Hot Property

  HIGH PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SUSAN JOHNSON

  “Smart . . . sexy . . . sensuous . . . [her] books are legendary!”

  —Robin Schone

  “Johnson delivers another fast, titillating read that overflows with sex scenes and rapid-fire dialogue.” —Publishers Weekly

  “A spellbinding read and a lot of fun . . . Johnson takes sensuality to the edge, writing smoldering stories with characters the reader won’t want to leave.” —The Oakland Press

  “Sensually charged writing . . . Johnson knows exactly what her devoted readers desire, and she delivers it with her usual flair.” —Booklist

  “Fascinating . . . The author’s style is a pleasure to read.”

  —Los Angeles Herald Examiner

  Berkley Sensation books by Susan Johnson

  HOT PINK

  HOT LEGS

  HOT SPOT

  TWIN PEAKS (with Jasmine Haynes)

  FRENCH KISS

  WINE, TARTS, & SEX

  HOT PROPERTY

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Susan Johnson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  eISBN : 978-1-436-23742-0

  1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Intelligence officers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.O386458H68 2008

  813’.54—dc22 2008010702

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  One

  “Ask him AGAIN where the goddamn Serb paras are! Don’t look at me like that! That’s a fucking ORDER!!”

  “He doesn’t know anything! How many times do I have to tell you—he’s just a farmer! Give it up you SICK SON OF A BITCH!!”

  The two men shouting at each other had been on opposite sides of the interrogation issue from the moment they’d met three months ago. Harry Miller thought you could beat the truth out of people, and after the defeats at the Marine barracks in Lebanon and then again at Mogadishu, he was the first one to point out the military annex to the Balkan peace accord. “We have the authority,” he would remind anyone daring to question his brutality, “to use deadly force if necessary to carry out our responsibilities.” For Harry that meant coming down like a ton of bricks on anyone who got in his way.

  As a civilian interpreter, Nick Mirovic hadn’t signed on to watch someone beat the hell out of people. Not only did he disapprove of torture on principle, too many of Harry’s interrogations ended badly—like with dead bodies and no information. Pretty much like now if he couldn’t blast through Harry’s one-track psycho mentality. “Isn’t the point to get information? Let up a little, dammit. This poor guy is choking on his own blood . . . Oh fuck.” Nick shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. Opening his eyes a second later, he said bitterly, “I hope you got your rocks off, you murderous motherfucker. You killed another one.” Then he hauled off and slugged Harry Miller so hard, he heard Harry’s jaw crack before he dropped to the basement floor like the sack of shit he was. Standing over the unconscious man, fists clenched and breathing hard, Nick was so filled with loathing for the CIA agent that if two Pfc grunts hadn’t been upstairs guarding the building, he would have put a couple of 9mm rounds into Harry’s worthless head.

  Instead, he knelt by the farmer’s bloodied, broken body, gently closed his eyes, and murmured a totally inadequate prayer. Frustrated and pissed, the dank smell of the basement closing in around him, he felt as though he was sinking into a bottomless pit of depravity. He’d been caught up in Harry’s cold-blooded cycle of violence too long. He hardly knew himself anymore. Although one thing he did know—he was going to hell for his part in these off-the-record operations.

  He always came awake with a start as he found himself plunging into the flames of hell. Dripping with sweat, yet chilled to the bone, he’d try to shake off the horror of those months in Kosovo.

  Then he’d reach for the bottle he kept by his bed or think about calling Lucy, who liked to fuck, not talk. After a few stiff shots to blur the most corrosive of his memories, he’d usually pass on the Lucy idea, though, because even with Lucy there was bound to be complications somewhere down the road. He’d generally flick on the TV instead and watch whatever dreck was on until the sun came up the next morning.

  The rising sun had become his salvation.

  There were times when he’d just sit in the dark on the porch watching the horizon like a besieged trooper in some western movie waiting for the cavalry to come riding over the hill. As the first rays of the morning sun rose above the lake and hit his retinas he’d feel his muscles relax and he’d know he’d made it through another bad night.

&nbs
p; A lot of years had passed since that NATO peacekeeping mission in Kosovo, and his nightmares were less frequent. But they weren’t completely gone. He could have used pharmaceuticals for his post-traumatic stress disorder, but he didn’t like what they did to his head. For better or worse, he preferred living in the real world. Although some days it was definitely not for the better.

  Two

  This is the reason I rented this place, Zoe Chandler thought, walking barefoot down her sandy driveway to the mailbox on the narrow dirt road that serviced the cabins on the lake.

  Peace and quiet.

  No neighbors in sight.

  Total seclusion.

  Okay—so she’d also rented the cabin because she’d always been fond of the old Skubic place and it was only two miles to Ely and one of the best baristas she’d ever run across. When one had a serious caffeine habit, that distance factor trumped lesser issues like say, pretty much everything else.

  She smiled at the beauty of the sunny landscape before her, at the memory of Janie’s super triple espresso that morning, at the thought of Joe’s call from Trieste last night that had filled in another piece of the puzzle. She was feeling smugly self-satisfied. This was the perfect spot to finish her book. She was far away from the usual interruptions of her life in the city, and if she didn’t get her ass sued by one of the major art collectors in the world as a result of her research—really, life couldn’t get much better.

  Or maybe it could. Was that gorgeous man wearing cargo shorts and nothing else taking his mail out of the mailbox next to hers for real or was she hallucinating? Lengthening her stride, she quickly closed the distance between them. Not that she was necessarily on the make, but seriously, someone who looked like he could press three hundred pounds without breaking a sweat was at least worth a polite hello.

  “Morning,” she said, approaching the rickety stand that supported the two old mailboxes, thinking “tall, dark, and handsome” didn’t begin to do him justice.

  Nick Mirovic stopped flipping through his mail and looked up. “Mornin’.”

  While his response wasn’t what you’d call friendly, it wasn’t exactly hostile. “I just moved in a couple weeks ago,” Zoe said, figuring what did she have to lose. “Are you vacationing here, too?”

  He’d been half turning to leave and swung back. “Nope, live here,” he said in a gruff tone clearly meant to deter further conversation.

  As he’d swivelled back, Zoe noticed a ragged scar that ran from under his armpit to his waist. For someone who was known for her nosiness, who made a living investigating things people didn’t want investigated, a scar like that screamed for an explanation. Was it a hunting accident? Everyone up here hunted. But before she could conjure up a tactful query, he was walking away.

  Not that the view from behind wasn’t worth watching. Broad, muscled shoulders, long, lean torso, slim hips, strong legs, and either a nice tan or a natural swarthiness. Whoever her neighbor was—he was real easy on the eyes.

  Nick had heard the Skubic place had been rented for the summer, but enough acreage separated their cabins that he’d not seen the new occupant before. Nice green eyes, nice blonde hair, and nice everything else, too. Not that he was interested. In fact, the last thing he was looking for was company. He liked his hermitage. He actually needed it, and if he ever was in the mood for something more, there was always Lucy. She and her husband played around. They had one of those modern marriages. But hey, it worked for them and occasionally for him.

  It might be a good idea to pick up his mail after dark; that way he’d avoid anymore questions.

  Although his new neighbor did have damned nice legs, her little pink shorts barely covering the essentials. Big-city girl, he’d say, from the look of her. The locals didn’t wear shorts like that. And they didn’t much go for bikini waxes either.

  Three

  Later that day, Zoe drove into town to get her afternoon caffeine fix.

  Janie Sims, owner of the Front Porch Coffee Company, was reading a magazine at a table near the window. This wasn’t a busy time of day, not to mention the week before Memorial Day was pre-tourist season. Looking up as Zoe walked in, she flipped back a lock of black hair from her eyes. “Cute shorts.”

  “Thanks. It’s too hot today for jeans.”

  Janie slapped her magazine shut. “The usual?”

  “Please.”

  Coming to her feet with a graceful spring—the result of hours of yoga and considerable caffeine—Janie walked toward the counter. “How’s the book coming?”

  “Good. Very good, in fact. I might actually be finished with the first draft by the middle of next month.” Janie was one of those people you felt you knew after five minutes. Genuinely friendly, nonjudgmental, and not to be discounted—the Holy Grail of gossip for the entire town. “I met my neighbor this morning.” Zoe’s pale brows lifted into perfect arcs. “He’s definitely movie star material.”

  “You must mean Nick. He’s to lust after, isn’t he? Not that he goes out much. He’s kind of a hermit. If I was a little younger”—Janie grinned—“I might think about giving him a shot.”

  Janie was a well-preserved late forties, divorced, her kids grown and out of the house. “The older woman-younger man thing is alive and well, Janie,” Zoe said with a smile. “Go for it.”

  Janie’s gaze narrowed faintly. “Actually, it’s probably more about timing than age.” She smiled. “Mitch has decided to get possessive.”

  No matter Zoe had only been in town two weeks, it was impossible to miss Mitch Janisek. First, he was in Janie’s place a whole lot, and second, he had to be six feet six if he was an inch, three hundred pounds, and definitely younger than Janie. “Sounds like you’re set. No sense rocking the boat.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Want me to put in the sugar?”

  “Sure. So tell me about this Nick. Is he like a Unibomber kind of hermit or a pipe-smoking, sherry-drinking recluse who reads Keats?”

  “Neither. He’s just been keeping to himself since he came back.”

  “Came back from where?”

  “Dunno. Europe I heard, then some military hospital or military something or other, and a marriage that went bad somewhere along the way. He’s not exactly dishing out details.”

  “A military hospital; that explains that really long scar.”

  “Could be. He didn’t have it when he left town.”

  “He must have been in the army.”

  “God, no, not Nick. He’s not a joiner. His work with whatever this military stuff was—like I say, he’s not giving up much— had to do with his linguistic background. He taught Slavic languages in a college somewhere out east. Then last winter when old Frank Mirovic was dying, he came back to take care of his grandpa and stayed on after Frank died. He’s working on making himself a canoe. I hear it’s his therapy of choice.”

  “So there is something wrong with him.”

  “Not that I know of. He just likes to be alone. Could be his divorce—it was nasty, apparently. Although there’s nothing particularly strange about liking to be alone up here. We have lots of people who live by themselves in the bush.”

  Zoe had been raised partly in the Cities, but her grandparents had had a vacation cabin in the area she’d visited as a child. It had been sold long ago, but she understood the penchant for solitude that was a way of life in the North Woods. “I don’t have to worry about some screwball living next door, then.”

  “Nah. Nick’s as normal as anyone. Hunts, fishes, camps— you know, does guy things.”

  “That’s reassuring. I’d hate to think of all that gorgeousness going to waste.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, darlin’. He’s locked up pretty tight—except for Lucy Chenko, who pays him a visit from time to time. Otherwise, no one’s been able to get near him.”

  “Who’s Lucy Chenko and what does she have that interests him?”

  “No-strings availability, I’d say. Lucy’s our local Paris Hilton. Came from mo
ney, married money, and she and her husband, Donnie, like to sleep around.”

  “So this Nick doesn’t like his solitude sex-free.”

  “Nope. Although, believe me, a guy like him could have it twenty-four seven if he wanted it. He comes in here for an espresso once in awhile.” She grinned. “He’s not addicted like you. Anyway, he politely brushes off all the females who hit on him. Real nicely, mind you. He’s not an ass. There you go, sweetie,” Janie said, sliding the triple espresso with ice toward Zoe. “That should crank you up.”

  “Thanks.” Zoe handed Janie a few bills and picked up her coffee. “See you tomorrow.”

  Her cell phone rang as she reached her car. Flipping it open, she said, “Hey, I thought you were flying back today.”

  “Forget about that. I’ve got big news, babe. Listen to this.”

  Zoe’s researcher-slash-investigator, Joe Strickland, began to explain how he’d made contact with one of the men who had actually been involved in the illegal excavation of the Roman site on the Adriatic. Suddenly, any thoughts about neighbors, gorgeous or not, available or not, screwball or not, became irrelevant.

  Four

  Nick looked up as the door of his grandfather’s workshop opened. Taking the brass tacks out of his mouth, he smiled. “You’re early.”

  “My composition class was cancelled. You must have started at the crack of dawn. The planking’s almost finished.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep. You can do the rest of the straight ones if you want. I’ll work on the wedge-shaped pieces.” Chris Smith was a young Ojibway who’d started hanging out in the shop, wanting to learn how to build a canoe. It hadn’t taken long to get used to having him around. Chris had a quietness about him that was soothing.