Diamonds Can Be Deadly (8 page)

She wouldn't have been so angry or so disgusted with herself afterward if the hunger had been purely physical. What hurt then, what
still
hurt, was the aching realization she'd come to crave his company as much as his touch.

He'd craved hers, too. The connection hadn't been all one-sided. Jordan had sensed it in the shared laughter, the verbal sparring matches, the discovery of mutual likes and avid dislikes. She had to know how he could abandon that—and her—without a backward glance.

“Why did you go undercover, TJ? Why give up twelve years on the force and let all your friends believe you'd turned?”

He didn't answer right away. Hooking his elbows over his knees, he stared out at the dark, restless sea.

“It started with an arrest I made,” he said finally. “A street punk who'd robbed a convenience store. He was young, just twelve it turned out, and so stoned he couldn't remember his name. I'd busted twelve-year-olds before. Too damn many of them. But something about this one got to me. Maybe the fact that he puked all over me before I got him to the juvenile detention center.”

“That would certainly endear him to me, too.”

The comment drew a wry smile.

“I sort of made him my personal project after that. He didn't have anyone else who cared what happened to him. His mother had taken a hike. His father had already written him off as a dopehead and a loser. I worked with his caseworker, talked to the judge, got the kid into rehab. Social services managed to place him in a decent foster home after rehab.”

Jordan had spent a number of years on her own. She knew how tough it was to climb out of the gutter and stay out. So she wasn't surprised at what came next.

“Two weeks after he got out of rehab, he OD'd.”

TJ's shrug disguised the bone-deep frustration of a cop who dealt with such tragedies every day.

“The kid was just another statistic, one more throwaway, but I decided then I was tired of going after the street pushers and two-bit junkies. I wanted the big guys, the ones flooding the schools with snow and coke and meth.”

“And you couldn't get to them as an NYPD narc?”

“Not the ones I wanted. Not the ones funneling the crap in by the plane-and boatload.”

“So you talked to the feds.”

“I talked to the feds. Then I started putting the squeeze on the pimps and pushers on my beat. Word soon got out I was looking to make more than what I could earn as a cop.”

It wouldn't take long, Jordan knew. That kind of
thing was like mold. It spread to dark, dank corners almost without check.

“After I was busted for taking bribes, I let it be known I was available to the highest bidder. Surprising how many scuzz-balls wanted to hire the same cop who'd sent their friends to Rikers. Eventually, I worked my way into the inner circle of some heavy hitters. A number of them are now behind bars,” he said with fierce satisfaction. “They still don't have a clue who put them there.”

Three years, Jordan thought. He'd been living among scum for three years. The same kind of scum she'd once accused him of being.

“It never occurred to you to tell me you were undercover?”

“I wanted to, Red. You have no idea how badly. But I couldn't take you where I was going and I sure as hell didn't want to expose you to the kind of people I'd be dealing with.”

“That's pure unadulterated crap. What you mean is that you couldn't trust me with the truth.”

He slanted her a quick glance. “I'd say that worked both ways. I was a cop, a good one as far as you knew. Yet you never gave me a hint you were anything other than a supermodel turned entrepreneur.”

He was right. She hadn't.

Scooping up a clump of damp sand, she crumbled it and let the grains sift through her fingers. With it went the anger at what she'd always believed was a betrayal.

“We had a chance at something,” she said after a moment.

“Yes, we did.”

“Too bad we screwed everything up.”

“Maybe not everything. Best I recall, there were one or two things we did pretty well.”

She looked up and saw his mouth curve in a grin, but didn't realize his intent until he slid a palm around her nape.

“Hold on, Scott! This is
not
a good idea. In case you've forgotten, we're on an op here.”

“I haven't forgotten, Red. This is just for old time's sake.”

His lips brushed hers once, twice.

Jordan knew she should pull away. Her head was whirling with everything he'd told her. And they still hadn't discussed coordinating their actions on what was now a joint mission. Neither of them had any business indulging in a maudlin bout of nostalgia, however brief.

Which didn't explain why she shifted position and angled her mouth to his. Or why heat streaked through every inch of her body.

O
ne kiss. That was all Jordan had intended. A taste of warm, wet mouth. A brief dance of tongues and teeth. Before she quite knew how it had happened, the kiss had morphed into a scene right out of
From Here To Eternity.

She remembered slicking her hands over TJ's bare shoulders and back. And his low growl when he took her down with him onto the hard-packed sand. The next thing she knew, they were doing one heck of an imitation of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr sprawled in wild abandon while waves broke over them.

“TJ!” she gasped as his mouth blazed a hot trail from her mouth to her throat. “This is insane!”

“Yeah, I know.”

The surf rushed in, climbing higher onto the shore. Eddies foamed over Jordan's legs. Her dress swirled up to her thighs. Feeling ridiculous and aroused and in imminent danger of drowning, she voiced no objection when TJ scooped her up and carried her to higher ground.

Into the shadows, she noted with the minuscule corner of her brain still functioning. Hidden from anyone who might decide to stroll along the bluffs above the beach. The agent in her approved of his instinctive caution even as the female in her urged him to hurry.

Her hazy worry that the break in mouth-to-mouth contact would snap them back to sanity disappeared when TJ stooped. Balancing her on one knee, he groped for the shirt she hadn't noticed lying in the shadows and spread it into a makeshift beach blanket.

The contrast between the warm, dry cotton under her back and the cool, sleek body that covered hers jolted every one of Jordan's nerve endings. Breathing in his salty scent, she closed her eyes to the dark silhouette of the palms rustling far above them.

She wasn't as successful at closing her mind to the tiny voice inside her head. It kept whispering to her. Reminding her. This was TJ. The man she'd tumbled into love with once before. The man who'd walked away from her.

A tug on the elasticized bodice of her dress silenced the nagging whispers. The bodice came
down. A moment later, the sodden skirt came up. Both ends met in a tangle around her waist.

“I'd almost forgotten how beautiful you are.”

His voice was low and rough, his callused palm prickly against her skin as he traced the curve of her breasts and waist and hips.

“You're not so bad yourself.”

She laid her palms against the smooth curve of skin and sinew. The feel of him tightened the muscles low in her belly. Her womb clenched and a liquid heat rushed through her veins, firing a hunger she hadn't felt in so long she'd forgotten its potency.

To hell with it. She'd sort everything out later. Right now, she wanted exactly what TJ was offering.

“We'll play this different from last time,” she panted, fumbling for the snap on his jeans. “No hearts. No violins. No schmaltzy Sunday afternoons in the park. This is just sex, Scott. For old time's sake.”

He went still for a moment, frowning at the way she'd thrown his words back at him. In no mood for argument or discussion, Jordan tugged down his zipper and closed her hand over the hard, hot bulge behind it. Thirty seconds later they were both naked.

“No hearts,” he agreed, positioning himself between her legs. “No flowers. Just this.”

Jordan's heels dug into the sand. Her thighs cradled his. When he thrust into her, she was ready.

Too ready!

Three strong, smooth strokes arched her back.
Three more brought a groan ripping from deep in her throat. Somehow, she managed to hang on until TJ's breath was as rough and as fast as hers.

Her climax shot her as high as the peaks towering above them in the darkness of the night. The aftermath floated her back down in slow, spiraling swirls.

She was still gliding when TJ fisted his hands in her hair. Bunching his thigh muscles, he thrust into her a final time.

* * *

Jordan had once read a magazine article devoted to the fine art of transitioning from bed to breakfast. The author had claimed there was no need for awkward mornings-after. No cause to feel embarrassed when rolling out of tangled sheets. All a girl needed to get through that moment of separation was a dash of wit and a dollop of panache.

Unfortunately, nothing in the article had suggested a graceful way to dust off sand, drag a soggy dress over equally soggy panties, and face the man who'd dumped you three years ago for reasons you now understood but couldn't quite forgive.

Okay, Jordan thought as she squirmed into her wet bikini briefs. All right. They'd fed the raging beast. Satisfied the hunger left over from three years ago. Now it was time to address the matter that had brought them back into each other's orbits. Folding her legs under her, she sat up and assumed as brisk an air as possible with her hair in tangles and her mouth salty with the taste of TJ's skin.

“We need to talk about Bartholomew and his operation here at the institute.”

The snap on his jeans closed with a small pop. Shaking the sand from his shirt, he dragged it on.

“What have you got so far?” she asked, when he'd hunkered down beside her.

“Not a whole lot.”

TJ flicked a broken piece of shell off his forearm and watched it spin into the shadows. His pulse had pretty well steadied and his brain had reengaged with his body, but he had a tough time wrapping his thoughts around either Bartholomew Greene or the Tranquility Institute. His mind was still alive with images of Jordan all taut and slick and shuddering in his arms. Filing those vivid visuals away for replay later, he channeled his thoughts to the task that had consumed him for the past three months.

“I'm pretty sure Greene's not using his guests as mules. We've had them under tight surveillance from the moment they landed at the airport and haven't uncovered any evidence they're transporting excessive amounts of cash in or out of the institute.”

“
Excessive
being the operative word,” Jordan murmured. “Most of the folks I've met so far could buy my business a dozen times over and barely see a dip in their bottom line.”

“So could Greene's Colombian pals.”

It was a vicious fact of life. The Colombian drug cartels ranked right up there with the top Fortune 500 corporations in terms of sales and beat most of
them hands down when it came to profit margin. TJ knew he couldn't wipe out that margin entirely, but he sure as hell intended to put a dent in it.

The only way to get them was to go for their pressure points. Hit them where it hurt most. Despite their vast distribution and sales network, the cartels faced a serious problem when it came to converting their profits into cash. They couldn't bring the dollars they collected from their thousands of dealers into their own country. The Colombian government—with the willing and eager assistance of the United States—monitored the influx of foreign currency too closely these days. That meant the drug lords had to convert dollars to pesos.

The system was actually fairly simple. A Colombian drug trafficker or his U.S. counterpart would contact their American cohort and negotiate an exchange rate, usually thirty to forty percent below the official exchange rate. The trafficker would then arrange to have his dollars delivered to a drop-off point. The money could arrive in suitcases, shopping bags or the trunk of a car.

The American cohort would then disperse the dollars to scores of different banks. He had to keep each deposit under ten thousand dollars to avoid triggering the automatic report to law enforcement activities required on all such deposits. Once in the banking system, the money could be electronically manipulated, sent to offshore accounts and converted into pesos.

As simple as the process sounded, it still required an intake point, someone willing to accept the drug dollars and feed them into banks. The FBI, DEA and now this new agency, OMEGA, suspected Bartholomew Greene of doing just that. Proving it was turning out to be more difficult—and more dangerous—than anticipated. One DEA agent had already disappeared while attempting to penetrate Greene's organization.

Now another operative had joined TJ on the scene. Christ! Jordan Colby, undercover for some shadowy agency he'd just learned existed! How the hell was he supposed to separate the woman whose bones he'd just jumped from the agent he'd been instructed to cooperate with?

“We're talking millions of dollars collected from thousands of pushers,” he growled, making the attempt. “If Greene's accepting that kind of cash, laundering it through a series of banks and converting it to pesos for his South American friends, it has to funnel in somewhere.”

“An isolated tropical resort surrounded by enough security to protect the U.S. national gold reserves seems like a pretty good place to make the drop.”

“You'd think. As I said, we've monitored everyone arriving and departing the institute. If any of the guests acted as a courier, I haven't found evidence of it yet.”

“What about McShay?”

“The Silicon Valley king? We scrubbed him with
a wire brush. He came up clean.” TJ's glance sharpened on the woman next to him. “Why? Did he say something that made you suspicious?”

Her face was little more than a pale blur, but he could hear the frown in her voice.

“It wasn't so much what he said, but how he said it. McShay gave me the distinct impression he owed Bartholomew his soul.”

“He does. From all reports, Greene pulled the man back from the brink of suicide.”

Despite his suspicions about the psychotherapist, TJ had to admit the man seemed to know his business. The files included case after case of people claiming Bartholomew had helped them come to grips with everything from eating disorders to the death of a loved one.

“I still want to talk to McShay,” Jordan said. “Maybe I can get him to open up.”

Swallowing a bone-deep reluctance to let an outsider jump into the middle of his op, TJ shrugged. “Go for it.”

“I assume you've also scrubbed the institute's employees? Duncan Myers? Liana Wu? Danny the driver?”

“We're pretty sure Myers is skimming corporate profits, but we haven't been able to link him to drug money. Danny is clean. So is Wu.”

A mental image of the delectable spa director formed in TJ's mind. Liana had dropped several hints that she wanted to get together and discuss
more spa security. He'd been interested—and not just for the information he might elicit about Greene—but had sidestepped her subtle invitations to get up close and personal.

James Bond could tumble suspects into bed. The DEA tended to frown on that sort of thing. TJ had a feeling his bosses wouldn't be happy knowing he'd tumbled an undercover operative into the sand, either.

Now that he was thinking with his head instead of his heart, he wasn't particularly thrilled about it himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd let down his guard like that. Anyone could have strolled across the beach and put a gun to his head. He would have died happy at that point. The problem was, Jordan might well have died with him.

Cursing his brief descent into insanity, TJ made a swift, silent vow not to put her at risk again. That glorious session in the sand might have healed some old hurts and opened new areas for exploration, but they couldn't sink into that kind of near oblivion again. Not here. Not until they'd nailed Bartholomew Greene and his accomplices.

Afterward…

No, better not go there. He had too much at stake right here, right now, to indulge in fantasies about the unforeseeable future.

“What about the local businesses who supply goods and services to the institute?” Jordan wanted to know. “Someone could be hauling in truckloads of
dollars along with tons of pineapples and kiwi. Or hauling it out for distribution to various banks on the island.”

“We've worked the locals. We've also worked the banks here on Kauai. There aren't enough of them to absorb the kind of deposits we're talking about without hitting the ten-thousand-dollar trigger.”

“So the deposits have to be going into banks on the mainland.”

“That's our best guess.”

“But Greene spends most of his time in Hawaii.”

“I know,” he said dryly. “That's why I'm here.”

“'Scuse me?”

It took a moment to click. “Sorry. That's why we're here.”

Accepting the correction with a nod, she pursed her lips in concentration. An aftershock jolted through TJ when he remembered how those lips had been all over him just moments ago.

Dammit! He had to get that session in the sand out of his head. Get
everything
out of his head but Greene and friends. One friend in particular had his special interest.

“You know Greene's primary emerald supplier arrives tomorrow?”

“Myers told me,” Jordan replied. “Alejandro Garcia. My people are checking him out.”

TJ hoped her people could dig up more on Garcia than his had. Not even the undercover operative
who'd infiltrated the mine at Muzo had been able to tag the slick and very successful salesman as a go-between.

“Myers has set me up to meet with Garcia and associates,” Jordan said. “He thinks he can cut a special deal for me and the institute.”

“Where's the meeting to take place?”

“I don't know. I'm assuming the conference room in the main corporate offices.”

“The meeting might start there. If Greene and Garcia decide to conduct any private business, they'll do it away from the security cameras in the conference area.”

“Have you bugged every private alcove and office?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking.”

“I can't get a wiretap or install unauthorized listening devices without a warrant, and I can't obtain a warrant until I convince a judge there's probable cause. Right now, I'm depending on the security system already in place to collect info.”

Jordan pooched her lips again. “I'll see what I can get out of this Garcia.”