He wanted to be caught in a compromising position

Untangling her fingers from the mahogany silk of Cole’s hair, Tori flattened her palms against his massive chest and forced herself to breathe.

Though he still had her perched on the desk, Cole, too, was making a visible effort to slow his breathing and ease his grip on her. He peppered her face with tiny kisses, drawing out the last sparks of her combustible reaction to him.

He wanted something from her. But why?

Tori sorted her thoughts and calculated possibilities, trying to regain the upper hand, which she feared she’d lost for good. She raised an eyebrow and challenged his high-handed behavior. “I don’t know what kind of game—”

“Believe me, sweetheart, this is no game.” His deep voice dropped back to a whisper for her ears alone. He smoothed his palms up and down the bare expanse of her upper arms, raising goose bumps and placating her for the benefit of the witnesses behind her. He brushed the warning against her ear under the guise of yet another kiss. “Follow my lead and we’ll both walk out of here.”

Tori’s entire body went rigid with protest. “You want me to pretend—?”

“And I expect you to be a very good actress.”

Last Man Standing
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Julie believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cole Taylor—He was once the finest that the KCPD had to offer. But two years under deep cover is enough to break any man. He’s lost his soul to death and lies.

Victoria “Torie” Westin—She’s been assigned an impossible mission—one where she’ll have to choose between her life or her heart…and might very well lose both.

Jericho Meade—An aging, ailing crime lord. A lot of people are vying to take over his position in Kansas City. And someone doesn’t want to wait until he dies of natural causes.

Chad Meade—Jericho’s nephew and the #1 candidate for his uncle’s position in the family business.

Daniel Meade—A haunting memory? Or a very real threat?

Paulie Meredith—Meade’s right hand since their early days on the streets.

Lana Shepherd—She’s the mastermind behind Meade’s criminal campaigns. But she has a bad track record with men.

Aaron Polakis—Not your typical butler.

Backer and Brady—Who are those guys, anyway?

Lancelot—A mystery man with a grudge against the Meades.

A. J. Rodriguez—Cole’s former partner on the police force.

The Taylor Clan—Someone’s out to get them. They’ve banded together time and again to protect each other in times of crisis. But this time they may not be able to save one of their own.

In memory of Margaret Miller.

With special thanks to the gang on the CODE NAME: INTRIGUE discussion loop at <www.eHarlequin.com>.

I appreciate your enthusiasm for Intrigue, your support for the authors and each other, your insightful ideas and all the fun we have hanging out together.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

“One should be all dead when one is half dead…”

Edgar Lee Masters—SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY

Amazing what kind of dull, dreary errands a sixteen-year-old boy with a new license would run with his grandmother, so long as the opportunity to drive was involved.

Martha Taylor grinned, taking good care to keep her amusement out of sight behind the muscular shoulders of her newly adopted grandson. Already they’d been to the cleaner’s, the post office, and now the grocery store without a single complaint about boredom or getting up early on a summer vacation morning. She’d gone through this same spate of volunteerism with all six of her boys, starting more than two decades ago. Some things never changed.

A young man’s appetite didn’t change, either, she noted, following Alexis Pitsaeli Taylor as he pushed the shopping cart across the parking lot to her teal van. He’d already dug into the sacks and opened a box of cream-filled cupcakes. The first one had disappeared in two bites and now he was working on his second.

“Let’s put the sacks in the back, Alex.” Martha opened her new straw purse and fished out her key ring to unlock the doors for him. But he already had his shiny new keys—a spare set copied and given to him by his grandfather—in hand and had pushed the unlock button. She halted a step as he lifted the hatchback and started unloading the cart. He paused just long enough to pop the last of the cupcake into his mouth. Martha grinned. “I think we’d better go home and get some lunch before all these groceries disappear into that bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

Alex made a choking sound and spun around, apparently downing that last bite without chewing first. A stricken look dulled those soulful onyx-colored eyes that were going to make women weak in the knees as he matured. “Sorry, Grandma. I was hungry.”

Grandma. Was there any sweeter word?

Martha curled her fingers around the handle of her purse, resisting the urge to reach out and hug the teenager in public. “Oh, honey, I’m teasing you. I do that with all my boys. I just don’t want you to ruin your appetite.”

“Not possible.” His rare smile gleamed against the olive tint of his skin. “If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”

Martha laughed at the compliment. She was used to shopping for a big family—she’d raised six boys and a girl, after all. But a whole week watching her four newest grandsons while their parents, Gideon and Meghan, finally took a well-deserved honeymoon worried her that she might be a little out of practice. “I hope I bought enough food.”

He eyed the seven sacks. “This should get me through the day. And I’d be happy to run to the store again tomorrow.”

Ah, yes, another chance to drive. Sharp kid. Thank goodness he could joke with her. Alex seemed like such a serious boy. No wonder. He’d already outlived his abusive birth father, and his birth mother had lost her battle with drugs long before he’d joined a gang and eventually reformed himself. Martha’s smile became forced as she watched him diligently unload the groceries and push the shopping cart toward the cart corral. He’d seen far too much of life for a boy his age.

She hoped he knew how much he was loved. That he had a family he could depend on now. She hoped he knew how lucky he was to be part of the proud Taylor tradition, and how proud she was that he had become a part of that tradition.

A dark figure hurtled between two parked cars and slammed Martha into the side of the van. When she felt the tug at the end of her arm, she screamed.

“Shut up, lady!”

The assailant shoved her down to the pavement and snatched her purse from her pain-shocked grip. Then he was off, running into the glare of the midday sun, keeping her from making any sort of identification.

“Help! He’s stealing my purse!” Her sons who were cops had told her to make a lot of noise if she was ever attacked by an unarmed assailant—draw attention to the creep. Her knees and palms burned from where they’d scraped the pavement, and her sixty-three-year-old joints throbbed from the jarring impact of steel and concrete. But her mouth and her brain and her temper worked just fine. “Stop that man! Help me! Somebody help!”

“Grandma!”

Martha crawled to the edge of the parking stall and saw Alex hurl his stocky, compact body against the taller, lankier attacker, who clutched her straw bag in his fist. The two hit the concrete with a frightening thud.

“Alex!”

A kaleidoscope of images bombarded her senses. Black gloves. A stocking cap. The crack of a fist against a jaw, a spew of foul curses.

Urgent hands reaching down to help Martha stand. A kind voice. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

The space-age tones of a cell phone being dialed. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”

Squealing tires and the stinging odor of burned rubber as a dingy white pickup truck skidded around the corner and screeched to a halt beside the two men rolling on the ground. Alex had the purse-snatcher in one of those neck-holds he’d learned on the wrestling team. He pulled him to his feet. He had the upper hand. He was reaching for her purse.

“No!” Fear churned in Martha’s stomach. Her bravado evaporated in an instant as the driver of the pickup threw open his door and ran around the hood of the truck. He, too, wore gloves and a stocking mask. “Alex!”

But her warning came too late. The second man punched Alex in the kidney. Martha flinched at the vicious power of the blow that arched Alex’s back and freed his hold. The man with the purse spun around and slammed his fist into Alex’s mouth.

“Stop them!” Martha clenched her fingers convulsively around the forearm of the good Samaritan who had stopped to help her. “Oh God. Take the damn purse! Don’t hurt him.”

Alex sank to his knees. The man who’d taken her bag raised his hand to strike again, but the driver of the truck snatched him by the collar of his black, long-sleeve shirt and dragged him to the truck. He shoved him inside, scrambled behind the wheel and took off at interstate speed across the parking lot.

“Looky here, Grandma!” The man with her purse stuck his head out the window, shouting a vile taunt through his mask. He ripped open her wallet, sending a handful of bills fluttering to the pavement. He waved the plastic sheath that held her precious family photographs, tore one of them in two, crumpled it in his fist and tossed the memories beneath the wheels of the speeding truck. As they careened around the corner onto the street, he pointed a finger at Alex—her brave, young grandson had climbed to his feet. “Watch your back next time, Taylor! We won’t leave you standing!”

The driver gunned the engine and quickly lost the truck in traffic. One kind citizen tried to gather the shredded picture and money before the wind carried them off, while the man with the cell phone hurried to Alex’s side.

Alex nodded at something he said, then brushed off the man’s hand and jogged back to the van. “Grandma?”

“Oh, Alex. Honey.” She didn’t care if they had an audience. She didn’t care how cool a teenager needed to be. Martha hugged the boy, hugged him tight. “Are you hurt?”

His arms squeezed briefly around her shoulders before he pulled away. “I didn’t get your purse back.”

A frown marred his handsome face. Blood ran from his split bottom lip. He inhaled short, hissing breaths as if the action pained him. He was apologizing? Maternal anger blazed pure and potent through her veins, masking the remnants of her fear. Martha pulled a floral handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against his wound. He flinched at the pain, but she ordered him to hold still as she tended him.

“You did an incredibly brave thing. Your mom and dad will be so proud of you. I’m proud of you.” She reached into the back of the van and dug out a bag of frozen peas to hold against his lip. “But nothing is worth you getting hurt. Certainly not that silly purse. It wasn’t big enough to hold everything I like to carry, anyway.”

Alex took over holding the icy package against his swelling mouth. She followed his glance down to the blood oozing through the serrated skin on her knees.

“But he hurt you.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to talk about what a tough old fart I am sometime.”

He grinned at the idea of someone her age using a word like that. But the glimpse of humor quickly disappeared beneath a serious frown. “Something isn’t right about what just happened.”

“You mean stealing a woman’s purse in the middle of the day in a busy parking lot?” She’d never believed that petty criminals were terribly bright.

The sound of sirens in the distance alerted her to approaching help. The man with the phone had rejoined them.

“I got the license number of the truck and reported it to the dispatcher. I’ll tell these officers, too, when they get here,” he said.

“Thank you.” Kansas City was a growing metropolis, busting at the seams in nearly every direction. But it still maintained that small-town neighborhood feeling it had enjoyed since the days when Harry Truman served as the county’s presiding commissioner back in the 1930s. She turned to the young mother who had stopped to help as well. “Thank you all.”

“Grandma.” Alex said the word and demanded she listen. “I know what it is. Those guys called me by my new name. Taylor.”

Martha tried to grasp the significance of what he was saying. “They knew you? Were they part of a gang?”

He shook his head impatiently. “They were too old. The guy I grabbed was in his twenties or thirties, even.”

She didn’t laugh at his skewed conception of old. “They didn’t call you Alex or Pitsaeli?” Though Gideon and Meghan had been his foster parents for several months, his adoption and legal name change had gone through less than a month ago. Now she was thinking what he was thinking. And hating it. “I heard Taylor, too. And why would he throw away money but keep pictures?”

This was something a little more complicated and a lot more personal than a routine purse snatching.

She turned to the man with the phone. “May I?”

He handed her the phone and she punched in a number she knew by heart—that of the office of the police captain of the Fourth Precinct. She kept her gaze riveted on the wise eyes of her grandson. “I’m calling Mitch and reporting this.” She brushed a lock of his wavy black hair away from the corner of his bruised mouth. “And then we’re going to the hospital.”

Chapter One

Something wasn’t right.

Maybe it was him.

Cole Taylor looked through the limousine’s tinted window and watched the muddy, gray-green waters of the Missouri River rush beneath the arched steel and concrete bridge. The dual highway took them north from Jackson County into Clay County, leaving behind the congestion of interstate traffic and expanding commercialization for the scenic rolling hills and lush farmland of rural Missouri.

He was alert, but not afraid. He’d numbed himself long ago to the fear and danger he lived with every day. Ignoring his emotions was a matter of survival. Giving in to them meant madness or death. Or turning.

Some days he wondered if he’d gotten so good at his job that he had turned.

Truth and justice had once sustained him, driven him. But those ideals had blurred as he’d made enemies into friends, and a few friends into enemies. He’d ignored his conscience and turned his back on everything he’d once held dear. As the car picked up speed toward its destination, Cole admitted that this day—like so many others in these past few weeks—was more about surviving than caring why he was here.

Two years working under deep cover for KCPD and the DA’s office had whittled the scope of his day-to-day living down to nothing more than that. Survival.

It was a damn cold-blooded way to live.

He was the good cop gone bad, selling out his colleagues and his soul for big money and a chance to dispense justice on his own terms. That was the story that had gotten him here. Only the story was beginning to feel a whole lot more real than the life and loves and friendships he’d left behind.

“You seem antsy this morning, Cole—”

Years of training kept him from starting at the indulgent voice of the man sitting beside him on the black leather seat of the limo.

“Is something wrong?”

Cole pulled himself from his worrisome thoughts and turned to the white-haired gentleman. “Just a feeling.” He reassured his boss with an expression just short of a smile. “I wish you’d let me check out this private hospital before driving out here. You want me to be in charge of security, yet you insist on taking foolish risks like this.” He nodded toward the unlit cigar clenched in the other man’s arthritic hand. “And you know the doctor is going to tell you to give up those things, too. How many times have we had this discussion about your impulses?”

The older man laughed. “My wife, rest her soul, was the only one I ever let criticize my choices. Now you’re nagging at me.”

At six-four, with a muscular body and well-honed skills that made him a deadly fighting machine, no one would mistake former KCPD Detective Cole Taylor for anyone’s nagging wife. Yet Jericho Meade patted Cole’s knee and scolded him as if Cole were his nurse, not his bodyguard.

“I’m not nagging,” Cole insisted, hating these fond, almost familial feelings he had for his employer. “I’m laying it on the line. You make my job harder than it needs to be.”

“Keeps you on your toe—” Meade’s laughter wheezed into raspy puffs of air. He pressed a gnarled fist to his chest as a fit of coughing seized him.

Cole squeezed a supporting hand around the man’s bony shoulder. “Jericho?” The old man snatched at his left jacket pocket, desperate to retrieve what was inside. But twisted bones and rattling coughs kept him from succeeding. “What is it?”

“His mint.” The robust man sitting across from them leaned forward. Paulie Meredith’s thin strands of black hair barely covered his scalp, making it impossible to hide his deep wrinkles of age and concern. He reached into Jericho’s pocket, pulled out a foil-wrapped piece of candy, opened it and slid it into his friend’s mouth. “It soothes the cough.”

Cole frowned. “You’re sure he won’t choke?”

Sinking back into the plush upholstery, the seventy-six-year-old patriarch waved aside Cole’s concern. “I’ll be fi—” Another fit seized his chest, ruining the reassurance.

“Jer, old friend, you have to take it easy.” Paulie wore the trappings of his wealth in a half-dozen gold and silver rings, and the paunch of his belly that pulled at the buttons of his designer suit. “There are hundreds of doctors in K.C. Good ones. I don’t know why you insist on seeing this Kramer guy way out here.”

Jericho’s chest shuddered in and out, indicating just how difficult it was for him to catch his breath. But the firm command in his steely blue eyes brooked no argument, even from his oldest and closest friend.

“First of all, Paulie, never call a sick man ‘old friend.”’

The teasing fell on deaf ears. “You’re not dying.”

“The hell I’m not.” Jericho’s breath whistled in his throat as he gasped for air. But then, through sheer will, it seemed, his breathing regulated to a raspy but even rhythm. And though his pasty skin didn’t regain its healthy color, he smiled. “Dr. Kramer said he could run the diagnostic tests at his private research clinic with few questions asked and no publicity. My heart and lungs may be going, but I don’t want anyone outside the family to know about it. Not until I find Daniel.”

Find Daniel? Cole discreetly looked away at the mention of Jericho’s son. It was the one aspect of his employer’s personality he didn’t know how to handle.

Paul Meredith was more direct. “Daniel’s dead, Jer.”

“We don’t know that. I’m not selling the business, no one’s running me off, I’m not naming a new heir until…” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of the gruesome task he’d given Cole. Find my son’s body and bring it to me. Then I’ll know he’s dead. The shallow wheezing became a moan of pain. But it wasn’t physical. “He’s still with me, Paulie. I feel him. I know he’s trying to reach me. He wants me to find him. He wants to tell me something.”

The pallor of Jericho’s skin alarmed Cole more than did his boss’s ramblings. “You need to take it easy.”

“You should be lookin’ to rip out the heart of the man who did that to your son,” Paulie advised, talking the way a strong, healthy Jericho Meade would have talked months earlier, “not pretending he’s still alive.”

“Paulie,” Cole warned. There was honesty, and then there was cruelty.

Jericho’s blue eyes clouded. “I’m not pretending. I know what I’ve seen and heard. If it’s not Daniel, it’s his damn ghost.”

“It’s obvious you need some kind of treatment, Jer. I want you to be in a place where they have the best staff and equipment.” Paulie slicked his hand across his ruddy scalp. “How do you know we can trust this Kramer guy?”

How could a man like Jericho Meade, who had destroyed so many lives in his half-century-long quest for wealth and power, ever trust anybody?

Cole watched the old man steel his will and battle past the grief that consumed him. He was considerably calmer, if weaker, when he spoke.

“I’m paying Dr. Kramer enough money to ensure his loyalty. He’d better work a damn miracle.”

“Maybe you should check yourself in to Kramer’s clinic, then.” Paulie was sounding like a gentle, lifelong companion once more. “I can run things for a while. Get yourself out of the house. Forget the business right now. Worry about yourself.”

“I am the business.” Jericho’s voice was firm. “I wanted Daniel to become the business too. Until I understand what he’s trying to tell me, I intend to hang around.”

Paulie shrugged. “What would a voice from the grave be trying to tell you?”

Cole had asked the same question the first time Jericho had pounded on his door in the middle of the night, sobbing and disoriented, claiming his son had been in his office and left a message, begging his father to listen.

“Maybe the name of whoever killed him,” replied Jericho.

The answer still didn’t make much sense.

Jericho pressed his tattered cigar into Cole’s hand and closed his eyes on a weary sigh. “Now you two shut up and let me rest. And tell the driver to kill the air-conditioning. He knows I don’t like it this cold in here.”

Paulie quickly spun in his seat and knocked on the partition window that separated the driver from the back of the limousine, to do his boss’s bidding. Cole tossed the cigar onto the car’s drink console before settling back into his corner. Then the three men fell silent and tuned in to their own internal musings.

Cole had been there four months ago, the night the unmarked package was delivered to the estate. After screening the box for any trace of explosives or chemicals, Cole himself had opened the box in front of Jericho, Paulie and a handful of family members. He’d nearly retched at the sight of the dismembered finger. Jericho had identified the ring he’d given his son and then collapsed in his chair.

Amidst the tears and curses that filled the room that night, Cole had read the attached, computer-generated note.

Jericho—

I thought a deal was a deal.

You took what was mine, so I’m taking what’s yours. Without an heir, the days of your empire are numbered. Start counting.

Jericho Daniel Meade Jr. had never come home, and his father had never recovered.

Cole watched the gray ribbon of highway pass by in a blur. He’d taken this assignment two years ago with the intent of destroying Meade’s criminal world from the inside out. Now, someone was trying to do the job for him by killing Jericho’s son and driving the man toward madness. Leaving every part of Jericho’s world in chaos until he named someone new to take over the family business—or someone moved in on the weakened patriarch and simply took what they wanted for themselves.

It was a lose-lose situation as far as Cole was concerned. He knew the likely successors Jericho might name. Every one of them would continue his reign of violence and intimidation under the guise of civilized gentility. And if an outsider was behind this takeover threat, a retaliatory mob war unlike anything Kansas Citians had seen before would leave the streets strewn with innocent victims. Battles for drug turfs would ensue. Good men and women would be cheated out of their livelihoods. Children would live in fear.

Cole felt the heavy weight of fatigue and responsibility down in the marrow of his bones. He had to keep Jericho alive until he was ready to name names and turn over state’s evidence and end an era of terror before a newer, less certain one could begin.

His deep sigh fogged the glass, obliterating his view. Waking himself from his own murky thoughts, Cole wiped the window clear with the side of his fist. He pulled at his ponytail before glancing across at the dying old man he was destined to betray.

Dozing with a peaceful expression on his wan face, Jericho Meade resembled any self-made multimillionaire who’d lived long enough to enjoy the power and profits of his labor. Tall and slender and wizened as any much-loved grandfather might be, he wore his distinguished cloak of respectability like a second skin, giving no hint of the ruined lives and deaths and addictions that could be attributed directly to his position as one of the Midwest’s most powerful and feared crime lords.

Meade’s empire might include legitimate forays into the oil and natural gas industry, real estate, the restaurant business and numerous charities. But it also included arms and drug trafficking, murder, witness intimidation, money laundering and any other number of crimes on which Cole had been assigned to uncover and deliver information to the District Attorney’s office.

It galled him that he should feel any sort of sympathy for a man like that. Whatever pain or danger or heartache Meade faced now had been brought on by himself and the greedy, ruthless habits that made the man a name on every federal, state and local most-wanted list.

But dammit, he did pity Jericho. Cole blinked his eyes and turned back to the sporadic traffic outside. Hell, he almost cared about the old man.

Probably because he’d been separated so long from the people he did truly love that Jericho’s dependence on him felt like something more substantial. It didn’t matter that their relationship was based on a lie. Cole had done his job well, starting as a bouncer in one of Jericho’s clubs and working his way up through the ranks to become the boss’s personal bodyguard. He’d immersed himself in this assignment so completely that turning Jericho over to the Feds or the DA, and testifying against him almost felt wrong.

He clung to that almost like a lifeline, using it to salvage whatever was left of his conscience and soul.

But any guilt, confusion or wishful thinking vanished as the limousine slowed and turned onto the outer road. Cole voided all emotion whatsoever and tuned into the survival instincts that had gotten him this far.

As they drove along the long, horseshoe-shaped driveway, he noted that each of the tall, ancient oaks that shaded the sloping hillside was painted white, four or five feet up the trunk. A sharpened sense of vision looked beyond the immaculate grounds, scanning the shadows behind each tree and evaluating the condition of the three redbrick buildings perched at the top of the hill.

Two of the twentieth-century buildings appeared abandoned, judging by their boarded-up windows and crumbling facades. Not good. Any busted window or broad tree trunk would provide ample camouflage for an enemy. Construction scaffolding and canvas drapes obscured sight lines even further.

Cole shook his head. For a kid, this would be a primo location to play hide-and-seek. For a man of Jericho Meade’s reputation, this remote place was the perfect setup for an ambush.

Despite the new sign that labeled this former nursing home a medical complex, it appeared that only the main building had seen any sort of renovation. Freshly painted black wrought-iron work framed each door and window, and stood out in sharp contrast to the sandblasted brick. Through the modern double-paned windows, he could see the bright lights and sterile decor of the foyer and waiting room. Inside, a handful of patients and an attentive bustle of men and women in white lab coats and colorful scrub uniforms were clearly visible, even from a distance.

Every one of them made an easy target.

Jericho would be no different.

His bones radiated with an unspoken warning, an uncanny survival instinct that, combined with his unique, formidable skills, had kept him alive when other men would have ended up dead. Cole trusted that instinct the way a newborn babe trusted his mother. There was something in the air. Something waiting.

Automatically, he patted the Glock 9mm that hung beneath the hand-tailored cut of his suit coat and adjusted his pant leg to cover the smaller Beretta strapped to his ankle.

Feeling the easy possibility of an attack like a personal threat, Cole wrapped his hand around Jericho’s arm and nudged the older man awake. “You don’t go anywhere without me or Paulie right by your side. Understood?” He made the demand as if he was the one in charge.

Jericho smiled at his audacity and nodded. “Your concerns are duly noted, Mr. Taylor.” He turned away in curious anticipation as the car came to a halt in front of the double front doors and the driver hurried around to open the door.

Cole was already there when Jericho climbed out. He stood several inches taller than his ailing boss, making Cole an ample shield and giving him a clear, 360-degree view of their surroundings. With the driver leading the way and Paulie bringing up the rear, they formed a protective triangle around Jericho and walked him into the clinic.

A young man, barely out of his teens, greeted them with an articulate, guttural accent. “Right this way, Mr. Meade.” After several furtive glances, the waiting attendant sat Jericho in a wheelchair and guided them at a brisk pace past the admissions desk and down a newly tiled hallway.

Cole couldn’t tell if the young man was new on the job, nervous about working with a patient of Jericho’s reputation, or just plain intimidated by Cole’s imposing size and demeanor. Whatever the cause might be, his rabbitlike movements only heightened Cole’s suspicions about the place. He took note of the attendant’s name tag. Joe Barton. Yeah, right. Not with that accent. Cole planned to run a few tests of his own while Dr. Kramer evaluated Jericho.

All the doors along the corridor stood open, and the rooms were apparently empty. Strike that, Cole amended, as a chin-high stainless-steel cart, packed with fresh, folded linens, rolled through a doorway just before they reached it. Instinctively on guard, he pushed Jericho’s wheelchair and the attendant against the wall and positioned himself between their entourage and the cart. His hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his gun when the cart swung around and he got his first look at the man on the other side.

“Whoa. Sorry, pal.” Stooped over in green scrubs and a white lab jacket, the orderly barely made eye contact before pushing the cart on past.

Cole’s breath eased out between tightly compressed lips. He nodded to the attendant to keep moving, but remained behind to cool an edgy pulse that was still firing jets of adrenaline through his system. He breathed in deeply, a new plan forming in his head before he followed Jericho into an exam room. The green clothes and shuffling walk were different, but the orderly’s scraggly brown mustache and beady black eyes behind the glasses were the same.

Lee Cameron.

His contact with the DA’s office.

Something was up.

TEN MINUTES LATER, Jericho was secure in the exam room with Dr. Kramer, a nurse and Paulie. The driver had parked the car and returned to stand watch at the door. The nervous attendant had been sent back to the main foyer and Cole was plugging change into a vending machine and waiting for a can of soda to fall through.

Lee Cameron leaned against the wall beside the vending machine, facing Cole’s direction without actually looking at him. He looked for all the world like a worn-out clinic worker who needed every bite of the candy bar he was munching on to sustain him to the end of his shift.

“You’re not looking nearly as dapper as when we met in the bank last week.” Cole’s words teased his fellow investigator, though he pretended a rapt fascination with the ingredients on his can of soda.

“Budget cuts hit me in the fashion department.” Lee chewed a mouthful of chocolate and peanuts. “You might give me fair warning next time you change plans. I could have scrounged a tie and posed as a doctor instead of borrowing these from the laundry.”

“Meade usually sees a doctor named Lyddon, east of the Plaza.” Cole popped open the soda. “I didn’t know we were coming here until this morning. If Powers is pressing for something new, I haven’t got it.”

Assistant District Attorney Dwight Powers could be a real hard-ass when it came to an investigation. But what the man lacked in personality he made up for in courtroom performance. Powers got convictions that were rarely overturned. When he sent felons to Jeff City or Potosi, they served their time.

But it was up to men like Cole and Lee to find the ammunition to make Powers’s big legal guns work.

Lee scanned the break-room area and ran through the usual questions. “We’re ready to serve the warrants on the drug trafficking tip you gave us. Nothing on the new money laundering scheme?”

Cole moved to the candy machine and studied his choices. “I haven’t gotten anything on the new accountant. Except that Chad Meade hired him, not Jericho.” He dug some change out of his pocket and made a selection.

“Chad’s the nephew, right?”

“Heir apparent.” Cole pulled the candy bar from the bottom bin. “He doesn’t have the brains Jericho or even Daniel had, so if he’s up to something, you can bet he’s not in it alone. I’ll keep digging.”

“No news on who ordered the hit on Powers’s family?”

That was the ADA’s one suspicion he’d found no evidence to corroborate. Powers’s obsession for the truth bordered on vengeance.

“Nothing I can prove yet. The timeline fits. Powers was gearing up to prosecute Jericho’s son. Two large sums of money were withdrawn from the Meade accounts that same week. But I’ve got no phone record, no eye witness to place Jericho with the hit man.”

“And we’ve got no hit man,” Lee added.

Cole nodded. “I’m still waiting for someone in the Meade camp to let something slip. But I haven’t heard anything concrete yet.”

Lee wadded up his empty wrapper and shot a basket in the trash can. “I’ll pass the word along, but you know Powers wants every loose end wrapped up before we pull you in.”

Cole shrugged his shoulders and took a drink. The few minutes they’d been conversing would start to draw attention soon. Lee Cameron was his one link to the DA’s office, Cole’s only safe channel of information in or out of the game. Lee wouldn’t risk making contact with the UC operative just to shoot the breeze. “So I’ve got nothing new, you’ve got nothing new. Why are you here?”

Lee shifted position. The subtle tensing of his posture was enough to make Cole glance his way. “It’s personal,” said Lee.

“Me or you?”

“Your mom.”

Cole’s fingers dented the can in his grip. “Yeah?”

“Yesterday morning she was assaulted in a grocery store parking lot. Had her purse stolen.”

Forget anonymity. Cole stared right into Lee’s intense black eyes. “Is Ma okay?”

Lee gestured with his hand at his side, warning Cole to look away. “She’s fine. Scrapes and bruises. But your nephew Alex—I guess he tried to defend her—he got some stitches at the E.R. and was released.”

Cole let the anger surge through him, then forced it to dissipate into mere frustration. His mother had been attacked. Not only had he not been there to help, he hadn’t even known she’d been hurt.

“He’s a good kid from what I’ve seen. Probably did some damage himself. They catch the guy?”

“Not yet. But they got a plate number. Stolen vehicle. No surprise there. But we’re trying to track it. And she called in your cousin Mitch.”

A police captain on a routine purse snatching? His concern ratcheted up a notch.

“The captain doesn’t believe it was random. He seems to think they were attacked because they were Taylors. He wanted me to remind you to watch your back.”

If laughter wouldn’t have drawn attention, Cole would have given in to the irony of the situation. Warning an undercover cop to watch his back? “Every damn day.”

“I think Powers would understand if you wanted to come in off the job.”

“The hell he would. I’m right where he needs me, and my work’s not finished yet.” Cole tossed the untouched candy into the trash. Worrying about his mother wasn’t a distraction he could afford right now. Jericho’s examination would be over soon and he didn’t want his absence questioned. Still, the guilt wouldn’t go away. “Keep me posted?”

Lee grinned behind his glasses. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Though he couldn’t say he knew Lee well enough to claim him as a friend, Cole appreciated his go-between’s efforts to keep him connected to the real world. “Use it to buy some new clothes. I’ll contact you the usual way when I find out something on the new accountant or where the money’s going. Tell Ma I love her. And if there’s anything I can do to help…” But there wasn’t. They both knew there wasn’t. “Just tell her I love her.”

COLE DISPOSED OF THE SODA can on his way out the door and headed down the long, empty corridor where he’d left Jericho with the doctor. Empty. Completely.

His smooth stride stuttered as his tension shifted in a new direction. The doors were closed now. Every one of them. Efficient cleaning crew? Or cover for hidden adversaries? And where the hell was the driver?

His bones were screaming at him now.

He unhooked the holster beneath his arm and hastened his step. He knocked and shoved open the door to Exam Room 6. “Where’s Jericho?”

Paulie Meredith swung around, his large girth not a handicap when it came to defending his oldest friend. “Jeez, Taylor, you about gave me a heart attack. What’s wrong?”

Cole glanced toward the inner door. “Is he in there?”

“Yeah. Doc Kramer’s giving him the lowdown. It doesn’t look good.” The pinched lines around his mouth deepened. “Something happen?”

“Where’s the driver?”

Now Paulie was glancing around, looking equally suspicious of their surroundings. “I sent the new guy out to bring the car around while Jericho changed.”

Kramer’s office door opened and Jericho himself filled the doorway. He acknowledged the tension in the outer room with a nod, but his stoic expression never changed. “Call me as soon as you know the results of the bloodwork,” he said, saluting the black-haired doctor, then he reached out to link his arm through Cole’s. He patted Cole’s arm and rested his weight against him, suddenly acting old beyond his years.

“Your bones bothering you?” he asked.

Cole understood the reference. “This place is locking down tighter than a prison. We’re leaving. Now.”

Paulie zipped ahead to open the door and check the corridor before moving out. “All clear.”

“Go.” He hurried Jericho along with as much urgency as the old man’s tired steps allowed. Cole’s head swiveled back and forth in 180-degree arcs as he kept an eye on each door. He’d take a crowded hospital any day over this abandoned tomb of waiting danger.

“The doctor can’t figure out what’s wrong with me.” Jericho kept talking, more confident in Cole’s abilities than oblivious to any unseen threat. “He’s prescribed inhalers and steroid treatments to help my lungs, but says my heart isn’t showing the blockage or deterioration he expected. I told him it was just broken.”

Cole supposed a murdered son could aggravate any existing condition or trigger psychosomatic symptoms, even hallucinations. He listened with one ear and tuned the other to the sounds of the clinic. Or lack thereof.

He wasn’t the only one on guard against the eerie emptiness of the main room. He gave a passing nod to Lee Cameron, who had parked his cart in the opposite corridor. Get out! Cole wanted to yell. Something’s going down. But he couldn’t risk audible communication with the detective.

Cole turned Jericho toward the door. He could see the limo outside, the driver striding up the front walk— The young man pulled out his weapon just as the receptionist at the check-in window behind Cole screamed.

“Gun!”

Cole whirled around. She wasn’t alone.

The nervous attendant, armed as well, rose from behind the counter and shoved her aside. “For the glory of the homeland!”

“Get down!” He pushed Jericho to the floor, and the next few seconds ticked by with time-altered clarity.

Caught in the crosshairs of the well-orchestrated hit, Cole dove for the cover of a row of chairs and dragged Jericho behind him. Paulie was there a second later, shielding Jericho with his own body, as an explosion of gunfire shattered glass and popped stuffing out of the upholstery and ricocheted off stainless steel.

Shots rang out from a third direction and the driver fell.

Cole palmed his Glock and fired. Once to move the shooter to the edge of the desk. Twice to nail him in the chest and throw him against the back wall.

The seconds returned to real time as the attendant sank to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the wall behind him. Cole rose to a crouch to assess the man outside—dead or dying, his gun out of reach. Keeping his Glock trained on the front desk, he stood, bracing his hand on Jericho’s shoulder to keep him down and out of the line of fire.

“Everybody in one piece?” Cole asked, hearing the gasps and wails of the receptionist as she huddled inside the break-room doorway.

Jericho trembled beneath his hand, shaking off Cole’s concern. “Dammit. I never should have hired that lowlife. Couldn’t drive worth—”

“I’m good,” Paulie answered, climbing to his feet. He wielded his gun as well. He scooped a hand beneath Jericho’s arm and helped him stand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Take him.” Cole pushed Jericho toward Paulie and the door, and rushed to the desk. He knelt down to check the attendant. Dead. Damn.

For the homeland? That didn’t sound like a typical hit. Where was this guy from, anyway?

He’d have Lee run the guy’s face and prints through the computer. If they could ID the hitman, chances were they could track down whoever ordered the hit. Maybe tie it in to a lead on Daniel Meade’s death.

“Cole!” Paulie urged.

The receptionist stared at Cole in openmouthed shock. Call the cops, he mouthed, hoping his insistence was enough reassurance for her to believe he wouldn’t kill her as well.

There were voices in the halls now, as if someone had conducted a fire drill and the evacuated staff and patients were just now returning to the building. Cole stood and hurried toward the front door. But the fallen man near the linen cart caught his attention.

“God, no.” He dashed to Lee’s side and rolled him onto his back. Cole swore, every last vicious, damn-the-universe curse he knew. He smoothed the scraggly hair off the investigator’s forehead, revealing the bullet wound that had taken his life. Lee had taken out the driver, but somewhere in the melee, he’d gone down in the line of duty.

A mist stung the corners of Cole’s eyes. Damn. Damn. Damn. Lee still held his gun in his frozen grip. His badge was peeking out of his front pants pocket. Respect and regret swamped Cole. He didn’t even know if Lee had a family…. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t any damn way to live—or lose—a life.

A stroke of divine fortune had him pushing the shield down into Lee’s pocket and hiding it an instant before he felt the tugging at his sleeve. Paulie.

“We go now, Taylor.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Cole rolled to his feet and followed Paulie out the door. Jericho was already in the back of the limo. Cole climbed in beside him while Paulie got in behind the wheel and floored it.

The painted trees passed by in a blur, as did his conversation with Jericho. Yes, he was all right. Pissed off. Sore. But all right.

Cole had done his job. Followed his instincts. Made his shot. Put his life on the line for the man to whom he’d sworn his loyalty. He couldn’t protect his own mother and nephew, but he’d kept these murderers alive. The gall of it burned in his throat and chest, as Jericho promised a substantial bonus and a thorough check into Kramer and his clinic.

And as they sped down the highway toward the river—with Jericho on the phone to Chad while Cole checked his gun and holstered it—another, even more disturbing realization churned the bile in his throat.

His contact was dead.

He had no connection to the real world now. No backup. No lifeline. Nowhere to go for safety. No one to call for help.

He was on his own.

The surrounding danger and guaranteed death that such a deception could cost him didn’t bother him as much as it should have.

It was the madness that scared him. Knowing just how easy it would be for him to turn now. To forget who he really was. To never find his way back to life and love and the reasons he’d agreed to this assignment in the first place.

He’d killed a man today. He was more Meade than Taylor now.

Chapter Two

Victoria Westin sweated.

Let the upper-crust grande dames like her mother perspire or glow like a lady. When Judeen Westin wanted to improve her appearance, she had something lipoed or lifted or nipped and tucked. When she wasn’t feeling good about herself, she got a new boyfriend.

When Tori wasn’t feeling good about herself, she ran. As she started her last mile, the coolness of the June morning was rapidly dissipating as a canopy of river town humidity set in for the day. But she didn’t mind. The rhythm of her feet hitting the rubberized track drowned out the memory of last night’s phone call with her mother.

“You really should make peace with your grandfather, Victoria.”

“Is something wrong? Is he ill?” That momentary flash of concern that snuck around her hardened defenses should have warned her. If she didn’t care, she couldn’t be hurt. But once her emotions kicked in, she made an easy target. And her mother rarely failed to hit the bull’s-eye.

“No. But he’ll die someday. When your father died unexpectedly, we never had a chance to say goodbye. This isn’t just about your inheritance, but about living with a clean conscience. I know you have your work as a diversion, but I’d hate for you to be all alone and dealing with the rift between you two. You really should plan ahead.”

Father. Inheritance. Alone. Three direct hits.

“Mother, I’m a little busy now. And we’ve covered this ground before. Is there another reason you called?”

Though her mother believed Tori’s work at the Nelson-Atkins art museum was her life, it was her real job as a federal agent that gave her a sense of purpose and accomplishment. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. For a variety of reasons, she’d never been able to tell her mother much of anything. Already stung by the mention of her father’s death in a plane crash twelve years ago, she wasn’t surprised as the conversation continued to spiral downhill.

“Have you thought again about having your breasts augmented, dear? I’ve met the most delicious cosmetic surgeon here in California. He says there’s a procedure that—”

“Mother.”

“I’ve always thought you’d have the most lovely figure if…”

It was the damn if that always stuck with Tori. No matter what she achieved with her life, that if never seemed to completely fade from the back of her mind.

What if her father hadn’t died?

What if her grandfather wasn’t one of the wealthiest men in Kansas City?

What if she’d been born the son her family had always wanted instead of the daughter who never quite measured up?

And so she ran.

Tori worked damn hard to stay in top shape, to replace skin and bones with endurance and muscle, to toughen up the outside in an effort to toughen up the inside, too. Running was her escape. It had been the saving talent that a too tall, too skinny, too smart high school girl could master while other girls got dates and her world fell apart.

Now, as a twenty-seven-year-old woman, it was vital to her job and mental health to exercise regularly. Running was almost as good as coffee ice cream with chocolate sauce. It was almost as rewarding as bringing down the bad guys. After wrapping up her most recent investigation and providing the key evidence to indict a gang of drug smugglers who’d used shipments of paintings to transport cocaine across the country, she should be feeling pretty good about herself.

If…

She sprinted her last lap at her high school alma mater, the Pembroke Hill School, slowed her pace and turned for home.

Maybe if she had a new case to dive into right now, her mother’s biannual chat wouldn’t bother her so much. Maybe if her date the night before hadn’t been such a dead end, her mother’s insinuation that Tori wasn’t as pretty or perfect as she could be might not have a ring of truth. Ken Burford had told her that her greatest asset was her red hair. But she’d read between the lines of his tedious conversation—her greatest asset had always been her grandfather’s bank account.

Tori jogged north, up along Rockhill Road, toward the art museum and her renovated condo. Traffic was getting heavy with Kansas City’s lunchtime rush, and the sun had popped through the clouds to warm the bare skin of her arms and the pavement beneath her feet. She stopped at the red light and jogged in place, pressing two fingers against her pulse and checking the second hand on her sports watch to monitor her heart rate. As cars and pedestrians gathered at the intersection around her, she ignored curious glances and…something else.

One particular look she couldn’t ignore.

Though she couldn’t immediately place the source, Tori felt the thorough, personal scrutiny like a tap on the shoulder. She curled her fingers into fists and slowly dropped them to her side. Someone wasn’t just scanning the crowd, giving a second look to the tall, slender jogger. He was watching her. Intently.

Professional training, which she trusted more than personal intuition, kicked in. The light changed to green, the flow of traffic switched, and Tori jogged out ahead of the slower walkers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and lengthened her stride, her face fixed straight ahead, her eyes scanning the street from curb to curb.

Black car. Four o’clock position. Approaching from the rear. Local plates. She slowed her pace and watched it pass by. Two men. Unknown to her. She paused beneath the shade of a tree as she reached the parklike area of the museum grounds. Unzipping her fanny pack, she pulled out a bottle of water and took a long, quenching drink, using the opportunity to verify her impressions of the vehicle.

She’d seen it parked at the school. The men inside just happened to be leaving at the same time and taking the same route as she? When the teak-skinned driver pulled into the museum parking lot, she was certain they’d been following her.

Amateurs.

Tori replaced the bottle and tucked the wisps of her straight copper hair back into her inch-long ponytail. She jogged in place until the driver and passenger climbed out. Both men wore suits and ties and gloves. Driving gloves she could excuse without alarm. But gloves on the passenger? In another couple of weeks it’d be summer, for crying out loud. He’d better be doctoring a rash inside those things.

She waited a few seconds longer, until Rash-man glanced her way and the two men nodded to each other. Time to go. She cut out across the museum’s thick, green lawn. The detour around the building would add an extra half mile to her run, but she had a feeling she was going to get a thorough workout no matter what route she took.

She grinned as the two men gave chase.

Tori didn’t take chances when it came to her own personal safety, but she wasn’t afraid to confront danger when it ran into her path—or, in this case, ran after her. She doubted they wanted to rob her. She’d allowed them to see the contents of her fanny pack. And a rape in broad daylight wasn’t unheard of, but these guys had had a better chance of nabbing her at the school.

She had a feeling this pursuit was related to work. Or family. At least the danger she faced on the job served a useful purpose. The family connection could be a little trickier. But whether these two Lethal Weapon wanna-bes were the good guys or the bad guys remained to be seen. Wearing them out in a footrace would give her the advantage, either way.

When she neared the copse of trees and low wall surrounding the modern statue of a giant shuttlecock, she seized her opportunity. Tori jumped once, up onto the wall. Then she jumped to the ground on the other side, crouched low behind the statue and stilled her breathing. The would-be Riggs and Murtaugh came scrambling over the wall, the dark-skinned one puffing from the exertion. The shorter one with the blue eyes reached inside his jacket. “Lady?”

Fat chance.

Without waiting to see what kind of weapon he’d pull out, Tori sprang to her feet and charged. With her hands fisted, her leg braced, she kicked out and knocked the weapon from his hand.

“Son of a—” He grabbed his wrist and shook his hand as if his fingers had gone numb.

“Lady, wait!” The driver wanted his turn. “Miss Westin, we’re—” She spun and kicked, forcing him back into the wall. He plopped down on his rump and threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “We just wanted—”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded. She was guessing family business now—of the worst kind. Only she couldn’t imagine any of her grandfather’s enemies hiring two bad-boy wanna-bes like these guys to come after her. And if they were with the Bureau, they needed to revisit basic training. When he started to get up, she thrust her palm toward his face and he scrambled back to his seat to avoid the blow. “Why are you following me?”

“Victoria Westin, right?” he confirmed. “FBI undercover task force? You’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?”

She kept him pinned with the proximity of her fist. “Who are you?”

Feeling had apparently returned to the shorter man’s hand. He was adjusting his gloves now. “We don’t have to deal with this kind of crap, Brady. Let’s take care of this ourselves.”

“Backer!”

Take care of this? Ignoring his partner’s warning, he advanced on Tori from behind. She shot her elbow back into his solar plexus. “Stay away from me,” she warned.

“Hey, lady.” The shorter man stooped over, holding his gut. His words were barely a whisper as he struggled to find his breath. “We know you know martial arts, already. Give it a rest. I swear, we just want to talk.”

“Talk?” She moved aside, keeping both men in her sights. “You chased me.”

“You ran.”

“I was out jogging—”

“This should help.” The dark-skinned one named Brady interrupted the debate and unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing her the interior lining.

“Stay away from that gun.” She recognized the Sig-Sauer, government issue, strapped to his belt.

“It’s okay.” With a silent warning for his partner, Backer, to stay put, he used his thumb and forefinger to pull a slim leather wallet from his inside pocket. He closed his jacket and flipped the wallet open to reveal a badge and ID. “We’re with the Customs Department. I’m Agent Bill Brady. My hotheaded partner here is Agent Bill Backer.”

“Let me see your badge.” She silently nodded to Backer, who picked up his wallet from the ground and displayed it. That was the item he’d been pulling from his pocket. She wasn’t sure whether to feel embarrassed, amused or irritated by this unusual introduction. But the badges looked legit. The photo IDs matched. Customs agents. Tori lowered her hands to her sides and took a deep breath. “You’re both Bill’s?”

If this was a decent con, they’d have changed their names.

“Confusing, I know.” Brady laughed and pocketed his badge.

Backer sat beside him on the wall, rubbing his sore stomach. “Jeez, lady, you’re tougher than you look.”

“I told you she’d be right for the job.” Agent Brady took on an almost fatherly tone. “Your credentials are impeccable, Agent Westin. So’s your spin kick.”

“Thanks.” Now she was a little confused. “Why didn’t you introduce yourselves right away?”

Backer grimaced. “Did you give us a chance?”

Tori crossed her arms and canted her hip to the side. These guys were harmless. “You should have used the telephone or stopped by my office. Following a woman who’s on her own in the big city is hardly a reassuring way to approach her.”

“Sorry,” Brady apologized. “We wanted to keep this out of normal channels, for secrecy’s sake.”

Intriguing comment.

“You have a degree in art history, right?” he asked.

More intriguing. “One of my degrees is, yes.”

“And you’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?” Backer seemed more impressed with that relationship than she was.

Not like she’d claim the man. But she supposed wealth and power and shady connections got one’s name mentioned in certain circles. “We’ve already established that. What do you want?”

“Have you heard of The Divine Horseman?”

Damn intriguing. She loved a good mystery. And, as far as she was concerned, The Divine Horseman was one of the biggest.

Tori could have run through the extensive mental catalog of Middle and Eastern European art she’d memorized from years of interest and study. But this was one rare, beautiful piece she knew by heart. The legend surrounding the sculpture had fueled adolescent fantasies about men and heroes that reality couldn’t match. “Jewel-encrusted statuette of a knight on horseback. European. Dates back to the Crusades. Stolen from a museum in New Orleans a year ago. Hasn’t surfaced at any public auction or private sale since. The diamonds, rubies and gold alone are valued at over a million dollars. The history of the Horseman makes it priceless.”

Agent Backer grinned. “She does know her stuff.”

Despite her earlier annoyance with these two bozos, their friendly banter and inept efforts at covert action were growing on her. And her curiosity was definitely piqued. “What about The Divine Horseman?”

“We’ve talked to your superior at the FBI and have gotten permission to recruit you to assist us. Your expertise in the art world, your Bureau training and your family connections make you the perfect choice for this mission. I have your orders here.”

“Orders to do what?” she asked, excited at the prospect of what they were asking of her, but leery of why the Westin name had to be a part of it.

“Word is, the current owner plans to sell it to a foreign investor and ship it out of the country. All under the table, of course. Before that happens—” Agent Brady pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed her the assignment “—we want you to get it back.”

Two weeks later

“WAIT HERE.” The taciturn butler who’d introduced himself as Aaron Polakis opened the thick walnut door and pointed Tori into the library. His cropped blond hair had receded so far that the points of skin gave him a devilish expression which rivaled the friendliness of his personality. Maybe his thick Middle European accent was an indication he didn’t know the language very well. Or maybe he was just an economist when it came to words. He paused before closing the door on his way out. “Sit.”

Clearly, he hadn’t been hired to make guests feel welcome. She wondered what his real job was here at the Meade estate, and whether the gun holstered beneath his uniform jacket had something to do with it.

Tori felt comparatively naked without her Glock sidearm strapped to her waist. But then, art historians rarely armed themselves. This afternoon she was Victoria Westin, associate professor of antiquities, not Tori Westin, FBI agent. Indiana Jones aside, she needed to come off as book smart and boring, not armed and ready for action.

Bearing that in mind, Tori smoothed the legs of her taupe linen pantsuit and perched on the edge of the brocade wingback chair to await an introduction to her new employer. Her mother would tell her the color of her suit was drab and clashed with her rich surroundings. But the understatement fit the role she was playing. Besides, she was here to do a job, not snag a husband. Brains and resourcefulness were the requirements of the day, and Tori had those in spades.

She rose to her feet, intending to make the most of any unguarded time in the house by inspecting every room until she could narrow down the search. And, judging by the turrets and wings and widow’s walks she’d seen driving up to the front steps, she had plenty to search.

The Meade mansion was an historical testament to Victorian architecture, with its red brick and dark wood and ornate moldings. Heavy velvet curtains and gilt trim bespoke power and money.

But there was a chilly heaviness to the air, as if the weight of too much opulence and too many secrets had grown too great for the walls to bear. Tori pushed aside the fringed drapes and gazed out at the ominous clouds that gave a dusky cast to the afternoon sky and threw long, fingerlike shadows across the lawn and driveway below.

A few miles to the north, above the downtown skyline, the air was still clear and sunny and blue. But like a tail she hadn’t been able to shake, the clouds had rolled in and darkened and followed her south. Now, they seemed to linger overhead, thickening in strength, churning in an ongoing battle within themselves.

Tori knew it was only the results of winds and ions and barometric pressure, but a sudden, almost panicked need to feel the heat of the sun had her reaching toward the sky, splaying her fingers against the cool glass and holding her breath.

On the next, saner breath, she curled her fingers into her palms and pulled away from the window. She wasn’t prone to panic attacks or silliness of any kind, but the sensation of being trapped in a world of darkness had tapped into some whimsical notion from her childhood, when she’d still believed in fairy tales and mythical monsters.

Time to bring herself firmly back into the modern, real world she could control.

Activating the electronic sensor on her Cartier watch, she scanned her surroundings. A single hit. The blinking readout indicated one listening device. She let her eyes find it first, then crossed over to the bookshelf, ostensibly to inspect the leatherbound collection of French classics, while she evaluated the design and capability of the bug. Audio only. Good to know.

No camera, no problem with leaving a guest unattended. Apparently, she could snoop wherever she wanted as long as she was quiet about it. Smiling at her good fortune, Tori closed Les Misérables and replaced it on the shelf. Jericho Meade’s library spoke more of privilege and culture than of the top-notch security fortress her briefing had led her to expect.

Cole Taylor was the name she’d been given—warned about, in fact. A former cop with KCPD, he’d been seduced by enough money to turn his back on Meade’s illegal activities and become the reputed crime boss’s personal bodyguard. Backer and Brady had said there hadn’t been one successful break-in or attempt on Meade’s life since Taylor had taken over the job. No one in law enforcement on the local, state or national scale had been able to make a dent in Meade’s criminal empire since Taylor had taken over security.

Tori frowned. This notorious Taylor must have a secret weapon he relied on, because she’d seen little evidence of anything top-notch since she’d driven up to the main house.

True, getting here hadn’t been easy. The feeling of isolation had probably been planted in her subconscious mind as she’d wound around secondary highways and back roads to find it. Secluded on seven acres near the Kansas City Zoo and Swope Park, the Meade estate was surrounded by a forest of oaks and maples and leafy undergrowth—some of it landscaped, more of it left to grow wild and create a natural barrier that separated the redbrick mansion from the park, the road and the rest of civilization.

Yes, there’d been a guard at the wrought-iron gate. He’d searched her shoulder attaché and scanned her with a metal detector. But at the house itself, she’d seen nothing beyond a routine electronic alarm system at the exterior doors and windows, and Aaron Polakis, who seemed to have lost interest in keeping an eye on her. If this was Taylor’s idea of security, then she was overqualified for the job.

But she wouldn’t claim an easy victory just yet. She couldn’t help wondering what else the two Bills at the Customs Department had been misinformed about. They had little hard evidence that Meade had actually stolen the statue—only his affinity for rare art and business trips that put him in New Orleans at the time of the theft. Maybe the intercepted communiqués to a mysterious Sir Lancelot weren’t talking about the sale of the statue at all. The horse in the memos Bill and Bill had shown her could be referring to anything. A shipment of drugs. A thoroughbred. Another work of art.

If the statue was here, though, she’d find it. She owed that much to the memory of her father.

A knight in shining, golden armor. A lone warrior on horseback. The Horseman will always ride to your rescue, her father had told her. He’d first shown her The Divine Horseman’s picture in a museum magazine when she was fourteen, and, in her adolescent heart, Victor Westin had seemed every bit as handsome and heroic as that fabled knight. He’d promised to take her along on his next business trip and show her the real thing.

But her father never came home again. Except in a box for his own funeral.

“Focus, Tori,” she chided herself in a whisper, slamming the door on those tender memories of Victor. She was here to complete a mission, not to reminisce about what might have been.

Hidden at her sides, Tori’s fingers stretched and curled in a balletic display of controlled dexterity. She wasn’t nervous so much as steeped in adrenaline. She was far more comfortable taking action than biding her time.

The Westin name had gotten her in the door. Her credentials as an appraiser would give her access to Meade’s reputedly extensive collection. Then there’d be time for plenty of action.

She settled back into the chair, easing the anticipatory energy from her posture. Thoughts of her father and foolish schoolgirl fantasies were firmly tucked away. Agent Westin was in control once more. Correction, Professor Westin was in the house. She was good to go.

“Ms. Westin—?”

Tori shot to her feet at the male voice, tinged with a hint of arrogance and a full dose of down-home charm.

“Or should I say Professor? Doctor?”

“Victoria’s fine.” She extended her hand to the thirty-something man in the crisp white tennis outfit. Six feet tall, maybe. Compactly built. Not one strand of his light-brown hair looked out of place. This wasn’t the white-haired patriarch from the Customs Department briefing file.

“Victoria, hmm?” He savored her name as if he’d taken a sip of pricey champagne.

Too smooth, too handsome, for her tastes. Definitely more her mother’s type.

He folded her hand up in his and smiled. “I’m Chad Meade. Jericho’s nephew.”

The grip on her hand tightened when she would have pulled away, and she could have sworn the stroke of his thumb was an intentional caress. A shiver of revulsion skittered along her spine, dredging up an instant sense of distrust.

Fortunately, he misread the confusion that must have shown on her face. “He’s resting right now. But since I manage the estate and oversee the acquisition and donation of his collection, I thought we should get acquainted. I want to help any way I can.”

“I see.” Tori pulled her hand away, resisting the urge to wipe it clean against her thigh. “I hope Mr. Meade isn’t ill. I was looking forward to getting started with cataloging right away. It’s exciting to think he has so many pieces, he can’t keep track of them all. Who knows what I’ll discover.”

“Admirable work ethic. He’ll like that.” He gestured for her to retake her seat and crossed to a tray of ice and drinks in the corner. “Can I get you anything?”

At two in the afternoon? Tori crossed her legs at the ankle and feigned a relaxed pose. “Nothing for me, thanks.” To his credit, Chad bypassed the decanted liquor and filled a tall glass with ice and sparkling water. “Will I be reporting to you, then?” she asked.

“That remains to be seen.” He turned and raised his glass in a toast. “How closely would you like to work together?”

She didn’t plan to have anyone looking over her shoulder, especially this starched and tanned loverboy. Tori pulled her reading glasses from her bag and put them on to emphasize the bookish, I’m-not-here-to-flirt role she’d come to play. “I tend to be pretty independent. Since the list I was given is out-of-date, it might be easier if I go from room to room to document items as I go. The job can be tedious and time consuming, and it sounds like you’re a busy man. I’m content—and more productive—when I work alone.”

Seemingly undaunted by a pair of wire frames, Chad took a drink and crossed to the desk. He leaned against the edge of the dark cherry wood immediately in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact.

“Keep in mind, Victoria…” He nodded to a line in the paneling that ran parallel to the edge of the redbrick fireplace. She’d already spotted the hinges on the bookshelf marking a hidden door. “This old Victorian monstrosity is filled with secret rooms and passageways a stranger could get lost in. We had a new maid here once who went down to the cellar for a bottle of wine and ended up missing in the catacombs for two days. Needless to say, by the time we found her, she wasn’t inclined to return to work, so we let her go. For your own safety—as well as protection of Jericho’s artifacts—until our chief clears you, you’ll be restricted to certain areas of the house.”

“But I’ll need access to every room, even the hidden ones, in order to do my job completely.”

“True, my uncle’s taste in fine things goes through the entire house. Nonetheless, there are restricted areas throughout the estate. I doubt the chief would look too favorably upon finding you where you shouldn’t be.” He flashed a smile as white as his shorts, then stood and circled behind her chair. He traced his fingertips along the sleeve of her jacket, marking a trail from wrist to shoulder. “Of course, I, too, have an appreciation for fine things. Perhaps I could personally show you some of the more valuable items we keep behind locked doors.”

Tori stared deep into the grain of the desk, resisting the urge to clench her fists at the unwelcome touch. She had a feeling breaking and entering, and risking the wrath of Jericho Meade would be preferable to spending time in close quarters with this lothario.

“The chief?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “You mean Mr. Meade?”

Irked by her lack of interest in his offer, the charm bled from Chad’s voice. “Our chief of security. Cole Taylor.” Chad stalked to the drink cart and splashed some brown liquor into his water. He drank half the glass before speaking again. “He used to be a cop. Lost his badge on a corruption charge.” The rest of his drink disappeared in another long swallow and he refilled the glass, ignoring the water this time. “Taylor saved the old man’s life one night, and now he’s the golden boy. He guards Jericho and all that’s his with the devotion of a damn puppy. He’s the one you really need to worry about.”

So she’d heard.

Chad’s smile was firmly back in place when he faced her again. But she’d glimpsed the chink in his plastic exterior. Was it jealousy over Taylor’s quick rise in the family hierarchy? Contempt over golden boy’s qualifications for the job? Mistrust because Jericho had let an ex-cop into the fold?

Tori didn’t push. Curiosity aside, she wasn’t here to investigate crime family disharmony—unless she needed to use it as leverage to achieve her own agenda.

“So when can I meet Mr. Taylor?” Though she’d have a hard time feigning respect for a man she knew to be a crooked cop, she had to play the protocol game, or risk her cover. “The sooner I get started, the sooner I can have the estimates for your uncle.”

“Why are you so anxious to get to work, Victoria?” Chad bolted his drink and strolled back to the desk.

“Because it’s the job Mr. Meade hired me to do?”

He, apparently, didn’t appreciate flippancy. He sank into the chair behind the desk. Neither of them was smiling now. “I’m Mr. Meade,” he stated, emphasizing his claim to authority while sounding for all the world like a petulant child. “I’d think you’d want to be making a better impression on me. My uncle is in his late seventies. His mind and health are failing and he’s tired all the time. I’m the one who arranged to have you hired. We’re trying to avoid a legal nightmare with insurance claims and make sure his wishes are carried out after his death.”

The library door opened with a quiet swish across the carpet. “Don’t write me off just yet, Chad.”

A wizened old man with a shock of snow-white hair and clear blue eyes entered the room. The gnarled fingers of his left hand clutched an unlit cigar and rested on the arm of a plump man with slick, thinning hair. Though the men were similar in age, there was an unexpected frailty about the white-haired man.

Despite the added lines and yellowish pallor, Tori recognized Jericho Meade even before Chad rose from his seat to acknowledge him.

“Uncle.”

“Mr. Meade.” Tori stood and extended her hand. “Victoria Westin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Releasing his grip on the sturdy anchor of his aide, he moved forward to shake hands politely. “So, you’re Frank’s granddaughter. I haven’t seen that old coot in years.” A single, sliding glance sent Chad scrambling from behind the desk. “Aren’t you late for your game with Lana? It’s not wise to keep your fiancée waiting.” Jericho’s smile turned back to include Tori. “Especially to flirt with another beautiful woman.”

Ah, so schmaltz ran in the family. Tori forced herself to smile at the indirect compliment. “Thank you.”

Reluctant to be dismissed, Chad paused beside the portly man she’d identified as Paul Meredith. “Just one thing before I go. I’m curious, Victoria. The university recommended you as an experienced consultant with whom they’ve worked several times. I’ve attended several university and museum fund-raisers. How come we’ve never met before?”

The dare in his eyes and voice made her wonder whether he was trying to score smart points with his uncle or show her up as a fraud because she’d rebuffed his advances. She’d dealt with power-hungry men like Chad all her life, and had learned to walk a fine line between asserting herself and placating their egos. “I’m dedicated to my work.” That wasn’t a lie, but she wasn’t about to elaborate on her real profession. “My mother’s the fund-raiser in the family. My talents lie more behind the scenes. With graduate school, research and travel, I’ve really had little time for socializing.”

“There. You see, Chad?” Jericho held on to the desk and guided himself to his chair. “She doesn’t waste her family’s money or her time partying—”

“I work damn hard. If you’re insinuating—”

“I believe your uncle dismissed you.” Paul Meredith turned and blocked Chad’s path back to the desk. “Lana will be upset if your tennis match gets rained out because you kept her waiting.”

Chad cocked his head and glared at the bigger man. “You think he’s going to leave any of this to you, you old buzzard?”

“Chad.” Frail though he might be in appearance, there was no mistaking the authority in Jericho’s voice. Or the warning. “Because I loved my brother dearly, I’ve raised you like a son. But my patience is wearing thin.” His tone said the discussion was over. “I expect to see you and Lana both at dinner. Enjoy your game.”

Tori snuck a peek over the top of her glasses. A stiff, tawny lock of hair had actually fallen out of place across Chad’s forehead. He smoothed it and his temper back into place as he faced his uncle.

“I don’t presume to take Daniel’s place in your heart, Uncle. But he’s gone. I could run this business if you’d give me a chance.”

Jericho’s eyes glazed over at the mention of Daniel. He did nothing to acknowledge that Chad had even spoken. Finally, accepting his uncle’s dismissal, Chad dipped his chin in a curt nod to her.

“Victoria. Until dinner.”

Tori and Paul watched him leave. She made a mental note to steer clear of family politics unless she could find a way to take advantage of it. She could ill afford to side with the wrong person too early in the game. The whole idea of undercover work was not to draw too much attention to herself. And she didn’t want to alienate anyone in the household who might have the answers she needed.

“Jer?” Paul Meredith’s gentle prodding brought Jericho back from whatever distant place he’d drifted off to.

The patriarch blinked, then grinned. “Take off your glasses.”

“Excuse me?” Tori turned to see the old man watching her intently from across the desk. Though curious at how quickly the confrontation with Chad had been forgotten, she complied, pulling off her reading glasses and folding them in her lap. She boldly returned his scrutiny, and he smiled.

“Yes, I see the resemblance in the eyes. Sometimes it’s easier to remember what happened years ago than what happened yesterday.” Jericho’s voice wavered with a hint of his age and illness now. “But I know those eyes. That deep, true green must be a strong Westin family trait. Though I must say they look prettier on you than they ever did on Frank.”

“I see some men are never too old to flirt.” She smiled on cue as he’d meant for her to, though it had been a long time since she’d considered having more in common with her grandfather than a name. And she wasn’t interested in exploring any family history. It was enough to know the two men had once done business with each other. Her smile never wavered. “You know what would really impress me?”

“What?”

“Show me some of your etchings?” The line might be trite, but it had the intended effect.

The old man laughed. “You flatter me, girl.”

Whatever was happening to his deteriorating mind and body wasn’t affecting him now. He leaned on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. Paul Meredith was right there to support him, but Jericho waved him aside. “If you’d let an old man hold on to you, dear, I’d love to show you some of my favorite pieces.”

Tori’s pulse thrummed in anticipation as she tossed her bag over her shoulder and stood. Lax security. The distraction of a power struggle within the family. Approval from the boss.

The Divine Horseman was as good as hers.

Chapter Three

Tori hadn’t really thought Jericho would take her straight to a vault filled with stolen goods. But she had hoped he’d do more than point out the Borglum bust she’d already seen on display in the entryway or the George Caleb Bingham painting over the mantel in the living room.

There were no fewer than six archways off the foyer, and she’d been shown through only two. They were both public areas—places to entertain guests. She hadn’t seen anything remotely resembling a safe or secret room. Or an office. The Meades owned buildings in downtown Kansas City, but there had to be a nerve center for an estate this size. A place to run a business, hold meetings. Keep records.

Stash stolen artifacts.

Jericho did own an impressive collection of art. But, recalling the list supplied by the two Bills, she knew everything she’d seen thus far had been legitimately purchased.

There was no golden horseman in sight.

If she was going to find it, she’d have to gain access to the restricted rooms of the house and open a few of those locked doors. With or without Jericho’s or Cole Taylor’s permission.

Forty-five minutes after the tour had started, Paul tapped his watch. “It’s time for your medication, Jer. At least an hour before dinner, remember?”

“You’re as fussy as an old woman,” Jericho grumbled. “Call Aaron,” he ordered. With a reluctant sigh, he patted Tori’s hand and excused himself for a chance to rest.

Tori stood alone in the foyer for several minutes. It was long enough for her to study the paintings on the wall, making mental appraisals of each one’s value and working her way closer to the restricted wing of the house. She was close enough to reach for the knob of one of the French doors recessed in an archway when Aaron Polakis suddenly materialized behind her.

She traced the ivy vine carved into the walnut molding framing the doorway. “This house has beautiful woodwork, don’t you think?”

He didn’t care about her opinion. “This way, Ms. Westin.”

His accent was even more pronounced as he replaced each W with a V sound. For a moment, she thought he might have been spying on her, that he’d seen her looking into places she shouldn’t and was going to call her on it. But then she realized he was more worried about something else.

He was slightly out of breath. And the instant her gaze fell to the open front of his jacket, he quickly buttoned it, then pulled down the cuffs of his shirt at the end of each sleeve. The adjustments were brisk and methodical, but done hastily enough to make Tori think he’d just changed his clothes and run in from somewhere.

The man had been out of uniform and out of touch. But whether he’d been taking a legitimate break and had been caught unawares, or he’d been caught off guard, period, was hard to tell. Another flaw in Cole Taylor’s half-baked security system.

“We go now.” Aaron led her directly to her room on the second floor. “There—” he pointed out the tall, antique armoire where her clothes had been hung “—and there.” He opened the door to the adjoining bath. “Dinner is at seven in the dining room. Down the stairs. To your left.”

“Thank you.”

His dark eyes swept over her with something like disdain before he closed the door. Maybe he was anxious to get back to whatever had detained him, or just afraid she’d report him for dereliction of his duty. She certainly hadn’t made a friend there. But she did appreciate the silent reminder to watch her back while she was here.

After throwing open the drapes and sheers in a futile effort to bring some much-needed light into the room, Tori dropped her bag onto the chenille bedspread and picked up the monogrammed notecard lying on her pillow beside a piece of wrapped candy. She unfolded the card and read the dramatically scrawled message written inside.

Miss Westin—

Welcome to Meade Manor. Looking forward to our time together.

Enjoy your stay.

J.D.M.

“Nice touch.” Her host was definitely old school, like her grandfather. But she had a feeling that his polite, gentlemanly manner, like Frank Westin’s, was just a facade that hid a ruthless, driven man who cared more about profit than people.

Tossing the card onto the bed, she popped the candy into her mouth. She winced at the strong taste of bitter mint inside the chocolate and spit the nasty thing back into the wrapper, then tossed the whole thing into the trash.

“I prefer a caramel on my pillow, thank you very much.” Speaking her real opinion out loud, even on a topic as mundane as candy preferences, reminded Tori that she was playing a role for the next several days. Professor Westin could talk freely. Agent Westin needed to be on guard every moment she was undercover. With her mind firmly in business mode, she conducted a thorough search of her room and the white-tiled bathroom. She found one listening device on the lamp atop the correspondence desk, but her sensor picked up no cameras. For a passing moment, she considered disabling the bug. But no sound from a room where someone intended to eavesdrop would raise suspicion.

“Let’s see, what shall I wear?” The mundane comment covered her as she ran her fingers along the joint where the walnut armoire butted against the wall. The tall antique with its flowery cornices rested flush against the rose-patterned wallpaper, not even separated by the width of the baseboard. One of the lovely eccentricities of Victorian manor houses was the scarcity of built-in closets. Architects and designers of any era rarely attached furniture to the wall itself. So that meant…

Tori opened the door and hauled out her suits and blouses on their hangers and dumped them onto the bed. She pulled a penlight from her bag and, reliving a favorite childhood book, climbed right up into the armoire itself, searching first with her eyes and then with her fingertips for any kind of latch. She’d almost given up in disappointment that she wouldn’t be transported into another world when she spotted a set of four odd marks imprinted in the dust on the back panel.

“Curious,” she thought, holding her right hand up beside the marks. The size was greater than her own hand, but the pattern was the same. Other than an odd span between the third and fourth spot, they lined up in the perfect imprint of four fingers. “I’ve had company.”

And she didn’t think it was the lost maid.

Even a forensic specialist would have a hard time recovering usable prints once a layer of dust had settled over them. But four out of five was a significant number. It should be easy enough, through casual observation, to find out who in the house was missing the ring finger on his or her right hand.

But it wasn’t the who so much as the how that interested Tori right now. Placing her own hand beneath the telltale prints, she pushed. And smiled at the answering click. A spring-loaded door. She backed out of the armoire as the panel sprang open, then stepped inside for a closer look.

“Ooh.” She shivered as she stepped into a pocket of cold air. Every follicle on her arms and legs puckered into a sea of goose bumps. Who ran air-conditioning inside the walls of a house? But as she took another step in, the chill passed. Tori’s skin and heartbeat returned to normal. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Her light revealed a handle on the opposite side of the door for pulling it shut, a two-and-a-half-foot-wide passageway framed by the exposed studs and cross-beams of unfinished walls, and dozens of footprints trampled in the dust on the floor. She peered deeper into the passage, following the well-used path with her eyes. But the prints and her small light were swallowed up by the distant darkness.

“The guest room must be a popular destination.”

But for whom? And why?

Thunder rumbled in the sky like the distant hoofbeats of a galloping herd, shaking the foundations of the house itself. Tori squeezed her toes inside her shoes and refused to read anything more into the sky’s trembling and the house’s response than spooky coincidence. As well-maintained as the mansion might be, it was an old structure, susceptible to sound waves and atmospheric changes.

Her affirming sigh stirred the dank air and she sneezed as a spiral of dust motes tickled her nose. Was this part of Cole Taylor’s archaic security measures? Sneaking through the house and spying on guests? Were these hidden passageways a conduit for clandestine sexual liaisons? Or, were these catacombs the perfect hiding place for stolen artifacts?

Chad had hinted that secret rooms and passages cut through the entire mansion. The Divine Horseman could be stored anywhere inside this maze, transported in and out by visitors—known or otherwise—to this room. And though fanciful thoughts of knights and maidens and secret rendezvous tempted her to explore, Tori was practical enough to realize she should eliminate more obvious hiding places for the statuette before she went combing through the innards of the house.

She wrinkled her nose against the next wave of sneezing and climbed out of the armoire, quietly closing the door behind her and re-hanging her clothes to cover it. As much as Jericho loved his pretty things, he’d be more likely to put The Divine Horseman on display in a private room where he could look at it whenever he wanted. Besides, she had a hard time picturing an arthritic old man sneaking through the narrow, dusty catacombs. She’d be smarter to start her search in one of the locked rooms downstairs.

Smarter and cleaner.

As another spate of sneezes burned her sinuses, Tori noticed a soft spring rain falling outside her window now, punctuated by rumblings that foretold a more violent storm in its wake.

The gloomy weather was the least of her concerns. She stripped and stepped into the claw-foot tub with a pull-around curtain for a quick shower. She’d have a hard time explaining a stuffy nose and cobwebs in her hair if she showed up for dinner after poking around the secret passages.

One thug, one bug and a secret entrance to her room…Just enough security to keep her on her toes, but not enough to worry her. Yet. Maybe it was time to challenge this unseen Cole Taylor, she thought as she dried off. If he was the loyal protector Chad had made him out to be, then these amateurish efforts to safeguard the Meade mansion were intended to put her and any unwelcome guests off their game. But she’d been tested before; she wouldn’t let him lure her into a false sense of confidence.

“CLASSICAL MUSIC, HMM?” Cole was a rock-and-roll man himself, but the sudden blare of trumpets brought him from his desk to the bank of monitors that gave him visual access to key parts of the estate, and audio access to nearly everywhere else.

She had cranked the music in her room—the art professor with the fiery red hair. Now she was zipping around the guest room, wrapped in a white towel that covered her from armpit to thigh. She crossed to the far side of the room to retrieve something from the dresser, giving the camera a wide-angle shot. Cole started unrolling the sleeves of his shirt and buttoning the cuffs, watching the screen and enjoying his work for a change.

They didn’t make towels long enough to cover those legs.

Professor Westin had passed his background screening, the security check at the gate, and—other than those few minutes alone in the library—had been under constant surveillance by Aaron or someone else in the house. But their newest guest had shown an inordinate amount of curiosity in her surroundings. He supposed intellectuals were like that, always poking around, eager to learn something new. His brother Mac was a forensic scientist who never missed a detail. Mac could read a crime scene with all five senses, and with a little help from chemistry and computers, piece together the who, what, where, when, and sometimes even the why of the crime.

Cole’s powers of observation lay in reading people.

The professor had first caught his attention when she climbed into the wardrobe. Odd. But he’d seen stranger stuff in this house. When she disappeared into the bathroom, he’d gone back to his desk to finish up some paperwork. But now, as he watched the hurry in her movements, he realized her curious eccentricities served a purpose. What, he didn’t know yet. But she was up to something. Dinner wasn’t for nearly an hour, and she showed all the signs of a woman who was late for an appointment.

He hooked the last button on his cuff and unbunched the oxford cloth sleeves beneath the elastic and leather brace of his shoulder holster. He missed the days when he could just toss on a pair of jeans and… He froze with his hands at the knot of his tie.

She’d dropped the towel.

A better man might have turned away, but Cole couldn’t. Slim and delicate from the nape of her neck down to the heel of her foot—with miles of smooth, milky skin in between—Victoria Westin didn’t look like any professor he knew. Even in black and white, she was tall, lean and sexy. His pulse quickened. His lips parted to accommodate the sudden heat inside that sought escape.

She’d pulled on panty hose, a slip and a plain green dress before he forced himself to blink and look away. He retreated all the way to his desk to grab his suit coat from the back of his chair and slip it on, needing the physical activity to work off the tension that made him edgy and horny and frustrated as hell. He needed a long workout in the gym or a stiff drink. He didn’t need to be dreaming up scenarios about slender redheads doing stripteases.

He was in one screwed-up mess, sitting on a time bomb. He’d uncovered dates and codes and had no clear idea whether they were legit or not, without outside verification. He hadn’t heard boo about his mother’s recovery from being attacked. And he was certain that someone in this house suspected he was a traitor. They might not know he was a cop, but he or she saw him as a threat.

How else could he explain the influx of invitations to sit in on every meeting? Not just with Jericho, but with Chad and his fiancée. Paulie. Aaron, too. Supervising deliveries, consulting on stock options, hiring accountants. Strategies for dealing with a relentless district attorney who’d published yet another interview about his determination to rid Kansas City of organized crime. He’d never been so popular.

What did they want him to say? That he knew the assistant district attorney personally? That ADA Dwight Powers believed Jericho Meade had gotten away with murder?

Someone was trying to keep Cole very busy, and feed him lots of misleading information in an effort to trip him up and reveal his connection to Dwight Powers.

“What the—?”

Victoria Westin had just slipped something inside the lining of her jacket. Cole moved closer to watch. She smoothed lipstick over her lips and smacked them together, studying her appearance in the mirror. The luscious shape of her mouth interested him almost as much as what she did next. Instead of replacing the cap, she unscrewed something from the bottom of the tube and tucked that into her jacket as well.

“What are you up to?” he whispered to the image on his screen.

Cole buttoned his jacket as she opened her door and peered into the hallway. He typed in a command and switched the view to the one from the upstairs hallway camera, and caught her slinking along the railing toward the landing’s sitting area.

“That’s beyond curious, lady. Who are you?”

Instincts borne of too many years on the job transformed his suspicion into a defensive awareness that radiated through his skeleton and sharpened every sense. He looked past her to the bigger picture on the screen.

Where was Aaron? Polakis was supposed to be watching her until dinner.

A nosy guest. A missing guard.

Too many unanswered questions.

When Ms. Westin peeked over the top of the banister before tiptoeing down the stairs, a plan took shape in Cole’s mind.

It was crazy. It was desperate.

But it was a plan.

WITH RIMSKY-KORSAKOV filling the room and the ear of whomever might be listening on the other end, Tori slipped out her door and made her way to the grand staircase.

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