“I want to taste you,” Hunter said

He took a step toward her. “Give me one kiss and I’ll do everything I can to get you the interview.”

Rory thought that her heart might just beat out of her chest. Kissing this man might be the biggest risk she’d ever take. But she wanted the kiss. Desperately. What could it matter? She dared herself to do it.

“One kiss,” she agreed.

He backed her up against the mirror. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change—”

Before she could even finish her sentence he’d lowered his head, drawn her up on her toes and covered her mouth with his.

There was such heat—glorious waves of it. And each movement of his hands, of his tongue seemed to throw fuel on the fire. She arched her body, straining against him, but it wasn’t enough. She had to—

“I want you.” His voice was a rough whisper in her ear.

No, she told herself to say.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Please hurry.”

Dear Reader,

Writing a miniseries about triplet sisters Natalie, Rory and Sierra Gibbs has allowed me to create three very special women who find the courage to risk it all to get what they want. As they came alive on the page, I found myself admiring each one of them. But if I had to pick a favorite, I’d lean toward Rory—perhaps because she lacks the confidence of her more focused sisters.

Wannabe magazine writer Rory Gibbs has always thought of herself as the “muddled in the middle” triplet. Her sisters are tall, beautiful and successful; she’s short, still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up, and as unlucky with men as she’s been with jobs. However, her latest plan—to land an interview with reclusive businessman Jared Slade—will allow her to prove to herself, her boss and everyone else that she’s finally found a career she’s good at. Problem number one is she can’t get past Hunter, Jared Slade’s handsome and dangerous bodyguard. Problem number two is she doesn’t want to get past him—she wants to make love with him!

I hope you’ll enjoy reading about how Hunter and Rory dare to take the greatest risk of all. And I hope you’ll want to read Natalie’s and Sierra’s adventures, as well—in The Proposition (May) and The Favor (July). For excerpts, contests and news about my future books, please visit www.carasummers.com.

Happy reading,

Cara Summers

The Dare
Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my cousins, the Kansier women: Jane, Kathy, Mary, Margaret, Amy and Debbie. I admire your strength, your courage, your love of adventure—and especially your unfailing sense of humor. You inspire the kind of women I try to create.

Thanks.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Prologue

Summer 1999

IF HE FAILED, the drop to the alley below would kill him. Harry Gibbs stood on the roof of the Hotel L’Adour Paris and glanced at the gap between the two buildings. He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline and grinned.

He didn’t allow himself to look down, or to take in the picture-postcard view that the roof of the hotel offered. At 3:00 a.m., the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame were still bathed in light, but Harry focused all his concentration on that dark narrow space—ten feet at the most. He’d paced off the distance in the alley that morning. Just in case the robbery didn’t go quite as planned.

And it hadn’t. He’d gotten the necklace out of the safe, but he hadn’t had time to close it and replace the tapestry before Madame Cuvelier had awakened in the next room and rung for her maid. There was only one route from the maid’s quarters to Madame’s bedroom, and that was through the salon he’d been standing in.

Madame Cuvelier, a resident of the small hotel for the past ten years, was a restless sleeper. That information was in the dossier he’d compiled on her. That made the theft riskier.

And more fun. Instead of exiting through the door, the way he’d come in, he’d had to hurry out onto a balcony and climb to the roof.

When the sound of sirens pierced the night air, Harry turned and strode to the far end of the roof. Then, he did what he always did when the stakes were high. He dared himself to make the leap. As he crouched down into the position of a sprinter, he thought of his daughter, Rory. He’d been thinking a lot about her lately. Tonight, he promised himself. He’d write to her.

Clearing his mind, he murmured, “You can do it, Harry. Dare you!” Then he ran, lengthening his stride as he raced across the roof. Fifty yards became forty, thirty, twenty, ten. He prepared for the jump, felt his right foot hit the parapet. Then he leapt.

For a prolonged second, he was arcing over the alley, his body slicing through the air. If something happened to him…

Before he could complete the thought, his foot came down hard and he tucked and rolled across the roof. Lungs burning, blood singing, Harry got to his feet and ran toward the door. It took him less than three minutes to finesse the lock. The sirens were still blocks away.

He was whistling as he stepped into the stairwell.

AN HOUR LATER, Harry stood on the balcony of his apartment in Montmartre and swirled cognac in a glass. Now that the excitement of the heist was over, his mood had turned melancholy again as he once more thought of Rory. Dammit, he missed her. He had three girls, triplets, and lately, he’d been missing all of them.

More than that, he’d been feeling an urgent need to talk to them. That was impossible, of course. They’d been ten years old when he and his wife, Amanda, had forged their agreement. She’d wanted a normal life for the girls, and so had he.

For the first ten years of their lives, he’d done his best to give them one. But he’d become bored with their “normal” life in the suburbs of D.C. He’d missed the adventure, the risk taking, the thrill of pulling off a perfect heist.

Amanda had been firm. At ten, the girls idolized him, and she didn’t want them idolizing his profession. Therefore, he could leave and resume his former profession as a master jewel thief on the condition that he didn’t see his girls or communicate with them until their twenty-sixth birthday.

Harry took a sip of his cognac. He’d made a mistake—the biggest one of his life—by agreeing to those terms. He and Amanda should have found another way. Two weeks ago, the girls had celebrated their twentieth birthday, and six more years had begun to seem far too long. Time could easily run out for him before that. It nearly had tonight.

Turning, he strode toward the desk in his study. On the night of their birthdays, he’d written a letter to his oldest daughter, Natalie.

But it was Rory, the second born, he’d thought of on that roof tonight. Each of his daughters had inherited something from him. Natalie had inherited his gift for picking locks and his talent for disguise. Sierra, the youngest, had inherited his curiosity and his analytical brain.

But it was Rory who’d inherited his love of taking risks and his inability to refuse a dare. Even as a toddler, she’d been the most impetuous of the three, and he’d always thought of her as his little daredevil. Natalie had worked hard to suppress any reckless streaks in her nature. And Sierra had naturally preferred to think things out, to plan. Rory had always chosen to throw herself into situations, making things up as she went along.

Earlier he’d opened an album to his three favorite photos of his middle daughter. In one, she was running over the finish line in a race. Harry smiled. Of the three girls, she was the one who always rushed headlong through life.

In the second, she was at her senior prom. And she was beautiful. When she was a little girl, she hadn’t believed that. She’d always felt that her sisters had inherited the “beauty” genes, as she’d called them. He couldn’t help but wonder if the years had brought her more confidence.

In the last picture, his favorite, she was on horseback, leaping over a fence. She’d been nineteen, and no doubt she’d dared herself to do it. That was what she’d always done when she was little. Rory had always been an excellent horsewoman. He recalled the times they’d ridden together, just the two of them, and rubbed the heel of his hand against the tight little band that squeezed his heart.

He had taken those photos himself. He might have promised Amanda that he wouldn’t contact them, but that hadn’t kept him from being there at important events over the years.

Harry set down his glass of cognac. He might have a pictorial history of his girls’ lives, but he didn’t have them. Reaching for a paper and pen, he shook off the nagging feeling that his time was running out. He might have to wait six years to deliver the letter in person, but he could write to her tonight.

To Rory, my darling daredevil…

1

WHY COULDN’T SHE EVER PLAN ahead?

Rory Gibbs gave herself a mental kick as she pushed her way through the crowd in the waiting area of the Blue Pepper. When she’d made the urgent call to her sisters to join her for dinner, she’d totally forgotten that Tuesday night was singles’ night at the popular Georgetown bistro. Now, as usual, she was going to have to depend on her luck to get a table. Rising to her tiptoes, she scanned the crowd trying to spot one of the owners.

George, a gentle giant of a man, would be busy at the bar, but his partner, Rad, should be somewhere near the reservation desk. Skirting a group of preppy-looking men, Rory climbed the four steps that led to the bar and once more scanned the crush of people. Or tried to. It was just hell being short.

“Excuse me.” Rory smiled up at a tall man as she wedged herself a path between him and the brunette he was talking to. He didn’t even glance down at her. Neither did another man whose elbow she jarred as she attempted unsuccessfully to duck beneath it. Halfway to the reservation desk, she finally bumped into Rad as they both were squeezing their way around a group of three women.

“Rory, Rory, Rory, Rory.” In spite of the crush of people, Rad managed to grasp her hands and kiss the air near her left cheek. Then he stepped back to give her a critical once-over. She returned the favor, noting that tonight his hair was white-blond and spiked. Rad changed his hair color almost as frequently as he changed his ties.

Before he’d bought the Blue Pepper, Rad had studied fashion design in New York City, and he’d appointed himself fashion policeman for the Gibbs sisters. He’d convinced her older sister, Natalie, to experiment with new colors and to start wearing her hair down.

For a full minute, Rory held her breath, hoping that the outfit she’d decided on met with his approval.

Rad had insisted she develop her own signature style. But like everything else she did, she was never quite sure how she was doing. She’d gotten the idea of pairing the faded, low-slung jeans with a vintage organdy-and-lace shirt from one of the layouts in Celebs magazine. She’d made the look her own by tying the shirttails beneath her breasts and adding strappy, high-heeled sandals, along with cascades of thin Italian gold hoops in her ears.

Finally, Rad beamed a smile at her, then leaned in and pitched his voice to be heard above the clatter of glasses and snatches of conversation. “A very nice variation on the Sarah Jessica Parker look! And I love the little gold bar in your navel. Veerry sexy.”

“Thanks.” Rory tried not to think about the fact that the only men who ever used that word to describe her were gay. No negative thoughts tonight, she reminded herself as she beamed a smile at Rad. “Tell me my luck’s holding and you can find me a table.”

Rad’s brows shot up. “On a Tuesday night? You’re lucky to have two sisters who plan ahead and call for reservations. Detective Natalie paged me at noon.”

That figured, Rory thought. Natalie took her responsibility as the oldest very seriously, and as a cop, she was good at thinking ahead.

“Dr. Gibbs beat her by calling this morning,” Rad said.

That figured, too. Sierra was a meticulous planner. She was forever making lists on blue note cards, and it had certainly paid off. She’d recently accepted a tenure-track position in Georgetown’s psychology department, and she ran her life with the same smooth efficiency that she wrote her books and taught her courses.

A little sliver of envy ran through Rory. Despite that they were triplets, she and her sisters were as different as two suns and the moon, and she wanted to be more like them. For starters, Natalie and Sierra had inherited the “planning” genes while her own approach to life so far could best be described as seat-of-the-pants.

She envied them in the looks department, too. Both Natalie and Sierra were tall like their father while she was short like their mother. Natalie was a smashing redhead; Sierra was a cool Gwyneth Paltrow–type blonde; and she was a plain brunette. But what was beginning to bother Rory most of all was that at twenty-six, her sisters were settled on their career paths and she was still trying to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up.

Those days were history, she reminded herself. If everything went well tomorrow, she would no longer be the “muddled in the middle” triplet. She would be a reporter with a staff job at Celebs magazine. Nerves knotted in her stomach. If everything went well…

“Dr. Gibbs and Detective Natalie are waiting for you out on the patio,” Rad continued.

Sierra and Natalie had also inherited the “title” genes. She was just plain Rory.

“I’ve already put in an order for the appetizer special.” Rad turned her in the direction of the patio and gave her a nudge.

Food. That’s what she needed to settle her nerves. Usually, she chewed bubble gum, but she’d run out—a result of bad planning, of course.

No negative thoughts, she lectured herself again. As she nudged, ducked and generally bulldozed her way through the crowd, Rory tried to organize her thoughts and screw up her courage. After all, she was about to have one of life’s defining moments. She was going to open the letter her father had sent to her.

One month ago, she and her sisters had gathered here at the Blue Pepper to celebrate their twenty-sixth birthday, and Natalie had dropped a little bombshell into their lives.

After not seeing or hearing from Harry Gibbs for sixteen years, they’d each received a letter from him—a letter that had been held in trust by their father’s attorney for six years after Harry had died. They’d only been twenty when they’d lost both parents within months of each other.

Even now, it was hard for Rory to let herself think about her father without feeling a few pangs of pain and resentment. She couldn’t quite forgive him for walking out on them when they were ten. Neither could her sisters. Shortly after he’d left, they’d stopped calling him Dad and started referring to him as Harry.

Coming up short behind a solid wall of people who’d gathered to watch the salsa band, Rory edged her way along, looking for an opening. Just the thought of opening that letter had the nerves dancing in her stomach. Natalie had opened her letter a month ago, and the advice Harry had given her—to trust in her talents and risk everything to get what she wanted—had changed Natalie’s life. Not only had her older sister decided to say yes to the adventure of a lifetime, but she’d also found love. Since Natalie had found Chance Mitchell, she’d positively glowed.

But then Natalie had always had a lot of talents to trust in. Rory couldn’t imagine what Harry would say to her. Wiping damp hands on her jeans, she gave up on finding an opening in the wall of people. Instead, she ducked her head, twisted to the side and muscled her way through the crowd. After spotting her sisters, she shot across the dance floor, and finally dropped into a chair between them. Martinis were waiting, along with a platter of the Blue Pepper’s famous finger food. Rory reached for a stuffed mushroom and popped it into her mouth. Then she said around it, “Thanks for coming.”

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” Natalie said.

Sierra tapped the blue note card on the table in front of her. “We only agreed that you would be the one to go second. You can take all the time you want.”

Rory swallowed and drew in a deep breath. “I’ve waited long enough.” Slipping the letter out of her pocket, she set it on the table. “I need Harry’s advice.” There. She’d said it, and the words eased some of the flutters in her stomach.

“What’s up?” Natalie asked.

Rory glanced at Natalie. Of course, her perceptive older sister would know that something besides the letter was bothering her. She drew in a deep breath.

“I’ve finally chosen a career.”

Natalie smiled gently. “I understand why you feel like it’s important you make a decision, but you don’t have to put so much pressure on yourself, you know, Rory,” Natalie said.

Rory glanced down at the white envelope with her name scrawled across it. Yes, she did. Her conversation with her boss that morning clinched it. She was sick and tired of the self-doubts that had plagued her all her life. “You guys were born knowing what you wanted to do. I’ve changed jobs six times in four years. That must be some kind of a Guinness record.”

“Who says everyone has to be like Sierra or me?” Natalie asked.

“And who says that we’ll stay at our jobs forever?” Sierra peered at her over the rims of her glasses. “Research shows that most people in our age group will have to change their career paths three or four times in the course of their lifetimes. You’ll be much more prepared for those changes than either Natalie or I will.”

She could always depend on her sisters for unflagging support, but it didn’t change the fact that she’d never felt the kind of confidence that they’d always felt about their career choices. Bottom line—she was tired of being the “muddled in the middle” sister.

Her gaze dropped to the envelope again. “I can’t help thinking that if I’d only been as focused on a specific career as you both were, Harry could have come home sooner. I bet Mom was worried that I would have taken up after Dad if he’d become part of our lives again.”

Natalie took one of her hands and Sierra the other. “You can’t blame yourself for a decision that our parents made. And if you want to blame someone for the fact that Harry went away, blame me. I’m the one who inherited his knack for cracking safes. I’ll bet that’s what freaked Mom out.”

Sierra squeezed Rory’s hand. “Children always feel a certain amount of guilt when they’re abandoned by a parent.”

Rory stared at her. “You, too? What could you possibly feel guilty about?”

Sierra smiled wanly. “I was always sick. I figured that the reason Mom didn’t want to go with him was because of me.”

“No,” Rory protested.

“Not true,” Natalie said at the same time.

Then Natalie straightened her shoulders. “I think we have to come to an agreement. We aren’t to blame for what they did. And we certainly aren’t to blame that Harry died before he could come back and deliver his advice in person.” She raised her martini. “Let’s say goodbye to guilt.”

Rory and Sierra raised their glasses, and then they all sipped their drinks.

“Easier said than done.” Rory set down her glass.

“It’s a good first step,” Sierra said.

“Here goes.” Rory picked up the letter from her father. After opening the flap, she pulled out a single sheet of paper.

To Rory, my darling daredevil,

Your mother and I were both twenty-six when you girls came into our lives, and we agreed that you can open this letter on your twenty-sixth birthday in the event that I’m not there to talk to you in person.

Remember when you were little and I used to warn you that you could only trust in your luck so far? Well, I was dead wrong to tell you that. That was what your mother always told me. She was afraid that some day I’d take one risk too many, and because you were always so impetuous, she worried about you, too. I hope that you will listen to me now. Trust in your luck all the way—and be willing to push it. And never be afraid to take risks. You can do anything you want if you dare to take a shot at it. Most important of all—don’t be afraid to stay in the game.

If I’d followed that advice, I would never have left you and your sisters. I will always regret that I didn’t dare to stay in the game.

Love,

Harry

Rory forgot to breathe as she reread the words. Had he really thought of her as his darling daredevil? The thought had her heart swelling a bit. She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Well.”

“Look at the pictures,” Sierra urged.

Rory pulled three photos out of the envelope. There’d been three in Natalie’s letter, too. Moisture pricked her eyes again as she noted that one picture had been taken at one of the races she’d run in high school, and another was at her senior prom. The third was one of her on horseback jumping a fence.

Memories stirred in her mind. When she was little, Harry had encouraged her to ride. He’d seen to it that she’d had lessons, and he’d never failed to be there on the sidelines, telling her that she could do anything she dared to do.

She’d forgotten all about that. Perhaps she really had inherited a daredevil trait from him. Studying the picture more closely, she pinned down the time to her freshman year in college. The equestrian team had won a blue ribbon at the state finals that year, and the meet had taken place less than a year before Harry’s fatal accident.

He’d been there, just as he’d been at every other important event in their lives. An old familiar ache settled around her heart. “I miss him.”

“Me, too.” Natalie sighed.

“Ditto,” Sierra added.

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Finally, Natalie cleared her throat. “Okay. Now we want to know why you need Harry’s advice tonight of all nights. Did you and your boss at Celebs come to a parting of the ways?”

“No.” Rory shook her head. “This isn’t about another career change. I still want to be a reporter. I think I can be good at it. But my current job hasn’t turned out to be what I expected. What it boils down to is I’m really just a research assistant to Lea Roberts, one of their star reporters. I’ve written some pieces, but I haven’t gotten a byline yet.”

Even as she explained the situation to her sisters, Rory recalled the scene that had taken place in Lea Roberts’s office that morning.

Lea was a tall, stunning brunette with a slender build who was always relaxed and perfectly controlled. But that morning, Rory’s boss had been pacing behind her desk.

“You’ve been asking to do some fieldwork,” Lea had said, waving her into a chair.

“Yes.”

Lea circled the desk and rested a hip on its corner. “I’m going to tell you up front that I’m not sure you’re ready to handle this. But I’m desperate. I can’t do it myself because I have to interview Elizabeth Cavenaugh, the chief justice’s wife, at her apartment in New York City tomorrow morning, and I can’t postpone it. All you have to do is snap a picture. That’s it.”

“I can handle it,” Rory said, wishing that Lea didn’t sound so much like she was trying to convince herself of that fact. “Who is the person I’m supposed to take a picture of?”

Lea leaned closer. “You’re not to mention this to anyone, understand?”

Rory nodded.

“I’ve received a tip that Jared Slade is going to be checking in to Les Printemps tomorrow morning. I want you to get a picture of him. One picture. Can you do it?”

“Sure,” Rory said, a surge of excitement moving through her. She knew just about everything there was to know about the reclusive businessman who ran Slade Enterprises. She’d been researching him for Lea for two weeks, and the thought of meeting him in person…well, the man just plain fascinated her. “Is that all? Shouldn’t I try to get an interview?”

Lea stared at her for a moment. Then she threw back her head and laughed. “An interview?”

Emotions tumbled through Rory. Beneath the hurt and the humiliation, she felt a little flame of anger begin to burn.

“An interview,” Lea repeated as she struggled to get her laughter under control. “Slade has never granted an interview—to anyone. He loathes all reporters. You’ll be lucky if you can get a picture. Just focus all your attention on that. This could be a real coup for the magazine, and I’m depending on you. If you can get the photo, I’ll recommend you for a staff position.”

The staff position had been her dream from the moment she’d accepted the job at Celebs. She should have been thrilled. But try as she might, Rory hadn’t been able to forget that Lea had laughed out loud at her idea to get an interview with Jared Slade. Even now as she waited for her sister’s reaction to her story, she wondered if her boss was aware that her laughter had been tantamount to a dare. Pushing the thought temporarily aside, Rory focused her full attention on her sisters.

“She offered you a staff job? That’s wonderful,” Sierra said.

“And it doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Natalie added.

When her sisters raised their glasses, Rory shook her head. “It’s not a done deal yet. First I have to snap a picture of Jared Slade.”

Frowning, Natalie tapped her fingers on the table. “Jared Slade…isn’t he that mysterious business tycoon, the recluse?”

Rory nodded. “I’ve done some research on him. The Wall Street Journal calls him the twenty-first-century version of Howard Hughes. He’s also been dubbed ‘the man with the Midas touch’ when it comes to business. His companies run the gamut from five-star hotels and golf courses to high-end retail clothing stores. He’s absolutely fascinating.”

“He’s had his share of trouble lately,” Natalie said. “There was a food-poisoning incident at his hotel in Atlanta and a fire at a factory of his in upstate New York.”

Rory stared at Natalie. “How did you know all that?”

“He’s been in D.C. twice in the past month. Part of my job is to try to keep tabs on high-profile people who might bring trouble here with them. His office always refuses to let us know where he’s staying.”

Rory picked up a strip of green pepper and gestured with it. “He’s like a phantom. No one knows what he looks like. I’m beginning to wonder if he even exists. Maybe he’s just a made-up figurehead like Betty Crocker.”

When her sisters aimed two blank stares at her, she said, “You know, that was the housewife that General Mills created out of whole cloth to promote their products. She was just a picture they put on their cake mixes and stuff. It could be that ‘Jared Slade’ is an imaginary person that a very enterprising CEO is using to create a certain mystique about Slade Enterprises.”

“You’ll have to have some kind of plan if you’re going to take a photo of someone who’s never been seen and who might not be real at all,” Sierra commented.

Rory reached for a cube of cheese and stuffed it into her mouth. Her younger sister had a steel trap of a mind that always got to the heart of the problem. Rory didn’t have a plan—exactly—at least not one she could jot down on a note card.

Swallowing, she said, “It’s pretty simple. Lea Roberts received a tip that Jared Slade will be checking into Les Printemps tomorrow morning. I’m going to be in the lobby waiting. I figure I’ll snap the picture when Mr. Slade registers at the desk.”

Natalie frowned. “It sounds risky to me. Celebrities have been known to resort to violence when their pictures are taken by the paparazzi.”

Rory met her sister’s eyes. “I’ll be in the lobby of an exclusive hotel. And I ran hurdles in high school, remember? If worse comes to worst, I’ll just make a run for it.”

“I still don’t like it,” Natalie said.

Rory leaned forward. “I’ve got to do this, Nat. I want this staff job more than anything. It’s my way of proving to everyone including myself that I can be successful at something.”

“I think this is even more than that,” Sierra said. “It’s personal. You’re intrigued by the man himself.”

Rory turned to stare at Sierra. It never ceased to amaze her that her younger sister always saw more than anyone expected her to.

Natalie’s eyes narrowed as she shot Sierra a look and then turned to study Rory. “I thought you’d decided to swear off men.”

“Real men. I’m on a sabbatical from them since Paul the jerk dumped me. Jared Slade is merely a mystery I’m interested in solving. What makes a man want to hide from the world the way he does?”

Natalie held up a hand. “Let’s clarify one point. I don’t think that Paul the jerk qualifies as a ‘real man.’ He used you to help pay the rent while he made it through his last year of law school. The day he walked out was the luckiest day of your life.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sierra said, raising her martini.

Rory raised her glass and bemusedly toasted her good fortune. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been dumped. I’m kind of getting used to it. The way I see it, I don’t have good luck with men. That’s why I’m not having anything to do with them until my ideal fantasy man comes along.”

“A fantasy man?” Sierra grabbed a fresh note card out of her canvas bag. “I’m doing some research on female sexual fantasies. What’s he like?”

Smiling, Rory drew a finger down the stem of her martini glass. “He’s tall, dark and handsome, of course. And he’s a little dangerous looking. He has this tough outer shell, but he’s really a sweetie underneath. And when he smiles, he has a dimple—just one—in his left cheek.”

Rory warmed to her theme, grateful that the conversation had veered away from the riskiness of her plan to photograph Jared Slade. “But the best part is my fantasy man thinks I’m incredibly sexy. I drive him nuts.” She leaned closer to her sisters. “He has the most incredible hands.”

“And you know this because…?” Natalie asked.

Thoroughly at ease, Rory selected a stuffed mushroom. “There’s not much sense creating a fantasy man if you’re not going to engage in some hot fantasies with him.”

“Paul really did a job on you if you’re reduced to having fantasy sex,” Natalie said.

“Do you see me complaining?” Rory licked her thumb. “The great thing about fantasy sex is that there can be more variety than with just one real man.”

Sierra glanced at Natalie, who’d grown quiet and grinned. “I don’t think our big sister agrees with you. I think she’s found her fantasy man. Maybe if you push your luck, you’ll find yours, too.”

Rory dubiously glanced down at her father’s letter. “I’ll be happy if I’m lucky enough to get an inter—a picture of Jared Slade.”

Natalie frowned. “I’m not going to talk you out of this plan of yours, am I?”

“No, so why don’t you wish me luck?” Rory grabbed another cheese cube to ease the nerves that had just returned to her stomach. She hadn’t revealed the whole of her plan to her sisters. The picture was just step one.

“Well, I can’t argue with following Harry’s advice,” Natalie said. “It got me Chance.”

Rory grinned. “Maybe it will get me my fantasy man.”

“Then let’s drink to it.” Sierra raised her glass.

“And to luck,” Natalie said.

“And to Harry.” Rory sipped her martini. Tomorrow, she was not only going to snap a picture of Jared Slade, she was also going to get him to agree to an interview. She could do it. She was a daredevil, wasn’t she?

LEA ROBERTS STARED OUT the window of her office, but she wasn’t taking in the view of the Washington Monument. She was too worried that she’d made a mistake in the way she’d handled Rory Gibbs.

The laughter might have been a bit harsh, but she didn’t want Rory even to think about asking for an interview. She would be the one to do that. Jared Slade would be furious with Rory for taking his picture. That would allow Lea to step in and play good cop to Rory’s bad cop. Her plan was to offer to trade the picture for an interview.

Turning from the window, Lea began to pace. She really hated to give up the reins of control, but what else could she have done? She couldn’t risk taking the photo herself. If Jared Slade was really Hunter Marks, the man might recognize her.

She’d made the right decision. Rory was smart and inventive. Those qualities could work in her favor. Hell, she should be able to snap that photo and get away before Jared Slade could blink.

The problem was Rory Gibbs was also impetuous and hard to predict. She was forever doing something unexpected. Lea raised her hand and pressed two fingers against the headache that had begun to throb behind her right ear. If Jared Slade turned out to be Hunter Marks, it would be her ticket to what she’d always dreamed of: a Pulitzer and most certainly a six-figure book contract.

In her mind, it was still a big if. Her anonymous informant seemed certain, but Lea wasn’t so sure. Was it really possible that Hunter Marks had reinvented himself as a man who owned and ran a multimillion-dollar corporation? It would be the scoop of a lifetime.

Oh, breaking the story about the scandal that had nearly destroyed a town had gotten her a job with the Boston Globe for a while. But the story had become old news as soon as Hunter had disappeared. And after a few months at the Globe, she’d been eased into covering the society page and eventually she’d taken the job at Celebs. Had there been a way to play her cards differently?

After moving to her desk, Lea fished out an aspirin bottle and downed two tablets without water. One snapshot. Then she’d be able to tell if Jared Slade was the man she’d known ten years ago as Hunter Marks. If he was, she’d have the leverage she’d need to finally get everything she wanted. This time she’d play her cards right.

Hunter Marks had secrets to hide, and Lea knew them all.

2

THIS WAS DEFINITELY her lucky day! Rory Gibbs barely kept herself from dancing a little jig. The sketchy plan she’d had when she’d entered the hotel had worked like a charm. The bell captain had bought her story. Now all she had to do was snap the picture. She gave her bubble gum three quick chews.

One of the two men at the registration desk had to be Jared Slade. She was sure of it. But which one? She needed a moment and it wouldn’t do to be caught staring at a guest. Taking two quick steps to her right, she ducked behind a potted palm tree and peered through the branches at the two men.

Was it the handsome, preppy-looking blonde? Or was it the shorter, tougher-looking dark-haired man who stood next to him?

Nerves simmering, Rory blew out a small bubble, then used her teeth and tongue to draw the gum back into her mouth. The dark-haired man had given the name Jared Slade to the reception clerk, but the blonde was the one signing the registration form. Rory was betting on the blonde.

Still, it could be the shorter, darker one even though, with his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked more like an accountant than a man who ran a company. Rory blew another bubble.

The way she’d pictured him in her mind, Jared Slade had been larger and drop-dead gorgeous. And in spite of the almost picture-perfect good looks, he had an aura of danger about him. In fact, he’d looked quite a bit like her fantasy man.

Neither of the two men standing at the desk looked particularly dangerous. Rory licked another bubble off her lips. She’d lived long enough to understand the huge chasm that existed between fantasy and reality. The studious-looking accountant was probably the real Jared Slade.

As she dug in her bag for her camera, she took a quick glance around the lobby. A third man had come through the revolving doors with Jared Slade. She’d been too intent on watching the other two at the desk to pay him much heed, but she did so now. He was a large man with dark hair, wearing black jeans, a leather jacket and dark glasses. Rory blinked and stared. He definitely had fantasy-man possibilities.

At that moment, he lifted the dark glasses and shot a quick look in her direction. She felt her heart skip a beat and her mouth go dry. Then as those dark eyes locked on hers, she felt a little punch of something hot right in her gut and her mind simply emptied.

It was only when he turned back to talk to the bell captain that Rory remembered to breathe. And it was only as she drew in a second breath that the oxygen reached her brain and she began to think again.

Well. She’d never reacted that way before to any man. But then, this one was remarkably like the fantasy man she’d created in her head—tall, dark, and handsome in a rough-edged sort of way. She began to chew on her bubble gum again. Would he have a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled?

Time for a reality check, she reminded herself. Mr. Danger was probably a bodyguard with valet duties, since he seemed to be sorting out the luggage with the bell captain. When he glanced over in the direction of the registration desk, Rory scrunched herself farther down behind the palm tree. The last thing she needed was a run-in with Jared Slade’s bodyguard before she snapped her picture.

She should have worn something green, camouflage fatigues. For one long moment—even through the palm fronds—Rory felt the large man’s eyes on her again. It felt like a mild sort of electrical shock along her nerve endings. She averted her own gaze and willed herself invisible. Her red boots would be hidden, but not the red cap. Since she’d started to develop her signature style, her sisters had teased her about being a slave to fashion. Was she about to pay the price?

HUNTER MARKS FROWNED as he watched the woman in the red hat and boots squat behind a tall potted palm. Who was she and what in hell was she doing?

He scanned the lobby again, but she was the only person there who seemed out of place. Lately, he’d been more paranoid than ever when he checked into a hotel. Small wonder since someone was threatening his company. The procedure was that his two employees—Michael Banks and Alex Santos—checked in while he scoped the lobby for possible reporters. The system had worked well for several years. So far no one had been able to print a photo of Jared Slade. No one, aside from his most trusted employees, even knew what Jared Slade looked like. And no one knew that Jared Slade used to be Hunter Marks.

But the person who was sending him threatening notes knew. And more and more, Hunter was becoming convinced that the threat to Slade Enterprises was coming from within. He’d come to D.C. to get to the bottom of it.

Hunter returned his gaze to the woman behind the potted palm. His eyes had been drawn to her from the moment he’d walked into Les Printemps. One glance had him thinking of pixies and elves. And that was not the usual turn his mind took when he looked at a woman. He prided himself on being practical rather than fanciful when it came to the female of the species.

This particular specimen had been seated on one of the settees, not sipping tea or a cocktail as the other occupants of the lobby were. Instead, she’d been scanning the crowd while she blew a huge bubble. When the bubble burst, he’d watched in amusement as she pulled it off her cheeks and nose and poked it back into her mouth.

He’d taken the time to study her face then. The cherry-red lips had drawn his attention first, and he’d found himself wondering if they would carry the flavor of the bubble gum. The errant thought along with the tightening and hardening of his body surprised him.

Strange, because women never surprised him. And the pixie with the bubble gum was a far right turn from the type he usually dated. For starters, she looked too young. Of course, the slight build could account for that, along with the hair. From what he could see of it—a few wisps that peeked out from beneath the red cap—she wore her dark hair shorter than most men. He shifted his gaze down the black jean jacket and jeans to the red boots and felt his body go even harder.

Then she glanced his way and for one long moment his gaze held hers. He felt a punch of desire so strong that for a second he couldn’t breathe. Then his mind filled with pImages** of her and what he’d like to do to her.

“Here you go, sir.”

With some effort, Hunter dragged his mind back to reality as the bell captain handed him three tickets. His reaction to this odd woman was unprecedented.

“The briefcase and the laptop will be taken up to the Presidential Suite for Mr. Slade,” the man said. “I’ll handle it personally. And the suitcases will be up shortly.”

“Appreciate it,” Hunter said as he slipped a folded bill across the narrow counter. Then he leaned closer to the bell captain. “Do you see that woman over there, the one behind the palm tree?”

The bell captain took a moment to scan the lobby casually. Les Printemps was a small hotel that prided itself on calling each guest by name. Hunter had researched it himself. The management catered to a very select clientele, a mix of foreign diplomats and celebrities, who paid premium prices because they valued their privacy and expected the hotel to protect it at all costs.

“That’s Miss Rory Gibbs, sir,” the bell captain said, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“Is she staying here?” Hunter asked.

“No.”

Hunter frowned. “I thought only registered guests were allowed in the lobby.”

“She’s meeting her fiancé here. She said her father brought her here for high tea once, and she wanted to relive the moment with her husband-to-be. Sweet little thing. She reminds me a bit of my daughter.”

Hunter returned his gaze to Rory Gibbs just as she pulled a camera out of her purse.

Shit, he said to himself as he strode toward her. Perhaps she was a reporter, after all. He prided himself on having a sixth sense where the press was concerned. But this one had fooled him.

There were only three people in his organization who’d known he was checking in to Les Printemps. Ms. Rory Gibbs was his ticket to finding out just who the traitor was.

RORY’S HEART WAS BEATING so fast that she was sure the two men at the reception desk could hear it. One at a time, she wiped her damp hands on her jeans. She couldn’t afford to drop the camera. Dammit. She could still feel Jared Slade’s bodyguard/valet watching her and he was having the oddest effect on her whole system.

Focus, she told herself. No one had ever taken a photo of Jared Slade. She needed this picture. Once she had it, she could negotiate step two of her plan—an exclusive interview with Jared Slade.

“We want you to enjoy your stay at Les Printemps, Mr. Slade,” the neatly groomed woman behind the desk said as she pushed a key across the counter.

Rory noted that the dark-haired man picked it up. But it was the blond man who said, “Thank you.”

They would turn around any minute and she would finally be looking at Jared Slade. Which one would he be?

Turn. Rory concentrated on sending out the message telepathically. But the blonde was asking about the health club facilities. Jared Slade was reputed to be a health nut.

So the blonde was Jared.

“Where’s the best place to take a run?” the dark-haired man asked.

Or maybe the runner was Jared. And still they didn’t turn around. So much for her telepathic powers.

Raising the camera, she pressed the button on the zoom lens and found herself viewing a close-up of a palm leaf. She pushed it out of her way, only to discover that the two men were moving away from the desk. She could see their faces in profile now. The darker haired man was tough looking and built like a boxer. The blonde had the long, rangy body of a swimmer.

If she’d had to bet money, she still would have placed it on the blonde. But this was too important to trust in her luck. She had to be sure. Edging her way out from behind the palm tree, she aimed the camera and said, “Jared Slade?”

The blond man turned first, and she had three quick shots of him before someone behind her said, “Stop right there.”

Whirling, she saw the fantasy man—Mr. Danger—striding toward her. He looked every inch the bodyguard now. In fact, the combination of sunglasses, black leather jacket and black jeans had her thinking for one giddy moment of the Terminator. Rory froze.

She wasn’t sure if it was the sheer size of the man that intimidated her for a moment, or perhaps that odd little punch to her system threw her off. The only thing she was certain of was that all of his attention was totally focused on her. She could feel his purpose, feel him in every pore of her body. He was the Terminator personified.

When he was still a few yards away, he held out his hand. “I’ll take that camera.”

She clutched it tight to her chest. She wanted to run. The old Rory would have chosen that option in a nanosecond. Did she dare to stay? Tucking her gum into the side of her cheek, she said, “I’ll trade. You can have the pictures, but I want an interview with Jared Slade.”

He took one step closer. “Not a chance. Just give me the camera.”

Time to rethink her options. He was a lot bigger up close than he was from a distance, and he’d probably be able to outrun her. But if she handed over the camera…

Stay in the game. Even as the words slipped into her mind, she feinted to the right, then darted behind the palm tree. Once she’d cleared the branches, she raced for the lobby door.

HUNTER SWORE under his breath. By the time he skirted the damn potted palm, the little pixie had pushed her way through the front door.

“Stay here,” he called over his shoulder to the two men who’d been at the registration desk. Then he ran toward the hotel entrance and made it out to the street just in time to see her turn the corner. By the time he reached it, she was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t have reached the next corner, so she had to be in one of the shops.

Deliberately, he slowed his pace, allowing the other pedestrians on the street to flow past him. The first shop he passed had designer chocolates in the window. A quick glance inside told him that his quarry wasn’t there, and there was no obvious place to hide. The second shop had lingerie displayed in the window, and he spotted her moving quickly toward the back of the store with an armful of lace and satin in tow.

Hunter glanced up at the name over the shop door and smiled slowly. This was his lucky day. Silken Fantasies was the very shop he’d come to D.C. to buy. Its location in the same block as Les Printemps was one of the reasons why he’d decided to stay at the small hotel. A quick glance at the tall, strikingly attractive woman behind the counter confirmed that she was the owner. At fifty, Irene Malinowitz was looking to retire so that she could spend time with her grandchildren. And Slade Enterprises was looking to turn Silken Fantasies into a very profitable chain.

Slowly Hunter backed out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. He had to hand it to Rory Gibbs. She had a good plan. All she had to do was hang out in one of the dressing rooms until whoever was chasing her gave up.

Except he’d never given up in his life—even before he’d become Jared Slade. Added to that, she’d had the bad luck of running into a shop where he knew the owner. When Rory had disappeared into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, he moved closer to the window and considered his options. He wanted to talk to Rory Gibbs. He also wanted that camera, he reminded himself. The best way to fool her into thinking she’d taken a picture of the real Jared Slade would be to destroy the film.

Then he would ask her how she’d known that Jared Slade was going to be checking into Les Printemps. Very few people in his organization had known that. Denise Martin, the chief administrative assistant in his Dallas office, and the two men he was traveling with—Michael Banks, his executive assistant, and Alex Santos, his accountant. Up until now, he’d trusted all three of them. But now, he was sure that one of them was a traitor. Even worse, one of them knew his past and wanted revenge.

The problems at Slade Enterprises had started three months ago. There’d been an episode of stomach poisoning in his hotel in Atlanta and a fire that had caused some damage in a factory in upstate New York. He’d flown in to deal with each crisis personally. And both times he’d received notes with the same message: No matter what you do, soon the world will know who you are and what you did ten years ago.

Hunter was sure that the person sending the notes had to be connected in some way to the scandal that had nearly destroyed not only his family’s business, but the town he’d grown up in. A scandal that he’d been blamed for. A scandal that had the power to destroy Slade Enterprises.

Ms. Rory Gibbs might very well know who the writer of those notes was.

Hunter took out his cell phone. Little did she know it, but Ms. Rory Gibbs had just walked into a trap.

RORY LEANED BACK against the closed door of the dressing room and drew in a deep breath. She’d taken a risk when she’d chosen this store. Luckily, it had a place where she could hide. For the moment.

Her last glimpse of the Terminator had been when she’d turned the corner. There’d been no sign of him when she’d ducked into the shop. When he couldn’t see her on the street, he’d have to give up.

If her luck held. Crossing her fingers, she drew in another breath. The air was scented with lavender, and classical music poured out of a speaker that hung directly above her dressing room. In a minute, her heart rate would subside, she’d be able to breathe without panting, and her nerves would settle. And then she could figure out what to do next.

“I don’t think you have the right sizes.”

Rory jumped at the sound of the feminine, well-modulated voice behind her. “What?”

She peered through the slats in the door and made out the red suit of the woman who’d welcomed her to the shop when she’d dashed in.

“The sizes,” the voice said. “In your rush, you grabbed large, and I think you’ll find that petite will fit you better. I’ve brought you the same designs. Why don’t we switch?”

As she opened the door, Rory glanced down at the bits of lace and satin she was clutching to her chest. She hadn’t paid any attention to what she’d scooped up when she’d dashed in. The Terminator had been on her tail.

“Who recommended this shop to you?” the woman asked as they exchanged garments.

“No one,” Rory replied. “I just came in—on impulse.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled at her. “I get some of my best customers that way.”

Rory took a moment to look at the items for the first time. Lingerie—tiny bras and what looked to be thongs—in various shades of the rainbow.

“Wow,” she said as she spread petite sizes out on a nearby bench. “These don’t cover much.”

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never been able to quite figure out the point.” Rory leaned down to finger the lace on one of the thongs. “I mean, no one sees this stuff.”

The woman’s brows rose. “A lover would see it.”

Rory shot her a look. “Not for long. Mostly, they’re just interested in getting me naked.”

The woman’s laugh was low and infectious. “You need to look for a new lover. The first step would be to wear something like this.” She moved into the room, and lifted a cherry-red thong and matching bra from the bench, then handed them to Rory. “You’d be amazed at the difference something like this will make in a relationship. Wearing these next to your skin, you’ll feel sexier, more attractive, and much more confident about the way you appeal to men.”

“Yeah, well, finding a new lover is pretty low on my to-do list right now.”

“That could change if you met the right man.”

The Terminator flashed into Rory’s mind and she felt her body go soft and hot as if something inside of her were melting.

“Try these on,” the woman said. “What have you got to lose?”

Rory fingered the silky lace. The truth was she had nothing to lose. And this seemed to be her day for taking risks.

“Red is definitely your color.”

Rory glanced up to find the woman smiling warmly at her. She smiled right back, and held out her hand. “I’m Rory Gibbs. And you’re a very good saleswoman.”

The woman shook Rory’s hand. “Thanks. I’m Irene Malinowitz. Let me know if there’s anything else I can bring in.”

As Rory closed the door of the dressing room, she gave the red scraps a speculative look. She’d never worn red underwear in her life. Black, yes, when she was in the mood to feel a little “sexy” or when all of her white underwear were in the dirty-laundry hamper.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like to spend money on clothes. She did. Her maxed-out credit cards were a testimony to her weakness for fashion. But she preferred to part with her hard-earned plastic for what went on the outside—like the red boots or the jaunty little hat she was wearing.

She fingered the red lace of the thong—what there was of it. What would it feel like to put on? Considering, Rory chewed on her gum and blew out a bubble. What the heck. It was kind of like taking a dare. And she had some time to kill. The one thing she knew about the Terminator was that he never gave up. She could picture him walking up and down the street, peering into shops.

But first, she was going to find a place to hide the film so that he couldn’t just grab it from her. Pressing a button on the camera she was still clutching to her chest, she wound the roll to the end, took it out, and glanced around the tiny room for a hiding place. The only piece of furniture in the room was the bench. Wincing at the grossness of it, she removed the gum from her mouth, and then kneeling, she stuck the film container to the bottom of the bench.

Cloak-and-dagger was not her specialty, but she could rise to the occasion—probably because she’d read so many Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries when she was a kid. And then there were all those late-night TV movies she’d watched that offered a thousand and one tips for foiling dastardly villains.

And the Terminator had dastardly written all over him. Just thinking about him made her feel as if a little electric current were running along her nerve endings. She pressed a hand to her stomach. There it was again—that hot, fluttery feeling. He was still stalking her. She was sure of it.

And she was going to be prepared. Fishing a new roll of film out of her purse, she reloaded her camera and took four quick shots of the lingerie. If he was waiting outside when she left the shop, and he wanted the film, at least she’d be ready. She’d run from him once. Not again.

In the meantime… Rory glanced down at the red thong again. Standing, she slipped out of her jacket. Trying on a red thong should be no big deal. No one had to see her in it. She tugged off her jeans.

Long ago, she’d decided that the “sexy” part of the Gibbs legacy had also gone to her sisters.

Was Irene right? Could the simple act of wearing red underwear change her image of herself?

“LEA, IT’S BEEN A PLEASURE.” Elizabeth Cavenaugh, wife of Supreme Court Justice Henry Cavenaugh, extended her hand. “I know you went out of your way to fly into Manhattan, but I just detest summers in D.C. Thank you.”

Lea took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. During the hour-long interview, the charm of Mrs. Cavenaugh’s southern accent had begun to wear thin. And the glowing report she would have to write up on the woman’s latest philanthropic project was the kind of article that Lea detested writing. But she managed a smile. “You’ll remember to e-mail me the recipe for those scones?”

“I’ll have Delia write one up for me this afternoon. But she got it from her mother. Don’t be surprised if it reads a pinch of this and two dashes of that.”

Lea brightened her smile. “I’ll give it to my cook. That kind of recipe is right up her alley. And thank you again for the interview. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed one more.”

As the door closed behind her, Lea pulled out her cell phone and barely kept herself from running to the elevator. One glance told her that Rory hadn’t called yet.

Damn. She glanced at her watch. Noon. Not time to panic yet, she told herself. After punching the button for the lobby, she leaned against the wall and tapped her foot. The interview had been a dead bore. The piece on Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s work in battling adult illiteracy would be typical of the kind of reporting she’d been doing for Celebs magazine for the past five years. She could write it in her sleep. It was the kind of article that made her want to scream.

No matter, she told herself. Her ticket to what she’d always dreamed of having was within reach. By this evening, Rory Gibbs was going to bring her the means to a story that would free her from ever having to write another boring article on politicians or their spouses.

Lea stepped out of the elevator and strode across the marble-floored lobby. When the doorman pushed open the glass door, a blast of moist heat struck her with enough force to have her almost wishing for the coolness of Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s penthouse apartment. Almost, but not quite. Instead, she hurried to the curb and raised her arm to hail a taxi.

Two passed her by before a third pulled up.

“Kennedy Airport,” she said as she climbed in. “And could you turn the air-conditioning up to high?”

With a nod, the cabdriver pulled into the busy traffic. Leaning her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes. But she couldn’t relax, not until she heard from Rory Gibbs.

The air in the taxi had gone from hot to tepid when her cell phone rang.

“Rory?” she asked.

“No. It’s me.”

Lea’s hands tightened on her phone as she recognized the voice of her anonymous informant. This was only the second call she’d received, but she still couldn’t pin down whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. The two things she was sure of were that she’d never heard it before and it was cold. Bone-chilling cold. “Yes?”

“Do you have the pictures?”

“Not yet. It’s only noon.”

“He’s checked in to his suite.”

Lea’s heart stilled. If that was true, she should have heard something from Rory. “The photographer I sent hasn’t reported back yet.”

“I trusted you to get those pictures. I won’t be happy if you failed.”

Lea couldn’t repress a shudder even though her temper flared. “Look. I told you I had another commitment. Besides, he might have recognized me. So I sent someone who’s as hungry to get those pictures as we are. I can guarantee I’ll have them for you by the end of the day.”

“You’d better.”

“Look, I don’t like to be…” She knew that her caller had clicked off, but she said the word anyway. “Threatened. I don’t like to be threatened.” But even in the still-hot taxicab, she shivered. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that whoever was feeding her information on Jared Slade was dangerous.

Pushing the feeling away, she reminded herself there might be one hell of a story here. Besides, she’d dealt with all kinds of anonymous tipsters before. It was ridiculous to let this one frighten her.

And if Jared Slade turned out to be Hunter Marks as the anonymous caller had promised, she’d break the story of the year. Lea managed a smile. Who better to write it than the reporter who’d broken the original story that had caused Hunter Marks to disappear off the face of the earth?

3

HUNTER STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR of Silken Fantasies. A little bell jangled over his head, and the woman behind the counter glanced up with a smile.

“Welcome to Silken Fantasies.”

“Irene Malinowitz?” he asked, taking out a card as he moved toward the counter. The shop was small, but elegant. He noted with approval the plush carpeting, the accents of glass and chrome, and the merchandise displayed gracefully on mannequins and arranged artfully on tables. He’d seen photos, but this was his first trip to the store itself. There was a scent in the air and the muted tones of Chopin floated out of the speakers. He also knew that Irene Malinowitz had built her clientele mostly by word of mouth, and that since she’d launched her catalog, her net profits had risen to just over five million dollars a year.

“Yes?”

Hunter handed her the card. “I’m Mark Hunter, one of Jared Slade’s executive assistants.” Mark Hunter was the name he used when he traveled and when he dealt personally with clients.

Irene glanced at the card and then met his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No.” Hunter seldom spoke with clients directly. Voice prints were as individual as fingerprints. The more successful Slade Enterprises had become, the more effort he’d put into protecting his anonymity.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?”

“Mr. Slade has just checked in to Les Printemps, and he would like to have you sign the contracts now in his suite, if that’s convenient. He’ll want to review them personally and there’s something else that demands his attention this afternoon.”

A flicker of a frown passed over Irene’s face. “I’m sorry, but I have a customer in the dressing room right now, and my assistant is at lunch. Perhaps in a half hour or so?”

Hunter smiled at her. “That’s why Mr. Slade sent me in person. I’ll be happy to cover for you.”

A phone rang on the counter behind Irene.

“That will be Mr. Banks now. He’ll verify who I am.”

Irene picked up the phone. “Hello?”

Hunter counted five beats until the smile appeared on her face.

“Yes, Mr. Banks.”

His executive assistant, Michael Banks, had handled all of the negotiations with Silken Fantasies, so Irene would be familiar with his voice. Michael was bright, and he was good with clients, especially the female ones. Being a man’s man, Alex Santos was better with males, and he was a whiz at crunching figures.

Irene was still smiling when she hung up the phone. “My customer is in the dressing room. I should—”

“She’ll be fine,” Hunter said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT CROSSED Rory’s mind as she studied herself in the three-way mirror was that she had to get to the gym more often and do some of those exercises that promised to lift her rear end. Then she shifted her position and backed away two steps so that she could study herself from the front only.

The image staring back at her from the mirror nearly had her laughing out loud. She’d left only her boots on, and now she wore nothing else but the lacy red thong and the merest excuse for a bra. It seemed that this was her day for really being daring.

And it felt good.

She picked up her jean jacket from the floor and slipped it on over the red bra. Then she walked back and forth in front of the mirror. No one looking at her would know what she was wearing beneath the jacket. But she would know. And the secret knowledge made her feel sexy. Really sexy. As if she could have any man she wanted.

She took off her jacket and then traced her finger along the waistband of the thong. She sighed. There was no way that she could afford this pricey little number, but she really had to add it to her fantasy life. An image of the Terminator tumbled into her mind. What if he saw her in this? Closing her eyes, she let herself imagine just how he might look at her—those dark eyes filling with hunger. And those hands. Oh, he definitely had her fantasy man’s hands. The one that had reached out to take her film had a wide palm and strong-looking fingers. They wouldn’t be gentle when they touched her. No, they would be hard, calloused, demanding, as they moved over her breasts. Her insides clenched as she imagined those hands trailing down her skin to the thin strap of lace at her hips and then lower—

When she heard the bell on the shop door ring, she jumped. Then with a hand pressed to her heart, she made herself breathe. It was a customer. This was, after all, a store.

Her heartbeat had just returned to normal when above the piano music drifting out of the overhead speaker, she heard a deep voice. A man’s voice. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rory whirled away from the mirror and dropped to her knees. Then she jiggled the slats in the door to get a look. Black boots, black jeans and the bottom of a black leather jacket. The Terminator.

He’d come for her.

Her mind racing as fast as her heart, she rose and pressed her back against the door. A plan. That’s what she needed. Maybe there was a back way out of the shop. She opened the door and took a quick look. He was facing Irene across a glass-and-chrome counter, and she was talking on the phone.

Just looking at him in profile had that strange little zing of awareness shooting along her nerve endings again. Escape, she reminded herself. You’re looking for a way out.

A quick look in the other direction dashed any hope she had of getting away. The back of the shop was a solid wall. Ducking back into her dressing room, she leaned against the door.

And then it struck her. She was thinking of running away, and that wasn’t what she wanted to do. This was her chance to negotiate that interview.

To calm her nerves, she focused once more on her image in the mirror. To her surprise she looked even sexier. Her skin was flushed. Somehow, she looked taller, her legs appeared to be longer, her breasts fuller.

In short, she looked like a woman who could get what she wanted.

And she wanted more than the interview. She wanted the Terminator. The awareness that she’d felt the moment she’d looked into his eyes was back—and it was growing. Her insides had begun to melt the moment she’d seen him again. And there was a growing ache right in her center. Rory pressed her hand against her stomach.

Get a grip, she told herself. This was no time to let some pricey undergarments turn her into a nymphomaniac. Nor was it time to become muddled about her objective. The interview. She had to talk to the Terminator and convince him to set up the interview with Jared Slade.

She grabbed her jeans—but first she had to get dressed.

The bell over the shop rang.

Dropping the jeans, Rory tensed, holding her breath.

He was leaving. She had to stop him. She moved to the door, opened it and stepped out.

But it wasn’t Irene Malinowitz’s back that she saw at the door to the shop. It was the Terminator’s.

“I’ll take care of everything, Irene,” he said.

She heard the door close, the lock click. Then he turned to face her.

For the second time in one morning—perhaps in her life—Rory felt her mind go perfectly blank. She couldn’t identify one thought—there were too many sensations cart-wheeling through her. Heat. Cold. Nerves. And an electric spark of lust. He was walking toward the dressing room with the same purposefulness in his stride he’d had when he’d moved across the lobby.

He was coming after her.

This time she wasn’t going to run.

THE MOMENT HE TURNED AWAY from locking the door to Silken Fantasies, Hunter Marks felt his body go absolutely still. She was standing right outside the dressing-room door, and as his gaze raked over that creamy, porcelain-smooth skin, those wispy bits of red lace, and the incredibly long legs, he felt his head begin to spin. He moved then, almost as if he were being drawn by a magnet.

There was something about her. He’d thought of her as an elf or a pixie. But standing there right now, she looked like an exotic dancer in a high-priced strip club. Was it the elf or the sex goddess who was drawing him?

Or was it something else? She wasn’t trying to escape; she hadn’t even made a move to cover herself. And there’d been that moment in the lobby of Les Printemps—just before she’d bolted—when her gaze had met his and he hadn’t seen a trace of fear in her eyes.

Courage was a rare commodity, and Hunter had always admired it when he saw it. Was that why she pulled at him? As he drew closer, he ran his eyes over her again. Or was his attraction to her merely an incredible trick of chemistry? Whatever caused it, he couldn’t look at her without wondering what it would be like to touch her—to taste her and touch her until she was slick and wet and hot for him.

His body heated, hardened, as he imagined what it might be like to slip inside of her and feel her close around him like a moist, tight fist.

Hunter stopped short when he was still a few feet away from her. For one chilling moment, he realized that if he allowed himself to get any closer, he would touch her. Kiss her. Pull her to the floor of the shop and—

Ruthlessly, he shoved the pImages** out of his mind and tried to replace them with some semblance of rational thought. Even as a voice at the back of his mind whispered, Take her, he struggled to recall why he’d followed her in here. What did he want from Rory Gibbs?

“I’ll give you the film on one condition,” she said.

The film. Hunter’s eyes narrowed. His brain was starving for blood while hers was clicking along at full speed. He watched her chew on her bottom lip.

Nerves. It gave him some satisfaction to realize that the sex goddess wasn’t quite as cool and pulled together as she appeared to be. This close, he could see that her eyes were a deep, golden amber, the color of well-aged whiskey. He could see the flicker of nerves there, too. And he could smell the faint scent of cherry-flavored bubble gum. He managed to keep his gaze from returning to her lips.

“Don’t you want to know what the condition is?” she asked.

The condition. Once more, Hunter found himself admiring her for keeping her mind on business. She didn’t even seem to be conscious of the fact that she was conducting negotiations while wearing next to nothing. But she wasn’t indifferent to him. Through the sheer red fabric covering her breasts, he could see that her nipples were hard little berries. And a pulse was beating at her throat. Thoroughly intrigued, he let himself wonder for a moment—what might it take to taste her right there?

But that wasn’t what he’d followed her into Silken Fantasies to do. Annoyance flared—not with her but with himself. He’d dealt with a lot of women in his life—family members, business acquaintances, lovers, and even some enemies—but he’d never met one who could cloud his mind the way this particular one could.

“What’s your condition?” he asked.

She briefly chewed her bottom lip again, then said, “I work for Celebs magazine, and I want an exclusive interview with Jared Slade.”

Not going to happen. And nothing she could have said would have more quickly catapulted him out of the fantasies he was building. She was a reporter, Hunter reminded himself, and he felt his body and his mind finally begin to cool.

He extended his hand, palm upward. “I’ll take the camera.”

She hesitated. “He hasn’t agreed to the interview yet.”

“First, I’ll develop the film and see what you’ve got to negotiate with,” he said.

She frowned at him. “If you take the film, I won’t have anything to negotiate with. You’ll have the pictures.”

He shot a dry smile at her and saw her eyes widen suddenly in surprise…or fear? “What is it?”

She licked her lips. “You have a dimple.”

“Yeah.” No, it wasn’t fear that was in her eyes. “Now that we’ve settled that, give me the film. We both know that all I have to do is walk over to the bench, dump your purse and take the camera. You won’t be able to stop me.”

The pulse fluttered at her throat again, and it took all of his concentration to keep himself from reaching for her. To his surprise, he found himself saying, “I’ll give you my word that I’ll talk to Mr. Slade and put in a good word for you. Under one condition.”

When she licked her lips, Hunter dropped his hand, fisted it at his side, and reminded himself that he was dealing with a reporter.

“What’s the condition?” she asked.

“Who told you that Jared Slade would be checking in to Les Printemps this morning? And don’t give me any crap about protecting your sources. I want a name.”

There was a trace of a frown in her eyes when they met his. “I don’t have a name. My boss received a tip and she sent me to take it because she had an interview she had to do in Manhattan today. I told her I could get it. That’s all I know.”

“Your job was just to snap a picture?”

“Yes.”

“What about the interview?”

“That was my idea.”

Despite that he considered the words reporter and liar to be synonymous, his gut instinct told him that she was telling the truth. There was an innocence in those amber-colored eyes that contrasted sharply, irresistibly, with what she was wearing. Or wasn’t wearing.

She ran a hand through that short dark hair, and his fingers itched to do the same thing. He could anticipate what the silky texture would feel like beneath his hands.

“Look, getting an interview with Jared Slade will get me a staff job at Celebs. And I need the job. I need to prove myself. Can you understand that?”

Hunter said nothing, but he did understand. Perfectly.

“Tell him he can do a Wizard of Oz thing and sit behind a curtain. I only took the pictures because I thought they would give me some sort of leverage to get the interview. You can have them.”

She moved to the bench and extracted the camera from a gigantic purse. When she turned back to him, his gaze shifted for a moment to the image of her backside in the three-way mirror. His mouth went suddenly dry. Except for two pieces of red lace, she was nude. The only sign of the thong from the angle was the thin red fabric that dipped low from her waist.

“Here,” she said.

As he dragged his gaze back to hers, he was vaguely aware that she’d handed him the camera and he slipped it into his pocket. He could also see her mouth was moving. She was obviously saying something. But he couldn’t hear her. He wasn’t sure he could even think.

“One kiss,” he said.

Rory glanced up. Her throat dried, and her body seemed to be experiencing a meltdown. She couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. But his eyes were so hot that she could feel them on her skin. She licked her lips. “What did you say?”

“One kiss. I want to taste you.” He took a step toward her. “One kiss and I’ll do everything I can to get you the interview.”

One kiss. Rory thought that her heart might just beat out of her chest. One part of her mind—the daredevil part—was thinking yes. What could it matter? But there was another part of her that knew it would matter a lot. Kissing this man might be the biggest risk she’d ever take.

He wasn’t moving. In spite of what she could see in his eyes, the decision was going to be hers.

She wanted the kiss. Desperately. She wanted him. But… She felt her old fears swamping her. Where was the confidence that she’d felt just moments ago when she’d looked in the mirror?

Never be afraid to take risks. As the words from Harry’s letter streamed through her mind, she suddenly remembered the first jump she’d ever taken on a horse. Her father had given her a little pep talk before she’d ridden out into the ring. “Just dare yourself to do it, kiddo. That’s all you need to do. It works like magic.”

She’d made the jump. And she was going to kiss this man.

“One kiss,” she agreed.

Hunter wasn’t sure how long he’d waited to hear her answer, but it had seemed way too long. In the interim, he’d tried to tell himself he was making a mistake. It had been years since he’d done anything this impulsive, this rash. Oh, he’d been plenty reckless before he’d changed himself into Jared Slade. And he’d paid the price. Even in his incarnation as Jared Slade, he’d played some long shots—but only in business and only when he felt confident that his luck would hold.

Right now luck didn’t matter to him. Nothing seemed to matter except this hunger that demanded to be quenched. He wasn’t even aware that he’d moved until her back was against the mirror, and he was close enough to feel the heat from her body. He touched her, drawing one finger over the pulse that was beating at her throat. Her breath hitched, her skin heated, and the pulse beneath his finger quickened.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he managed to say.

“I’m not going to change it.”

He placed his hands on either side of her head, noting that her hair felt every bit as soft as he’d anticipated. Then lowering his head, he drew her up on her toes and covered her mouth with his.

It was the heat that hit him first. In that split second before his lips had touched hers, he’d seen the flame light in her eyes. But the shock of it as it shot through his body in an explosive rush surprised him. He thought of the wildfires he’d seen as a child—the kind that devoured everything in their path. Only this one left a hard, unrelenting need in its wake.

The second surprise was her taste. Oh, it was sweet at first, but that was only the first layer of flavor. Beneath that, he tasted heat and spice. What other flavors would he find?

When she nipped at his bottom lip, another arrow of heat shot through him. He ran his hands down her body and drove his tongue deeper. And all the time he marveled that her mouth, her tongue, her teeth were every bit as aggressive as his. He’d never been so aware of a woman before. Of those small sounds she made when he nipped at her bottom lip, or rubbed his thumb over her nipple.

Her skin was smooth and hot and growing damp beneath his hands. He wanted to taste every inch of it. Her body was small and supple and strong. He wanted it beneath his, bucking and straining.

And he could have her. She didn’t seem to believe in holding anything back. Her hands were racing over him—over his shoulders, down his arms—just as his were exploring her. He felt them slide beneath his jacket and move down his back to knead the muscles at the base of his spine. It wasn’t enough, not nearly. He wanted the pressure of those fingers, the scrape of those nails, on his bare skin.

He wanted her. One kiss was not going to be enough. He wasn’t sure that anything would be enough to stop the ache inside of him. He had to have her. pImages** flashed through his mind, of driving himself into her on some moonlit beach while waves pounded on the shore. Of carrying her to the nearby bench and letting her ride him. Or merely opening his zipper, then lifting her and taking her against the mirror where they stood. His hands moved down to cup her buttocks and pull her up. He said her name, which turned into a groan, when she wrapped her legs around him. Then he very nearly sank to his knees when she pressed her heat against his and began to rub against him.

Slamming one hand against the mirror to steady himself, he dragged his mouth free and tried to think. First he had to breathe. The sudden rush of air burned his lungs. There were reasons why he shouldn’t do this. Couldn’t do this. Then he made the mistake of looking at her. Her lips were moist and parted, still swollen from his kisses. Her eyes were huge and the deep golden color was misted. He wanted—no, he needed—to see what those eyes would look like when he entered her and filled her. He leaned forward and took her mouth with his again.

Rory sank into the kiss, eager to drown herself in it, in him again. There was a greed in him that matched her own. Never had her fantasies been this sharp, this real. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have conjured up the sensations shooting through her. There was such heat—glorious waves of it. And each movement of his hands, of his tongue, seemed to throw fuel on the fire. She’d known hunger before but never one this desperate, this enormous.

His taste—she couldn’t get enough of it. There were so many flavors, each one more unique, more secret, more dangerous than the last. She dragged her mouth from his and sank her teeth into his shoulder. His moan sent little explosions of pleasure through her. She was torn between twin desires—she wanted to devour him whole and she wanted to savor one delicious body part at a time.

His hands. Everywhere they pressed and molded, her skin burned, then itched to be burned again. She felt the pressure of each finger and that hard, wide palm as he ran his hands down her sides and slipped his fingers beneath the lacy band at her waist. Then he was gripping her buttocks with both hands, kneading her flesh and pressing her closer until the hard length of him was pushed flush against her. She arched her body, straining against him as everything tightened inside of her. She arched again, but it wasn’t enough. She had to—

“I want you.” His voice was a rough whisper in her ear.

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure she could survive without him.

“Right now. I want to be inside of you. Are you protected?”

“Hmm?” She tried to shake her head to clear it.

“Are you on the pill?”

“Yes,” she said as the words finally penetrated. “Yes. Hurry.”

Listening to the three words, Hunter felt something inside of him snap. He let her down so that he could free himself from his jeans. Then he pushed aside the lacy triangle of the thong and pulled her close again as he guided himself into her. But it wasn’t enough. Gripping her hips, he drew her even closer, and then with a hard thrust of his hips, he sank deeper. He could feel her stretch, as he made a place for himself in her slick, hot core. His climax immediately began to build inside of him.

Drawing in a quick breath, he tried to maintain some control, but it was no use once she began to move. Digging his fingers into her hips, he thrust into her, harder and faster, driving her, driving himself until he surrendered to the hot, dark pleasure.

When he could think again and breathe again, he was lying beside her on the floor of the dressing room. He wasn’t quite sure how they’d gotten there, nor was he sure how long they might have been lying there when his cell phone rang.

Swearing, he unfastened her arms from around his neck and levered himself up so that he could take the call. “What is it?”

“There’s been…sir…”

“What is it, Michael?” Hunter frowned. Michael Banks was usually cool and unflappable, but he barely recognized his executive assistant’s voice.

“A bomb.”

“What?”

“A bomb was delivered to your suite.”

RORY STILL WASN’T SURE she could move. Her body had never felt so free, so relaxed, so pleasured. But the Terminator was already getting to his feet and moving away from her. She wanted him back down beside her. Without him, she suddenly felt cold. The chill grew worse when he scowled at whatever news he was getting. She couldn’t yet separate what he was saying into words, but when she sat up, she could feel the hard floor of the dressing room under her bottom. She figured her brain cells were beginning to function again because the analytical side of her mind was beginning to realize what had just happened.

She’d just made love with a complete stranger in a dressing room of a ritzy lingerie shop. Well, maybe he wasn’t a complete stranger. But when she’d made up her fantasy man, she certainly hadn’t expected him to walk right into her life.

It was the kind of thing that happened in movies—or in hot, steamy romance novels. In real life, people didn’t really make love to strangers in the dressing rooms of fancy lingerie shops.

But she had. And she wanted to do it again. Astonishment warred with the hot lick of desire that was fanning itself to life again. She had dared to do something she’d never done before.

And she’d liked it very much.

“Are you and Alex and Ms. Malinowitz all right?”

Rory felt a little ribbon of relief roll through her system. She could make out what he was saying now. And she knew who Ms. Malinowitz was. In another minute she’d be back to her old self. And then she’d figure out what to do next.

Chemistry, a little voice at the back of her mind told her. Hadn’t she read that the chemistry between two people could be very powerful. Irresistible. As the Terminator paced back and forth in the small space, Rory caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was still wearing the red bra and thong. She recalled Irene’s prediction that the thong would make her feel different about herself.

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