Body Contact by REBECCA YORK

in protecting her. Yet she didn’t like the seed of doubt he’d sowed in her mind about Jack. And she couldn’t help wondering if his motives were tainted. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of her working so intimately with another man, and had decided to undermine the relationship. That would certainly have been unprofessional on his part, and she’d have to delve into his motivation after she came home. But for now, she had too much else to worry about.
    And she had given him a special assignment. He was in charge of checking out everyone who might have been in a position to help Dawn escape, and he knew he’d better have some answers for her when she came back.
    She caught Jack eying her appraisingly. Probably he was wondering if she was ready.
    Well, she was as ready as he was. Lifting her chin she gave him a smile that sparkled with false brilliance. “Oh, this is so exciting,” she cooed for the benefit of the uniformed attendant who had begun piling the luggage onto a rolling cart. Probably he was a trained agent, too! Trained in surveillance and assassination.
    When they reached the ticket counter, Jack pulled a money clip from the pocket of his custom tailored beige slacks and peeled off a twenty, which he handed to the man.
    â€œThank you!”
    She watched the transaction from the corner of her eye as she took out a compact and dabbed powder onto her nose.
    From his expensive haircut to his blue-and-white golf shirt and on down to his Italian leather loafers, Jack looked like exactly what he was pretending to be, a man with the money to indulge his every whim.
    As his girlfriend, she was decked out in a lemon-yellow sundress cut too low in the back and front for a bra, but at least the matching jacket gave her some feeling of being covered up.
    The chunky gold charm bracelets circling her left wrist were an annoyance, but she knew she had to put up with them—along with the four expensive rings that adorned her hands.
    Jack had vetoed panty hose, so her legs were bare and her feet were simply slipped into two-hundred-dollar sandals.
    In contrast, her face felt like an oil painting—with makeup that could have been applied with a putty knife—thanks to one of the special training sessions she’d attended in which she’d learned how to “make the most” of her features. At least that’s what the beautician had called it. She’d called it a waste of time. But she’d knownthat the woman she was supposed to be playing would have spent twenty minutes in the morning in front of the mirror. So she’d gotten with the program.
    Jack had stepped up to the counter and pulled out the voucher authorizing him and Maddy to take the Orchid Island charter flight.
    â€œMay I see your passports, please?” the attractive redhead behind the counter asked. Was she one of Reynard’s operatives, too? Or was she just a civilian hired for her good looks?
    Jack pulled out two small books with blue covers. It galled her that he was carrying her passport along with his own. But that was just another authentic touch, she told herself. And the real issue was whether the fake IDs passed muster.
    As the woman inspected them, Maddy held her breath. When they were returned with a smile, she relaxed a fraction.
    After their carry-on luggage was searched, they were ushered into a green-and-beige waiting room, where they joined six other couples. Maddy had been in many airport VIP suites with Stan Winston, but she’d never seen one quite so plush. There were comfortable couches instead of standard airport seats, thick carpeting, a wet bar and a linen-covered table with a breakfast buffet.
    She’d also never seen so much heavy gold jewelry, diamonds, Italian leather, and designer watches. And that was just on the men.
    Jack’s one pinky ring and his Tommy Hilfiger shirt were small potatoes.
    But it wasn’t just the men’s attire that hit her. She