“There’s a hit man trying to kill Billy Brent.”

There was a short silence before Mickey continued speaking into her cell phone. “It’ll be the mother of all stories and we’ll have an exclusive. We’ll scoop the Chronicle and the Examiner. Hell, we’ll scoop the New York Times.”

She lapsed into silence, obviously listening to whatever her boss was saying. Dan felt his blood pressure rising. He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation.

“I know I’m not the best candidate.” She was speaking again. “But the critical thing is I’m up here with Dan O’Neill, and I’m the only person he’s willing to take along.”

Willing to take along? That was hardly the way he’d put it. There was another silence, and Dan couldn’t keep himself from whispering, “Is he going for it?”

She smiled at him. “I’m on hold. He’s running it past the editor in chief.”

Dan held his breath. Surely an editor in chief would recognize the insanity of this.

And then Mickey said, “That’s great. Tell Mr. Edwards I’ll come through. Neither of you will be disappointed.”

Dammit. Dan should have realized how persuasive she could be. After all, she’d convinced him to go along with this ridiculous scheme.

Dear Reader,

For my January 2003 Harlequin Superromance novel, Finding Amy, I created a company called Risk Control International—which turned out to have so many exciting people working for it that Harlequin will be publishing a miniseries of stories featuring various RCI operatives.

According to its director, RCI is in the “survival business,” a phrase he prefers over saying that people come to RCI because their lives are in danger. The only rule the company has is “Don’t let the client get killed,” and in The Full Story the client is Hollywood superstar Billy Brent.

A contract killer is after Billy, and it’s up to RCI’s personal security advisor, Daniel O’Neill, to keep Billy alive while learning who the hit man is and who’s paid him to whack Billy.

However, Dan’s plan for doing that runs into trouble when photojournalist Mickey Westover appears on the scene.

She’s arrived to interview Billy, but when she discovers that his life is in jeopardy she realizes a front-page story has fallen straight into her lap—and she has no intention of letting it go, despite the fact that Dan O’Neill is bound and determined to be rid of her. And the sooner the better.

Sparks fly between Mickey and Dan from beginning to end, and I hope you enjoy the way their romance is spiced with both humor and danger.

Warmest wishes,

Dawn Stewardson

The Full Story
Dawn Stewardson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To John, always.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE MOUNTAINS OF Vancouver Island were home to some of the biggest trees Mickey had ever seen, and the air smelled so heavenly that she was driving with the windows down. Imagining herself a thousand miles from civilization was no challenge at all—until she reached her destination.

Then she was treated to a reality check. An eight-foot wrought-iron fence and a sign that read:

Private Property

No Hunting

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted

Hmm. That certainly got the point across. And it was probably a lot more likely to discourage potential intruders than the fence. If it had razor wire it would give people pause, but as things stood it didn’t look like an insurmountable obstacle.

She pulled up to the intercom speaker and said, “I’m here to see Mr. Brent.”

There was no response, although she was sure she’d found the right place. According to Billy, the road dead-ended at his property. And this was clearly the end of the line.

After combing her fingers through her hair, she climbed out of the rental to check the gate—and wasn’t at all surprised when she found it locked, even though the risk of riffraff banging on Billy Brent’s door had to be minimal up here.

When a second attempt to rouse someone via the speaker failed, she tried a couple of honks on the horn. That did no good, either. So what was her next move?

Glancing at her cellular, she wished Billy had entrusted her with his number. Then she could simply phone to say she’d arrived. But since she couldn’t do that, there seemed to be only one option left.

She absently rubbed her palms across her jeans, thinking she’d feel better about the idea of climbing over the gate and hiking down the driveway if she didn’t know that Billy had a hundred acres here. Or if she could see exactly how far his hideaway was from the road.

For all she knew the drive was miles long, winding its way through forest that looked just as dense inside the fence as outside.

Her gaze drifted uneasily back to the sign.

No Hunting obviously implied there were things to hunt. And since she’d been warned that the woods were full of bears and cougars, she wasn’t thinking in terms of bunny rabbits.

Still, surely the odds of becoming some animal’s lunch weren’t very high. So she’d simply be glad the sign’s third line didn’t read Trespassers Will Be Shot.

And that there wasn’t a fourth one saying Even Expected Visitors Are At Risk.

She wouldn’t have been shocked by either. Billy’s retreat might be in Canada, where the gun laws were strict, but he had a reputation for disregarding laws. He apparently fancied himself this generation’s Clint Eastwood, and she’d heard that he had trouble preventing his screen roles from blurring into his real life.

Of course, he was such hot box office that there was always someone to bail him out of trouble. Otherwise, if even a quarter of the stories about his antics were true, his current residence would be prison.

She tucked her cell phone into her purse and got out of the car, then retrieved her camera bag from the trunk and considered whether she should take anything else with her.

Billy had specified no tape recorder, and her laptop wasn’t always essential for this type of interview; often the notebook she kept with her camera was enough. And it didn’t make sense to overload herself when she had a gate to climb and heaven only knows how far to walk.

Deciding that if she did need the computer she could always come back for it, she stashed her purse in the trunk, next to her carry-on. After locking up, she slung the camera bag over her shoulder and told herself to get moving. She had an appointment to keep.

Besides, she thought with a final glance at the sign, a moving target was harder to hit.

Trying not to imagine Billy Brent lurking on his porch with an AK-47, she clambered over the gate—having been a tomboy had left her with numerous handy skills—and started down the driveway. She’d only walked about a hundred feet before a couple of crows went into scream mode overhead.

Seized by the horrible feeling that they were yelling, “Watch out for the bear,” she picked up her pace. A second later she was tackled from behind.

She landed facedown in the dirt and dizzy from the impact, with someone straddling her and pressing what had to be a gun against the back of her head.

Her life didn’t flash before her, but the fear sweeping through her was so strong she figured cardiac arrest was imminent. Before she could make her voice work, her assailant said, “Just lie still while I check for weapons. Then I’ll let you up.”

Okay. Take a slow, deep breath and try to reduce the amount of adrenaline rushing through her. As terrified as she felt, he’d sounded so matter-of-fact that she probably wasn’t a mere instant away from death. He was more likely Billy’s bodyguard than a crazed mountain man, which meant she’d be okay. Except for the humiliation of his patting her down.

She gritted her teeth as he ran one hand thoroughly over her body—while keeping the gun to her head with the other.

Evidently satisfied that she was clean, he reached over to where her camera case had landed beside her and began rummaging through its contents.

“If you broke my Nikon…” she muttered into the ground.

“It’s fine, but you’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. You’re trespassing.”

He pushed himself up, then grabbed the back of her belt and hauled her to her feet.

“Who are you?” he demanded, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “And what are you doing here?”

She hated being manhandled, and the urge to kick him in the shin was almost uncontrollable. However, since his gun looked even bigger than it had felt, she settled for merely scowling at him while she brushed half a pound of dirt and pine needles off herself.

He scowled right back, his eyes the color of cold blue steel and filled with suspicion. But growing up with three older brothers had taught her everything she needed to know about glaring contests, so she stood her ground and sized the guy up.

He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, with dark hair that was far too short for her taste.

And he wasn’t exceptionally tall—only about an even six feet.

As for his face, he had a crescent shaped scar above his upper lip that she’d guess had been carved by a knife. Aside from that, he resembled a young Richard Gere. Sort of. A young Richard Gere with a marine haircut.

In fact, Mr. Scar-face probably wouldn’t be bad looking if he smiled. And if his eyes held even a hint of warmth.

“I asked who you are,” he reminded her at last.

He’d stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, but he still wasn’t exhibiting the slightest trace of friendliness. So if she had any hope of actually getting to see Billy, she’d better try being at least reasonably pleasant.

“My name’s Michelle Westover,” she told him. “Mickey Westover.”

“To your friends,” he said, his tone suggesting that wasn’t what he’d be calling her.

“Yes. To my friends.”

She forced a smile, then bent to retrieve her camera bag and checked her camera. It really did seem okay.

“And you’re here because…?”

“Mr. Brent is expecting me.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “I have an appointment.”

“Oh?”

“I made it a week ago. I called his agent, his agent contacted him, and Mr. Brent phoned me. I gather he didn’t mention anything about it to you?”

“That’s right. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here to see him.”

“And who would I be telling?” she said, trying not to let the question sound too snotty.

“I’m Dan O’Neill. An associate of Mr. Brent’s.”

“A bodyguard-type associate?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. So this appointment is to…?”

The man was focused, she’d give him that.

“I’m a photojournalist with The San Francisco Post. The Arts and Entertainment section. We’ve been running a series called Hideouts of the Stars, and Mr. Brent agreed to an interview.”

O’Neill eyed her for a moment. “If you do a spread on somebody’s hideout…doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of having one?”

That was exactly what she’d initially thought, but since the party line was that everything the Post’s senior editors decided on made perfect sense, she merely said, “We never get specific about exactly where a place is—just publish photographs of it along with an article based on the interview.”

O’Neill still seemed skeptical, but all he said was, “I’ll have to see some ID.”

“I left my purse in the car. Locked in the trunk,” she elaborated when his expression suggested that only an idiot would leave her purse in a car.

But what was he thinking might happen to it out here in the wilderness? That a deer would lift it and take a trip to Mexico on one of her credit cards?

He didn’t tell her what he was thinking, just said, “Let’s go,” and started off toward the gate.

She followed along, unable to force the cliché—a lean, mean, fighting machine—from her mind.

His shoulders were ridiculously broad, and the way his T-shirt pulled tautly across his back left no doubt that there were a whole lot of muscles beneath the black cotton.

Yes, she had to give him points for being in good shape. And for his voice.

It was nice and deep, with a barely there drawl that was just enough to make her sure he’d grown up somewhere in the South. She doubted he ever got accused of being a Southern gentleman, though.

He didn’t strike her as a ladies’ man—almost definitely not married and probably didn’t even have a serious girlfriend. Her intuition about that sort of thing was seldom wrong, and his body language clearly said loner.

But what did she care about any of that? All she cared about was getting past this guy to Billy Brent.

AFTER MICKEY WESTOVER took her purse from the trunk, Dan checked every piece of ID that she had, ignoring the way she was doing a poor job of concealing her annoyance. That done, he had a careful second look at both her driver’s license and her Post staff card.

The pictures on them definitely matched the woman—long hair the color of a good cigar, big brown eyes, Julia Roberts lips. And nothing else in her wallet was obviously phony. However, any self-respecting killer would carry top-quality fakes. And since the only visitor he’d been expecting, aside from a courier, was the person out to whack Billy…

He’d assumed it would be a man. But, hey, this was the twenty-first century. There were more and more hit women out there all the time. And Mickey Westover—if that really was her name—could easily be one of them.

Or maybe she was a forerunner for the killer. Sent to check the lay of the land and report back.

But, hell, every now and then his suspicions got the better of him and this was probably one of those times. Most likely, she was exactly who she claimed to be and Billy just hadn’t thought to mention their appointment.

He might not even have remembered making it. With Billy, you could never be sure what he’d deposited in his memory bank and what had just slipped on by it.

“So?” Mickey said. “You’re satisfied I’m legit?”

“Uh-huh. Regardless of that, though, Mr. Brent isn’t here right now.”

“Then why,” she said, gesturing toward the wallet he was still holding, “have we been playing this little ID game?”

She was so clearly pissed off and trying not to show it that he almost laughed.

Resisting the impulse, he handed over her wallet and said, “I had to be sure who you were—whether Mr. Brent was here or not.”

“Yes. Of course,” she said, sticking the wallet back into her purse. “And at least, now, you’ll be a step ahead when he gets back.”

She stood watching him after she’d finished speaking, looking more suspicious by the second and finally saying, “He will be getting back, won’t he?”

Damn. He couldn’t say no. With everyone from Billy’s agent to his PR handler claiming that he was up in Canada, enjoying a little time at his island retreat, if he admitted the man wasn’t here at all…

Well, he could just imagine how Mickey Westover’s cute little journalistic nose would start to quiver.

But if he told her Billy would be back, he’d bet that she’d want to wait right here for him.

“Look,” he said at last. “He won’t be home until late. And you’ve got a long drive from here back to…I assume you’re staying in Victoria?”

“That’s where I stayed last night. But I checked out of my hotel this morning, thinking I’d be flying back to San Francisco tonight. I can’t go home without the interview, though,” she added quickly.

“No, of course not. So let’s play things this way. I’ll wait up for Billy and we’ll reschedule your appointment. And you can find a motel that’s a lot closer than Victoria. Then, if you call me first thing in the morning, I’ll tell you what time to be here.” Dan did his best to look sincere even though what he’d really do, come morning, was tell her that Billy had changed his mind, had decided he didn’t want pictures of this place in any newspaper.

After that, if she was the real thing she’d get on a plane and head home. And if she wasn’t the real thing…well, he certainly knew what he’d do then.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could wait here for him,” she finally said, just as he’d known she would.

“Sorry,” he told her, trying to sound as if he really meant it. “But Mr. Brent’s liable to be very late. And the thought of an overnight guest he’s never even met… There are some things he just doesn’t go for.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

He watched her climb into her car and set her purse and camera bag on the passenger seat, surprised that she was giving up so easily.

Apparently she didn’t have the bulldog tenacity of most reporters, which probably explained why she got handed dumb assignments like…what had she said the series was called?

Oh, yeah, Hideouts of the Stars. Not much doubt she wouldn’t be winning a Pulitzer for that one.

It was just as well she wasn’t tenacious, though. The sooner she was gone and he could get back to those monitor screens—and resume watching for the real killer—the better.

He waited while she turned the car around. Then she gave him a little wave as she started off.

No hard feelings, it seemed to say.

But that wasn’t what she’d be thinking come morning, when he told her there wouldn’t be any interview.

MICKEY HEADED back toward the Trans-Canada Highway, which struck her as a grandiose name for a twisty-turny, two-lane mountain road. On the drive up here, she’d wondered several times what the secondary highways must be like.

At any rate, she drove more than far enough from Billy’s hideaway to insure that the sound of her engine had faded from Mr. Dan O’Neill’s range of hearing. Then she pulled over.

The man hadn’t been straight with her.

She wasn’t sure exactly what clue she’d picked up on. There’d been nothing in those cold blue eyes of his to tip her off.

But she was certain he’d been lying. And since her sixth sense seldom failed her, she suspected that Billy Brent was actually right there in his retreat. Exactly where he was supposed to be.

So had he simply changed his mind about the interview and told his bodyguard to get rid of her?

The more she considered the possibility, the more convinced she grew that that was precisely what had happened.

Billy wasn’t known for his concern about others. The fact that she’d flown all the way up from San Francisco, then risked her life on a killer of a road, wouldn’t count for diddly with him.

But he’d promised her an interview and she was damn well going to get one.

If she expected to ever be assigned serious stories, she had to come through on the lightweight ones. So, if Billy Brent had changed his mind, she’d just have to change it back.

The first step, though, would be getting to him without Daniel O’Neill intercepting her again. And how was she going to manage that?

Trying to march down the driveway a second time was obviously out. And for all she knew there were surveillance cameras mounted in half the trees on Billy’s property. So even if she avoided the driveway and made her way through the woods, O’Neill might spot her.

Besides, if she didn’t stay within sight of the driveway she wouldn’t know where she should be making her way to. Which would not be good.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on trying to sketch a blueprint for action. When not a single good idea came to her, she opened her eyes again—and discovered that the god of happenstance was smiling down.

Heading along the narrow road toward her was a courier truck that had to be going to Billy’s.

Well, actually it didn’t have to be. She’d passed two or three private roads between the highway and his place. But she had a feeling that was where this truck was heading. So all she had to do was make the most of her chance.

After grabbing her purse and camera bag from the seat beside her, she rapidly climbed out of the car and waved at the driver—doing her best to act and think at the same time.

As he slowed to a stop, she offered up a little prayer that she could pull off a plan that had barely begun to germinate in her mind.

“Problem?” he said through his open window.

She did a half-second assessment and decided she had a good chance. His expression was one of fatherly concern.

“Yes,” she said. “Definitely a problem. I turned off the highway just to see what was down here, but it’s a dead end.”

He nodded.

“Then, on the way back, my car died.”

“Want me to look under the hood?”

“Thanks, but it’s a rental and I’ve already called the roadside emergency number. There’s a tow truck on the way, only…” She tried her hardest to look extremely frightened before adding, “I just saw a cougar.”

“Really? You don’t often spot them this time of day. Usually it’s early morning or dusk.”

Good Lord! He sounded as if cougar sightings were downright routine.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, the thing is…seeing it scared me half to death and I’m afraid to stay here alone. So I wonder if I could catch a ride with you to a gas station or…anywhere there’d be people.”

She waited, willing him to say “Sure.”

Instead, he said, “As long as you sit tight inside your car you’ll be just fine.”

“I can’t,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to produce a few tears. “I’m too frightened. I’m sorry to seem like such a wuss, but…”

The driver eyed her unhappily.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a rule against picking up passengers. But if you wait here until I’ve made my delivery at the end of the road…”

Ah-ha! She’d known he was heading for Billy Brent’s.

“What if I sat in back while you did the delivery?” she said. “Out of sight? I don’t want to get you in any trouble, but if I have to stay here much longer by myself I’m going to start hyperventilating. I can feel it coming on.”

The man looked even more unhappy; she tried the willing trick again.

“All right,” he finally said. “Climb in.”

“Oh, thank you so much!”

She took half a minute to retrieve her laptop from the trunk—if she ended up needing it, she wouldn’t want to walk back all this way—then she got into the truck.

FROM HER POSITION in the back, Mickey heard Dan O’Neill say “Just a minute” not more than three seconds after the courier spoke into the intercom.

She assumed that the relatively friendly greeting, as opposed to being tackled and patted down at gunpoint, meant he’d been expecting this delivery.

The gate opened, creaking a little in the process, and the truck started forward again.

She quickly finished the note she’d been writing and read it over.

Dear Courier,

Thank you very much for the ride. I didn’t want to inconvenience you any further, so I’ve gotten out.

I’ll just tell these people that my car broke down and I walked here to wait for the emergency road service.

I won’t breathe a word about your helping me, but I really appreciate it.

Your grateful passenger.

As the truck slowed to a stop, she snuck a peek out. And there was Billy Brent’s retreat. Or rustic mansion might be more accurate.

It was a big, sprawling, one-story cedar thing—new trying to look old—with such a large brick chimney that she imagined the fireplace was enormous.

A porch ran along the front of the place, and she’d love to get a shot of Billy sitting in one of its carved rocking chairs. But first she had to find him.

She waited a few moments, until the driver was on his way to the front door, then slipped the note onto his seat, scooped up all her belongings from the floor and slid the passenger-side door open.

The instant her feet hit the ground, she scurried over to hide behind the nearest big tree.

From that vantage point, she watched Dan O’Neill sign for the delivery and the courier return to his vehicle.

He read her note, looked into the back, then simply put the truck in gear and drove off.

She remained where she was, giving O’Neill plenty of time to go back to whatever he’d been doing. When she figured he had, she took a deep breath, then dashed for the building and plastered herself against its front wall.

So far so good. That just left making her way around the perimeter and peering through windows until she spotted Billy.

He could hardly refuse to talk to her once she had him in her sights. At least she hoped he couldn’t.

She started forward, but had only taken half a dozen steps before the silence was broken.

Her cell phone was ringing!

Frantically, she put the laptop and camera bag on the ground, then opened her purse and dug out the phone. Just as she was about to press the answer button so the stupid thing would shut up, O’Neill said, “Haven’t we met before?”

Dammit to hell.

She turned toward the front door.

He was standing on the porch with his gun aimed at her once more.

CHAPTER TWO

MICKEY GAZED at Dan O’Neill and his gun, trying to think of something brilliant—or at least semi-intelligent—to say.

Before she could, he said, “Go ahead and answer your phone. I’ll put my decision about whether to shoot you on hold.”

She gave him a look to say she didn’t find him even remotely amusing. Then, telling herself that in future she should think twice about sneaking into someplace where she knew an armed man was lurking, she pressed the phone’s answer button and said, “Mickey Westover.”

“Hi, it’s Eric.”

Terrific. Her boss. Who, an instant from now, would be asking how things were going.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound surprised but unperturbed. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just calling to make sure you’ve connected with Billy Brent.”

She glanced at Dan and felt a twinge of relief when she saw that he’d tucked the gun away, even though she was pretty sure he hadn’t really been thinking about shooting her.

“We’ve almost connected,” she told Eric. “I’m at his place and he’s expected any minute now.”

“But you haven’t actually seen him.”

“No, he was out when I got here.”

“You did make a firm appointment, though.”

“Yes. Of course.”

When Eric didn’t immediately reply, she couldn’t stop her gaze from returning to Dan.

He rolled his eyes; she assumed it was the “expected any minute now” that he’d found a bit much.

As she pointedly turned her back on him, Eric said, “Mickey, I’m afraid this interview with Brent might have gone south.”

“Pardon me?”

“Someone just told me that he’s making an appearance on the Sherry Sherman Show tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Apparently, she announced it this morning. And if he intends to be in New York for that, he’s probably already on his way.”

Oh, rats. Surely Eric’s someone had misinformed him. Surely she hadn’t missed the interview boat.

She turned toward Dan once more, gracing him with a grade A glare as she said, “Mr. Brent’s associate assured me that he’d be here shortly. So let me just go check with him and I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Okay. But make it fast.”

“As fast as I can.”

She clicked off, then said, “You’re certain he’ll be here tonight?”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

The man was lying to her again. Billy wasn’t going to be here anytime in the near future.

He was en route to the Big Apple. And when she ended up home in San Francisco with no interview, she’d be so far into Eric’s bad books that she’d never get out.

If the Post couldn’t even count on her to file a story as mindless as this one, the next thing she knew she’d be kicked off Arts and Entertainment and assigned to writing obits. Assuming she still had a job at all.

But regardless of that, she wasn’t about to let Mr. Dan O’Neill think he was getting away with something.

“You’re absolutely positive,” she said to him, “that Mr. Brent couldn’t be…oh, maybe on his way to New York?”

Dan suddenly didn’t look quite so self-assured, which made her feel a little better. Why should she be the only one who wasn’t entirely happy?

“Oh his way to New York?” he repeated. “What would give you an idea like that?”

She watched his annoyance level rising while she made him wait before summarizing what Eric had told her.

“The Sherry Sherman Show,” he said when she was done.

“Right. Tomorrow morning’s Sherry Sherman Show. Which airs live on NBS at nine o’clock. Eastern time. So if you’re seriously expecting him to show up here late tonight…well, the timing hardly works, does it?”

After eyeing her uneasily for a moment, Dan said, “You wait right where you are. Don’t move an inch,” he added, heading for the house. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

DAN MARCHED INSIDE, telling himself that, regardless of what Mickey’s boss had heard, Billy would not be appearing on any talk show in the morning. He’d be staying exactly where he was, holed up with Ken Heath in that sleepy little New England town they sometimes used on this sort of job.

Reaching the kitchen, he paused to scan the wall of surveillance monitors.

The retreat might have a rustic exterior, but its interior was filled with just about every modern luxury that had been invented—including state-of-the-art electronics. Cameras blanketed the entire area within a hundred yards of the house, and at the moment there was no movement out there.

For a couple of seconds, he let his gaze linger on Mickey Westover, who was still standing exactly where he’d left her.

Good. Everything was cool. And he likely had nothing to worry about as far as Billy was concerned. Not with Ken on the job.

He grabbed his phone from where he’d left it on the counter and punched in Ken’s cellular number, thinking that the man was competence personified, the type who put one hundred percent into his assignments.

So since his current assignment was to keep Billy Brent under wraps, and not let the guy out of his sight, there was almost no chance of their star doing anything he shouldn’t.

However, almost wasn’t the same as no chance at all. And when it came to Billy, you just never knew.

The man was forty—probably older since you couldn’t believe an actor’s PR—but half the time he behaved like a fourteen-year-old. And although he probably wasn’t crazy in certifiable terms, despite the fact that a lot of people might argue the point, he was definitely a loose cannon.

He seemed to come up with a hundred bizarre ideas a day, which meant that deciding to take off on his own, even though his life was in danger, would be just another in a long string of poor judgment calls.

With Ken keeping an eye on him, though, that should never have happened.

Dan was beginning to think Ken wasn’t going to pick up when he finally did.

“It’s O’Neill,” Dan said. “Tell me that Brent’s right there with you.”

He let the silence last two seconds before saying, “Dammit, Ken, what’s going on?”

There was another moment of dead air, then Ken said, “I’m in New York looking for him.”

“Oh, shit.” Why did Ken—Mr. Competence himself—have to pick now to screw up?

“Yeah, exactly,” he was saying. “I’ll find him, though. I was just hoping to do it before I had to tell you there was a problem.”

“And he’s planning to appear on national television in the morning?” Dan asked, hoping at least that part was wrong.

“You’ve got the entire story, then,” Ken said.

So much for hoping.

“No, I’m sure I’m missing some,” he said. “You’d better run the whole thing by me.”

“Ah…yeah, okay. What happened was, he phoned Sherry Sherman last night. Apparently, they’re buddies—go back to when he was on Broadway. She always used to have him as a guest then, so he could hype whatever show he was in. Which means he figures he owes her.”

Dan silently began urging Ken to get on with it.

“At any rate,” he continued at last, “when he called, she was upset because some big guest had just canceled. So our boy told her, no problem, he’d fill in.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“’Fraid I am.”

“Jeez, I don’t believe it. He comes to us because his life’s in danger, then turns around and agrees to be on national TV? What the hell does he figure the words in hiding mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But his theory was that he’d just do the show and then drop out of sight again.”

“It didn’t occur to him that Sherry would announce he was going to be on? Give the killer a day’s advance notice?”

“Well, to be fair, he didn’t expect her to say anything. He assumed he’d be a surprise guest.”

“Oh, sure. She’s having one of the hottest stars in the galaxy on her show, and he didn’t think she’d tell her viewers to tune in and see him?”

“Hell, Dan, who knows how the guy thinks?”

If he actually had to answer that question, he’d have to say he doubted anyone did. As far as he could tell, Billy’s mental processes constituted a total enigma—and the only predictable thing about him was that he could be counted on to do the unpredictable.

Even so, going on TV when a killer was after him was crazy—even for Billy Brent.

“Anyhow,” Ken continued, “after we’d discussed the fact that Sherry’s little announcement made an appearance out of the question, Billy said he’d call her back and get himself out of it. Only the next thing I knew he’d taken a hike. Obviously changed his mind about reneging.”

“So now he’s wandering around New York. Ken, if—”

“Look, I’m going to find him. Worse comes to worst, I’ll catch up with him when he arrives at the studio in the morning. Hustle him out of there and—”

“No, that just isn’t good enough. If he shows his face anywhere near that studio he could end up dead. You’ve got to track him down today.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. He told me a lot about what he does when he’s in New York and I’m checking all his favorite haunts. I was only saying if worse comes to worst.”

Dan drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, thinking that Billy could be just about anywhere in the city. With just about anyone.

He’d performed in New York theaters for years before the megabucks of the movies had lured him to L.A. And he still spent a fair amount of time in Manhattan. Even referred to himself as “bi-coastal.”

Which all added up to the fact that if Ken figured the odds on finding him today were good, he was deluding himself.

So what was the best move in light of that? Did it make more sense to stay put for the moment? Or should he head straight to New York and help Ken with his search?

Two people looking for Billy would be better than one. Yet if he left right now, he’d be forgoing his chance to wrap up this job if the killer did arrive at the retreat.

“Well?” Ken said.

“I’m thinking,” he muttered.

Dammit, this wasn’t one of his tougher assignments. At least, it shouldn’t be. All he had to do was insure that Billy stayed alive and determine who wanted him dead.

And by far the simplest way to do that was to nail the hit man. Then, with a little persuasion, he’d convince the guy to reveal who’d hired him. But if he didn’t nail the killer, the job could turn into something immensely more complicated.

Talking with Billy, he’d realized that there were a lot of people who might want the star dead—obviously, at least one of them badly enough to hire a contract killer.

Billy apparently alienated every second person he had much to do with, and alienated most of them pretty seriously. And then there was the greed factor.

The man was worth a gazillion bucks, even a small piece of which would be enough to keep most people happy for the rest of their lives. So between the motives of greed and revenge, and all the downright hatred…

He was getting off track, though.

The point was that if he could just get his hands on the killer, and make him say who’d hired him, none of the rest would matter.

Whereas, if he abandoned that plan, he’d have a whole list of suspects to work his way through. Plus, the hit man would still be walking around free, which would leave Billy’s life in danger.

“I want to hang in here for at least a few more hours,” he told Ken at last. “My gut’s been saying that our guy’s going to show up today. Of course, that was before I knew about Sherry Sherman.”

“Yeah, well what are the odds he was watching her show?”

Probably not high, yet not zero, either. That was the trouble. However, there was no sense getting into a discussion about something they were both aware of, so he simply said, “I’ll check with the airlines. See how late I can leave here and still make it to New York before show time. There must be a redeye I could catch.”

“Okay,” Ken said. “But hopefully you won’t have to. With any luck, Billy will be in the next place I hit.”

“Right. If our killer doesn’t show here, though, and you don’t find Billy in the next little while…”

He rapidly thought through his plan one more time and concluded it had to be the best option.

“Well, I’ll check in with you later,” he said. “See where we’re at then. And good luck.”

“You too,” Ken said before clicking off.

Dan put down his phone and scanned the wall of monitors again. At the exact instant he realized Mickey Westover was no longer standing in the yard, she said, “Sounds as if you’ve got a problem.”

MICKEY MIGHT CONSIDER herself the queen of glaring contests, but the look Dan skewered her with when he wheeled around almost made her shiver.

“How long were you listening?” he demanded.

“A couple of minutes,” she said, setting her things on the counter so she could break eye contact without obviously backing down.

“I got chilly waiting outside,” she added, even though there wasn’t a chance he’d buy that. This was the middle of July and it was a hot day.

She didn’t feel even a twinge of guilt, though. Not when he’d been lying to her since the moment he’d hit her with that tackle. And especially not when an awesome story had just fallen into her lap.

But she’d better be sure she had all the blanks filled in right.

“So somebody’s out to kill Billy Brent,” she said. “And you’re expecting the guy to show up here.”

“Forget you heard that.”

“It’s not an easy kind of thing to forget. Are we talking a hit man? A hired killer?”

When Dan didn’t reply, she said, “Don’t you know?”

Wow. She could actually see him getting madder. Obviously, he didn’t like the implication that he was even marginally in the dark.

“It’s probably a contract,” he muttered at last.

Good, she was getting somewhere.

“And has this guy already tried to kill Billy? Or did someone warn him that there was a contract on him? I mean, how did he know he was in danger?”

Dan remained silent again, so she decided that asking him direct questions wasn’t the way to go. She might be better off just hypothesizing.

“I gather Billy’s been in hiding,” she pressed on. “But now he’s gone to New York. And if the killer’s heard about that TV appearance, he—”

“Look,” Dan snapped. “First, this is none of your business. Second, I don’t intend to discuss it with you. And third, just keep it entirely to yourself.”

She stared at him for a moment, wondering whether he actually thought there was even a remote chance of that.

For a journalist, a scoop like this one was heaven-sent. And she was the only journalist who had even an inkling about it, which made it that much better.

“Obviously,” Dan added, “Billy is thousands of miles away, and that means you’re not going to get your interview. So since I am expecting the killer to show up, the sooner you get out of here the better. Where’s your car?”

“Down the road.”

“Fine. I’ll drive you to it. Let’s get going.”

“Uh-uh. I’m staying.”

“What?”

His expression said he didn’t believe he could have heard right, so she said, “Look, whether the killer comes here or you go to New York to help your friend find Billy, this is a major story. And I want it.”

“What?” he said a second time, giving her an even more incredulous look.

“I said I want the story. Don’t you think I have aspirations beyond Arts and Entertainment?”

“How the hell should I know? We’ve barely met.”

“Well, I do. I want to see my byline on the front page every now and then. Preferably, more than every now and then. Dan, this is the kind of story that will do a lot to make that happen, and I might never get as good a chance again. So however things play out, I want an exclusive for the Post.”

“Listen to me carefully,” he said, enunciating his words clearly. “There is no story. There are only the two of us heading to your car. Period.”

Telling herself it was time for another change of tactics, she shrugged and reached for her laptop.

“Okay. If that’s the way it is, then I’ll have to simply write up what I have and e-mail it to my editor. It won’t be nearly the scoop I was hoping for, but just the fact that somebody’s trying to kill Billy Brent will sell a lot of papers.”

“Fine. If selling papers is so important to you, go right ahead and put Billy’s life at even greater risk than it already is.”

“How would I be doing that? If somebody’s already trying to kill him, how would my reporting it put him at any more risk? In fact, it could do the opposite. The publicity might make the killer back off.”

Dan was clearly annoyed by her logic, but he didn’t try to argue with it.

Not arguing, though, was a long way from cooperating. And without his help she wasn’t going to get the whole story, which she desperately wanted.

“Do whatever you like,” he muttered at last. “It doesn’t really matter, because by tomorrow’s edition this will be over. Either the killer will have shown up here, in which case I’ll have taken care of him, or we’ll have Billy back in hiding.”

“Tomorrow’s edition?” she said in her best puzzled manner.

“Well, you’re too late for today’s—unless the Post comes out hours after most papers.”

“But I wasn’t talking about the print edition. This is what we call breaking news. If I give the story to my boss it’ll be the lead in our online edition within minutes. So…well, maybe you’d like to reconsider. Because if you promise me an exclusive of the entire thing, I’ll hold back now.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me,” he snapped.

“No. I’m only negotiating a deal.”

“I HAVE TO KNOW whether I can trust her,” Dan said into his cell phone.

As Lydia said “No problem,” he glanced at the library door.

He’d closed it tightly before making his call, because he already knew there was at least one thing about Mickey Westover that he couldn’t trust. She had no compunction when it came to eavesdropping.

However, he was speaking quietly and that was a solid-core door.

“So check out her reputation in general,” he continued. “And specifically contact some of the other celebrities she’s done these articles on. See if anything appeared in print that she assured them wouldn’t.”

“No problem,” Lydia said again, her tone amused this time—letting him know that she didn’t need him telling her how to do her job.

And she didn’t, of course. All of the research operatives at Risk Control International were good, but she was the best.

“I need to hear back soon,” he added, although he probably didn’t have to tell her that, either.

“You’ve got it, Dan. I’ll call and let you know whatever I can learn fast. Then, if it’s necessary, I’ll start digging more thoroughly.”

“Good. Thanks, Lydia.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Dan clicked off and started back to where he’d left Mickey in the kitchen.

He was feeling marginally better, but only marginally.

Oh, hell, who was he trying to kid? He was still fit to be tied.

As clichéd as that phrase might be, it was the best one he could think of to describe how he was feeling—although downright homicidal was certainly a strong contender.

He didn’t recall ever having seriously considered murdering someone before, not even any of the low-life he’d dealt with during his years as a cop. But right this minute he could cheerfully strangle Mickey Westover.

She was trying to blackmail him into agreeing to what she wanted—regardless of how she put it. And as much as he disliked the idea of agreeing to a damn thing…

Ken Heath had been right. The odds were low that whoever was stalking Billy had caught this morning’s Sherry Sherman Show.

However, if news about a hit man being after Billy went online it would immediately be picked up by every TV and radio station in North America.

And it was far too easy to picture Billy’s would-be killer driving through the mountains, almost here, when the car radio told him that he was heading straight into a trap—because Mickey had included that information in her story.

Yes, downright homicidal was definitely right up there with fit to be tied.

Eyeing Mickey’s slender throat, he imagined his hands wrapped around it.

All that did, though, was start him thinking that if her pale skin felt as smooth as it looked, then once he’d touched it, strangling her would be the last thing on his mind.

He told himself to lose that thought.

Mickey Westover might be a good-looking woman, and he’d admit there was something awfully sexy about her, but she was annoying as hell.

Of course, she was just trying to get ahead, which wasn’t something he’d fault her for under different circumstances.

And now that he’d had time to consider, he realized that she didn’t really represent a serious problem. Not short-term, at least.

At the moment, all he had to do was prevent her from calling her boss back. Or using her computer to e-mail him.

But sending her packing wasn’t the way to handle things. Even if he confiscated her laptop and cell phone before showing her the door, she’d find a pay phone.

So he’d have to negotiate, to use her term. He only intended to negotiate a little, though.

CHAPTER THREE

ONCE DAN GOT BACK to the kitchen, Mickey eyed him expectantly.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal I’ll go for. If the killer shows up, you get your exclusive this afternoon. If he doesn’t, if I have to go to New York and find Billy, you don’t breathe a word about any of this until the situation is resolved. Then, you get your exclusive.”

She looked suspicious, so he added, “Either way, you win.”

“And what if you end up in New York and another journalist gets wind of what’s happening?” she said. “Where would my exclusive be then?”

“Don’t worry about that, because this will be over and done with today. Now, give me your laptop and purse.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your laptop and purse,” he repeated. “Just for a minute.”

She hesitated, then handed them over.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he said.

“What?”

“When you get down to writing your story, you can report the facts of what happens. And Billy’s a public figure so he’s fair game. But my name doesn’t show up in print.”

“Then how do I refer to you?”

“Mr. Brent’s bodyguard will do. And there can’t be any mention of the company I work for, either.”

“You mean you don’t work for Billy?”

“Only indirectly. At any rate, those are the other ground rules. And before we go any further, I want your word that you won’t break them.”

She nodded, although she clearly didn’t like having additional parameters. But since there was a lot about this he didn’t like, it only seemed fair.

“Oh, and I should tell you,” he continued, “that a lot of important people deal with my company. People who like the fact that it’s low profile.

“So if you did happen to make any mention of me—or it—you’d be done at the Post. And you’d never get a job with a decent paper again.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m only negotiating a deal.”

When he began rummaging through her purse, she said, “What do you figure you’re doing?”

“Just taking your car keys and phone.”

“I don’t think so!”

Sticking the keys into his pocket, he tossed her purse back, then started across the kitchen with her phone and computer.

“Give me my other things,” she demanded.

Ignoring her was immensely enjoyable.

After dumping the newspapers out of the recycle box, he took a minute to check the surveillance monitors.

They still weren’t picking up anything unusual. And even though he hated the idea of leaving them unmanned again, he hated the thought of Mickey getting in touch with the Post even more. Which meant that the best thing he could do was just get this over with as quickly as possible.

He put her laptop, cell phone and keys into the box, then picked it up and began making his way from room to room with it—her on his heels—unplugging each phone he came to and adding it to the box.

“I don’t believe this,” she finally muttered. “I simply do not believe you’re doing this.”

“You told me you wanted to stay,” he reminded her. “So you don’t need your car keys right now. And you haven’t got the story yet, so you don’t need your computer.”

“Well I certainly need a phone. I promised my boss I’d call him back.”

“He’ll understand. In the long run.”

Apparently, she couldn’t think of a response to that. She followed him silently into the last room, a huge, windowless theater that could seat twenty.

He unplugged the phone in there and topped up the pile with it, then said, “Okay. You stay here. If you hear any shots, hit the floor between the rows of chairs.”

“And how am I supposed to get my story from in here?”

“If the killer shows up, I’ll knock him unconscious and then fill you in. You can even take pictures.”

“But—”

“Mickey, the odds are very high that we’re talking about a professional hit man. Just letting you stay goes against my better judgement, and I definitely don’t have time to baby-sit.”

“I don’t need baby-sitting. I even know how to handle a gun. I used to take target shooting with my brothers.”

“You don’t have a gun, though, do you? So just sit tight.”

“But—”

“That’s how it has to be,” he snapped. “Take it or leave it.”

“All right,” she said sullenly.

He walked out of the room—closing the door behind himself, despite knowing damn well that she’d have it cracked open within thirty seconds—and headed back to the kitchen once more.

The monitors were still showing nothing out of the ordinary, so unless his killer had snuck up tight to the house during the past five minutes…

That thought didn’t sit well with him. Considering the way the day had been going so far, it just might have happened.

After concealing the recycle box in the back of a closet, keeping only his own cell phone accessible, he scanned the screens again.

The unsettled feeling worming its way around in his stomach was telling him that he’d better make sure things were still cool, so he took his Glock from his waistband and headed for the front door.

If he discovered someone plastered against the outside of the house, the way he’d found Mickey earlier, at least he’d have the element of surprise.

He silently unbolted the door and threw it open—his gun ready for action.

But there was no new company. Not out front, anyway.

Still, he’d better take a quick walk around the house. Be certain that he hadn’t missed seeing anything.

He strode down from the porch and started off, pausing to listen for a moment when he reached the corner.

All he heard was the raucous call of a jay and the clicking sound that some insect made when it flew.

So far so good. Then he headed around the corner and found himself face-to-face with big trouble.

Actually, face to mask, he thought uneasily.

A man wearing a rubber mask that made him look like an alien was standing five feet in front of him—with a Magnum centered on his chest.

“Put down your gun,” the masked man said. “Slowly.”

Wordlessly Dan set his Glock on the ground.

“Good. Now we’re going into the house. You first.”

He turned and began walking back toward the front door, both his heart and his thoughts racing.

Most likely, he was only still breathing because this guy figured Billy was inside and hadn’t wanted to alert him with a shot.

But he couldn’t count on staying alive for long. Not when professional killers tended to have a take-no-prisoners, leave-no-witnesses style of thinking.

However, the man didn’t know the house and Dan did. Which meant that all he needed was one little break.

Adrenaline pumping, he stepped inside.

“Where’s Billy?” the killer asked.

“This way.”

He started across the polished pine floor of the entrance area, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

Ages ago, he’d perfected a move that would work if the man was close enough. At least, it had worked a few times in the past, in dark New Orleans alleys.

But if he guessed wrong and the killer was too far back, he’d get himself shot for sure. Then this guy would search the place and Mickey would take the next round of bullets.

So he couldn’t guess. He’d just have to hope to hell that—

“Stop dead and put your hands up,” Mickey ordered.

There was his break!

He whirled around and dove toward the floor in one motion, catching the killer around the knees as the Magnum exploded.

They both went sprawling and the gun skittered across the floor, vanishing beneath a massive desk.

The killer swore, grabbing Dan by the throat.

He slammed his fist into the guy’s face hard enough to make him let go. Then there was another deafening shot. Just as he realized that Mickey must have fired again, she screamed, “Stop! Both of you!”

Instinctively he glanced in her direction, which proved to be a really stupid move. The killer caught him with such a wicked fist to the temple that it almost knocked him senseless.

While bells were bonging inside his head, the other man tore out of the place.

Mickey slammed the door shut after him, threw the bolt, then hurried over to where Dan was sitting on the floor.

She had a semiautomatic in one hand. The other, she tentatively rested on his shoulder, saying, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got to catch him,” he told her, managing to lurch to his feet.

“Dan, I don’t think—”

“There’s only one way he can go. And I can drive that road faster than someone who doesn’t know it.”

He reached for her gun; she whipped it behind her back and said, “Let’s give that idea some thought.”

DAN FELT AS IF he’d been hit with a tire iron rather than a fist, and when he tried to ask Mickey where she’d gotten a gun no words came out, which he took to be a bad sign.

If not for that, and if he had more confidence about getting farther than the porch without collapsing, he’d wrestle Mickey for the gun and head after the killer.

Given the reality of the situation, however, he simply stood waiting to hear what she’d say next.

“Dan, you hardly look up to chasing after a hit man,” she began. “And for all we know, he has another gun in his car or wherever.”

Right. And he’d need another one. That Magnum was still lying under the desk.

Everything had happened so quickly that Dan had almost forgotten about it. But he’d dig it out before he left. It never hurt to have an extra weapon.

“So if he does have a second gun,” Mickey was saying, “and you go looking for him, you might end up awfully sorry.”

He’d have nodded that she had a point, only he suspected the movement would make his head explode.

“I should have shot him,” she said more quietly. “Instead of simply firing into the air, I should have shot him in the leg or something. I was afraid of hitting you, though. Then he sprinted by me like a track star and that was that.”

“It’s okay,” he managed to say. “You probably kept us both from getting killed. So…thanks.”

When she smiled and said he was welcome, the thought that she had a great smile somehow found its way into his mind.

He wasn’t sure which was more bizarre—the fact that he was having the thought at all or that he was having it while his head was pounding.

At any rate, he told it to find its way back out, then put together the words to ask where the gun had come from.

“It was in a drawer,” she told him. “In the theater. I don’t usually go poking around in other people’s drawers,” she continued quickly. “But you seemed certain the killer was going to show up, and I remembered reading somewhere that Billy kept guns around.”

“Ah,” he said. Then he gingerly touched his temple to see whether it had started to swell.

Not surprisingly, it had.

“We should put ice on that,” Mickey said.

Before he could tell her he didn’t have time to waste on first aid, she added, “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get some.”

Sitting down struck him as an excellent suggestion. But since his cell was lying on the kitchen counter, and he didn’t trust her not to grab it and call her editor, he followed along to make sure she wouldn’t, his head only hurting a little more with each step he took.

He picked up the phone and clipped it to his belt, thinking that even though his plan to lure the killer here had worked, the end result sure wasn’t what he’d been hoping for.

So now he was back to square one, and there wasn’t a chance in the world of that guy giving up. He’d try something again, just as soon as he had a good opportunity—which, unless Ken lucked out in New York, could well be tomorrow morning.

“Here,” Mickey said, handing him some ice wrapped in a dish towel.

“Thanks.” He pressed the ice pack to his temple, saying, “I’ve got to make a call.”

That was her cue to give him privacy, of course, but when she pretended not to pick up on the hint, he couldn’t be bothered making a big deal out of it.

Since she already knew the basic story, what would it matter if she listened in on the next installment?

He got hold of Ken and asked whether he’d found Billy yet.

“Still working on it,” he said. “But I have to admit I’m losing hope. Anything happen there?”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t pretty.”

He began filling the other man in, trying not to think that Ken must figure he was an idiot.

What else would he think, though?

It was just a good thing he was the type to keep quiet. Because Dan O’Neill setting a trap for a killer, and then entirely missing the guy’s arrival, was so much not the norm for him that a lot of people would find it too damn funny.

After he finished relating the basics of what had happened, Ken said, “Are you still hearing bells?”

“No, I’m fine now.”

And that was only a slight exaggeration. He was feeling a lot better than he’d been a few minutes ago.

“But Billy sure isn’t going to be fine,” he added. “Not if this guy gets to him before we do.”

“And we don’t have any more idea of who we’re up against than we did before,” Ken said.

“Uh-uh. His mask was the kind that pulls down over the head. So all I know is that he’s average height, average build, and hits like a heavyweight.”

“You think he’s going to hear about Billy being on Sherry Sherman’s show?”

“Yeah, I think there’s a real good chance. Even if he’s still thinking Billy’s holed up here, he wouldn’t come back. He’ll realize that his first visit put me on high alert, which would make a second one too dangerous. So now he’ll start planning a different approach. And he’ll hear about the show as soon as he begins nosing around for fresh information.”

“I assume you’ll be leaving for New York right away, then.”

“As soon as I can get a flight. I didn’t have a chance to check on them, but I’ll just head to the airport and take whatever’s available.”

“Well, I’ll keep looking here.”

“Right. And I’ll call you again later.”

“So,” Mickey said as he clipped the phone to his belt once more. “We’re on our way to New York now.”

We? He almost laughed.

Did she figure that getting punched in the head had given him amnesia? That she’d be able to convince him he’d agreed to more than he had?

If so, she was about to be very disappointed.

“I’m going to New York,” he told her. “Alone.”

“But—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Our deal wasn’t that you’d go along. It was that, if I went, you’d stay here and get your exclusive once the excitement was over. And that you wouldn’t breathe a word about the story until then.”

“But things have changed.”

“Meaning?”

She shrugged. “Meaning I kept you from getting killed. I probably did,” she added before he had the chance to correct her.

“Plus, that ice is working wonders. I can hardly see any swelling now. So all in all, you owe me.”

Ah. She was trying emotional blackmail this time around.

“Maybe I do,” he admitted. “But I don’t owe you a trip to New York.”

He set down the ice pack and picked up the semiautomatic she’d put on the counter, then started toward the front door.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

He kept walking, not even remotely surprised when she followed him.

“Look,” he said, stopping a few feet short of the door. “This isn’t open for discussion. My gun’s outside and I’m going to get it. After that, I intend to throw a few things into a suitcase and—”

“So you’re expecting to be in New York for a while?”

“No, I doubt I’ll be there long. But the only way I can get a gun on a plane is in checked luggage.”

“People can still do that? Doesn’t airport security X-ray everything these days? Whether it’s checked or not?”

“Uh-huh. But my stuff gets special treatment.”

“What?” she said, looking as if she figured he was delusional.

He simply shrugged. He didn’t care whether she thought he was crazy, and he had no intention of getting into any hows and whys with her—although the “arrangement” his company had for transporting guns was really a blessing.

It wasn’t always easy to acquire the sort of weapon you wanted when you’d just arrived in a city.

“You mean,” she was saying, “that you can walk into any airport, carrying anything you like in your luggage and—”

“I didn’t say anything I like. I said guns. Now let’s drop it, okay?” he added as he took a few final steps to the door.

Cautiously he opened it and surveyed the clearing, virtually certain the killer wouldn’t have hung around but not wanting to take any chances.

Then he glanced at her again, and said, “Would you mind waiting inside?”

For once, she did as he asked and simply stood in the doorway while he collected his Glock.

As he headed back up the porch steps, she said, “I could be a big help in New York.”

“I told you it wasn’t open for discussion,” he reminded her.

“Then we won’t discuss,” she said, trailing after him when he started toward his room. “I’ll talk and you just listen.”

TURK HAD RUN like hell almost the entire way from Billy Brent’s place back to where he’d left his rental car—hidden down an old pull-off that was so overgrown it couldn’t have been used in years. For a city slicker, he’d done well to even spot it.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and took his Beretta from the glove compartment in case things went even further off course.

Then he powered down the windows, thinking that he hadn’t had such a close call in…hell, he’d probably never had such a close one. But at least he knew where the problem lay. It was simply that he was out of his element.

Maybe contract killers did have to go wherever their work took them, but Vancouver Island was so different from Manhattan it could be on another planet.

He was used to bright lights and big city noise. So put him in the wilderness and it was hardly surprising that he wasn’t totally on top of his game.

Oh, not that the entire island was wall-to-wall forest. He’d landed in a city. Actually, to be specific, he’d landed in its harbor. But same difference.

Victoria. The capital of British Columbia, a fact he’d carefully tucked away.

He was a trivia nut, and after millions of hours of Jeopardy and Wheel and Millionaire he could usually come up with at least some inconsequential fact relating to just about any subject.

Foreign geography, however, was his weak suit. So whenever he traveled he paid special attention to names and places.

At any rate, from what little he’d seen of Victoria it seemed like a nice place. And only half an hour by float plane north of Seattle.

Still, once you left the city behind, there was nothing except mile after mile of mountains and trees, and he just didn’t get the appeal of this nature crap. You wanted nature, you went to Central Park. You didn’t head for Canada and total isolation.

He didn’t, anyway. Not unless someone was paying him big bucks to make the trip, which, of course, explained why he was here.

But when it came to Billy Brent, the guy made over twenty million a picture. He could afford to be anywhere in the world on his downtime. So why would he want to spend a single day of it in the middle of nowhere?

Oh, hell, he was back to thinking about Billy Brent and his damned retreat. And what a screwup that scene had been.

It would have been even worse, though, if he wasn’t in good shape. All those hours at the gym—in the ring, lifting weights, running laps—had really paid off today.

If he hadn’t landed that one smoker of a punch he might be in real trouble now. Because whoever the guy at Billy’s was, he wasn’t any pushover. That one punch had probably made the difference between getting away and not.

Of course, the important thing was that he had gotten away.

But that bitch with the gun had surprised the shit out of him and if he ever laid eyes on her again she’d be dead.

Hell, she’d be dead already if his Magnum hadn’t gone flying, which was another point against her. Her sneaking up on him had cost him his favorite piece.

That had him royally pissed, and it wasn’t the only thing that was frosting him off.

This job should already be over and done with. But because of her, it wasn’t.

He thought about that for a minute, then backed up his logic a little.

If not for her, the job would be over and done with, assuming that Billy Brent had actually been in there. Which might not have been the case.

What if Billy had realized he was being targeted?

That could be. And it would mean all the media crap about his being at his retreat had been nothing but a setup.

Turk lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with the hot smoke, feeling pretty much back to normal now, able to contemplate where things stood with a clear brain.

He’d pegged the guy with the Glock for a bodyguard. Maybe that wasn’t it, though. Maybe he’d been there instead of Billy, waiting to see whether anyone came looking for the superstar.

But if Billy wasn’t there, where was he?

After considering the question, he retrieved his laptop from the floor of the back seat, thinking he’d better see—courtesy of the world of wireless Internet connections—if there was anything new going on in Billy’s life.

Once he was into cyberspace, he clicked on his bookmark for the best of the Billy Brent fan sites he’d found.

The message scrolling across the top of the screen read, “Watch Billy tomorrow morning! Live on the Sherry Sherman Show!”

Well. Wasn’t that interesting.

He read the text saying that Sherry had announced Billy would be her special guest. Then he got off the Internet and shut the laptop, smiling to himself.

He’d really grown to love modern technology.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHILE MICKEY DID HER BEST to convince Dan that taking her to New York with him was a first-rate idea, he tossed enough clothes into a suitcase to keep the killer’s gun and his own, from rattling around.

Not that he was about to pack his Glock just yet. He wanted it loaded and accessible until he had a flight lined up and was ready to check in.

Life had handed him enough surprises that he always felt more comfortable when he was carrying.

“…so I’d get the breaking story firsthand, which would save both of us time,” Mickey was saying. “And you and this Ken fellow would have my help.

“I can use a gun,” she elaborated. “I mean, for more than shooting into the air to get someone’s attention.”

Man, oh, man. Just what they’d need. An intrepid girl reporter with a gun.

“When all’s said and done,” she added, “it comes down to a totally win-win arrangement.”

She finally stopped speaking and eyed him expectantly.

He rubbed his jaw as if considering a positive response.

Needless to say, he really wasn’t. She was definitely not going along.

Despite the case she’d made, she’d likely get in the way.

Even if she didn’t, this was strictly a job for professionals and she was a civilian, which meant that if he let her go with him he’d feel responsible for her safety. And that was something he didn’t need.

Besides, the jury was still out on whether he could trust her.

Glancing at his watch, he wondered how soon he’d hear back from Lydia. But regardless of what she unearthed about Mickey, it really rankled him that the woman was trying to revise their deal in her favor—especially when this assignment would already be wrapped up if not for her.

If she hadn’t come back after he’d sent her away, he’d have been watching the monitors when the killer arrived.

By now, the guy would either be dead or in police custody. So Mickey could claim he owed her all she wanted, but he wasn’t buying into any guilt trip.

Regardless of that, though, he’d rather not tell her she wasn’t going to New York simply because he didn’t want her along. Not after she’d been gutsy enough to confront their hit man.

It would be kinder to convince her that it just wasn’t a good idea.

Kinder.

He seldom concerned himself about being kind. But these circumstances were more than a little unusual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed help because someone was holding a gun on him.

So when she finally became tired of waiting for him to speak up, and gave him an impatient “Well?” he did his best to sound eminently reasonable.

“Look,” he said. “I know how badly you want to be there when this wraps up, but your going with me simply isn’t a good plan.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Just for starters, if my wife or girlfriend or whatever announced that she was waltzing off to the far side of the continent with a strange man—”

“You don’t have a wife or girlfriend or whatever,” she interrupted.

He had no idea how she knew that, but before he could ask she was saying, “And I don’t have a husband or a whatever, so that argument’s irrelevant.”

“What about your job, then? What would your boss say?”

“I want to go because of my job,” she said, eyeing him as if he was a simpleton. “To get the story.”

“What I mean is that the Billy Brent interview can’t be the only assignment you’re working on.”

“Well, no, but—”

“And where would the money come from? Do you have any idea how much last-minute tickets cost?”

“Of course. I don’t live in a cave.”

“Okay, then you know you’re talking a small fortune for the flight alone. And aside from everything else, surely the Post wouldn’t send an Arts and Entertainment journalist to cover the sort of story we have here. I mean, a hit man with a contract on Billy Brent has to be such big news it—”

“I’ll make you another deal,” she interrupted.

He reminded himself that he wasn’t buying into any guilt trip.

Then she quietly said, “Dan, you can’t imagine how important this is for my career.”

“Yes, I can.”

And, hell, maybe it was important. But he had his own career to consider. And he sure didn’t want any more potential complications.

But the next thing he knew, he was saying, “Exactly what have you got in mind?”

She looked very relieved; it didn’t make him the least bit happier that he’d opened his mouth.

“If I can convince my editor to okay the assignment and authorize my expenses,” she said, “you’ll stop objecting and take me along.”

Her words made him feel better. She couldn’t seriously expect her boss to not only give her the time but the money as well. Could she?

He really doubted it. Hard news stories went to hard news reporters. Period.

“So?” she said.

His phone began to ring, temporarily saving him from her question.

“Dan O’Neill,” he answered.

“Dan, it’s Lydia.”

“Hi,” he said, turning away from Mickey even though he knew that wouldn’t keep her from hearing.

“I’ve talked to several people about Mickey Westover, and it doesn’t sound as if you have anything to worry about. She has a reputation for being a straight shooter.”

“And things that are said…”

“In confidence?” Lydia supplied, probably guessing that Mickey was right there.

“Uh-huh.”

“All my sources assured me there’d been no problems.”

“Good. That’s good to know. Anything else?”

“Nothing negative. I’m going to keep at this. There are a few more avenues I want to explore. But I’m not really expecting to turn up anything problematic.”

“Good,” he said again. “If you do, though…”

“You’ll know almost as soon as I do.”

“Fine. And thanks.”

He clicked off, telling himself he couldn’t have asked for better news.

Lydia might have said she was going to keep checking, but she never gave a positive preliminary report unless she was damned sure she wouldn’t get any surprises later on.

Even so, the fact that he didn’t have to worry about Mickey double-crossing him wasn’t going to make him change his mind. He and Ken would be far better off without her.

“Where were we?” he said, turning back toward her.

“Just about to make a deal.”

“I don’t think we were quite to that point.”

She gazed at him for a moment, as if trying to figure out exactly what he was thinking, then said, “Dan, I know I’m repeating myself, but I just don’t believe you can really realize how much this would mean to me. And all I’m asking for is the chance to convince my boss.”

He hesitated, knowing he’d feel better if she thought that he was at least giving her a chance. And surely she’d never persuade the guy to go along with her.

“Okay, have a shot at it,” he said, assuring himself he was looking at virtually no risk.

She held out her hand for his cell phone, which reminded him that the rest of the phones—including hers—were still sitting in that recycle box.

He turned his cellular over to her, then nonchalantly zipped his suitcase shut.

Her conversation shouldn’t take more than about thirty seconds. And once her boss had said “No dice,” all there’d be left to do was drop her off at her car. After that, he’d be done with her.

THE MORE MICKEY TALKED, the less Dan liked what he was hearing.

Somehow or other, she’d succeeded in presenting her absurd idea in such a logical-sounding way that it no longer seemed half as absurd.

When she lapsed into silence, obviously listening to whatever her boss was saying, he desperately wished he could hear both sides of the conversation.

Her expression made him certain that this Eric fellow was not telling her there was absolutely no way. Which was what was supposed to be happening.

Dammit. He felt like kicking himself for not realizing how convincing she could be. Because he sure as hell should have.

After all, at this point she’d convinced him to agree to two of her ridiculous deals.

“I know, Eric,” she said. “You’re perfectly right. I’m not the best candidate. I’m not claiming to be.

“But the critical thing is that I’m the one up here with Dan O’Neill and he trusts me.”

Oh, right. Trust was a definite stretch.

Maybe he believed that Mickey wouldn’t renege on her word. After all, Lydia just didn’t get things like that wrong. But that didn’t mean he entirely trusted the woman.

She was a schemer, a sneak, a blackmailer, a—

“And since I’m the only person he’s willing to take along…” she was saying.

Willing to take along? That was hardly the way he’d put it.

“Yes, I am positive about that. He just doesn’t have much faith in most journalists.”

Finally. Something that was true.

“But the two of us clicked, and…well, he isn’t giving us any real choice.”

When she paused, he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her clincher.

“Either you assign me to the story,” she concluded, “or we don’t get it.”

There was a small silence before she said, “Yes, I really do think I’m up to it. And the prospect of letting it slip through our fingers…we’re talking a hit man trying to kill Billy Brent. We’re talking not only that, which none of our competition even knows about, but exclusive coverage of what happens from here on in.

“Eric, it’ll be a huge story. And only the Post will have it. We’ll scoop both the Chronicle and the Examiner. Hell, we’ll scoop The New York Times!”

Dan could feel his anxiety level rising. Mickey Westover was making him very nervous.

She glanced over and gave him a warm smile. It sent a chill down his spine. The fact she felt like smiling wasn’t good.

The silence stretched until he couldn’t keep himself from whispering, “Is he going for it?”

“Going, going, gone,” she said. “I’m on hold and he’s on his other line, running the idea past the editor in chief for an okay.”

Oh, man. But surely an editor in chief would recognize the insanity of this.

He began willing that to happen.

And then Mickey said, “Eric, that’s great. Please thank Mr. Edwards for me. And I promise I’ll come through, that neither of you will be disappointed.”

THE ONLY AVAILABLE SEATS had been in first class, and since Mickey had never flown anything but economy before that had simply added to her excitement, so much so that she was barely worrying about whether Eric would drop dead from shock when he saw her expense report.

Or about the fact that paying for her ticket had probably put her within two dollars of maxing out her Visa card. Which meant that the car rental people were in for an unpleasant surprise.

Dan had said there was no time to waste returning the Taurus, so they’d driven down to Victoria in his four-by-four and left the car at Billy’s to be picked up. But once it had been retrieved, and someone tried to get authorization for what she owed them…

Well, her MasterCard wasn’t at its limit, so as soon as she had a chance she’d phone and give them that number. Otherwise, her credit rating would be in the tank.

As the plane lifted off, she took another slow, deep breath. It was only for insurance, though. She already felt pretty much back to normal.

There was barely any queasiness left in her stomach, and her intuition was saying that everything would be fine from here on in. Travelwise, at least.

Thus far, however, it had been a banner day in that department.

Of course, things had been even more exciting in the hit man department. But that was something she’d be wiser not to think about. Remembering how hard she’d been shaking, while pointing that gun at the killer, was a lot tougher on her nerves than focusing her thoughts on her travel adventures.

Adventures. She paused on the word, then decided it was the right one.

Driving with Dan, while he’d taken those tight mountain curves at roughly eight hundred miles an hour, had definitely been an adventure. And there wasn’t the slightest doubt that the flight from Victoria to Seattle qualified.

It had been her first time in a seaplane, and she’d quite happily go through the rest of her life without a second one. Their descent had been steep enough to convince her that the pilot was suicidal and intending to drown everyone aboard.

But now that she and Dan were on a nice, safe 757, en route to New York, it would be smooth sailing. Or smooth flying, to be precise.

“Would you like something to drink?” a flight attendant asked.

Dan opted for a beer.

Since the woman was holding an open bottle of champagne, Mickey chose that.

She took a sip, pleased to discover that her stomach was going to handle the bubbles just fine. Then she began wishing that Dan seemed happier about having her along.

Well, more accurately, she wished he didn’t seem downright miserable. And that he liked her. Even a bit.

Things would be far more comfortable if the air between them wasn’t heavy with negative vibes, not a single one of which was coming from her.

After all, how could she possibly feel unkindly toward a man who was letting her in on the scoop of a lifetime? Even if he had done a lot of foot-dragging before agreeing. And aside from helping her get a major career break, he was really sort of cute.

She considered that for a few seconds, aware of how drastically her opinion of his attractiveness had changed since they’d met. Obviously, he was the type of man who grew on people.

Oh, she still wasn’t crazy about his short hair, but that type of thing was easy to fix. And she was sure the coldness in his blue eyes would dissipate if he just began warming up to her.

And that little scar above his upper lip…she’d been wondering exactly how he’d come by it.

Actually, she’d been wondering a lot of things about him. And since most men loved talking about themselves, what better way of warming him up than getting him to do exactly that?

“So,” she said.

He glanced at her.

She shot him a friendly smile and tried not to feel badly when he didn’t return it.

After a few beats, she said, “I haven’t forgotten what you were saying earlier—that you don’t want your name in print. Or any mention of the company you work for. But is it okay if I ask you about it? Completely off the record?”

“Ask me what about it?”

“Well, for starters, it must have a name.”

“You wouldn’t recognize it.”

“I might.”

Dan broke eye contact with Mickey and sat gazing out the window for a moment, considering where he should go from here.

Given what Lydia had learned, he figured he could believe Mickey when she said “off the record.” So it wouldn’t hurt to tell her a bit about RCI.

Besides, even though the company kept a low profile its existence was hardly a state secret. And Mickey was a journalist.

She’d know exactly where to look for whatever information she was interested in finding, which meant that it would probably take her all of five minutes to learn most of what she might want to about either RCI or him.

Confidential information had almost become a thing of the past.

He drank some of his beer, then said, “The company’s called Risk Control International.”

“Oh. Okay, you were right. I’ve never heard of it.”

“Most people haven’t. It’s in the survival business.”

“You mean wilderness survival?”

“No. I mean keeping people alive.”

“Oh,” she said again.

For a moment he thought she was done, but then she said, “So it provides bodyguards?”

“Uh-huh. That’s one thing. It also runs a lot of training courses. Most of them are basically aimed at law enforcement types, but they attract civilian students, too—usually executives who work in countries with terrorism problems, or other people at high risk.”

“And the courses teach…?”

Man, the way she could fire questions made him suspect she was a better reporter than he’d been giving her credit for.

“They cover things like self-defense, tactical driving, handgun training,” he told her. “And there’s one called Special Technics that touches on everything from hot-wiring cars to picking locks.”

“People need to know those sorts of things to stay alive?”

“Sometimes. You can never tell what kind of jam you’ll find yourself in. At any rate, the company can pretty well provide any service, handle anything a client needs. Most people working for it are independent contractors, which gives it a large pool of experts to draw on.”

“Is that what you are, then? An independent contractor? And an expert?”

“Uh-huh. I’m a personal security advisor, which basically means that I analyze a situation, settle on a way of safeguarding the individual—or individuals—at risk, and then take things from there.”

“And that was what you did in Billy’s case.”

“Right. Only the plan should have gone a whole lot more smoothly. All it involved was Billy laying low with Ken Heath, who also does work for RCI, while I lured the killer to the retreat. Then, according to the script, once he got there I’d make him tell me who’d hired him. After that, I’d turn both him and the information over to the police.”

“Make him tell you?”

He merely shrugged. He wasn’t getting into that with her.

For a moment she looked as if she was going to try pressing him about it, but she finally just said, “Do you have any idea who might have hired this guy? I mean, I’m assuming you discussed that with Billy.”

“Of course.”

“And he thought it could be…?”

“The list is endless. I’m exaggerating,” he added quickly, even though he wasn’t exaggerating by a lot.

“In any event,” he continued, deciding it would be wise to change the conversation’s direction, “what happened today just goes to show how even the most straightforward plan can fall apart.

“Billy wasn’t supposed to give Ken the slip and head for New York, I wasn’t supposed to end up on the wrong end of a gun and the killer wasn’t supposed to get away.”

He had another swig of beer, assuming he must have satisfied her curiosity by now.

However, she barely waited for him to swallow before saying, “But now that he did get away, and now that you think he might show up at NBS in the morning, how will you deal with it?”

“Well, if we haven’t found Billy before then, we’ll go with Plan B—watching to see if the hit man does show up at NBS. And insuring Billy’s safety if that happens.”

Mickey looked thoughtful, then said, “I asked you about this before, but you didn’t tell me. How did Billy know someone was trying to kill him?”

When he hesitated, she added, “I wouldn’t use it in a story unless I’d checked with him, first.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said slowly, reminding himself once more that he didn’t have much reason to be overly cautious. He’d never known Lydia to make a mistake.

Besides, as soon as Billy was back in circulation he’d be telling anyone and everyone what had happened. He knew their star well enough to be sure of that.

Focusing on Mickey again, he said, “A couple of weeks ago, Billy almost totaled his Porsche—was incredibly lucky that he only got shaken up. And when his mechanic checked over what was left of the car, he discovered that the brakes had been tampered with.

“Then he had a look at Billy’s other vehicles and found that someone had done the same thing with all six of them. That was when his people contacted RCI.”

“And RCI contacted you.”

“Uh-huh.”

He watched her take a sip of champagne, absently thinking that he’d never in a million years have imagined today unfolding as it had, would never have pictured himself winging his way across the country at all, let alone with a beautiful woman who smelled like…

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