Carnal in Cannes by Jianne Carlo

gone paler than a Texas farm in a whiteout blizzard. She looked scared sweatless.
    “It"s the friend who took our place last night, Martine,” he explained, shutting the drawer after he"d set the gun on the wood.
    Her eyes fixated on the drawer, she bit her bottom lip so hard Harry feared blood would spurt. “I used to be in special ops.” At her frown he added, “A division of the US Army. The gun"s for protection.”
    There had to be a crisis if Terry was pounding on the doors. Gaze sweeping in the direction of the thundering, Harry said, keeping his voice soothing and calm and belying the adrenaline flooding his veins, “I need to let him in.”
    A rattler couldn"t corral a hen faster than the way she scooted against the headboard. Sheet pulled up to her chin, she froze in place and nodded.
    “Harry, for Christ"s sake, open the blasted door,” Terrence O"Connor barked.
    He stalked to the door of the highly secured penthouse, which was designed to protect the privacy of the rich and famous, punched in the alarm code, and flung open one of the mahogany double doors to the suite.
    Terry barged in, and the sheer size of the WWE-built man—forearm muscles bunched and bulging out of his short-sleeved black polo, his mouth pinched, and his long auburn hair tossing mile-wide shoulders—made Harry glance back at Martine, who had one hand cupped over her mouth.
    Terry halted when he spotted Martine and did an about-turn on the spot.
    Leaning his shoulder on the wall, Harry crossed one ankle over the other and said through gritted teeth, “This better be freaking good.”
    Terry"s gray eyes dropped to Harry"s red-and-white-striped knit boxers. He shook his head, and matching white molars showed when he grinned.
    If Terry so much as muttered a word… Harry"s fingernails dug into his palms.
    They"d served side by side in a combo Brit/US squad for years, worked the Glory together after quitting the forces, and each knew the other"s sleeping preferences, which included nudity and a multitude of similarly unclad females of 44
    Jianne Carlo

    assorted shapes and sizes. “Plan B had a fatal flaw,” Terry stated. “My wife and I took your place in the hotel suite no problem. I even wore your fricking Stetson. But your stepmother had a PI at the back entrance to the hotel.”
    Crap . “I didn"t see a single person on the way to the Glory .”
    “I had our SEAL buddies watching the hotel. The PI was stationed on the roof of the building opposite.” Terry threw a gunmetal BlackBerry onto the couch, and the phone bumped a couple of times before settling on the fringes of a large cushion.
    “We got his camera and phone.”
    Harry glanced at the ceiling and sent a mental thank-you to his Irish mama"s pot-of-gold famous luck. Cracking his neck to reduce a sudden tension, he walked over to stand in front of the bed and spun around. Terry turned to face him. He blocked Terry"s view of Martine, who hadn"t budged a single square centimeter.
    “But we"re not out of the woods,” Terry muttered. “The PI got a shot of you and Martine returning to the hotel this morning.”
    That sniper-in-the-vicinity crawl did a soft-shoe from one shoulder blade to the other. Distracted when Suresh Singh waltzed through the open doorway, Harry snapped, “Getting to be Grand Central round here.”
    Harry raised an eyebrow.
    Suresh waved a Y shape with both hands and clarified Harry"s unspoken question. “Terry left me to tip the valet, explain why he manhandled the manager into giving him a key card to your suite, and, in general, clean up.”
    Suresh spotted Martine in the bed and flashed a smile in her direction, his tanned complexion making his even teeth glisten like piano ivories. “Good morning, Martine. I apologize for the rude and unexpected interruption.”
    “Can we drop the courtly manners?” Terry growled, dragging both hands through his hair. “Time is of the essence.”
    “So cliché,” Suresh quipped. “But unfortunately,