Too Wild to Hold. Julie Leto

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СКАЧАТЬ but by watching. Did that include eavesdropping at key holes?

      After slipping her hand into the agent’s, she chanced a glance at the air vent that had put him on guard.

      Tucked just beyond the cast-iron scrollwork was a camera.

      And from the tiny green light, she could tell it was on.

      “I’d love to dance with you, sir,” she said, “but we haven’t any music.”

      “That can be rectified, I’m sure.”

      He marched to the door and swung it open, startling the woman hovering there.

      “You!” he ordered, his manners and stature every bit as imposing as a Creole-accented Rhett Butler. “We want music. And hurry up about it.”

      Less than two minutes later, she wheeled in a device that looked like a gramophone, but was connected to a very modern CD player. The FBI agent practically pushed the woman out of the door, locked it, then slowly eased his fingers out of his gloves.

      She did the same, but finished first as his right glove had snagged on a large emerald ring. She was just about to comment on the unusual size and style when he turned up the volume of the melodic waltz more than necessary.

      He gave her a little bow, revealing a twinkle in his deep blue eyes that was not the least bit government issue.

      Who was this guy?

      She curtsied as she’d learned to do before she’d gotten herself kicked out of cotillion class and then willfully walked into his arms.

      His hand on her waist was taut, but the one that cupped her palm was surprisingly gentle. He was a mass of contradictions, this nameless man.

      “I thought the local FBI instructed you to lay low until I arrived,” he said as they swayed to the string-heavy waltz.

      “I don’t even know who you are.”

      “Special Agent Michael Murrieta.”

      “Shh,” she admonished. His voice was strong and would easily carry over the music. “If the room has a camera, it clearly has listening devices, too.”

      “These freaks aren’t the only ones with hardware. I slipped an amplifier onto that gramophone. It’ll boost the sound—the only thing any bugs will pick up is Mozart.”

      She smirked. “Actually, this is Strauss.”

      “It’s still a cool gadget. They can watch us, but they won’t hear a word we say.”

      She couldn’t help but be impressed by both his preparedness and his slightly boyish enthusiasm for spy toys.

      “Why are you here?” she asked.

      “I’m the lead on your case.”

      “I’m not a case, Special Agent. I’m just a private citizen who turned over evidence, as instructed. But I do have my own case and I’d like to get back to it before you screw it up.”

      He withdrew just enough that she could see the full breadth of his cocky smirk. “Do I look like I’m screwing anything up?”

      She turned her cheek, unwilling to confess that Special Agent Michael Murrieta did appear to be incredibly competent—not to mention smooth.

      He’d dressed the part of a Southern gentleman to a tee, from his polished boots to his well-fitting breeches, tapered jacket and expertly tied cravat. He’d adopted mannerisms and speech patterns of an antebellum gentleman with sparkling ease and charm, like Nathan Fillion channeling the spirit of Clark Gable.

      It was disarming.

      She suddenly had no trouble understanding how women could get so wrapped up in this world. The sexual allure was powerful.

      At least, the sexual allure of Special Agent Michael Murrieta.

      He was clearly a good actor—which meant he couldn’t be trusted.

      “Why are you here?” she asked, tugging back slightly. Unlike the other women at Nouvelle Placage, she hadn’t dolled herself up in silk and simpering sweetness to get all cozy with a man. She had a job to do. And the longer she swayed around the bedroom with this intoxicating fed, the harder it would be for her to accomplish her goal.

      “You received a scarf,” he said.

      “Yes, I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I delivered it to your field office myself, which I didn’t have to do, you know. I could have waited until I was done with this case. I should have waited.”

      “Maybe, but then you might be dancing with an unhinged rapist rather than with me.”

      He spun her, the twirl both expert and effortless.

      She gasped, a little dizzy. A little impressed.

      “It matched the ones left with the other victims,” he explained, his voice soft, but weighted with importance. “Didn’t the agent-in-charge explain what the scarf meant?”

      She groaned. “He just said that some wack job who thinks he’s the Frito Bandito might try and abduct me to fulfill some sort of non-sexual sex fantasy.”

      Agent Murrieta stiffened, but continued to maneuver her in a tight square in the center of the room. When she looked up, she was surprised to find that his eyes had hardened into twin blocks of blue ice.

      “It’s not non-sexual. Not anymore. He’s escalated. You’re in serious danger, Ms. Lécuyer. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get to you, whether you want me to or not.”

      3

      FRITO BANDITO? Had she just equated his storied ancestor with the retired mascot for corn chips? At the spot where his right hand rested just below her shoulder blade, his father’s ring burned.

      Or at least, he imagined it did.

      The family heirloom had reportedly once belonged to the very man whose reputation Claire had just unknowingly insulted. Centered by an emerald etched with a Z and flanked by two large opals that reflected vibrant blues and greens among the inky black, the ring had always been his father’s most treasured possession. Now it connected Michael to his brothers, to his family legacy—and to this case.

      No one at the FBI knew that Michael was the direct descendant of Joaquin Murrieta, the very real and very notorious California renegade after whom the fictionalized Zorro was based. He’d drawn the line at allowing the unsub to be branded with the name associated with his famous forebear, so he certainly wasn’t going to let Joaquin Murrieta be reduced to a mustachioed Mexican stereotype.

      “The unknown subject, whom my colleagues have dubbed The Bandit, is both delusional and dangerous. Just because he’s fixated on a character who wore black masks and capes in the movies doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Especially to a delicate woman like yourself.”

      The last part was a cheap shot, but it hit the target. Her eyes flashed and he had to increase the pressure of his grip to keep her СКАЧАТЬ