Take Me Two Times
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
About the Author
Praise for the Novels of Karen Kendall
Take Me If You Can
“A sexy, riveting read!”
—New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd
“Flirty, fun, and fabulously original.”
—USA Today bestselling author Julie Kenner
“Sexy, witty, fast-paced, and full of delicious plot twists.”
—USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair
“Sexy, charming, witty, and irresistible.”
—national bestselling author Roxanne St. Claire
“If you’re looking for a fun, entertaining read that will keep you on the edge of your seat, then look no further than Take Me If You Can. It will make you laugh, make you cry, and keep you glued to the very end.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A swift, smart, and sassy suspense with lots of romantic tension . . . reminiscent of smart, sexy movies like The Thomas Crown Affair. . . . A delight.”
—Fresh Fiction
Fit to Be Tied
“Sexy-hot delicious and laugh-out-loud delightful! Karen Kendall is my new favorite author!”
—New York Times bestselling author Nicole Jordan
“Kendall’s lively tale about breaking up, making up, and shaking it up is funny and poignant. Fans of Lori Wilde, Susan Donovan, and Connie Lane will appreciate Kendall’s humorous take on tying the knot.”
—Booklist
“Kendall again presents a story that mixes humor with a more serious plot. The journey of the two main characters toward an awareness of what really matters, and secondary characters who make their own discoveries, give this lighthearted romance substance.”
—Romantic Times
“This funny, sexy romance will keep you reading.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Be prepared to laugh, cry, and feel some emotions for the characters and their plights . . . an unforgettable read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
The Bridesmaid Chronicles
First Date
“Lighthearted comedy . . . the snappy talk keeps the plot in constant motion. . . . Something fun . . . to read on the beach.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sharp, sexy, and fun read with engaging characters who steal into your heart right away. Karen Kendall’s newest romance contains all the ingredients required to make it a supersassy romp, and practically thrums with vibrant, snappy dialogue. Utterly delightful and very highly recommended!”
—The Best Reviews
“First Date is a magnificent, captivating read that will keep you totally entertained from the first page until the last.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
First Dance
“Hilarious and downright sexy! Karen Kendall will delight you!”
—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips
“Kendall’s sparkling third installment in [the] Bridesmaid Chronicles series offers both zany romance and serious probing of her protagonists’ emotional depths. This witty, well-crafted entry bodes well for the final volume.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also by Karen Kendall
Take Me If You Can
Fit to Be Tied
First Date
First Dance
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, April 2009
eISBN : 978-1-101-02534-5
Copyright © Karen Moser, 2009
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For Don, as always
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to so many people who helped with this book!
To my editor, Kara Cesare; my agent, Kim Whalen; and authors Lisa Manuel, Linda Conrad, and Marianna Jameson for reading drafts and providing thorough and insightful feedback—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
To Claudio Cambon, for vetting my terrible Italian. To Dennis Pozzessere for being a sounding board on my Carnevale research. To Judie B. Raiford for sharing her expertise on how a solid gold Venetian mask could be forged—and who coul
d do it. To Mona Risk, for her insight on how to poison such a mask.
To my husband, relatives, and friends, for putting up with me during the writing process and understanding that authors are strange and complex beings.
And, of course, many times over to everyone at Penguin: Anthony Ramondo, for brilliant covers on this series. Angela Januzzi for great PR. Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for sticking with me throughout the vagaries of the publishing market.
You guys are all my heroes more than any fictional characters. Thanks again.
chapter 1
Gwen Davies had a license to steal. Though she’d once been paid to re-cover furniture, she now got paid to recover missing art. For all intents and purposes, Gwen was a high-class repo man—just one who wore Dolce & Gabbana instead of a bad toupee. She stole for justice, on commission, and because it made her feel alive.
But a thief—even one with a permit—often encountered people who objected to her activities, so she had to stay in top shape. That explained why she was in this brutal joke of a gym on Brickell instead of at a coffeehouse with a venti mocha and a nice, fattening Danish . . . or on Miami Beach, watching the sun come up.
Gwen was also there to kill off a relentless, recurring dream . . . starring a man she never wanted to see again—naked or not. Quinn Lawson wasn’t welcome between her sheets, but he turned up there almost every night she turned them down. He’d never been a man who waited for an invitation; he’d engraved his own right underneath her skirt.
On her fourth set of crunches, the tiny hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck rose, despite the fact that they were drowning in sweat at the end of a murderous workout. She couldn’t hear a sound over her own labored breathing and the groan of her muscles, but she acted on pure instinct.
Gwen hurled her body to the right with all the stamina she had left. She spun on her tailbone, raised her feet, and kicked out, taking her would-be assailant down with a solid hit to the knees.
Armando Romeu, aka “Cato,” crashed to the ARTemis gym floor and lay blinking for a moment before he grinned up at her, his spiky bleached hair making him look like a hungover Miami sun. A very muscular, Cuban sun. “Not bad, princess.”
Gwen grimaced at him, refilled her lungs with the cold gym air, and flopped onto her back. She caught a whiff of stale sweat and eau de rubber from the mats under the fitness machines, as well as the more pungent odor of paint from the room’s freshly touched-up trim.
She sucked in another lungful of air and ignored the ripe odor emanating from Cato, despite the valiant efforts of his deodorant. He must have gone for a run in the Miami heat.
She stared up at the scratches and smudges on the bottom of a punching bag above her. Beyond it stood all the other exhaustion-inducing equipment: the weight circuit, the elliptical, the treadmill, and the rowing machine.
The sight of it all was enough to scare any self-respecting slug right back to the Godiva shop in the mall. Gwen briefly fantasized about her former days as a not-so-busy interior designer. A leisurely latte, a book of fabric swatches, a manicure followed by a long lunch . . .
And you were bored to tears. Remember?
Then there were the clients you wanted to tar, feather, and ride out of town on their own custom curtain rods. Not to mention the battles with workrooms . . .
“Yep, not bad at all,” Cato said, sitting up in one fluid motion. His torso was a perfect isosceles triangle of buff, South Beach male.
“Not bad? You mean it was great.” Gwen shoved her feet under the toes of his trainers and finished her set of crunches. “Not only did I anticipate, but I brought you to the floor.”
“Don’t get a big head, missy. I caught you napping last week,” he reminded her.
“It was an off time of the month.”
“Oh, that old excuse . . .”
Gwen sat up and leveled her gaze on him. “Listen, Cato—”
“Yes, Inspector Clouseau?”
“If you’d ever had PMS or cramps you’d understand. You got me one time out of the last, what, thirty attempts? Give me a break.”
“It only takes once. And a dead art recovery agent is not an effective art recovery agent.”
“Yes, Cato. Thank you, Cato. May I have another scare, please, Cato?”
“You bet, mamita.” He winked at her and got up. “That’s my job: to keep all of you worthless agents in shape and on your toes.”
“And here I thought my Jimmy Choos took care of that.”
“They do, they do. But me and Jimmy? We’re like this,” Cato said, holding up two fingers close together. Then he laughed. “And we both make your ass look good.”
Gwen shook her head at him and wiped her face and neck with a towel. “Go do a sneak attack on someone else.”
He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Gladly. I can’t believe I get paid to have this much fun.”
An hour later, Gwen walked into the Miami offices of ARTemis, Inc., art recovery specialists. Outside, the breeze off the water seemed unseasonably humid, and the royal palms yawned languidly under the insistent sun. Like most of the city, they weren’t eager to wake before ten a.m.
Gwen had traded her gym shorts for a silk Pucci dress with an empire waist, no panty hose, and a pair of cream sling-back sandals. She’d dried and gelled her short hair; the soft orange streaks picked up the tangerine hues in her dress. She looked pretty good for a repo man.
“Hiya, doll face,” said Sheila. Sheila Kofsky was the ARTemis office manager and looked like a trendy white raisin with a cloud of improbably blond hair. She presided over the reception area and the wardrobe room, her inch-long acrylic nails striking fear into any would-be interloper’s heart.
Sheila always cut a somewhat astonishing figure. Today’s reading glasses were electric blue with little hot-pink flamingos painted at the top outside corners of the rims. She wore matching hot-pink lipstick and nail polish, tight black pedal pushers, a tight black cleavage-revealing top, and a hot-pink faux-linen jacket. But the pièces de résistance were the electric-blue calf-hair mules that she had to have dyed herself.
Gwen still hadn’t figured out why anyone had hired Sheila. She swore like a sailor, had no couth, and didn’t fit in to the elegant atmosphere of the office. But she never missed a day of work and was a true genius with the recovery agents’ wardrobes and, when necessary, disguises.
“Hi, Sheila. How are you today?”
“Never mind that. There’s another package for you from Sid Thresher.” Sheila reached under her desk and handed Gwen a box from Van Cleef & Arpels.
“You opened it?”
“Of course I opened it, doll. It’s part of my job.” Sheila grinned.
“It is not part of your job to unwrap it and steam open the personal card,” Gwen said, wondering why she bothered. Sheila was incorrigible.
“Saves you the trouble. Sid’s begging you to taste just a little of his Subversion and he wants you to wear these with the satin bustier and thong he sent last week.”
Subversion was Sid’s world-famous British rock band. Gwen had been targeted for seduction by an older, uglier, less stable Mick Jagger. She sighed and opened the box.
Inside was a pair of diamond chandelier earrings so long that they’d bang her shoulder blades if she were to put them on. They glittered in the fluorescent lighting.
Agent Eric McDougal sauntered through the front door, took a look, and raised his ginger eyebrows. “Gwendolyn,” he drawled. “Whatever did you do to earn those?”
Gwen ignored him, shut the box with a snap, and turned to Sheila. “Please return these immediately. Send Sid a computer-generated note saying thanks, but I can’t possibly accept.”
“Such a nice girl,” McDougal said sardonically. “So well brought up.”
Sheila closed the mouth she’d left hanging open. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No.” Gwen dropped the box on her desk.
“Listen,” Sheila said. “Why waste the postage? Just let me keep ’em.”
“Send them back. I don’t want to encourage him. Sid is crazy and he makes my skin crawl.”
“Doll, I could do a lot of lying back and thinking of England for these beauties, and maybe the matching necklace, too. . . .”
“Now, there’s a visual,” said McDougal. He turned to Gwen. “Coming to the assignments meeting?”
Gwen nodded and followed him down the hall to the conference room. She sat down at the long maple table as if she belonged there with all the other art recovery agents.
She sipped at her morning fruit smoothie and reminded herself that she did belong there. Today she’d get her first solo assignment. She was a newly minted coin just being put into circulation—and it was up to her to prove her worth.
Gwen scanned the faces of the other agents on the team.
Dante di Leo, who looked as if he owned the place but didn’t, leaned casually against the end of the table, reviewing his notes for the meeting. Since he was out of the field for now as he struggled with a broken leg, he ran the presentations and handed out assignments. Gwen much preferred Dante to McDougal. Dante looked out for her, tried to help her.
McDougal, despite the fact that he looked like a hot cross between Prince Harry and a young Paul Newman, could go kiss a speeding MTA bus. His wiry auburn hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week—probably the last time he’d stopped partying and slept. On the table, he tapped out the rhythm to an unknown song with his thumbs, his laser blue eyes far away.