Maxwell Sauvage was born into a life of privilege…and boredom. As a “security consultant” to the powerful, he enjoys pitting his wits against the most intricate of security systems for business and pleasure.
Anya Swift is a woman with high-class tastes and a high-octane need for adventure. As an operative for International Art and Antiquities Recovery she stays just on the “right” side of the law, while satisfying her desire for the finer things and her thirst for adventure.
When a high tech camera catches Anya taking The Fortunate Buddha from the French Ambassador’s vault, Max is eager to help the provocative thief for his own reasons, not the least of which being that he set the camera. But after one stunning night of passion, Anya disappears. Now Max must find Anya before the Ambassador’s men and claim the thief for his own, but they are running against a clock, danger and deception.
He nodded his head absently. Roberta’s conversation weighed on him, as did her careless attempts to entice him with her lowered voice. Even with the wall of glass doors turned out to the crisp desert air beyond, the great ballroom combined a sultry mix of foreign dignitaries, under-dressed celebutantes, the bedazzled and over-pedigreed nobles, and just the right amount of nouveau riche. Not that he wasn’t just as pedigreed as all the other bluebloods present, more so than some.
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He wasn’t sure how he let himself get dragged into these events. He spared a glance at his dance partner, who seemed to think she’d said something amusing. The first-born son of Lady Amanda Prentiss and French financier Jacques Sauvage, he was used to the insipid attempts to engage him on and off the dance floor. His partner continued to prattle on in bastardized French tinged heavy with a New England accent.
Then she appeared, her perfectly toned body sheathed in a black silk dress. He shut out the sound of his dance partner’s voice and studied the captivating woman across the room. The slit in her dress played peek-a-boo with a length of bare, tanned leg. The red heels were nearly his undoing, a riot of color like a whisper of provocative promises.
“Hmm?” A perfunctory response to her use of his name.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I heard all about Milan, Paris, and New York. Fashion does not interest me, I’m afraid, chérie.” High fashion certainly held no fascination for him, but his palms itched to follow the sway of Anya’s hips beneath the sheath. The sheen of boredom dulling his evening ripped away, and victory dangled her like a succulent fruit, ripe for the plucking. His lips curled into a deeper smile as she hunted the room, passing him briefly before returning. The connection sizzled along his nerves.
He met her smoky gaze with frank appreciation and barely checked the urge to beckon the nymph in her sexy-as-sin black dress with tousled hair piled into an artful display. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. He nearly groaned at the image because he’d love to roll her right into that bed once more.
“Do you know her?” Roberta’s tone climbed, a thin wire of high-pitched annoyance vibrating beneath the words.
“Our paths have crossed from time to time.” She’s the one who always gets away, the one who haunts my dreams.