Undercover in St. Tropez

The *Leviathan* was a three-hundred-foot floating palace anchored three miles off the glittering coastline of St. Tropez.

Beneath crystal chandeliers and champagne bars on the teak upper deck, international arms brokers, corrupt oligarchs, and elite mercenaries mingled in black-tie luxury, while armed syndicate security guards patrolled the perimeter with submachine guns concealed under tailored blazers.

Stepping off the private tender onto the teak boarding platform, Natasha Vance was a breathtaking vision of lethal glamour.

She wore an open-back gown of liquid crimson silk with a plunging neckline and a high side slit that revealed her flawless, sculpted legs. Around her neck sat a three-million-dollar diamond necklace equipped with an integrated micro-EMP generator, and her golden-auburn hair was swept into an intricate updo.

Beside her, Alec Cross was the epitome of aristocratic, predatory elegance. Dressed in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders, his green eyes were alert, sweeping over the security posts with surgical precision.

As they stepped into the grand ballroom, Alec wrapped his arm possessively around Natasha’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. His large, warm hand rested firmly on the curve of her hip, his fingers lightly stroking her silk gown in an intimate, convincing show of devotion.

Natasha’s breath hitched at the contact, a shiver of pure electricity racing across her skin. She forced a radiant, adoring smile onto her lips, tilting her head to look up at him as several syndicate guards eyed them closely.

"You're squeezing too hard, darling," Natasha purred under her breath, her voice sweet as honey while her eyes flashed warning.

"We're an engaged couple madly in love, sweetheart," Alec murmured in her ear, his warm breath sending delightful goosebumps down her spine. "If I don't look completely obsessed with you, Reznov’s security chief will blow our cover before we reach the lower deck."

"Just remember where the mission ends, Cross," she whispered back.

"The mission ends when I say it ends, Natasha," he growled playfully, his thumb dipping slightly lower on her hip.

They moved through the crowd with flawless grace, playing high-stakes baccarat at the VIP tables and dropping two hundred thousand euros in chips to establish their cover. Natasha used a micro-scanner concealed in her evening clutch to map the biometric security doors leading to the yacht's lower cargo hold.

"Cargo hold elevator is on the starboard corridor, guarded by three armed men," Natasha murmured, leaning into Alec's shoulder as if whispering a sweet secret. "Biometric keypad with retinal scan."

"I have the retinal bypass on my signet ring," Alec replied softly, his lips brushing against her temple. "We move at midnight when Reznov begins the charity auction on the sun deck."

Alec led her across the polished parquet dance floor, one large, warm hand splayed firmly against the bare dip of her spine. The orchestra transitioned into a slow, sensual Argentine tango. Every eye in the glittering ballroom turned toward them, captivated by the electric contrast between Natasha's crimson elegance and Alec's lethal, aristocratic composure.

"Look at them watching us," Alec whispered near her temple, his deep baritone vibrating through her skin. His thumb stroked slow, rhythmic circles against the exposed silk above her hip, sending a delicious tremor through her veins. "They think we're utterly obsessed with each other, darling."

"You're enjoying this charade far too much, Captain Cross," Natasha murmured, tilting her chin up to meet his intense emerald gaze. She leaned in until her chest lightly brushed the lapels of his tuxedo, her silver-gray eyes glittering with challenged defiance. "Aegis operatives don't get distracted by pretty words and expensive champagne."

"Who said anything about distraction?" Alec murmured, his lips curving into a slow, devastating grin. He guided her into a tight, fluid turn, drawing her flush against his broad chest. The sheer, unyielding muscle of his frame felt like tempered steel beneath the wool. "This is tactical immersion, Vance. If anyone questions our legitimacy, I have to make sure they believe you belong to me completely."

"In your dreams, Alexander," she breathed, but the heat blooming between their pressed bodies belied her cool words. Her fingers curled into the nape of his neck, feeling the coarse silk of his dark hair. For three years, they had traded gunfire across continents, viewing each other through rifle scopes and surveillance screens. But here, pressed against his heart, the lethal hostility between them had transmuted into an intoxicating, combustible hunger that threatened to devour her defenses.

"Ten minutes to zero hour," Alec noted in a barely audible rasp, his gaze drifting over her shoulder toward the security monitors mounted above the gilded archways. "Two guards on the elevator lobby just rotated out. The starboard service corridor is clear."

Natasha subtly adjusted the signet ring on his finger, feeling the slight magnetic click as the retinal-bypass mechanism calibrated to her tablet's frequency. "Then let's finish our dance and get to work."

As they stepped past the grand salon's central fountain, sculptured in Italian marble with cascading crystal streams, Natasha observed the security layout with cool, clinical precision. "Three closed-circuit cameras covering the south vestibule," she whispered against Alec's ear, adjusting the faux diamond stud at her earlobe that contained a passive frequency jammer. "They sweep every fifteen seconds on automated sweeps. If we time our movement through the archway between the third and fourth sweep, their monitors will register only an empty corridor."

"Understood," Alec replied, his arm tightening around her slender waist with effortless strength. He reached for a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon from a passing silver tray, handing it to her with a debonair smile that fooled every guest within thirty feet. "Drink half of it, darling. Look intoxicated, rich, and utterly distracted by your handsome fiancé."

Natasha took a slow sip, the crisp champagne tingling on her tongue as her silver eyes met his with an amused flare. "The rich and intoxicated part is child's play, Cross. The distracted by you part takes Oscar-worthy acting."

"Keep telling yourself that, Vance," Alec murmured, his low voice sending a wicked spark of heat directly down her spine. "Your heart rate monitor in that tactical earring of yours is currently clocking one-twenty. And we haven't even fired a single shot yet."

Natasha choked down a breathless gasp, biting the inside of her cheek. He was right—her pulse was racing, not from fear of the Russian syndicate guards, but from the raw, suffocating proximity of his broad chest and the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and cedarwood clinging to his skin.

At eleven-forty-five, they slipped away from the ballroom into the quiet, mahogany-paneled corridors of the owner's stateroom deck.

As they rounded the corner toward the service stairs, the heavy metal door at the end of the hall swung open. Two heavily armed syndicate guards in tactical vests emerged, their assault rifles raised, their cold eyes locking onto the couple.

"Halt! This section is restricted to crew members!" the lead guard barked in Russian, raising his weapon.

Without missing a beat, Alec grabbed Natasha by the waist, spun her around, and slammed her against the wall inside a recessed stateroom doorway.

Before Natasha could draw her weapon, Alec’s mouth crashed down upon hers.

Every shadow in the corridor seemed charged with danger, yet with Alec's hand warm and steady against her hip, Natasha felt an unstoppable surge of adrenaline and fierce confidence.