2
CYNTHIA BAXTER wasthe answer to his prayers. A sexual wildcat with a head fornumbers.
Jake wanted to stand up and cheer. Making himself slow down, he vowed to check her out thoroughly, but he had a feeling Mrs. Lawrence and her daisy-watering dog had done him a huge favor when they’d recruited him to help one of his newneighbors.
He was getting absolutely nowhere on the Oceanic investigation. No chance of getting an agent inside; Neville Percivald was too smart and toocareful.
In spite of his sissy-boy name, Neville had a fondness for wild women. It was the only exploitable weakness Jake’s relentless research had uncovered. Percivald had been followed to a couple of underground clubs that catered to the leather and whips set. If Jake could trust her, and get her inside Oceanic, Ms. Baxter might just be able to find the evidence he needed to launch a fullinvestigation.
Jake had a hunch Neville and Cynthia would go together like leather andstuds.
“Where do youwork?”
“A cementcompany.”
“Really?” He led the way back into her living room, away from the distracting scent of heavy perfume and the sight of that bed, which reminded him of her trim little body naked and ready. He cleared his throat. “How long have you workedthere?”
“Nine years. Do you have to fill out a report on me orsomething?”
“No,” he reassured her, “Just beingneighborly.”
Cynthia Baxter wasn’t a cop or an agent. She’d worked at the same job for almost a decade, as an accountant. And they just happened to be short one accountant at Oceanic Import-Export. Cynthia was perfect; not only was she qualified for the job, but, if his hunch was correct, she’d check out cleaner than the laundry waving on Mrs. Lawrence’sline.
And to debrief her after work each night, all he had to do was jump a couple offences.
“How long have you worked at the FBI?” She sounded like a society hostess, but he heard the snotty undertone. She wouldn’t intimidate easily.Good.
“Twelve years. Guess we’re both heading for a gold watch, huh?” If she really loved her job at the cement company, they might be able to work something out, but the fewer people who knew anything about his plan, the better. And it was a good plan. He was getting a feeling he’d finally caught abreak.
If Cynthia landed the job at Oceanic, she’d be his own personal insider, working there by day and passing on what she heard to her new neighbor. It was so perfect he wanted to kiss her red, red hookerlips.
They were full and pouty under the not-so-subtle makeup job. If more accountants looked like her, no red-blooded male would ever get behind on his year-end tax return. Neville Percivald certainlywouldn’t.
Excitement churned in Jake’s gut. “May I call youCynthia?”
She stared down at the driver’s license still in her hand, then jerked her head up. “You can call me Cyn! Cyn’s my name and sin’s mygame.”
He chuckled softly. It just got better and better. If he hadn’t sworn off her kind of woman, he could go for her himself. Something about the way her trashy looks were so at odds with the innocent expression in her wide-spaced, greeneyes.
A devastating combination, all right. But, Jake reminded himself firmly, Neville Percivald was the one who was going to end up tied in knots overher.
Nothim.
CYNTHIA ENTEREDthe swooshing glass door of Très Chic! feeling like a bag lady at a Parisian catwalk. Her bemused gaze caught leather, lots of leather, faux animal prints, patterned boots and clothing she couldn’t evenidentify.
She was chewing on her thumb, ready to bolt, when a young woman strode up. Her jet-black hair had a dramatic white streak in the bangs and she wore designer jeans with a snug-fitting cherry red top which showed off her tattoes. On her feet were Chelsea boots. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that suggested Cynthia was way beyondhelp.
She took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes you can.” She glanced helplessly down at her tweed suit and sensible pumps and stated the obvious. “I need amiracle.”
“You looking to update your image?” The girl appeared doubtful she could pull it off. “Looks like whatever catalog you shop from’s out-of-date.” The girl glanced past her out the window, doubtfully. “You mighttry—”
“I’ve been living inMoscow.”
“Huh?”
The girl had been going to throw her out of Très Chic! and Cynthia would never have the nerve to come in here again. It was now or never. Desperation lent her ingenuity. “In Russia?” She shrugged. “I’ve been living there for the last ten years, as a—as a secretary in the American embassy.” She gestured to her suit. “This was all I could get, and I had to trade three cartons of Marlboroughs just for theskirt.”
“Shoulda hung on to the smokes,” the girlmuttered.
