Page 1 of Mated to Team Shadow

Jeanine

The party pitched to full swing, and the revelers were too sloppy drunk or high to pay attention to my movements. This allowed me to poke my nose in places where it did not belong. The only people I had to watch were the four ridiculously smoking hot bodyguards dressed in black from shoulder to toe stationed throughout the yacht.

But although I acted as loopy as the tanned and toned high rollers surrounding Aedan Morgan, I could pick out a path to his office. Here I hoped to find the clue to my old college roommate's fate. At the very least, I might find convincing evidence about her kidnapping and/or Morgan's nefarious deeds.

When I use the word "nefarious," it is for good reason. Interpol suspected Morgan was the kingpin of not only drug running but Caribbean piracy. This last scored high on the law enforcement's radar because a frightening surge of pirate attacks plagued Latin America and the Caribbean last year. Law enforcement recorded seventy-one pirate attacks in Latin America and the Caribbean—a one hundred and sixty-three percent increase from the previous year. Morgan certainly had a piece of that.

But no one could make a case against the elusive Morgan. The pirate playing the part of an international playboy gave the bastard plenty of cover and ability to move about the cabin, figuratively. Last I saw, Morgan sat immobile on the upper deck in a half-conscious state after sucking in several lines of pearly white coke.

It must be good to be a criminal mastermind. At least he lived well enough. The yacht, surreptitiously renamed theLady E, was gorgeous though only worth thirteen million dollars. Higher-end floating palaces go for thirty-eight mil and more, but I guessed beggars couldn't be choosers when you procured your watercraft through theft. Highly polished walnut panels lined the walls, and the hallway floors had the softest carpet I'd ever felt. Yeah, I must check my bank account to see if I had thirteen mil to cover the price of one of these babies.

As if.

Newsflash. Investigative journalists beginning their careers do not make big bucks.

I smoothed my gold sequined mini-dress scored at a New York designer's showroom at a deep discount. It was not a thing I would normally buy. The cut dipped too low and the hem too high, but it purchased me entrée into many venues that demanded a particular cache for admittance.

At once trashy and expensive, it pegged me as the type of party girl welcomed into the dens of iniquity of the rich and famous. I checked my stylish blonde bob wig, stolen from my mother's inventory, to make sure it was in place. Then I moved forward zig-zagging through the partygoers careful to support the illusion I was drunk. If they caught me, I needed a plausible excuse why I veered off course.

So much depended on me not getting caught.

"Where's the loo?" I said in my sloppy French to the immobile bodyguard stationed at the doorway that led to the staterooms and Morgan's office.

He stared at me with animal dispassion as if I were prey, and I shivered. His nostrils flared, but other than that, not a single muscle twitched on his classically chiseled face.

Down girl,I thought.You are not here to play.Though if I were, Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous would tick the right boxes. Chalk it up to my intrepid and impulsive nature, but I have yet to meet an inappropriate man to whom I'm not drawn.

Which was why I lived steadfastly single. Still, his high cheeks, his classic straight nose, square jaw, wide shoulders and ripped abs that didnothide behind his black sweater whispered to me, "Come here, little darling."

"The head," he said in English, "is down the hall, second door on the right."

Head. Interesting choice of words. Marines use that term for the bathroom.

"Merci," I said, and then realized I announced I understood English.Hell. I hope I haven't blown my cover.But I reassured myself speaking more than one language was common in most parts of the world. In contrast to the United States where it was nearly a cultural crime to know more than one language.

I fake stumbled forward and then found myself thrown into the bodyguard's solid form by a bona fide impaired guest making for the same accommodation.

"Sorry," the guest slurred, and staggered past us.

"Excuze-moi," I said as the delicious bodyguard caught me in his strong arms. His scent intoxicated me with an enticing mix of sandalwood and musk.

He bent to my ear and whispered, "You can cut the bullshit French. You sound like a boarding school reject."

I pushed away with more force than my supposedly drunk condition would have allowed and glared at him.

"There is no need to be insulting," I said. "Sometimes you have to lay it on thick to get into these parties."

"Oh, I'm sure you lay something," he said with a curled lip.

"Va te faire foutre," I snapped. But telling the man "fuck you" didn't even draw a tick in his face.

He cocked his head. "Sorry. On duty. Better run along now. The gentleman has finished." His head snapped to level his gaze on the rowdy crowd. Dismissed, I stepped away stewing at his rude treatment until I realized the bodyguard announced the man finished before he opened the door.

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch.

I passed the drunk and slid open the door. Instead of walking inside, I looked over my shoulder to check that the bodyguard had his eyes on his paper watching the crowd. I slid it shut and tiptoed down the hall and slipped in the door I'd spotted Morgan walking from earlier.

The stateroom featured a large wood desk before an immense porthole that was more a wide pane of glass than hole looking over the St. Lucia harbor. Lights from the town sparkled in the bluish light of deep evening seeming more like a fairyland than bustling port. We were gliding toward a slip, a sure sign the evening was about to come to a close and announced my narrowing window of opportunity.

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