Making the Mark

By Laura Kitchell

What happens when a covert lover can't get her mark into bed?

Cassie Granger is America's elite covert lover. Her assignment is to seduce France's most notorious information thief. Damon is her greatest challenge yet, however, when she can't lure him into bed. Can she win his trust and affection in time to stop transmissions to the enemy, or will she lose her heart on this mission?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Kitchell
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310713699

Laura Kitchell

Laura Kitchell lives in Virginia and was published for the first time in 2007. She became a member of the Quality Novelists Coalition in 2013. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Chesapeake Romance Writers. Connect with her on Facebook at [e-mail] and visit her website at laurakitchell.com.

Book preview

Covert Affair

Book Two: Making the Mark

by

Laura Kitchell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

A Quality Novelists Coalition book

Ebook Version

Smashwords Edition

Covert Affairs Series

Book Two: Making the Mark

Copyright© 2014 Laura Kitchell

ISBN: 9781310713699

Cover Artist: Lara Nance

Editor: Karen Webb

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Quality Novelists Coalition  QNC. All rights reserved.

Dedication

For my mother, my biggest fan. For my most loyal readers, Karrie, Shaunte, and Linda. For Sara, my best friend in the world. And a special thanks to the members of the Quality Novelists Coalition who worked so hard to make sure my readers get a first-rate book every time they buy my stories.

Chapter One

Cassie Granger groaned when her PDA warbled. The ring tone told her she received an email from headquarters. Setting her champagne flute next to her plate, she scooted her chair and made excuses to the bridesmaids seated to her left.

On a private terrace at the rear of the reception hall, she accessed her inbox and opened an attachment from her contact. A virtual file folder marked Top Secret opened to reveal an assignment sheet. It appeared typical. A man named Damon Vuiller in the French government was suspected of selling secrets to China.

Secrets. Could they be more vague? Whatever the guy sold had to involve the United States or they wouldn’t involve her. She shook her head and turned the page.

Damon Vuiller lived in Paris, worked for the French prime minister at his residence and offices inside the Hôtel Matignon in the Vlle arrondissement, and specialized in diplomacy and protocol. He lived alone in a townhouse he owned, had never married, and surveillance reported he had not dated in over six months.

Six months? She glanced at the quick stats. Six feet, three inches tall, black hair, blue eyes, thirty-four years old, family background unremarkable, and education finishing at a master’s degree.

Okay, so the guy wasn’t stupid, had a great job, and owned his own place. Six months? No dates and no sex in six months? She hesitated to turn the page, which held an image flag.

Her last three targets had been hard on the eyes. Pock marked skin, wrinkles, no chin, overweight – she’d seen it all. And two of them required that she pleasure them before they gave up their secrets. For her country, it was worth it. But she’d paid her dues. She wanted a pleasant assignment.

With a sigh, she turned the page. Her lungs seized, causing her to hiccough. The man was beyond handsome. He was beautiful.

Her heartbeat pulsing in her throat, she flipped through the various images. Damon crossing a street, a pale blue button-down taut across his chest as he looked over his shoulder. Damon coming out of his townhouse, a smile brightening his features while he talked on a cell phone. Damon at a meal with the French prime minister, their heads close in conversation. Damon in a park, wearing blue jeans and a dark green T-shirt that showed his broad shoulders, trim waist and tight rear end to perfection.

How in the world had the women in the city of love let the likes of this man go six months without a bed partner?

Cassie gulped. Merely gazing at the pictures turned her on. What would the man in the flesh do to her? Now she almost wished he had less appeal. Almost.

In many ways, less attractive men presented easier marks. They succumbed to her charm quickly, enjoyed her compliments, and responded well to her manipulation. Somehow, she suspected Damon would not. She would have to work hard on this mission. She smiled, hoping so. She loved a challenge. She would be her own main obstacle, if her reaction to the pictures showed any indication.

There you are, said Jaeda.

Before turning, Cassie checked her agenda. Her flight left in three hours. Gee, thanks, guys. She closed the email.

Hey, blushing bride. Did you come to get some fresh air, too? She took a deep breath and realized for the first time how sweet England’s spring air smelled. As she tugged at her salmon chiffon gown, a pollen-scented breeze swept across the terrace.

No. It’s time for the toasts. Come tell pretty lies about me.

Cassie laughed, following through a French door into the wedding reception. A caterer in a white chef’s jacket pushed a stunning cake of enormous proportion toward the center of the tables.

Cassie grasped her best friend’s hand. Jaeda, I’m sorry to do this but I’m going to have to leave your wedding right after the toasts.

The bride beamed, seemingly unable to see any darkness on her happiest day. I’m just glad they left you alone long enough to be my maid of honor. Now, come make everyone cry then go save the free world.

Cassie trailed Jaeda to the head table and lifted her glass of champagne. A toast! To the bride.

The guests quieted and every eye turned her way.

She stood straighter, enjoying the attention. To the lovely bride, Jaeda Jameson. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

An appreciative round of chuckles rewarded her.

Jaeda has been my best friend and kindred spirit for years. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, accomplished, and many more wonderful things too numerous to list. I always thought if she ever decided to marry, she’d have to settle for a man who didn’t deserve her, because who could? Right? Well, I was wrong. Jaeda has found her equal in Teague.

Cassie turned and addressed the couple. What an amazing pair you make. And heaven help us when your children are grown, because they’re going to take the world by storm with their good looks and extraordinary intelligence.

Laughing agreement echoed around the room.

She held her flute high. To the bride!

To the bride! cried the guests, raising their glasses. Everyone drank.

Cassie returned to her seat. The best man stood and made his speech. Staring at him, she didn’t hear a word. She couldn’t hear anything past the roar of rushing blood in her ears. Rubbing her hands together under the table, she tried to remember the last time she’d experienced such excitement for a mission. She hadn't used her French in ages, and on this job, she’d speak nothing but French. A great refresher.

At her earliest opportunity, she made a graceful escape. She practically ran to her rented convertible. Taking advantage of the sunny afternoon, a treat in London, she put down the top, kicked off her strappy heels, and removed the clip holding her curls atop her head.

Woo-hoo! she yelled with glee, pulling into traffic and thrusting a hand into the air. Damon would make one heck of a notch in her lipstick case.

* * * *

You know I can’t leave right now, Dad. I’m in the middle of an important project. Damon placed his palm over the phone's receiver and mouthed one minute to his secretary.

I know, Damon, but we have you in France so rarely. And you’re in Paris. It’s not natural to stay away from your family when we’re only twenty minutes away. Your mother and I are proud of you, and your sister misses you. Spare us one weekend.

Brigette scowled and tapped her appointment book.

Dad, I have to go.

Promise you’ll come this weekend. Bring a date. We don’t mind. You can stay in the guesthouse. Your mother redecorated it.

A date. Now there was a complication he didn’t need. I can’t talk about this right now.

Damon, don’t put me off. Promise you’ll come.

He respected his father more than any man in the world, and he would rather face torture than treat him rudely. If he didn’t agree, he’d have to hang up on him, and that simply wasn’t going to happen.

Fine, he said, eyeing the group of suited men forming outside his office door. Brigette sent him a panicked glare.

Good. Your mother wants you here Friday at seven o’clock for a family dinner.

Damon rolled his eyes. See you then.

After his meeting with the economists, he put the finishing touches on the prime minister’s press package and followed his secretary out. He didn’t like keeping Brigette late since she had a husband and two children to care for in the evening. So rather than inviting her to come to the bar, he said goodnight and went alone.

The usual group occupied the usual table. They drank the usual wine and beer, and he suspected they made the usual conversation. He liked the predictability, and regularly used their jovial company to shed a day’s irritations.

Damon signaled to the bartender. I’ll have two shots of tequila.

Tough day?

I had to promise my father I would spend the weekend at the vineyard.

Ah. Papa’s using the guilt, is he? He pushed two small glasses of clear liquid across the counter.

Damon slapped a bill on the bar. Keep the change.

The bartender glanced past Damon’s shoulder and jutted his chin. Looks like you’ve got an admirer.

He didn’t bother to look. If he had to turn down another bold proposition from a twenty-one year old built like a boy, he’d have to get seriously squiffed. He went to his friend’s table.

Going for the hard liquor, Vuiller. Must be a woman, said his friend.

Nonsense, Gerard. Maybe if you’d prepared tomorrow’s press package, you’d be the one downing these shots instead of me.

His friend laughed. Just because I work in the same department and have an office next to yours doesn’t mean I can do what you do.

Slacker.

The table roared approval, and Damon put back one of the shots. Fire scorched his throat and blazed a burn across his eyes. Squeezing his lids closed to prevent tears, he exhaled sharply. The pain subsided too soon.

He thought about downing the second shot to renew the agony. For that brief moment, it overshadowed the ache of going home to an empty townhouse. Seeing his family and sharing in the embrace of their warm love would only make the reality of his loneliness that much more bleak in the weeks to follow.

His mother kept hinting that he should find a woman. Settle down. But he couldn’t bring someone into his life. That would be cruel.

Gerard gave him a nudge. I think she’s hot for your body. She’s really devouring you with her eyes.

You’re so damned French. Whatever, Damon murmured, staring at his second tequila.

That’s a compliment. And here she comes, said one of Gerard’s friends with a smug grin. She’s going to jump in your lap.

Exactly what he didn’t need.

She didn’t stop, though. She sauntered past, leaving a hint of fine, soft perfume in her wake.

Sitting straighter, Damon caught a glance of gold, three-inch heeled sandals. One foot in front of the other, she walked like a model.

Her trim ankles led to muscular, shapely calves. He tried to look away but couldn’t. Her legs tapered in at the knees then flared gently as her thighs brought his gaze to the hem of her dark red dress.

It hugged the generous swell of her hips only to cinch at her narrow waist without any help. The fabric fitted her form as if the garment had been made for her.

Her hair fell straight down her delicate back. Light brown? No, it seemed kissed with gold as she passed candles at nearby tables.

The dress stopped at skin-tight cap sleeves that gripped the rounds of her shoulders. Her bare arms glowed in the low light, and when she switched her gold clutch purse from one hand to another, muscles bunched then relaxed.

The woman was in great shape. No boyish figure there.

Before she entered the lady’s room, she stopped. Damon sat