 |
Michael Mulcahy, successor to a long line of NYC cops, has learned enough from his brothers’ mistakes to know that Libby Crowne Vandermark, a fellow FBI agent and former debutante from the Upper East Side, is all wrong for him. He just needs to slake his relentless lust for her. This undercover operation, where they pose as a married couple at a "second honeymoon" spa, is the perfect excuse to do it. Libby can’t believe she’s stuck with Neanderthal Mulcahy. Having grown up with three chauvinist brothers and a dominant father, she goes out of her way to avoid men like him. If she can just keep her eyes off him while they’re together, everyday and night, she’ll get through this. But the spa is not what it seems. And it turns their struggle to torture. Until they realize just how perfectly incompatible they are. |
|
PERFECTLY INCOMPATIBLE | |
|
"Go undercover as a married couple?" Libby repeated, smoothing a damp palm along her cream linen skirt while her throat squeezed on the protest burning her lungs. "That’s right," Dr. Clark, the burly director of the FBI’s vice team said, as he dumped a weighty packet in her lap and into the hands of the Neanderthal seated next to her. Then he eased back into his chair, tossing his pen on the tabletop. She would swear he was enjoying this. But she wasn’t laughing. Being partnered with a man she barely spoke to was no joke under the best of assignments. She respected Director Clark but silently questioned his sanity in making them a couple. "Digest those materials, pack your bags, and notify friends and family. You start Friday." Friday...the only bright spot in this mess. She’d miss her father’s fifty-eighth birthday dinner. She would not miss his endless praise of her three older brothers’ expert running of the family business in which she was only permitted to own stock, since she lacked the necessary equipment, a penis. "Nailing the Brazilian cartel and their U.S. connection with this kind of scam satisfies my gut." He addressed Libby. "If you can tie names and dates, something that shows the relationship between this clinic and the drug lords, we can trace it to the mother load - the fields the stuff is coming from." The director loosened his tie and then eyed her new partner/husband. "Michael, anything?" The question had to be perfunctory, because in Libby’s experience, Michael Mulcahy, prize investigator for the FBI, was known only to speak in grunts and nods. How could he be expected to act like a normal husband, normal anything, on a marriage retreat/spa vacation with his wife? She watched him peripherally. Without expression, he tilted back his chair and hooked an ankle over his knee. The man filled the room. Yet, it wasn’t his size, although he was Penn State’s former star quarterback. He just seemed to occupy more than his fair share of the air and space. Between his lips rested the ever-present toothpick he sucked since he quit smoking – as if he needed anything to make him appear more sullen. With the habitual rolling of the stick between his teeth his face muscles flexed, giving the hard line of his jaw an arrogant set that matched his disposition. She resisted the urge to fidget impatiently at the interminable wait for his reply to a simple question; she needed no reminder of how difficult he was. Mulcahy dragged a hand over his dark thicket of hair and spoke. "Why us?" Two words, barely audible and had that rough "I just woke up, don’t bother me" scowl in it. "Because you’re our best physical specimens." Clark leaned in. "Both of you. You’ll fit in." His tone put to rest any thoughts of argument. Libby kept quiet for now as she tugged at her hem, wishing she hadn’t worn stockings that shimmered like silk. She intuitively tucked strands of her blond hair behind one ear. With a shrug, Mr. Personality lifted his six foot three frame, gave his boss a nod, and headed out without a glance at his future wife. She knew he still held her responsible for getting his partner transferred, but he could be a professional and let it go. Besides, it wasn’t as though his partner had been given cafeteria duty, it had been a lateral reassignment. She gave an invisible sigh of relief and then turned on the director she regarded as her mentor. "Richard, I don’t know about this." He scraped back his chair. "I do. You’re professionals. Do what you’re trained for." "You see how he treats me—" "Not on the job he won’t. I know Michael better than anyone," he said evenly, trickling scotch over ice. He lifted a tumbler to her, but she shook her head and rose, walking briskly to the windows that overlooked Capital Hill. "And because I know him," Dr. Clark continued, "I’ll bet he’ll be in here as soon as you leave, saying the same thing. And I’ll tell him the same thing. Whatever happened between you - and I don’t want to know - solve it, because I’m no longer keeping you off assignments with each other." Libby whirled on him. "Is that what he asked of you?" The director sighed. "Go pack and make sure you follow the inventory to the letter." Because he hadn’t denied it, Libby’s uneasiness increased with the knowledge that Mulcahy had requested he not work with her. It was hard enough for a woman in this man’s agency without the concealed hostility of the legendary Mulcahy to influence the rest of the team. While he never openly said a word against her, the very air between them bristled with tension, and because he was a "man’s man" - as her father would say - other agents followed his lead. *****
She stuffed in the last of the lacy camisoles when she spied the engraved platinum roller pen that was her father’s birthday present. She’d take it up Wednesday when she said goodbye. A quick goodbye. No discussions or lectures from her mother about safe jobs, or feigned surprise from her brothers that she even wanted to work given the value of her stocks, along with subtle hints to cash in on those shares and along with it, her voting power. She slammed her fourth suitcase closed. Wouldn’t they get a kick out of this assignment if they knew its nature. She’d be playing her mother - a dutiful wife. At least she had plenty of material to draw upon. When the phone trilled, she picked up on the second ring. "Nervous?" The familiar voice crooned. "Morgan, the assignment is absurd. I’m packing an outrageous assortment of underwear and nightgowns, Bureau orders." "What’ll he be wearing, is the question. Will it be large enough to cover all that male sinew, or not?" she teased. "Cute. You obviously don’t understand the ramifications." "Oh, yes, I do, and I’m jealous as hell." "Right. You can have the assignment," Libby drawled. This easy banter meant more to Libby than her friend could imagine. Growing up with a houseful of dominant males didn’t prepare her for girlish camaraderie and had kept her isolated in high school. By college, her fierce academic competitiveness, in the misguided hope she’d be rewarded by her father, alienated her further. It wasn’t until she’d graduated summa cum laude from Harvard, only to be denied any real position in the family business, that Libby realized what her father had been trying to tell her all along. He sent her to college to find a suitable husband. Not even her later graduation from the University of Pennsylvania’s prestigious Wharton School with an MBA had changed his mind. Morgan sighed. "I’ll stick with financial fraud. But Lib, these situations will come up and unless you plan to transfer out—" "No. That’s probably what he wants, and I won’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, I don’t think getting his partner transferred is all he holds against me. He’s avoided me from the first day I joined the division, and today I found out he requested the director to keep me off his assignments." "Okay," Morgan relented. "But I don’t know how you’ll do it." "It’s an advantage that we can’t stand each other. We’ll be living in close quarters, very close, pretending to work on a relationship while professionally adhering to strict Bureau policies against any physical involvement of agents. That’ll be easy for us." "Right. Agh! The brownies are burning. See you tomorrow." *****
She peered into her brown eyes and gave a cynical laugh. Apparently those experiments she studied in psychology where men perceived brown-eyed women as warmer than blue-eyed ones were flawed. She opened the door to rich male laughter that stopped when they saw her. "Libby..." Stephen Wilson smiled and motioned her to a chair facing the cherry coffee table. Mulcahy was stretched out, his long legs crossed at the ankles. A bare nod was his only acknowledgement as she approached the seat beside him. "I was just telling Michael about therapy sessions at the so-called spa." "Starting without me?" she reprimanded and then could have kicked herself. They shouldn’t have started, but she didn’t have to be so flip either. "No," he assured her. "Michael got here a little early." "Forgive me, Stephen." She sighed, removing her silk jacket and draping it over the back of her chair. "I’m a little edgy from all the last minute Bureau-dictated shopping." "Sure, I understand. Let me get you some coffee." When he leaped up and headed to the gallery kitchen Libby wanted to scream, knowing she’d be alone with stone face and his glacial blue eyes that would freeze over when he looked at her. The experiment was right - blue eyes are cold...and unforgiving. "Agent Mulcahy." She nodded, settling herself into the thick cushioned chair and crossing her legs casually. He simply studied her, wordlessly, as though he had never seen her before, those steel blue eyes raking down the complete length of her. If he was trying to look intimidating, he’d succeeded. Stephen placed a steamy mug before her. "So, I was telling Michael that therapy sessions are part of the activities at this place." "I read that, yes," Libby replied smoothly. "And..." He chuckled lightly, but Libby could see he was uneasy. "I could give you fabricated problems but you already have issues between you. You’ll actually appear authentic...as a couple." Libby halted her cup midway to her lips and Mulcahy scowled. What I meant was..." Stephen chuckled amicably. "Some parameters will fit. You’ll keep your real names other than the last name, it’ll be Meehan, to keep it Irish. With Michael’s jet black hair and blue eyes he’d have to be, right ‘Mick’?" Mulcahy frowned. "Good contrasts in those names," Stephen continued. "Libby’s a wealthy New York debutante’s name, which actually Libby is, and it’ll work for her new identity, too. Michael will be from an Irish working class background of New York City cops and firefighters, which he is anyway. You, Libby, will remain cultured and aloof to Michael’s usual surly and crude disposition and you should both be believable as a couple that needs help. With their marriage, that is." Libby didn’t know whether to laugh or snap at Stephen’s inept assessment so she simply took a lesson from master Mulcahy and remained silent. "And," Stephen continued, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room, "since you are both exercise nuts, you’ll have no problem with the spa part." He looked from one to the other, pleased, as though he was sending his twins off to camp for the summer. The leather billfold he handed them contained all the last minute fabricated identification and personalized paraphernalia they would need to put the finishing touches on their identities. "Look at this one." Stephen held up a gold locket in the shape of a claddagh, with the fingers of the entwined hands beautifully etched to catch light. "Michael gave it to you for your fifth anniversary. Even had it inscribed. Nice touch, huh?" Stephen grinned. The air was thick and still. Libby couldn’t help but smile when Stephen continued to look at her expectantly, his eyes huge behind his thick-rimmed glasses. "It’s lovely," she assured him. "Very believable, all of it." He seemed touched by her confidence, and she found it endearing. He hardly needed her approval. He might be nerdy at times, but he was the youngest handwriting and documentation expert in the country. "Blue eyes" was watching her again, his expression impassive. *****
"Look." She turned, tilting her five-foot-eight frame to face him squarely. Then she groaned inwardly, thankful that her large tortoise shell sunglasses hid her expression. His eyes matched the blue cloudless sky behind him. And his lashes were ridiculously thick. Enough to make her forget he was a jerk - almost. She made herself concentrate on the fine line of scar running through his right brow. He lifted it now in question while he painstakingly reached into his breast pocket for his mirrored glasses, never breaking her gaze. The icy blues disappeared behind the mirrors. She spoke to her reflection. "Look, you can dispense with making a point of not speaking to me. It must take an enormous amount of energy and considerable forethought to accomplish and it would be wiser to save your energy for this assignment." His lips parted, barely. She waited. Nothing discernible followed. She shifted her weight and fought the compulsion to tuck her hair behind one ear. The blistering heat scorched her skin but she would not fidget and give him the impression she was anxious, though she was. "We’re adults, doing a job," she sniffed. "And it hardly looks natural for us to literally say nothing to each other." No response, unless she could count the action of his propping the damned toothpick between his teeth and rolling it. A muscle jumped over the dark shadow of his jaw. "We don’t have to confess any deep dark secrets." She tried to put an easy spin on it, but she could feel the light pulse at the base of her neck quickening. "A few civil words will do." Oppressive silence. She might as well be talking to herself. She was. Her reflection paid close attention. "You can speak now," she drawled, unable to tolerate his rudeness a moment longer. Where was that skycap with their cab? Her eyes searched for the attendant. "Okay." The quiet deep baritone was distinctly his. A
miracle. *****
The glass elevator, centered in the palm covered reception area, allowed Libby a quick view of the resort’s layout as it slid upward. Tiered indoor balconies surrounded the perimeter of the first three floors, and through the glassed front she saw a large golf course to the east and several pools at its south end. She could only imagine how much it cost to keep those lush greens watered in this veritable dessert, miles from nowhere. A dome shaped annexed building that caught her eye surprised her since she hadn’t remembered it from the preliminary report. "Your schedules are posted, Mr. and Mrs. Meehan," their guide, Francisco, explained. "Dinner is at seven o’clock in the Crescent Ballroom, semi-formal for the first evening." His white teeth flashed against a healthy tan. "If there is any way I can serve you before then, ring the front desk and request me personally. Our job is to keep your time here stress free." He beamed, his friendly enthusiasm so charming that she had to remind herself he could be their number one smuggler. "Thank you, Francisco." Mr. Sociability barely nodded. They must look like one couple in serious trouble. It was ironic that they looked quite adorable. Mulcahy’s biceps matched the width of her waist in her pert, silky barebacked sundress. They were Barbie and Ken. When Francisco set down the bags, Mulcahy fisted some bills into his hand. The young man smiled broadly and scurried out. As soon as the door closed, the effect of the air conditioner hit, and her nipples tightened into pebbles. "It must be sixty degrees in here. Mind if I turn up the temperature?" She glanced at him, expecting a grunt, but he took off his glasses and walked slowly toward her, his eyes dropping to her breasts. A light shiver slid over her. He kept coming. She saw what he planned on doing, it was clear in his eyes, but the thought was so absurd that her brain short-circuited and went numb. Even as he reached out with one large hand and caught her easily by the waist, she didn’t believe it. It was someone else he was encircling in his arms and drawing in close, hip to hip. She stared at his lips as they descended. It was as though she was watching a film set in slow motion. This wasn’t her and it wasn’t his mouth, relaxed and parted, nor his eyes half-lidded. He pressed his mouth against hers and brushed lightly, his manner unhurried, as though this was natural for them. His arms felt like tree trunks encircling her. The warm taste of him sent blood flooding back to her brain and then it pumped everywhere...her head, her throat, her breasts...Lord. He smelled completely male – a touch of soap and leather. He licked her bottom lip. "Mulcha—" "Jesus, Libby." He nipped at her mouth. "Don’t forget our names, for Chrissake," he murmured against her lips. His hand stroked down her bare back and the feel of his fingertips, warm on her skin, sent her pulse racing. "Can you see any obvious bugs?" he whispered, turning his head to one side and then the other as he brushed back and forth along her lip while his massive frame surrounded her, drawing her close against rock-hard thighs. He cupped her bottom and she yelped. "No," she ground out, pushing against the granite wall of his chest. "And there are other ways to find out." She bit down on his tongue. He jumped back, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. He smiled lasciviously. "You want it rough, baby? Okay, I like that game too." Her eyes widened in horror when he came at her fast and scooped her up in his arms. "We’re taking a shower." She was hallucinating. Mr. Withdrawn Taciturn had turned into a maniac. In her struggle with him, her slip of a sundress hiked up around her waist, and he was feasting his eyes of the scrap of lace from Victoria’s Secret that passed for panties. She snatched at the hem but not in time to prevent him from dipping down and clamping his mouth onto her thigh. She choked on a gasp. He dropped her onto her feet. "Strip off that dress, darlin’." The blue of his eyes glittered with tension as he kicked the door closed. She stood agape, clutching at her skirt and her mind racing, when he advanced on her. She pivoted, ready with a groin punt, but he swept by and flung open the glass shower door. He turned on the pulsating jets of the massager. "That’s good baby, peel it off real slow," he said to the ceramic tiled wall as he ducked his head, examining the levers and then kneeling down to run his fingers along the door frame. He rose and then dragged off his loafers before pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it onto the floor. He was a study in male muscle. Head crooked, he gave an impatient frown and pointed to her sandals. He waited, hands on hips, with his eyes surveying the room and then finally settling on the overhead light. When he reached to feel around the crystal rim, his pants dropped low on his hips. Her eyes helplessly traced the dark line of hair that narrowed and disappeared under his belt. She drew in a calming breath and admonished herself to get with the program before she made a complete fool of herself. At least anyone listening couldn’t mistake her for a top notch FBI agent. She kicked off her sandals and stepped into the shower, thankful it was designed to fit two. With a hard shove he angled the spray to hit the wall and then leaned against the glass, folding his arms. Steam floated between them and a light mist settled on their clothes and skin. His eyelashes glistened with water. She glanced around efficiently. "I don’t think we have to worry about listening devices in here, and I doubt they’d bother with cameras in the bathroom." "Uh-huh..." He swiped a hand through his hair. "I’ll play the cleanliness obsessed wife and have us scour the place for germs." "Good idea." "But lets start with this bathroom anyway, just to be sure." "Right." *****
On the surface nothing looked amiss. For two hours they discreetly combed the area together, but the blistering heat kept them and most of the guests near the pools or indoors. The golf course was deserted as were the walking paths. Even the white flagstone between buildings was so hot that the soles of their feet burned through their shoes. The air was as dry as a sauna but breezy. "It feels like hot hair dryers are blowing straight at my face," Libby commented as they headed back to their suite to change for dinner. "Yeah." "What do you make of the dome? I’d like to know what ‘special sessions’ are keeping it closed." "Right." When she suggested Michael slip into the main office later that evening and see what he could lift, he agreed. Something had to turn up that would give them information about covert activities for which this place served as a cover. Upon entering their suite they checked trip points for indicators of intruders. Everything was clean. Michael showered first. Libby said she needed time to set up. He was curious about what that meant. By the time he finished dressing, she reappeared with an iron, more hangers, and extra towels of various sizes. He couldn’t imagine what such a delicately boned woman would need with so many towels. A host of bottles and accouterments was strewn along the surface of the dressing table and it irritated him that he was interested in seeing what she planned to do with them. When he checked his watch, he noted that he had a half hour until dinner, so he propped the oversized lace pillows on the king sized bed, stretched out his legs, and hit the remote. Yankees versus Red Socks. One to zip. He frowned and muted the TV. What a game. The wide screen recessed into an oak cabinet with a five changer CD system. Depressing the button activated the first program and Eric Clapton’s croon filled the air. He glanced around. Flowered wallpaper and frosted lamps gave the room the kind of old fashioned look that women liked. Fresh orchids, stuck in one of those chipped looking vases, took up most of one small table in the sitting area. They must have come while he was showering. He’d remember to ask Libby. Libby. He listened to the shower running and dragged his hands down his face. His tension returned. When Clark first dumped this assignment on him, he was stunned. He tried to talk him out it. Richard knew he couldn’t work with her and had promised to keep them apart, but now the director had changed his mind and wouldn’t budge. Michael had no other choice but to find a way to make it work to his advantage, and finally he had. He would settle this thing with her. He would not repeat his brothers’ mistakes. Besides, it was unfair to Maggie to keep putting her off. He was not going to get sidetracked anymore by Libby Crowne Vandermark. Christ...even her name was a nightmare. At thirty six, he needed someone like Maggie O’Doole, who’d gladly quit her job to raise their kids and maybe even plant some geraniums by the white picket fence. With his demanding profession, he could settle for no less. Now that he was here with Libby and would be in this room day after day - and night - he would face down this lust thing and be done with it. The TV flashed. He looked up to see that Derek Jeter hit a triple, down the line. It was about time. Yankees had two outs and Bernie Williams was up. "Come on, Bernie, just get on base," Michael murmured. If she weren’t such a tangle of contrasts he doubted he’d be attracted to her. But he’d seen her in action during interrogations. Like a newly graduated coed she’d appeal to the suspect’s patience while flashing some leg. Flustered, they’d spill their guts and then she’d go for the jugular. Those milk chocolate eyes would harden and even when the suspects leaped across the table her thick lashes never blinked. Some of the men easily doubled her in weight. He shoved his fingers into his hair. How could such light hair go with those dark brows and lashes? And while she looked like an ice figurine with that pale skin and slight frame, she was tall for a woman and no fragile doll. She was...irregular. Nothing about her really fit. His fingers worked the back of his neck. Playing the loving husband, seeking to repair his marriage, gave him the perfect opportunity to seduce her and finally rid himself of his relentless desire for her. He bolted upright and glared at the TV. "For Chrissake. Swing at it Bernie!" Strike three. Top of the eighth. Michael bit down on the toothpick. Clark had been amazed by Michael’s change of perspective on this assignment. Maybe he’d get a promotion when it was over. And he would come to some decision about Maggie O’Doole. Even his brother had been bugging him about it. This thing with Libby was just physical, he assured himself, nothing to get tied up over. He reached instinctively to feel the tender end of his tongue. One problem. Libby was not going to be easy to seduce. The bathroom door swung open, and she emerged in a fresh terry robe, head bent and hair tousled as she riffled her fingers through the pale stands. She didn’t see him until she sat at the ornate dressing mirror and caught his reflection. "Oh..." She turned casually. "I thought you’d gone downstairs." He focused on the TV. "If I keep leaving every time you change it’ll look suspicious." She shrugged lightly. "You’re probably right." Picking up a small bottle, she shook it and never glanced at him again while he feigned interest in the game. When she got to her lips, it was hard not to watch her. The lipstick’s shade of color, like rich mahogany wood, slid that wet look over her lips. Another contrast. For while she had a regal manner about her in the way she would lift the slim tip of her nose or arch an eyebrow in disapproval, her lips were made for sex. Full and soft, dark red even without lipstick. Their eyes met in the mirror, hers questioning. "Ready yet?" he asked. The toothpick broke off in his mouth. "In a minute," she responded. Back into the bathroom, a few minutes of listening to the blow dryer, and she was out again, walking to the closet in a tiny black shift of a dress that barely covered her nipples, thrusting and erect now, against the silky cloth. After a full day of her wearing dresses without a bra beneath, he could see that her breasts were small and high, beautifully shaped. As she slipped into a pair of satiny black heels with ankle straps, he put on his own dress loafers and jacket, without giving her another glance. He didn’t trust himself not to grab her up and take a bite out of her.
| |