Absolute Pleasure Read online

  He’d spent eight years in Dallas as an agent for the FBI, the last three working deep-cover assignments. In all that time, he’d never seen anything on the Bureau’s payroll as remotely sexy as the perky little superagent that had managed to spark his interest in something other than his work.

  Too bad she was off limits.

  He gauged her age to be in the vicinity of thirty. She was young to have attained the status of a special agent, which told him she was being fast-tracked by someone high up in the Bureau. An agent on the rise wouldn’t be caught dead fraternizing with someone drummed out for gross misconduct. Still, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt his chances of their becoming better acquainted…at least until she discovered he was ex-Fibbie and dropped him faster than a fence with a cache of hot gems.

  They were shown into an elaborate sitting room that smelled of fine whiskey with a faint trace of expensive cigars still clinging to the furnishings, heavy velvet draperies and plush Persian rug. Real estate mogul Jerome Wilder had been dead three months, yet the room still held his essence. Duncan couldn’t help wondering what the old man would have to say about his niece and sole heir losing a half a million bucks worth of personal property and cash to a con artist.

  Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Whether the client had more money than God or was some poor schmuck who’d lost his last dime, Duncan’s goal never changed. It wasn’t supposed to matter if the loss wouldn’t put so much as a dent in the claimant’s holdings.

  Except lately, it had started to matter. A lot.

  “Ms. Wilder has been detained and has asked me to convey her apologies. She will be with you shortly,” the butler informed them. “May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?”

  Sunny set her briefcase on the rug next to a tapestried love seat and sat. “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

  Duncan took the heavy leather chair across from her. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees. “So you wanna tell me why CID is involved in this case?” he asked her once the butler disappeared. “An isolated incident of grand theft doesn’t exactly fall under federal jurisdiction.”

  She looked at him from beneath a crown of chin-length, burnished-gold waves, her soft green eyes full of cautious suspicion. “Why Mr. Chamberlain, surely you’re not asking me to divulge facts from an ongoing FBI investigation?”

  The corner of his mouth tipped upward at her feigned innocence routine. Never con a con, babe. Still, she was damned cute and sassy, which equaled one lethal, hard-to-resist combination.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said in a congenial tone intended to chase the doubt she attempted to hide from her gaze. First rule: gain the trust of the mark. “I believe that’s exactly what I am asking.”

  The innocent facade faded, and she leveled him with a direct stare full of determination. “Don’t try to play me, Duncan, and I won’t attempt to bullshit you.”

  She inflected enough of a warning in her tone to let him know she was no easy pushover. Too bad. He’d like to push her right into the closest bed.

  “Fair enough,” he conceded with a brisk nod. “But I’d still like to know what the feds are doing here.”

  Her golden eyebrows slanted downward into a frown. “I fail to see how the Bureau’s interest is relevant to your investigation.”

  He recognized a tap dance when he saw one, having performed enough of them himself during his stint with the FBI. Unfortunately, he’d made a drastic error in judgment and had danced across the line one time too many.

  “I know I’m here only as a matter of professional courtesy, but I believe your involvement is relevant.” The last of his smile faded and he returned her direct stare with one of his own. “My firm is currently investigating two other similar cases of women recently coming into substantial sums of money and basically handing over the keys to their newly acquired kingdoms. Unless the Supreme Court issued a surprise ruling this morning that I haven’t heard about, then the rules of federal jurisdiction remain unchanged. My guess is Wilder isn’t the only vic on the Bureau’s radar screen.”

  Sunny would have information at her fingertips that he was no longer privy to, and in his opinion, that made her a valuable asset. One he needed to carefully cultivate.

  She glanced away for a split second. To consider her answer, he wondered, or to fabricate one.

  “I’m lacking solid evidence to link the cases,” he admitted, baiting the proverbial hook. “The M.O. is nearly identical, even if all the information I have is circumstantial at this point.”

  Like a hungry trout, she nibbled the bait he dangled in front of her. Curiosity filled her eyes. “Exactly what do you know?”

  “Three very wealthy women and what appears on the surface to be three individual perps. If CID is involved, then I’m thinking it’s because you have physical evidence to connect the cases.” He paused and waited for his hungry little trout to swallow the bait.

  “Go on.”

  “And that you’re looking for one unknown subject.” He set the hook with practiced skill. “I just might have what you need to bring the bastard down.”

  “I may be willing to share some information with you,” she emphasized, albeit with a modicum of caution lining her voice. “Provided you allow me complete access to your investigative files.”

  She’d taken the bait he offered so easily, he almost felt a slight sting of guilt. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Almost, but not quite.

  Her green eyes darkened considerably and his gut tightened in response. A quick sweep of his gaze down the length of her revealed a tantalizing glimpse of her nipples beading against her white linen blouse. A whole host of show-and-tell scenarios charged through his mind, and not a single one of them had to do with evidence or criminal investigations.

  She smiled. A slow, sexy, thoroughly distracting curve of her lips that fired his imagination. If that wasn’t enough to redline his libido, she had the gall to call in backup when a hint of mischief filled her eyes.

  “Only if you promise to show me yours first,” she said in a husky voice laced with pure sin.

  For the first time in his life, Duncan forgot how to breathe.

  2

  NO ONE HAD ever accused Sunny of shyness. Backing away from whatever she might want, at least insofar as her career was concerned, rarely occurred to her. Currently, she had two wants—access to information in Duncan’s possession that could prove useful to her investigation, and the man himself. The sooner, the better. On both counts.

  Her conscience gave her a hard shove. The man was trouble with a capital T—tempting…tantalizing. Trouble.

  Perhaps she should consider the potential conflict of interest, but so long as any involvement with Duncan didn’t interfere with her ability to perform her duties, she failed to see a problem. An attractive man had finally managed to hold her interest for a whole lot longer than two minutes. If the hungry look in his eyes was any indication, apparently he had no difficulty whatsoever seeing the woman beneath the shoulder holster. She wondered if he even realized she carried a gun.

  Before she could issue the all-important, albeit clichéd, your-place-or-mine line, Margo Wilder swept into the room with all the regality of a queen. Only they weren’t loyal subjects eager for a scrap of Her Majesty’s attention. Sunny had come to interview a material witness, while Duncan was along for the ride hoping for clues to lead him to the recovery of her stolen property.

  Sunny and Duncan stood as Margo approached.

  “I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting.” Margo extended her manicured hand to Sunny for a limp handshake. “A minor crisis with the planning committee for a charity auction the Wilder Foundation is sponsoring.” She shook Duncan’s hand before graciously inviting them both to sit again.

  She summed up Margo Wilder as a somewhat attractive woman in her late forties with ash-blond hair. The youthful gleam may have faded, but still showed no signs of gray. Appropriately coiffed for someone of her social standing, she
wore ivory silk slacks with an ice-blue silk shell. The ivory cashmere cardigan draped casually over her slim, erect shoulders easily cost more than Sunny made in a month. A few too many country club lunches had probably added the ten or so extra pounds Margo carried on an otherwise slender frame. What Mother Nature hadn’t provided, a skilled plastic surgeon had compensated for or enhanced.

  “Ms. Wilder,” Sunny began once they were all seated, “I realize you’ve already been interviewed by the local authorities, but I’m here because the FBI would like me to clear up a few matters for their investigation.” She spoke softly, keeping her tone neutral in an effort to elicit confidence and gain the trust of the witness. In reality, she’d come to ask the hard questions, ones that would become extremely personal.

  “Mr. Chamberlain is here to observe on behalf of your insurance carrier,” Sunny continued with a brief inclination of her head in Duncan’s direction. “I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but any information you provide could aid him in locating your stolen property.”

  Considering the interview could become quite personal, his presence made Sunny about as comfortable as a perp in handcuffs locked in a room full of rubber hoses and bright lights. No less than she probably deserved for having a serious case of lust for the guy, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

  “I understand,” Margo said with a regal nod.

  Sunny slipped a small tape recorder from her briefcase and leaned forward to set it in the center of the round rosewood coffee table. “Do you mind if I record this session?” she asked, struggling to maintain focus on the interview and not the intoxicating whiff she’d just caught of Duncan’s spice-scented aftershave.

  Margo shook her head. “Not at all.”

  Sunny made note of the date, time, location, the purpose of the interview and indicated the parties present. She retrieved her notepad from her briefcase and flipped to the list of questions she’d jotted down while reviewing the case file last night. In the privacy of her newly purchased condo, she’d slipped into her favorite pair of cotton pj’s, turned on the television to the cable news network and tried to crawl inside the twisted mind of a con artist preying on vulnerable, unsuspecting women.

  The reminder pricked her anger, renewing her tenacity to put an end to the Seducer’s lucrative criminal activities. With any luck, she’d nail his ass before he could pluck his next pigeon.

  Including Wilder, the Bureau had a total of seven cases stretching from Seattle all the way to the D.C. area, that made up the SEDSCAM investigation. When the different state authorities had independently requested assistance from the Bureau’s lab hoping to nail the unknown subject’s identity with DNA found at the crime scenes, someone in the lab had been paying attention, bringing the incidents to the attention of the nonviolent crime unit’s chief. The reports had all been same, DNA nonidentifiable, but all that meant was the UNSUB had never been imprisoned, else his DNA would’ve been in the FBI’s DNA database. In Sunny’s opinion, that made her UNSUB either one clever crook or a lucky SOB. Maybe both considering his ten-month crime spree.

  Forcing a serene expression, she smiled at Margo. “Let’s begin with the day you first met the man you knew as Justin Abbott. In the initial report you gave to the police the morning you discovered the theft, you indicated that following a meeting with your attorneys, you went to the Georgetown Café for lunch?” At least Margo had immediately notified the authorities, something not all of the vics had done. For reasons beyond her comprehension, Sunny had one case where the vic had waited close to two weeks before filing a police report.

  Margo’s golden-brown eyes brightened and her collagen-smooth lips lifted into a wistful smile. “Yes,” she answered, her voice softening considerably. “The café was horribly crowded and Justin offered to share his table with me.”

  Sunny tucked a loose curl behind her ear again. “Do you recall ever seeing Abbott before that day in the café?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “There was nothing familiar about him?” Sunny pressed. “Perhaps he’d been to your home disguised as a repairman, or had attended a social function where you may have seen him prior to that day in the café?” None of the other victims she’d interviewed reported ever seeing the Seducer on a previous occasion, either. Circumstance had little to do with initial contact between UNSUB and vic, but so far Sunny had been unable to confirm her suspicions.

  “Ms. MacGregor,” Margo said patiently, “it simply is not possible. I assure you, I would have remembered if I’d met Justin previously.”

  “Why is that?” Sunny asked in a milder tone than her curiosity demanded.

  “Presence,” the older woman told her. “Justin has a presence that is not easily forgotten.”

  Now there was an explanation Sunny easily understood, courtesy of the man seated across from her. She glanced at him and their gazes met, held, and the air sizzled around them. On cue, her heart rate accelerated, and she felt another sharp tug in her tummy.

  Ducking her head, she pretended to consult the list of questions she’d prepared. She needed her mind on the job, not in places she had no business venturing—at the moment.

  Sunny cleared her throat. “How long after your initial meeting with Abbott did you see him again?”

  “That same evening,” Margo answered. “He asked me to accompany him to the symphony. He had a private box.”

  From the file Sunny had read, she knew Margo had lived a sheltered, privileged life in the ivory tower her rich uncle had built, but Margo wasn’t a naive kid fresh off the farm. The woman might be low-mileage, but she didn’t strike Sunny as the type to fall for a slick pickup line, either.

  So what was it about this particular UNSUB that made his victims fall for an obvious con like naive little fools? As much as she wanted—no, needed—to understand, she simply could not wrap her mind around the concept of being some guy’s patsy.

  Duncan shifted slightly in his chair, instantly drawing her attention. She might be entertaining the possibility of exploring the physical attraction between them, but she possessed enough intelligence to know when he was feeding her a line. Sure, she’d flirted with him, but she was also well aware of the fact he wanted something from her, just as she wanted a look at his files. And whatever else he might be willing to show her.

  Looking back to Margo, Sunny asked, “Did anyone else accompany you to the symphony? Did Mr. Abbott have a driver?”

  “He drove himself.” A slight blush colored the other woman’s unnaturally smooth cheeks. “We were…alone.”

  Why did normally reasonable women lose all common sense when it came to the opposite sex? Sunny never would be so stupid as to invite a guy she didn’t know into her home. Didn’t Margo read the newspapers? The world was filled with lunatics and psychos.

  She was a fine one to talk. Hadn’t she been on the verge of inviting Duncan to her place? And what did she really know about him? Not much, other than the possibility that for the first time in months she could be changing the sheets on her bed for something other than laundry day.

  “And after the symphony?” Sunny asked.

  “He brought me home.” A deeper blush this time. “We had a glass of sherry and then he left after we made plans for the following evening to attend the art gallery.”

  Sunny frowned and consulted her notes again. Not a single reference existed in the case file about Margo accompanying the UNSUB to an art gallery. “Did you provide the investigating officer with the name of the gallery?” she asked.

  “He never asked. But it was the Fifth Street Art Center.”

  “Were you aware it hasn’t been open in six months?” Duncan asked suddenly.

  “Yes, I was,” Margo answered. “Justin had arranged for a private showing.”

  “He may have arranged a private showing, Ms. Wilder,” Duncan said, his gaze intent as he studied the witness closely, “but not with the property owner’s
permission. The Fifth Street Art Center went out of business.”

  Margo frowned, a barely perceptible action courtesy of regular Botox injections. “That’s impossible. I was there. I even purchased one of the paintings on display.”

  This was all news to Sunny and it irritated her that the local authorities hadn’t been more diligent in their investigation. “Do you have the painting?” she asked, but she already suspected the answer.

  The older woman’s frown deepened by the slightest degree. “No, not as yet.”

  And she never would, Sunny thought, struggling to remain calm. Never one to suffer fools lightly, herself included, she had little patience for stupidity. At this rate, by the time she solved SEDSCAM, her usual lack of empathy would be finely tuned.

  She couldn’t help wondering if any of the women victimized had an inkling how fortunate they were to have lost only their material possessions and not their lives? So far the UNSUB’s twisted fantasy thankfully didn’t include physically harming his victims. Hopefully that wouldn’t change.

  “Are you sure there were no other individuals present at the gallery that night?” she asked.

  Margo shook her head. “No. No one.”

  “Then how were you able to make a purchase?” For a painting, Sunny had a feeling, that was a fake.

  “I made the check out to Justin. He is a substantial patron so I just assumed…”

  Exactly what he’d wanted her to assume. He’d conned her into believing he was such a wealthy supporter he’d practically been given his own key to the place.

  Regardless, Sunny finally had a fresh piece of information. In order to pull off such an elaborate scheme as detailed as an operational art gallery, the UNSUB couldn’t possibly be flying solo. Although she’d never personally been involved, she’d heard the stories of the networks of traveling grifters. They moved around the country duping the elderly, ripping off department stores by returning stolen merchandise for cash refunds and running the classic carnie cons. With the exception of big real estate rip-offs and boiler room scams, cons generally ran penny-ante operations nowhere near as sophisticated as the UNSUB’s game.