hearty handshake of someone who had never picked up anything heavier than a martini glass.

“I wonder if we might have a moment,” he glanced sideways at Nikita. When they’d first been introduced, he’d barely glanced at Nikita despite how incredible she looked. Maybe the man only made love to his money.

Drake tried to think of a way to keep Nikita at his side, but her presentation of being his mistress-of-the-moment had been so thorough that he couldn’t come up with one. At a loss, he kissed her briefly, patted her bottom just to mess with her head, and told her to go mingle.

“I have a competitor that I was hoping I might talk to you about.”

And I have an FBI contact that I’m probably going to be reporting you to.

Nikita was going to have to do something about Drake’s fascination with her behind. The gentle pat to send her on her way, the playful slap to send her shopping, and the way he’d grabbed it hard when they were kissing in her room back at Mother Rucker. He was confusing the crap out of her…which was half the reason she’d been playing the empty airhead. He wanted to treat her like that in public, fine! She’d be that in public.

It fit her chosen role, so why was it irritating her?

Only partly because it now meant that she couldn’t accompany him as he and Rankin moved off to stand at a window and look out at the sunset as they talked.

It also thrust her once more into the social whirl that was like nothing she’d ever been through. Without Drake to hang on to, she felt lost—adrift on a sea that had rules she didn’t begin to understand. Her attempts to latch herself on to Zoe were intercepted by many of the men. Several of whom had no compunction about talking to her breasts. What they wanted was only too clear. She barely resisted correcting their habits with a hard body slam to the floor.

Others talked to her breasts but they talked about Roman, seeking more stories. She reached into her research of GSI’s files and embellished liberally until she felt like she was spilling tales of fictional supervillains. Nikita made sure that her stories at least half the time conflicted with the first round of stories.

You’re going to treat me like an airhead, Roman, that’s what I’ll deliver. On the plus side of that role, it meant that everyone would underestimate or even totally ignore her until it was too late.

She finally forged her way to Zoe.

“Refuge!” she pleaded.

“You bet, Nikki.” Zoe slipped her hand around her waist, causing Nikita to put her arm around Zoe’s shoulders and feel the comfort of a friend. “What do all of those bad boys want? I mean, I saw how they were looking at you.”

“Half want to dial my escort service, even with their wives or mistresses or whatever they are standing right next to them.”

“No brainer with the way you look. How about the other half?”

Nikita looked about the room. There were a number of very pretty women in the room. Though much of the beauty seemed overly studied. The only reason she stood out in this crowd was that she wasn’t bone thin. “The other half want to know what Roman really is.”

“And what is he?” Zoe’s voice was teasing. “Other than hunk handsome?”

“He certainly seems to like patting my behind.”

“Smart man,” Zoe agreed as if that wasn’t somehow outrageous. “Your boss won’t touch me.”

For a moment she thought Zoe meant Drake and decided it was a damn good thing he didn’t take any liberties there or she’d bust him a good one. Then she realized that Zoe meant Luke, which was totally outrageous to even think about.

She had to look around the lounge twice to spot him.

It was a SEAL tactic, finding exactly the right tempo of the room, then match it to become invisible. He stood close by one of the exits looking quietly casual by himself. But Nikita knew the stance: he was on alert for anything out of place. From his position by the exit, he had a clear view of the entire space as well as the two other entry points, both currently blocked by brass standards and a loop of red velvet rope to keep this a private party.

His eyes locked on her for a moment in one of his scans, then he barely nodded before continuing on about the room. Altman was lucky. Of them all, his role alone matched who he was. Whether it was the bodyguard or the SEAL watching the entire room, the feel was the same.

Nikita was feeling much closer to a psychotic break.

Dinner was no better. Normally when she was undercover, she and another SEAL were paired to simply look normal walking down a street together, observing security they were going to have to bypass, defenses to surmount, and targets to infiltrate.

At the dinner table she had to play the merry hostess and would have failed miserably without Zoe’s assistance. Drake appeared completely at ease with the situation. Fine, let the two of them take the lead role and she’d go sit beside Altman in his forbiddingly too-dangerous-to-even-approach guise. Except she couldn’t.

Dinner led to reserved seats in the large auditorium that could seat half the ship’s guests to listen to a horrendous mashup of Cubano salsa and Jamaican steel drums that everyone seemed to inhale as the new sound of the century. Then quiet drinks at the late night piano bar—seats around the piano instead of back at one of the shadowed tables, of course.

“What are we doing, Drake?” She’d had five hours of sleep in four days, more drinks than she typically had in a year other than a friendly beer or two after a mission, and she was ready to collapse.

“Being visible,” he whispered under a predictable but not unpleasant version of What a Wonderful World.

“Can we be invisible now?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“You sound like Will Smith in Men in Black.”

“I was trying to sound like Humphrey Bogart.”

Nikita considered laying her head down on the grand piano they were seated around and weeping.

“Got it. Come along.” Drake slid his arm around her waist and helped her to her feet.

Nikita didn’t know what was going on. Endless corridors, elevators, more corridors. Normally she could dig deep and gut out anything. With Drake taking control, she didn’t need to maintain. As a result, she ended up in a head-wobbling space.

When she looked at the woman in the lobby mirror this time, she was practically lying against the handsome stranger that had replaced her Night Stalkers crew chief. Her head rested on his shoulder and, surprisingly, was content to remain there. His reflection turned enough to kiss her on top of the head before the elevator arrived.

If she hadn’t known the sunny and sexy woman of this afternoon, she knew the elegant, clingy woman even less, but couldn’t rouse herself to protest.

When the acceleration of the elevator threatened to take out her knees, she let it. The handsome warrior swept her into his arms.

In the mirror in the elevator’s ceiling, she appeared helpless yet content to merely nestle.

“We pushed her too far. Damn it but I’m an idiot!” she could as much feel as hear what he said. “Five hours sleep in four days. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“We all should have seen it,” another gruff male voice replied.

“Almost there, Nikki,” someone whispered encouragement from close by. Nikki. The last person to call her Nikki was…

“I don’t want to remember,” she turned her face into the shoulder of the warrior who carried her and hung on.

“Then don’t.”

A door, another. In moments the dress was gone and a nightshirt had taken its place. One last time strong arms lifted her and lay her down on soft sheets.

The last thing she remembered was a kiss on her forehead.