Acquisitions manager Maddy Carmichael has an urgent problem. Someone has stolen priceless jewels from the Thompson Presidential Center, including pieces belonging to the Queen of England. The museum’s reputation depends on retrieving the jewels before news of the theft leaks, so Maddy turns to Phin Blackwell, of Blackwell Asset Recovery Services. BARS is known for doing whatever it takes to satisfy their clients. When Maddy meets the model-handsome Phin, she wonders how far that policy goes.  

Phin jumps at the chance to land the Thompson case. Recovering the queen’s jewels could cement BARS as one of the top agencies in the field. It’s all business, until Phin realizes he can’t stop thinking about Maddy’s blue eyes and tempting curves.

As the professional lines blur, the FBI turns their investigative eye on Maddy. Phin must decide whether to help her and risk bringing down his family’s company or play it safe and lose the woman who’s quickly becoming the most important person in his life. 

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“So, you’re a repo guy.”

Phin stood smack in the middle of Kayla Krowne’s living room—the one inside her massive twelve-thousand-square-foot home—peering out over her small private beach and the still waters of Lake Norman. 

He’d expected more boat traffic. Particularly with the streaks of purple and orange lighting up a summer sky. Who wouldn’t want to be floating around watching that spectacular sunset?

He supposed Tuesday nights in June weren’t big boating nights. He didn’t mind so much. 

The entire scene gave him a sense of peace. And quiet. 

At least on the lake.

Inside Kayla’s house? 

Les Blakely, the Senate majority leader from Charlotte, put his finger on Phin’s hot button and pressed that fucker hard enough to break it.

Phin dragged his gaze from the lake, looking down at Blakely, who—eh-hem—happened to be a good six inches shorter. 

“Asset recovery,” Phin said. 

The senator shrugged a bony shoulder and … snorted. 

Seriously? 

Phin cocked his head and hit the guy with the flashing, toothy smile his brothers said caused men to shit themselves and women to lose their clothes. Either way, Phin had perfected it, learned to use it in a variety of ways. 

A tool in his arsenal. 

At times, like now, it kept him from pounding men like Les Blakely into the ground. And that was something because Phin still burned, a damned month later, about Blakely vaporizing a domestic violence bill that Kayla had lobbied hard for. Shelters around the country needed that funding and Blakely had managed to bury the bill for probably another year.

Fucker.

“Asset recovery,” Blakely said. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

Phin focused on keeping his face neutral. No hard stare, no clenched jaw or pressed lips. He stood there, shoulders back, doing his Mr. Smooth thing, while a hot knife carved up his intestines. 

Fucker, fucker, fucker. 

“Gentlemen.” A hand clamped on Phin’s forearm, dragging him from the near-homicidal rage brewing inside him.

He glanced down at the hand squeezing his arm, then at its owner. 

Kayla—thank you, sweet baby Jesus—stood beside him. He’d known her for years now and, as usual, her timing couldn’t be better.

Accompanying Kayla was an exceptionally noticeable, not-quite-petite woman with a mane of dark curly hair and deep blue eyes. And who might this lovely creature be?

Maybe she was what Phin needed to relieve his now-pissy mood. Female company. Never a bad thing. Especially if it led to Phin’s hands rifling through those wild curls.

“Kayla,” Blakely drawled. “Lovely party.”

“It is,” Kayla agreed. “Senator, could I pull you from my good friend Phin? I have an important matter to discuss that requires a bit of privacy.”

Ha. Privacy his ass. Clearly, Kayla had overheard the exchange and wanted to keep Phin from getting blood on her marble floors. 

As one of the country’s premier lobbyists, Kayla had power. Not the kind Blakely had. Hers was subtle. Backroom influence where she’d wheel and deal senators and congressmembers on behalf of her clients. 

A world Phin had left behind three years ago.

“Of course,” Blakely said.

The weasel nodded. “Blackwell, good to see you.”

Not in this lifetime. 

“Kayla,” Phin said, “maybe you can talk him into reviving that domestic violence bill.”

Kayla drilled him with a look that should have blown him clear through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Tomorrow, she’d call and ream him. Today? He’d gotten his jab in. After all, she couldn’t expect Phin to stand there and listen while the man insulted his family.

“Later,” she told Phin. “Now, I want to bend his ear about the appointment of our next Secretary of State.”

Oh, boy. Kayla ushered the senator away, leaving Phin thinking he’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“Hello.”

The brunette. 

He banished thoughts of Blakely-the-weasel and flashed the smile again, offering his hand. “I’m Phin Blackwell.”

She accepted his hand. “I know.”

Interesting. This chick with her soulful blue eyes didn’t seem the panty-dropping type. But, dang, that mane of curly hair combined with the black dress that managed to hug her body while revealing absolutely nothing made for a fascinating sexy-librarian package. 

He made quick work of the handshake, making sure not to grip too hard or linger too long. He didn’t need those slimeball tactics. His mother had taught him better.

Inside though? His brain filled with visions of lowering that little side zipper on her dress and peeling it off. 

With his teeth. 

He let the fantasy play out while his body hummed. Things might be looking up after the Blakely incident. “And you are?”

“Madison—Maddy—Carmichael.”

Phin ran through his mental contact list. Carmichael. If he knew Kayla at all, chances were she’d brought this woman to him for a reason. A reason that probably included a job. 

And wasn’t that why Blackwell Asset Recovery Services, aka BARS, paid up to ten grand a plate to send him to these political shindigs?

“A pleasure, Maddy Carmichael,” Phin said. “Why do I feel like Kayla engineered this meeting?”

“Because she did. I need your help.”

Interesting indeed.

A woman about his mom’s age—Congressman Jenkins’s wife—squeezed beside Phin, eyeing him with the hunger of a Bengal tiger.

The things he put up with for his job.

Ignoring the tiger, he focused on Maddy. “Always happy to oblige a woman in distress.”

At that, she rolled her eyes. Definitely not the panty-dropping type.

“Easy, Charlie Charm.”

Charlie Charm?

Phin laughed. An honest-to-God ripple that flew right up his throat. How he loved a woman capable of verbal swordplay. “Is that why my friends call me CC for short?”

This time, Maddy laughed. “Good one. But this is serious.”

“Whatever this is.”

She leaned in. His cue to dip his head in anticipation of whatever apparently naughty secret she’d like to share. He had a few of his own, if she’d be willing to play. 

“I’m the acquisitions manager at the Thompson Center,” she said, her breath warm on his neck.

And oooh-eeee. Phin concentrated on staying in character. Mr. Smooth. Mr. I-see-this-all-the-time-and-am-not-completely-fucking-stunned.

“As in President Thompson?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

Phin straightened and considered her words. 

After two terms that ended three years ago, former United States President Gerald Thompson shook things up in Washington by forgoing a traditional presidential library. Instead, he’d opted to spend the twenty months before leaving office fundraising for a presidential center. One housing memorabilia, clothing he and his wife had worn, exhibits, a theater. A gym to get kids off the street.

Thompson’s vision? To revive the Charlotte area he’d grown up in, which now suffered from the killer combo of economic decline and rising crime. 

Phin cocked his head, his curiosity exciting him for reasons that suddenly had nothing to do with Maddy’s hair. “What can I help you with?”

Please let it be what I think it is.

“I’ll assume you’ve heard about the robbery at the Center?”

“Priceless jewels designed by a former president’s father? You bet I have.”

She leaned in again and he dipped his head, letting her get right next to his ear. “Can we talk in private?”

They sure could.

Maddy followed Phin Blackwell down a long hallway lined with eclectic art she never would have comingled, but somehow worked. The Warhol to her left slowed her steps. On the way back, she’d stop and savor it. 

She kept moving and, ooohhh, stopped cold in front of an oil painting. 

A Titian. 

In front of her, Phin looked back. “Titian,” he said. “I know. Who puts a Warhol next to Italian Renaissance? That’s Kayla.”

“It’s … stunning.”

And darn it, she had soooo many questions. The first being how the heck much did Kayla make as a lobbyist that she could afford a Titian?

Phin pointed to a staircase leading to the lower level of the enormous house. “This way.”

The man knew his way around. What that little factoid had to do with anything, she wasn’t sure, but she took a second to ponder it because what single woman wouldn’t? 

A man like Phin, tall and fit with his movie-star good looks, electric smile, and slick suit? 

Dangerous. 

Before she’d even been introduced, from a good five feet away he’d managed to get into her space, all that insane hotness and male energy sending tiny shocks shooting along her skin. 

At the staircase, Phin paused, holding his hand out. She moved past him and he set his hand on her lower back. A simple gesture that probably didn’t mean one teeny thing to him, but ignited a fresh wave of tingles over her and, well, hardened her nipples.

What am I doing? 

The same thing she always did, that’s what. 

Step one: Meet a gorgeous man. 

Step two: Fall hard for said man. 

Step three: Dream of a wedding. 

Step four: Get her heart broken.

Every time, the fairy tale seemed just … out … of her … reach. 

At this point, she’d become convinced it had something to do with losing her father so young. Daddy issues, one of her friends claimed. 

Whatever the problem, when it came to Phin Blackwell, she needed to steer clear. Far, far away. 

This guy had to be a total player. Way out of her league.

Kayla on the other hand? Beautiful, successful Kayla would be his perfect match. 

A woman unafraid to disrupt established rules. When Kayla Krowne entered a room, her confidence came with her. Something Good Girl Maddy admired and maybe even craved.

Yeah. Good luck. She was too worried about pissing people off to become such a dynamo.

Kayla and Phin? That would be a power couple. 

With the way Phin filled out a suit, Maddy wouldn’t mind being the female dynamo in that power couple instead of Kayla.

Kayla, a board member and major donor for the Thompson Center, had said they were friends. Whether that included sex, Maddy didn’t know. What she did know was the friendship had garnered this meeting. 

The bottom of the stairs welcomed them to a finished basement painted a muted gray bordering on white. Subtle lighting warmed the space and, whoopsie, Maddy averted her eyes from a couple on a large sectional, their bodies close as they peered out another set of floor-to-ceiling windows.

From the sofa, the man, clearly irritated by the interruption, shot Phin a look.

“Apologies,” he said.

He leaned down, getting close to Maddy’s ear where his warm breath tickled her skin and, well, other parts that Good Girl Maddy had been ignoring lately. Parts that reminded her she hadn’t been touched by a man since that last blind date four months ago when the guy continually ran his foot up her calf under the table. 

“There’s a guest suite with a sitting area,” Phin said. “It’s private. Are you comfortable with that?”

Meaning, was she comfortable going into a bedroom with a strange man who made her nipples hard and whom she’d like to see without a shirt? 

Typically, no. 

Never.  

But this was Kayla’s friend, and she trusted Kayla.

“It’s all right,” Maddy said. “Good thing you know the house.”

And yikes. Had she really said that? 

“I do. She invites me to a lot of her parties.” He paused at a door, meeting Maddy’s eye. “I interned for her and another lobbyist my junior year in college. She’s a friend who knows I have a long ride home and lets me stay in this room when the parties run late.”

The hot sting of humiliation crawled up Maddy’s throat. “I wasn’t …”

Who was she kidding? Of course she was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

Phin shrugged. “Most people do.”

“That must be hard.”

“People constantly judging me? Forming opinions when they don’t know me?” He laughed. “You get used to it.”

When he shifted to open the door, she reached out, touched his arm. “I really am sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Okay,” he said in a clipped tone that let her know he didn’t believe her.

That, yes, it would most definitely happen again. What, in this man’s life, would lead him to be so cynical? 

Not my problem.

He opened the door to a bedroom larger than Maddy’s apartment. More floor-to-ceiling windows served as outer walls and all Maddy wanted was to sit up in that bed one morning, look out the window, and take in the lake’s beauty, the wash of bold pinks and purples of a dawn cotton candy sky.

“Amazing,” Phin said. “Isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

He gestured to the two upholstered chairs positioned in front of the glass. “Let’s sit.”

She lowered herself to the chair, set her purse on the floor, and smoothed her dress while aligning her thoughts. President Thompson had sent her here. Well, President Thompson via her boss, Frank Silvain. Now, she had a job to do and wanted to make her employer happy. 

Finally, she shifted to face him. “I’m way out of my lane here.”

He hit her with the Charlie Charm smile again. She totally didn’t trust that smile.  

“That’s where the fun is,” he said.

Maddy let out a low whistle and zinged him with her best no-nonsense look. “Look, you’re a nice guy, but I need you to back off on the slick. And, frankly, if you don’t want people judging you as a player, don’t give them reason to.”

Again, Phin laughed, but even as he tried to sell his amusement, his eyes narrowed a fraction. 

Insulted?

Maybe.

“Lady,” he said, “you’re a pisser.”

“Whatever. All I know is Kayla seems to think your family can help recover the jewels stolen from the Thompson Center.”

There. She’d said it. Just blurted it out. As if it was someone else’s crazy idea. As if she hadn’t been the one to go to her boss and suggest they speak to a company that specialized in this type of thing. A company that Kayla Krowne, one of their board members, had a connection to. A company like Blackwell Asset Recovery Services, that Maddy had heard, was really—really—good at locating insanely expensive stolen items. 

Rumor amongst the museum management crowd had it that the last item BARS successfully retrieved was a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of brandy.

And who cared enough about liquor to spend half a million dollars on it? Collectors. Curious bunch.

Phin’s eyebrows rose, but other than that, no body language. Zero. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m thinking a lot of things. There hasn’t been much on the news about the heist. My brother, Ash— Cameron— is on the FBI’s art crime team. I’m assuming you know that. He won’t even give us details. All I know is that there was a robbery and pieces made by the president’s father were taken.”

“Do you know the story about his biological father? Why he doesn’t have the same last name?”

Phin nodded. “Louis Pierre, world-renowned jeweler. He and the president’s mother had an affair. She never told Pierre she was pregnant.”

“Correct. She married a man who adopted the president as a toddler. The president didn’t find out about his biological father until he was a teenager. Out of respect for the man who raised him, he chose not to change his last name to Pierre, but he did meet his biological family. As Thompson’s political career took off, Louis Pierre designed countless items for his daughter-in-law, the soon-to-be First Lady.”

“Who also happens to be granddaughter to none other than the Queen of England.”

“Skip ahead to a few months ago,” Maddy said. “I proposed the idea for a thirty-day exhibit featuring the clothing and jewelry worn by the First Lady during election week. A bold request on my part, considering the value and personal nature of the pieces. I hounded my boss, the Center’s director, to take it to the board. I’m sure he got sick of me asking and thought the board would deny me and that would be the end.”

“You’re persistent.”

“I am. He arranged for me to present the idea to the board. I asked an artist friend to help with a rendition of what the exhibit would look like. My presentation lasted twenty minutes, where I ticked off all the points about how the public would enjoy items most would never, ever, get a chance to see up close. I left there with a promise that they’d speak to the president and First Lady.”

“I guess it got approved.”

Maddy couldn’t even summon a smile. At this point, she regretted the entire proposition. “The following morning, President and Mrs. Thompson called me themselves. They told me I had impressed the board with my passion for the project and they loved the idea. That’s the kind of people they are. They’re all about sharing their experiences.”

He smiled at her again, this one not so much the CC one. This one, softer and … genuine. And, oh boy, that smile might be more devastating than the CC one because her nipples waved a white flag. 

“That’s amazing,” he said. 

Maddy cleared her throat. “At the time, maybe. Now? Nightmare. I feel responsible.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “For what?”

“If I hadn’t talked everyone into it, the jewels wouldn’t be missing.”

“That’s crap. You didn’t break into that building.”

“I created the target.”

Phin considered that a moment. “They marketed the hell out of that exhibit. Everywhere I went there was an ad, a news clip, or social media post. That kind of press draws criminal attention. Typically, someone knows someone who knows someone at the target location. My guess is that’s how the thieves got around the security system.”

An inside job? If that was meant to make her feel better, it didn’t. President Thompson and his wife ran a meticulous operation. The idea of one of their carefully vetted employees stealing? Sickening. 

“How many pieces are gone?”

“Seven. The FBI is investigating. It’s moving slowly.”

“It’s only been a few days.”

She put up a hand. “I know it sounds unreasonable to be critical after so short a time, but …”

“What?”

“Kayla thinks, at the very least, you might ask around and get information for us. Your fee, whatever it is, won’t be a problem. The board wants these items recovered.”

“I can see why. Louis Pierre’s jewels are priceless. We recovered a thirty-five-carat emerald last year. Stolen from a private collection. It was originally a necklace, but by the time we found it, the gems had been removed from the setting and the gold melted down. We got to the stone before it could be recut.”

“That’s what I’m terrified of.”

“Not to be flip, but even if the pieces are broken up and melted down, his father created them. He could remake them if we find the stones.”

Maddy shook her head. “It’s not just the Pierre items that are missing. It’s literally an international incident.”

Phin studied her for a few seconds. “I’m not following.”

Of course he wasn’t. “There were seven pieces stolen. Three were Pierre’s work.”

“And the other four?”

“Jewels borrowed from the personal collection of the First Lady’s grandmother. The Queen of England.”

* * *