When the best man for the job is a woman, the Covert Analytical Network Design Yard (or CANDY for those who prefer silly acronyms) sends in Meg Brandon to clean up the mess. An undercover agent by training, she can blend in with street urchins in Mo...
Men were such simple creatures. All you had to do was give them the hope of sex and they'd reveal their deepest secrets or surrender their most prized possessions. It was a tactic that had served Meg Brandon well, including last night - twice, if you wanted to be technical - when she ended up in bed with the son of South America's most corrupt politician. Luckily, he was handsome, rich, and correspondingly vain, so her mission was relatively easy. And surprisingly fun.
As she slipped out from under the gold-embossed covers bathed in the narrow sliver of sunlight peeking through the ten-foot curtains, Meg was tempted to go for round three before bugging out. Wrinkling her nose at the naughty thought, she pressed a button on the side of her diamond-encrusted, titanium wristwatch. It produced a digital display over the traditional dials, revealing a countdown clock with only thirty-four minutes and eleven seconds left.
She'd misread the time earlier and thought she had at least an hour more. "Shit," she cursed under her breath, tiptoeing around the bed before reaching for her lacy, black bra tucked under her sleeping companion.
The mid-twenties man with the shoulder-length brown hair and tanned skin jumped at the interruption, grabbing a shiny 9mm off the mahogany night stand. Seeing the half-naked woman standing in front of him in just frilly panties, he lowered the pistol's barrel and smiled. "You are going already?"
Damn, that was a wicked sexy accent and she definitely had a thing for dangerous men, but duty called. Bending down - and giving him an eyeful of the goods - she slowly licked her lips and smiled. "Oh, sweetheart. I wish I didn't have to, but I'm already late for work."
He grabbed her by the throat, the smile dropping into a suspicious glare. "Work? Who works on a Sunday?"
Not you, you arrogant little shit. All you do is mooch off daddy's dirty cartel money.
"An art dealer's job is never done," Meg replied cooly as wisps of her brown hair fell into her eyes, referring to her cover story instead of what she really wanted to say.
A few seconds passed as he searched her features for a hint of a lie, but her training was top-notch and her nerves were made of steel. It would have been laughable to think that this Latino playboy could break her when much better men have tried and failed.
Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he pulled her closer into a rough kiss, pushing her away when he was done. Taking the cue, she began getting dressed knowing he was watching every move.
"What was your name again?" he asked as she slipped the little black dress over hear head.
Meg straightened the hem of the skin-tight outfit, tugging at the bottom that stopped mid-thigh. "Does it really matter?" She bent down to pick up one of her discarded stilettos from the silk, Persian rug before dropping to her knees to fish the second one out from under the bed.
Instead of answering, he threw the cover off himself, flung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood up. Naked. Right there with everything at her eye-level.
Of course she looked. Maybe even stared. Perhaps she could spare a few more minutes ...
Focus, Meg told herself, clearing her throat before standing. "Thank you for your," she paused, touching her left earlobe to make sure her silver-and-sapphire, teardrop shaped earring was still securely in place. "Your hospitality."
She turned to go, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and held her back. "It was my pleasure." The power-play may have worked on others, but she knew better than to engage. Standing still and silent, she looked at him with a perfect, innocent-doe expression until he let go.
After picking up her clutch from the ornate Louis IVX side table, she left the room and shut the door behind her. The burly bodyguard standing watch in an expensive suit and visible earpiece didn't give her a second thought as she hopped on one foot - and then the other - down the marble corridor while putting her shoes on. A houseful of cameras trailed Meg's every move as she descended the winding staircase and passed through the flower-filled entryway. The sweet smell of cut hydrangeas lingered in her nose as she exited the Italianate mansion and ran down the steps to the circular driveway.
A carved fountain with water spurting out of the mouths of three, entangled dolphins - the tackiest thing she'd ever seen in her life - stood in the middle, surrounded by a row of high-end vehicles parked in succession. The engine of the silver, Tesla Roadster at the front roared to life and the driver's side raised open as soon as she was in range.
Hopping into the custom leather seat, Meg pushed a comms button on the steering wheel while the door automatically closed. "Agent Finn, I'm going to need your help catching my flight."
She put the car into gear and peeled out, leaving a cloud of dust in the gravel.
"Copy, Agent Capulet. Do you have the package?" A male voice with an English accent replied over the secure communications channel.
"Affirmative," Meg said, flying down the private access road leading away from the estate. "Now get me out of here before they realize I took it."
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