Charade. Kate Donovan

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СКАЧАТЬ preparation for the wedding op. Now that she had been debriefed, she could stop tuning out the rest of the world, beginning with the fate of two kidnapped girls.

      Her favorite twenty-four-hour news channel was rerunning a video of Representative Bryan Ellis of Arizona, who pleaded into the TV camera for the return of the two teenagers. According to Ellis, both victims had been students at a prestigious Arizona prep school for girls.

      Athena Academy.

      Thirsty for information about the status of her fellow Athenians, Sasha fired up her laptop to check AA.gov, but the alumni Web site was strangely silent about the fate of the girls. It simply parroted what Ellis had already told the media: that the abduction had been bold and well planned, the families had been notified and the whole country was praying for the safe return of the students.

      “Bullshit,” Sasha muttered. “There’s a lot more than praying going on. We have women in the FBI, the CIA, NSA—you name it. These creeps are gonna wish they’d never been born when they come face-to-face with pure, unadulterated Athena force.”

      Every fiber of her being wanted to call the school and offer to help, but it was the middle of the night. Plus, she knew that the Athena Academy had alumni much more experienced than she to tap. After all, Sasha’s function with the FBI was to be a glorified snitch. An asset, not an agent. It made sense, given the nature of her work, but still it rankled her, even on a good day. And on a bad night like this, it truly frustrated her.

      As if they’re going to ask a Mafia princess for help on something like this? she mocked herself.

      Immediately, she tensed. That was Jeff Crossman’s viewpoint, not her own. Apparently he had really gotten under her skin with his doubts about her reliability. And while she knew it wasn’t totally his doing—she had her own internal conflicts, especially in regard to her father—she still cursed Jeff for daring to speak them out loud so often.

      Sleep, or even resting under the covers, was out of the question. She would stay up all night if necessary, monitoring the TV and the Web site until she was sure the students were safe.

      Twisting her hair into a knot that barely fit inside a plastic cap, she took a quick shower and slipped into a long, silky blue robe. Then she curled up on the couch with a glass of Pinot Grigio, her laptop and the remote control, determined to hunker down indefinitely.

      She had just taken the first sip of her drink when someone knocked on the door to her condominium. It was an odd occurrence for multiple reasons. She rarely had visitors. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night. And her building had excellent security, which meant she should have gotten a phone call from the front desk announcing any guest who sought admittance.

      Sliding to her feet, Sasha considered her options carefully. There was the pistol in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. Or a call to the front desk. Or…

      Forget those screwups at the desk. Just call 9-1-1!

      But that seemed imprudent, given the nagging sensation in the back of her tired brain that her visitor was probably Carmine Martino, determined to collect on his bet.

      Which led her to her final option—one she didn’t usually consider. She could simply kick the crap out of any assailant. Wasn’t that the most practical part of her Athena Academy legacy?

      Smiling at the thought, she walked over to the door and peeped through the peephole. Then she frowned in confused disbelief.

      Jeff?

      Without thinking, she threw open the door and demanded, “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing. Can I come in?”

      She was literally stunned. This guy never, ever came to her place. She always went to him, which made sense, since it wouldn’t have been prudent for an FBI agent to be spotted entering the residence of a Mafia boss’s daughter. Not prudent for Jeff, and certainly not for Sasha.

      So why was he here?

      Stepping aside, she allowed him to enter. Then she asked hesitantly, “Did you guys apprehend Vincenzo Martino?”

      “We’re still working on it.” He gave a long, appreciative whistle as his gaze traveled around her sumptuously furnished living room. “Nice place.”

      “My design work pays all the bills. And, yes, the down payment came from my mother’s trust fund, but every penny of that was completely legitimate. Not that it’s any of your business.” Sasha felt her temperature rise. “Even if every inch of this place was financed with mob money, I don’t have to explain it to you.”

      Jeff turned and gave her a patient smile. “All I said was, it’s a nice place. You look good, too, by the way.”

      Sasha sucked her breath in so quickly it made her chest ache. What the hell was he doing? Being nice to her? Complimenting her? Using his Summit voice on her in person, when he surely knew it was meant solely for electronic communications over safe distances?

      But there he was, sounding strong and safe and sexy. Combined with his deep green eyes and admiring smile, the effect was lethal. Yet she knew it was false—this guy thought she was a crime waiting to happen!—so she steadied herself, then demanded, “Why are you here, Agent Crossman?”

      “Sorry, I know it’s late. I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted earlier.”

      Sasha moistened her lips. “Pardon?”

      “You did a great job today. And I gave you a rough time. I’m sorry.”

      “You always give me a rough time,” she reminded him. “What’s so different about today?” Before he could respond, she insisted, “Don’t give it another thought. I’m used to it.”

      “That’s my point. I’ve been wrong. I admit it.”

      She would have been shaken by the sentiment had she not noticed his gaze slip, just for a moment, from her face to her body, which probably looked fairly good in this particular robe. “Oh. My. God. Don’t even think about it. Just go home and sleep it off.”

      He flushed. “It’s not that, either. Although like I said, you look great. You’re amazing, actually. If we land Vincent the Butcher because of you—well—”

      “So? You came here—at eleven o’clock at night—to apologize for calling me a spoiled Mafia princess? Fine. Apology accepted. Now go home.”

      Jeff frowned. “I never called you that. At least…”

      “Not to my face? Yeah, you’re a classy guy. No doubt about it.” Stepping close to him, she raised her chin defiantly. “You know what really bugs me? All these months, you’ve been railing about my divided loyalties and crappy motivation because of my so-called vendetta against my father. But you know what? I think you’re the one with a vendetta. Against me.”

      “That’s not true,” he assured her, using his Summit voice again.

      “Isn’t it?” She smiled grimly. “You’ve seen all my advantages—fancy houses, elite prep schools, zillion-dollar weddings and colorful relatives. And then there’s you. So drenched in normalness you can’t possibly relate to all that. So you denigrate it.”

      He arched a teasing eyebrow. СКАЧАТЬ