“I just wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” Nick said.

“What do you want?”

The quiet question, no less intense for its lack of volume, snared his attention. Slowly his gaze met hers. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

To her credit, she didn’t flinch. “I told you once…”

“That you wouldn’t sleep with me.”

“It’s not fair….”

“If you’re concerned for my feelings, don’t be. I rarely do anything for altruistic reasons.” His words served a twofold purpose. They held a warning for her, one she would be wise to heed.

And they served as a reminder to himself….

Hard to Tame
Kylie Brant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KYLIE BRANT

lives with her husband and five children in Iowa. She works full-time as a teacher of learning disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings! When her youngest children, a set of twins, turned four, she decided to try her hand at writing. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

Kylie invites readers to write to her at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616.

For Mary Ann and Harris—

because it’s hard being the “out-laws”!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Prologue

They were dead. Every one of them.

With an unnatural strength borne of terror, Sara Parker tore away from the female U.S. Marshal and pushed through the apartment door.

“Get her out of here!” Agent Carlson shouted from his position on the floor. Sara felt arms grabbing at her shoulders, trying to yank her away from the bloody carnage.

She fought like a wild thing, adrenaline giving her the power to break free. She rushed into the compact kitchen, stumbling over the bodies on the floor. Carlson was checking one of the agents for a pulse, but Sara knew, in some numb, distant area of her mind, that he wouldn’t find one. Just as she knew the futility of the hope she still harbored.

“Sean!” She dropped to her knees beside the blond man’s chair and took his hand in hers, refusing to consider what the coldness of his fingers meant. He could have been asleep but for the fact that his eyes were open. The round hole in the center of his forehead was a horrifying contrast to his choirboy countenance. Somehow he still managed to exude that sad sweetness that was so much a part of him. Even in death.

There was a soft keening sound that Sara didn’t recognize as coming from her. Unmindful of his blood-soaked shirt, she slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her face to his form. I’m sorry. The words echoed endlessly in her mind. I’m so sorry.

And then the hands were at her shoulders again, drawing her to her feet. Her unnatural strength of a few moments ago had drained away as quickly as it had surged, leaving her feeling empty and weak.

“Don’t. Try not to look at them.” Agent Reindl’s voice was unusually compassionate. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Sara allowed the woman to guide her out of the apartment, only half aware of the sharp exchange between the two agents, the cell phone conversation between Carlson and his superior. She took no note of the different route they took to the car. Made no observation of her surroundings before Reindl forced her to lie down in the back seat.

The vehicle started, pulled away. Sara lay motionless, her cheek pressed against the cool leather of the seat, eyes open, yet unseeing.

Another safe house. More agents. Leak in the department, had to be. Dammit, Dobbs had four kids.

The words eddied and swirled around her, surreal and unrelated. They made no sense. Nothing did anymore. She started trembling, the shudders racking her body. She could have told them that they were wasting their time. Finding another safe house was pointless.

She’d never be safe again.

“We’ll move you tomorrow, once we get word from the department. You’ll be fine here for tonight.”

Sara gave a listless nod at Reindl’s words, and continued to stare at the wall of the motel room. Carlson was on his cell phone again, after which he’d hold another whispered conversation with his partner. Both were doing their best to maintain at least an outward appearance of control. But Sara knew the truth. The only one in control was Victor Mannen, and he’d just had six people massacred.

She would be next.

The knowledge washed over her like a wave, and fear circled. How had security at the apartment been breached? How had two U.S. Marshals and four young adults been dispatched with such chilling efficiency? Useless to wonder about, really, just as it was useless to harbor a macabre fascination in how she would meet her death. A gun again, or a blade slipped into her back as she walked into the courthouse flanked by guards?

Swallowing hard, Sara barely noticed the concerned glance Carlson sent her way. There was something outrageously self-centered in worrying about her own demise when the deaths of six other people rested on her shoulders. A part of her wondered why she even cared. There was nothing worth living for, at any rate. Not since Sean…

She choked on the boulder-sized knot that lodged in her throat, and pressed a fist to her lips. Agent Carlson ended his conversation and looked at her. “How you doing?” he asked, not unkindly. The big, bespectacled agent had been the favorite of all of them. He’d always been ready with a joke or a quick remark. But now he was as grim-faced as his partner. Two agents and four witnesses dead meant Sara had a target on her back. And so did anyone unfortunate enough to be guarding her.

Launching herself out of the chair, she hurtled toward him, her arms going around his waist, taking him by surprise. After an instant he brought a hand to her back, patted her awkwardly. “Don’t worry, kid. It’ll be okay.”

She appreciated his attempt at reassurance, even as she recognized the lie. Stepping away from him, she avoided his gaze. “I think I’ll take a hot shower.”

He shot a quick glance at Reindl, and when the woman nodded, he said, “Sure. Probably a good idea.”

Crossing to the bathroom, Sara shut the door, leaned against it limply. Then, with a sigh, she reached up her sleeve and withdrew the wallet she’d just lifted from Carlson. She forced herself not to think as she rifled through it, taking out the cash. Folding the bills, she shoved them in her pocket and then laid the wallet on the vanity.

Her actions automatic, she turned the shower faucets on full blast and then climbed up on the vanity, unlocked the window. It was easier, far easier, to act without considering the sense of déjà vu she felt. But as she climbed through the open window it occurred to her that she was following her set pattern for dealing with trouble.

She was running.

Chapter 1

Six Years Later

He was back again. Watching her.

Sara noted the man’s entrance and her muscles tightened, even as she fought to remain expressionless. She laughed at something one of her customers said, made a quick remark, but the awareness, the heightened sensitivity, was already creeping down her spine.

This was the third day he’d come into the café on her shift. The restaurant had plenty of regulars, but none who looked like this man. None who projected a darkly seductive threat merely by his presence. None who moved as though an untamed animal prowled below his smooth, sophisticated exterior.

Moving away, she checked with the people seated at the next table, then turned to go to the kitchen. En route, Candy, another waitress, sidled up to her.

“Your admirer’s back.”

Sara didn’t smile at the woman’s teasing tone. “Promise if he sits in my section you’ll switch with me.”

“Glad to, but we both know it’s not me he keeps returning for.”

Giving her new orders to the cook, Sara loitered as some of her other orders came up. Candy shot another indiscreet look at the dark stranger and lowered her voice even further. “I discovered some information about him, in case you’re interested.”

Loading her arms with plates of steaming food, Sara didn’t look up. “I’m not.” She’d been packed since the first day she’d seen the man—ready, if necessary, to flee at a moment’s notice. The man unnerved her, had from the first. She couldn’t decide whether it was her well-developed survival instincts that quivered to life around him, or something much more elemental. Both were equally dangerous—to her.

Without missing a beat, the woman went on. “He’s a hometown boy by the name of Nick Doucet. Yes, dear—” she began gathering up her own filled orders “—that’s of the Doucet family, from Soileau Street. Very old name, not to mention old money. Comes back to New Orleans a few times a year for a visit, and this time he’s been home over a week.”

“Naw ’Leans.” The woman’s pronunciation pegged her as a native. And even though Sara had lived there only a month, she recognized the family name Candy had mentioned. She wound her way back to her tables fighting a sense of relief. The mysterious stranger had a reason to be here. He hadn’t been sent after her. She wouldn’t have to leave again. Not yet.

With swift precision she unloaded the dishes before four customers seated outside under the awning. It was early, barely seven-thirty, but the air was already thick with a sticky heat. By noon it would be nearly unbearable, and the only ones who would choose seats on the patio would be tourists and other masochists.

“Hey, Amber, you’re sure lookin’ fine this mornin’.” The compliment came from Douglas, fortyish and graying. With no consideration for his bulging middle, he’d ordered steak and eggs with a mound of potatoes covered in cheese. There was a chorus of agreement from the other men. Sara smiled and seamlessly shifted back into her role.

“And how are the fab four doing this morning? Douglas, how’re the twins? Michael, the haircut looks great.” She swapped banter with the men even as she was aware, much too aware, of Doucet seated several tables away, speaking with the manager, Lowell Francis.

“When you gonna run away with me, Amber, huh?” This from Baldwin, the youngest member of the group of businessmen. With his slicked-back brown hair and soulful eyes, he reminded her of a hound dog begging for affection. She didn’t bother telling him that when she ran away, she always ran alone.

“I guess when your wife gives you permission to leave town without her, Baldwin.”

At the others’ laughter, Sara leaned closer and said soothingly, “If I was married to a fellow like you, I’d keep you on a short rein, too.” She left the table amid their good-natured ribbing, and made a studious effort to ignore the man sitting nearby.

“It won’t work this time.” The words were low and smooth, and Sara’s stomach quivered. Even before turning she knew who the voice belonged to. Nick Doucet. Fixing a smile on her face, she met his dark gaze and said, “Someone will be back in just a moment to take your order, sir.”

She lost no time reentering the restaurant, scanning the place for Candy. But when she found the woman, the other waitress shook her head and threw a look over her shoulder at the manager. “Francis just warned me about staying in my own area. Sorry, girlfriend.” Catching the frown on the manager’s face, she hurried away, and Sara slowly went to the kitchen to check on her orders.

So she wouldn’t be able to avoid Doucet any longer. A shiver worked down her spine as she picked up plates at the kitchen window. The threat she sensed from the man wasn’t directed at her, that much seemed apparent. And so his interest must be personal, and could be dismissed easily. She was an expert at rejecting men, could even, when the spirit moved her, do it without crushing their egos.

But somehow she knew that nothing in her experience had prepared her for a man like Nick Doucet.

After delivering the dishes to customers, she moved to his table, donned her bright waitress smile and took out her pad. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Are you angry with me, Amber?”

Her smile froze, but she managed a quizzical lift to her brow. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“For not letting you ignore me any longer.”

Nerves kicked in her stomach. A mental image of the conversation she’d witnessed between him and the manager flickered across her mind. “We rarely allow our customers to starve. Someone would have been along to take care of you.”

“But I wanted you.” The words hung in the air, quivering like a plucked harp string, and that unwelcome shiver shimmied down her spine again. She had the impression that he knew the effect he had on her, which made her all the more determined to hide it.

She reeled off the specials, ending with, “If you’d like variety, the buffet is always good. Ten ninety-five for all you can eat.”

“Just fruit. Wheat toast and coffee. Black.” The ordinary words had greater impact when delivered in that smoky tone, coupled with the intent look in his fathomless ebony eyes. There was nothing ordinary about this man. A well-developed intuition told her that.

He had a presence that commanded attention. Slightly over six feet tall, his broad-shouldered form was lean rather than bulky, with the dangerous stillness of a bomb waiting to detonate. His hair, as dark as his eyes, swept back from a slight widow’s peak. The slashes at either corner of his mouth could have been etched in granite. His brutal handsomeness gave the impression of lethal power, ruthlessly harnessed. And Sara was more grateful than she’d like to admit when she was able to move away from him.

The swelling number of customers in the café gave her a ready excuse should he try to speak to her again. But he seemed content to lounge in his chair, regarding her silently. And no matter how busy her job kept her, that uncomfortable awareness wouldn’t fade.

It was several minutes before she noticed that Doucet had garnered his own share of attention. Candy’s wasn’t the only unsubtle look sent his way, and more than one table of patrons was holding a whispered conversation in which his name figured. As Sara slid plates onto the table before three elderly men, one of their murmured remarks hung suspended in the air.

Bastard. It was impossible to tell whether the word was meant in the figurative or literal sense. She felt an unwilling flicker of sympathy for Doucet, one that was totally unnecessary. If he experienced the same sense of unease that she did at being the recipient of such attention, it certainly didn’t show. The only emotions reflected on his face were ones he allowed to appear there.

And all that showed right now was his continued interest in her.

It took more fortitude than it should have to collect his order from the kitchen, approach his table with it. But when she entered the patio area Doucet was no longer alone. Douglas Fairmont had left his party to address him, and she felt a ridiculous wave of relief that his presence would provide a buffer between them.

“I’d really like to lay it all out for you.” At a gesture from Nick, Douglas looked around, saw Sara. He shifted his girth to allow her room to set the plates in front of the man, but it was clear he had no intention of leaving. “If I could have just a half hour of your time, I promise you’ll see for yourself the possibilities for future growth.”

She quickly unloaded the tray, giving far more concentration to the act than was warranted. As she set down the linen-wrapped silverware, Doucet reached for it. Their hands touched and she snatched hers back with a suddenness that had his attention shifting from Fairmont to her.

“I might be interested.” Although still addressing the other man, his dark gaze was fixed on Sara. “You can stop by and give me the details this evening, say, at seven?” Nick’s eyes traced her features as Fairmont stuttered out an agreement. “On the condition, of course, that you bring Amber with you.”

“No way, Douglas.” Sara gripped her purse and hurried more quickly down the sidewalk, unmindful of the heat. She worked a split shift that day, with a couple hours off before she was needed for the lunch crowd. She’d planned to spend that time dropping by the library, maybe picking up a few groceries. But the man glued to her side wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“Be reasonable. And slow down, for God’s sake.” He pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped his broad forehead, which was already gleaming. “All I’m asking for is an hour of your time.”

“How many ways can I say it?” She never broke stride. “I’m not going.”

“There’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”

That stopped her. The look she fixed on him was fierce enough to have him backing away a step, raising his hands in mute surrender. “I meant no disrespect, Amber, honest.”

Forcing a lid on her roiling emotions, Sara took a deep breath, reached for calm. “I don’t mind doing you a favor, Douglas, but Nick Doucet…” She shook her head. “I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“But you won’t. Not really.” Seizing the opportunity to make his case again, Douglas went on eagerly. “My appointment is for seven. We’ll arrive, maybe have a drink, then he and I will discuss some business. Afterward, I’ll take you home. You won’t even have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

Sara started walking again. The man’s wheedling tone couldn’t begin to quiet the alarm shrilling in her mind. Doucet was trouble. Maybe not the kind of trouble she’d originally imagined. At least she no longer feared he’d been sent to kill her. But he presented a different kind of danger. She was much too aware of the man for it to be otherwise. “You can just show up without me. He heard me say I wasn’t coming. He won’t blame you.”

“I can’t take that chance.” Fairmount reached out to take her arm, and she pulled away in an involuntary response that no amount of acting could effectively disguise.

He balled up the handkerchief in his hand, his fingers clenching and unclenching around it. “This is important to me. I have a deal in mind that could make my career—all I need to do is line up the financing. I’ve been to everyone else in town, but Nick Doucet might be the only one with the vision to take a risk on my venture. I know you don’t owe me a thing, but he may be my last chance. C’mon, Amber, whaddya say?”

People strolled past them on the sidewalk, parting for the drama being carried out between the pair. Seeing the cautious hope mirrored on Fairmont’s face, Sara felt suddenly ancient. She could have told him that hope was as dangerous an emotion as need or trust. Far better to have no expectations at all than to risk having them shattered.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself to do just that. “I’m sorry, Douglas. I’d like to help you. If it were anybody else…but there’s no way I’m going to have anything to do with Nick Doucet. Not even for you.”

An hour later she was ensconced in a comfortable chair near the entrance of the New Orleans main library, reading the newest selection from a popular horror writer. The cool, quiet environment was a welcome balm after the outdoor heat, and from the nerves that quivered to life whenever Nick Doucet got too close.

Sara turned a page, squelching a twinge of conscience as she remembered the crestfallen look on Douglas’s face when he’d realized that no amount of persuasion was going to convince her to change her mind. But she’d learned long ago the folly of allowing emotion to dictate her actions. Her instincts were keen, honed by years on the streets, and those instincts came screaming to life every time Doucet was in the vicinity. She knew better than to ignore them.

A woman hurried by, grasping a young child by the hand. She spared Sara only a cursory glance, a fact that relieved a measure of the tension that had been building in her for the last several days. She knew what the woman saw when she looked at her—a medium tall, slender woman with badly cut hair, twisting a cheap locket around her index finger as she read the latest offering from a popular horror author. The picture was exactly the one Sara meant to present, accentuated by the gaudy, obviously cheap costume jewelry. The image fit Amber Jennings, and would be easily shed when she decided to move on to another city. Another state. She never kept any of her identities more than a few months.

The next half hour meandered by, the pace a welcome contrast to her usually hectic work schedule. When voices interrupted her concentration, she looked up, frowned slightly. A group of women in filmy, flowery dresses was trooping out of an inner room toward the exit, their goodbyes disturbing the relative quiet of her sanctuary. They strolled out the door, trailing expensive perfume in their wake.

Returning to her book, Sara was once again lost in the author’s imaginary world when a slight movement to her left disturbed her again. This time it was a solitary female, upwards of eighty, she’d guess, with the patrician bone structure that reflected beauty regardless of age, and pale, almost translucent skin.

But it wasn’t the older woman’s beauty that held Sara’s attention; it was the way she was clutching the edge of a table, swaying slightly on her feet.

Hesitantly, Sara asked, “Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, thank you.” The crisp words were delivered with just an air of haughtiness, and usually would have been enough to deter Sara from inquiring further. She guarded her own privacy too zealously to be at ease poking into others’. But for some reason memories picked that moment to swarm to the surface. Sean had had a grandmother he’d loved dearly. She’d been, he’d often claimed, the only member of his family who’d given a damn about him. Hundreds of times over the years Sara had reached for a phone, longing to dial that rest home in Illinois just to hear someone else mention his name. Each time realization of the risk had overpowered the emotion. Sara still made sure the woman knew she hadn’t been forgotten, but she did so anonymously. It was safer, far safer for all involved.

The flicker of memory was enough to have her rising. Pulling up a chair, she said, “Why don’t you sit down until it passes?”

The elderly lady aimed one fierce look at her, visibly battling her infirmity through sheer force of will. Then, the struggle obviously decided for her, she sank into the chair with a frustrated sigh. “Darn dizzy spells,” she muttered, her eyes closing for an instant. “There’s little I despise as much as the weakness that comes with the years.”

“I suppose none of us like to show our vulnerabilities, regardless of age.”

The woman’s eyes snapped open again. “No,” she murmured, studying Sara closely. “I imagine not. What’s your name, young lady?”

“Amber.”

“I’m Celeste. And since I’ve inconvenienced you this much, perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending me your arm and walking me to my car.”

Sara leaned forward and Celeste rose, clinging to her arm for support. “You aren’t expecting to drive, are you?” she asked dubiously.

The older woman gave a surprisingly strong laugh. “Good heavens, no. My husband considered it extremely gauche for women to drive themselves, and although times have certainly changed, I suppose it’s a bit late for me to learn driving skills.” As they spoke they moved slowly through the door and down the wide steps outside. At their appearance, a gleaming black Rolls pulled to a stop beside the curb, and a uniformed driver got out, opening the back passenger door to the vehicle.

Once Celeste was ensconced in the back seat, she looked up at Sara. “I’d like to repay you for your kindness. Would you care to accompany me home for tea?”

The invitation took Sara aback. “I…I’d better not. I have to get back to work soon.”

Celeste waved a hand and the driver went around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger door. “I’ll have Benjamin drive you when you have to go. Please don’t waste time arguing, dear. I make it a point to get my own way. It’s one of the few pleasures left to me.”

Studying the woman, Sara noted the flush in her cheeks, which couldn’t be blamed on the heat. They’d merely exchanged one air-conditioned environment for another. No doubt Celeste had a full staff and a family at home to see to her health. But Sara still felt compelled to accept, if only to see her home safely. There was little risk. Surely this sweet, frail woman wouldn’t lead her to danger.

So she engaged in uncharacteristic small talk with the woman as the car made its way across town. After several minutes it turned off the street through an open gate and up a long winding driveway.

Sara fell silent in something approaching awe. The sprawling, ancient mansion was white, with small dormers marching along the roofline proclaiming its French architecture. She could almost imagine the centuries falling away to reveal hoopskirted ladies and gentlemen in cutaway coats sipping mint juleps on the wide veranda.

“Impressive, is it not?” Celeste said as the car drew to a stop before the house. “It was built by my ancestor Claude in 1722 for his wife, Pauline Fontenot.” Simple pride rang in the woman’s voice as she was helped from the car by the driver. Sara rounded the vehicle, and Celeste set her hand lightly on her arm as they climbed the steps. “Claude brought his young bride to New Orleans, after it was settled for King Louis XV. This house was damaged by the fire in 1794, but my great-great-grandfather, Jean-Paul, presided over the restoration himself, and made sure the structure was duplicated exactly, rather than allowing the Spanish style of architecture to influence the rebuilding. My grandson is the ninth generation to live here, although—” she made a moue of disappointment “—he doesn’t spend nearly enough time here.”

The long lineage the woman cited was difficult for Sara to comprehend. She hadn’t known her own grandparents. Family hadn’t meant a whole lot to her mother. Janie Parker had been most concerned with good times and handsome, fast-talking men. She’d made it her business to fill her life with both.

When they reached the huge, double front doors, Celeste showed Sara inside to a graceful tiled hall with vaulted ceilings supported by carved beams. After ordering iced tea from the servant who met them at the door, the older woman led Sara into an old-fashioned parlor, complete with furniture that looked as though it had traveled from France with Claude himself.

Celeste waved her to a chair facing the tall narrow windows gracing one wall. “This is my favorite room, partly because of its view of the gardens. If I were feeling more stable today I’d take you on a tour of them. It’s this awful blood pressure medication I’m on, of course. It sometimes causes the worst dizzy spells.”

“The gardens look lovely.” There was a note of wistfulness in Sara’s tone.

“They can be very peaceful.”

“Sometimes peace can be hard to find.”

“You are quite young, I think, to be so wise.”

“I’m twenty-one.” The lie came to her lips automatically as she shaved two years off her age. Amber Jennings was twenty-one. And Sara Parker’s age no longer mattered, since she’d ceased to exist six years ago.

“Ah, to be twenty-one again.” Celeste smiled at her, a dazzling display of charm that transcended her years. “I would be tempted to envy such youth had I many regrets.”

“But you have no regrets, have you?” The words came from behind them, the voice amused. Sara stilled, finding something about it ominously familiar. “Shall we credit that to clean living or a convenient conscience?”

“Nicky!” Delight sounded in Celeste’s tone, sparkled in her eyes. As the older woman offered a cheek for the tall, dark-haired newcomer to kiss, Sara stared, her feeling of foreboding changing to disbelief. Life, she’d often found, contained the cruelest of ironies. That had never been so apparent as right now.

Because the man straightening to greet her was none other than Nick Doucet.

“Amber, I’m thrilled that you will get to meet my grandson. Nicky, this is—”

“Amber Jennings,” Nick murmured, an arrested look on his face. Sara’s pulse tripped, and it didn’t escape her that he used the last name she was currently going by. She had little time to reflect on that fact, however. With his dark gaze fixed on her, he crossed to her chair, took her hand in his. Raising it, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “What a delightful surprise.” The old-fashioned courtliness of his gesture was at odds with the pure wickedness in his eyes. “Welcome to my home.”

Heat flashed through her, owing nothing to the temperature and everything to the simmering, latent sexuality he exuded. His voice was as smooth as velvet, meant for dark steamy rooms and rumpled satin sheets. The image that description conjured up was just a little too real, and had tension spiking through Sara’s muscles.

“You know each other?” Puzzlement was evident in Celeste’s voice as she watched their byplay.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Their simultaneous but contradictory responses had the older woman’s brows climbing.

Sara felt compelled to explain, “Your grandson has come to the café where I work on a few occasions. That’s all.”

“For some reason Amber seems anxious to avoid me,” Nick added, taking a seat next to his grandmother. “What a delightful surprise to find her here this afternoon, especially after she turned down my earlier invitation.”

She gazed at him with genuine dislike. “If I’d had any idea that you were related to Celeste, you can be sure I wouldn’t have come.” In the next moment she flushed, realizing how that sounded, and sent an apologetic glance to the older woman. She needn’t have bothered. Nick’s grandmother gave all appearances of finding their conversation highly entertaining.

“So Amber rejected an invitation from you? How…fascinating.”

“She appears to have a strange, and totally unnecessary, compulsion to avoid me.” He broke off as a servant entered with a tray of iced tea.

Celeste accepted a glass and drank deeply from the cool beverage with obvious enjoyment. “Amber, please forgive my grandson. He has been outrageously spoiled by women, myself included. It does him good to be thwarted by one now and again.”

Sara took a drink of her tea. “I have a feeling he’s more in need of it than most.”

The woman’s eyes crinkled. “Again you are correct.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Nick pointed out. Lazily, he reached out to pick up his glass. As he drank, he took the opportunity to survey his grandmother critically for signs of fatigue. She looked frailer every time he came home, so he’d made his visits more frequent. Watching the indomitable matriarch of his family fade with each passing year was perhaps the only thing capable of touching his heart. “Why don’t you tell me how the two of you happened to meet up?”

“Oh, I just met Amber at the library and we hit it off,” his grandmother said airily. She was an accomplished liar, but not accomplished enough to fool him. Her color was high, and there was a slight tremor in her hand as she set down her glass. He thought he could guess something close to the truth, even if it wasn’t forthcoming from his fiercely independent grandmother.

“I’ve enjoyed seeing your home.” His attention shifted to Amber, who was studiously avoiding looking at him as she spoke to his grandmother. “But I really have to get going or I’ll be late for work.”

His brows skimmed upward when Celeste took Amber’s hand in hers and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “It was such a pleasure, my dear. Thank you so much for everything.” With the mantle of age, his grandmother had abandoned some of the niceties of polite society. She didn’t waste time, or civility, on anyone she didn’t hold in some esteem.

“I enjoyed meeting you.” Amber’s smile was the first genuine one Nick had seen from her, and his hand faltered for an instant in the act of raising his glass. As if she felt his gaze on her, her smile quickly faded, to be replaced with her more familiar wary mask.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again. I think I would enjoy getting to know the woman who can hold her own with my grandson.” Eyes twinkling, Celeste rose. “I’ll tell Benjamin that you’re ready to leave.” With careful steps she left the parlor.

Nick took the opportunity to refill Amber’s glass, noting the way she stilled as he drew closer. He could almost see the effort it took for her not to move away, and felt an element of admiration, tinged with amusement. She was determined not to show him even that small weakness. He understood that kind of control, possessed it himself. He wondered what kind of experiences had forged hers.

“Are you going to meet with Douglas tonight?” she asked.

She’d managed to surprise him. Taking his time setting the pitcher down and settling into his chair once more, he studied her. “Why?”

Her fingers worried the earring at her lobe. The nervous gesture was at odds with the defiance in her eyes. “It wasn’t fair of you to make the meeting conditional upon my accompanying him.”

“I don’t play fair, Amber.” A thought occurred to him then, and wouldn’t be quieted. “What’s your relationship with Fairmont?” He was adept at eliciting the information he wanted with far more finesse, but her answer mattered more than it should have.

“Are you asking if I serve him more than breakfast?”

“Do you?”

Silence stretched, while their gazes did battle. “No.”

The elastic tension inside him that had stretched taut while he waited for her answer slowly relaxed. He hadn’t thought so, but her defense of the man had had him reconsidering. “Good.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because…” he paused to sip his iced tea “…I have no intention of entering into a business arrangement with a man I would later have to destroy.”

Shock flickered across Sara’s expression. Her hand clutching her glass, she rubbed her thumb over the condensation collected on it. “And I have no intention of accompanying him here tonight. Will you still help him?”

“I may. It depends on the figures he shows me.”

“So…you’re into investments?”

Smiles didn’t come easily to him, but he felt one on his lips now. “I make all sorts of investments. Some more lucrative than others.”

From her expression it was obvious that his cryptic response failed to satisfy. But she didn’t press him for details as other women might have done. Instead she said in a very matter-of-fact voice, “I won’t sleep with you, you know.”

The tea had difficulty passing the sudden knot in his throat. He hadn’t expected such forthrightness from her, but then, he really didn’t know Amber Jennings. Not at all. “I reserve the right to try and change your mind about that.” He noted with interest the way her fingers flexed on her glass, and wondered if the action reflected anxiety or annoyance.

“You don’t look like a man who enjoys wasting his time.”

“I’m not.”

Her glass made a small clink on the marble tabletop as she set it down, then rose. “I’d like to leave now.”

“I’m sure Benjamin has the car ready.”

She hesitated, then gave a nod. Turning to go, she halted a moment later, and said, “Please tell your grandmother again how much I enjoyed meeting her. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He made no effort to disguise the affection in his voice. “She is, yes.” Strolling along beside her, he opened the front door for her when they’d crossed the hallway. The car was pulled up front, waiting. She started toward it without another word, and Nick followed her out onto the porch, watched her descend the steps. “Amber?”

She halted in the act of sliding into the car, and looked at him.

Raising his glass to her, he said, “I’ll see you soon.”

She made no comment, and he’d expected none. The car door slammed, and the vehicle pulled away. He was contemplating the winking taillights when he heard his grandmother’s voice behind him.

“I like that girl, Nicky.” She tucked her arm into his and he covered her fingers absently with his own. “You will leave her out of those games you play, n’est-ce pas?”

Broodingly, he watched the car as it turned out of the drive. “I’m not playing, Grand-mère. Not this time.”

Chapter 2

Sleep could be unkind to those with blood on their hands. Nick tossed on the sweat-dampened sheets while faces loomed in his unconscious, each receding, to be replaced by yet another. And when an all too familiar shot ricocheted through his dreams, shattering his slumber, he woke with a start, his heart jackhammering in his chest.

He hauled in a deep breath, then another. He was used to the nightmares, but lately they’d become more frequent. More relentless. After wiping his perspiring face with the sheet, he tossed it aside, got out of bed.

Despite the darkness, his steps were sure as he crossed the room that had been his since childhood. Unmindful of his nudity, he opened the terrace doors and stepped out onto the little balcony that overlooked his grandmother’s beloved gardens. There was a hint of a breeze, but it did little to cool his heated skin. The air was heavy with moisture. It would rain by tomorrow.

His muscles still quivered with the aftershocks of the nightmare. From long practice he kept his breathing deep and steady, fighting off the sensation of suffocating. At one time that feeling had been a constant in his life. But those days were over, reenacted only in his dreams.

The scent of gardenias drifted toward him and his fingers clenched on the railing as he filled his lungs. But it wasn’t the gardens he thought of this time, but the woman who hovered at the edge of his unconscious.

Amber. With her wide, catlike eyes and long sleek body, she reminded him of a feline, begging to be stroked. But that one wouldn’t welcome petting, and most definitely not from him. She did everything in her power to avoid being touched by him at all.

Nick worked his shoulders, impatient with himself. He’d never been one to obsess over a woman, and if he wasn’t careful, that’s what Amber would become. An obsession. One that filled the mind and absorbed the senses. One that caused a man to forget all about obligation and focus solely on her.

She was a puzzle, with her badly cut hair and quick, nervous movements. Her anxious mannerisms, when she toyed with her earring or her necklace, were at odds with the cool, measuring look in her eye. It was intriguing to wonder which was the real woman—the nervous waif or the wary combatant. Whichever she was, she’d made no secret of her distrust of him.

If he were a better man, a kinder one, he’d forget all about Amber Jennings and leave her alone to live her life as she chose. But because he was neither, he knew he’d do nothing of the sort.

The promised rain hung low in the clouds, doing little more than releasing the occasional fat drop and keeping a miserable mugginess in the air. Sara waved to Candy as they parted ways for a few hours. She wasn’t expected back until the dinner shift today, and the freedom of the next few hours beckoned. She’d been on edge all morning, and it was tempting to blame that fact on the weather. But in truth, Nick Doucet was at the root of the feeling.

Without meaning to, she’d watched for him all morning, his words from yesterday ringing in her mind.

I’ll see you soon. Her memory all too accurately recalled the promise in his voice, the predatory, masculine intent in his eyes.

Her experience with men in recent years had been kept to a minimum, by her choice. There had been the waiter in Seattle, the one who had reminded her, in some slight way, of Sean. The resemblance had only been physical, and their encounter brief. She’d left town shortly after their relationship had started, and there had been no one since.

Dispassionately, she’d wondered from time to time if she was capable of feeling the type of desire that books rhapsodized over and movies glorified. Wondered if something vital in her had been broken years ago and could never work correctly again. She’d never regarded her lack with much regret. From what she’d witnessed, passion was an excuse, a weakness…and in the hands of some, a weapon.

But that didn’t account for the razor sharp awareness that flared to life every time Doucet came close. And her own unfamiliar reaction was just one more reason for her to steer clear of him.

Ignoring the sullen threat in the clouds, she walked several more blocks until she came to a small market on the corner. Going inside, she selected some necessities and paused over the produce. She could take all her meals at the café on the days she worked, but she liked to have fresh fruit in her room for an occasional snack.

Thunder rumbled ominously, and with one eye on the sky, she paid for her purchases and hurried from the store.

“You took a chance coming out on a day like today without an umbrella.”

Her spine stiffened as she recognized the voice. Without turning, she hurried even faster, to no avail. Nick merely fell into step beside her.

“Can I carry something?”

“No.” A few drops of rain hit the pavement before her. It was too much to ask that, given no encouragement, he’d disappear. He was much too tenacious for that.

With his hands tucked into the pockets of his custom-fit linen trousers, he strolled along, seeming unconcerned as the drops fell with increasing urgency. “Perhaps it’s difficult for you to believe, but I was raised as a Southern gentleman.” He reached over to pry one of the bags from her fingers. “It’s my duty to at least give the appearance of being helpful.”

It was her reluctance to touch him, not his perseverance, that caused her to relinquish her grip on the bag. The nerves were back, flickering just below the surface of her skin, and she damned them almost as fiercely as she damned the man beside her. “Do Southern gentlemen normally stalk women who have made their disinterest clear?”

“Stalk?” He seemed to give the word consideration. “That seems a harsh conclusion, given the fact that the market you were shopping at is directly across the street from my family’s offices.” She looked at the nondescript brick building he indicated. “We could dodge in over there, and wait out the rain.”

“Go ahead,” she invited, walking faster. The precipitation was growing heavier. She’d be soaked by the time she reached her apartment. But there was no way she was going anywhere with him.

“Now what kind of gentleman would I be, Amber, if I didn’t see a lady to her door?”

At the teasing words she whirled on him, wiping the rain from her face with a hunched shoulder. “It appears you would be a dense one, Doucet. Or maybe you’re the type who can’t stand the fact a woman isn’t interested. Is that it, huh? Is it the challenge you enjoy?”

He’d stopped when she did, met her gaze with his enigmatic one. “I enjoy you.”

Lightning sizzled, and Sara was unable to discern whether it was from the darkening sky or the chemistry sparking between them. She couldn’t look away from him. She was inexperienced, but not stupid. It would be impossible to misidentify the predatory gleam of male intent in his eyes, or the corresponding frisson of pleasure shooting down her spine.

The sky opened up then, and the ensuing downpour succeeded in dispelling their silent communication. “C’mon.” Nick cupped her elbow in his hand. The feel of his fingers on her chilled skin sent tendrils of warmth curling through her system, and although she tried to dislodge him, he held her firmly. Guiding her to a deep doorway up ahead, he allowed her to step beneath the protection it provided, then crowded in after her.

He was too close. Sara shrank back as far as she could, but if anything, he seemed to loom nearer. He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture at his proximity. He shook the moisture from his dark hair, finger combed it carelessly.

Her throat clogged. The white shirt he wore was plastered against his body, and she could see through it to his chest, with its covering of dark hair. His soaked trousers clung to his hard thighs, leaving no doubt about the muscular strength of his body. She moistened her lips, which had gone inexplicably dry. Thunder boomed, and she glanced out at the street. All the other pedestrians had taken cover, and even as she registered the logic of the action, there was a part of her that was tempted to bolt, to take her chances with the elements in an effort to escape this man. These feelings.

“Amber.”

She didn’t want to respond to that low raspy tone, didn’t want to see the desire that would be stamped on his face. But her gaze raised of its own volition. And immediately the storm around them paled in comparison to the tempest between them.

Despite his earlier efforts, a lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead. His eyes were heavy-lidded, intent, and there was no mistaking the stamp of arousal on his face. It was there in the flare of his nostrils, in the skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. Her pulse leaped once before settling into a hard staccato beat.

His head lowered. There was no room to pull away. And even if she’d had the will to make a run for the street, it was doubtful that her legs would have obeyed the command to move. A strange lethargy had invaded her limbs, turning them weak and boneless.

She felt his breath warm her throat before his lips brushed against the pulse that was pounding there. Then that same barely perceptible caress whispered across her jaw, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth. He didn’t touch her anywhere else, and that fact somehow made the light contact more sensual. Restrained, but full of promise. She shivered against him, but not from the dampness. Heat flashed between them, enough that she imagined the air around them should fill with steam.

The world narrowed, to include only this moment. This man. She thought he could surely hear her heart slamming against her chest. Imagined she could hear his. Her lips parted as his mouth hovered above hers.

The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, with a light deft stroke that had her shuddering. He rubbed his mouth against hers savoringly, as if he wanted to absorb her flavor and brand her with his own.

And because he was close, all too close, to succeeding, she found the strength to turn her head.

“I have to go.” She could barely form the words.

“Amber.”

She used her elbows to wedge herself past him, not daring to look in the direction of that dulcet voice.

“I want to see you tonight.”

The words sounded as though they’d been dragged from somewhere deep inside him. The blood pumped through her veins, and she struggled for composure. She’d never been in greater need of it. “I have to work.”

“Then I’ll come by for dinner.”

Without responding, she walked away as swiftly as she could without running. Running would have been useless, at any rate. There was no way to outpace the emotions that even now were churning and crashing inside her like white water. No way to escape the certainty that she’d made a very grave mistake indeed by allowing Nick Doucet to touch her. To taste her.

She walked faster to outpace the memories. His flavor still lingered in her senses, and she felt oddly disoriented. Her thoughts were a jumble, and it wasn’t until she heard the blare of a horn that she realized she’d nearly stepped off a curb in front of an oncoming car. Jumping back, she ignored the driver’s rude suggestion and tried to control a shudder at her recent narrow escape. Both of them.

The rain was steady now, falling gently. Her grocery bags were plastic, so she didn’t have to worry about them ripping, but everything she’d bought would have to be dried off before she put it away in her apartment. She looked forward to the task. Any distraction would be a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.

Turning into a wide alley, she ducked her head against the dampness as she headed for her apartment. The place barely qualified as such; located above a seafood market, it had rarely represented a haven to her. The smell of fish was impossible to erase, and the room was barely big enough for her bed, table and couch. The three-quarters bath attached was little more than a converted closet. But Sara felt an unusual eagerness to return to the place. Alone.

Slogging through the puddles, she kept her eye trained on the outside staircase that would take her to blessed peace, not to mention dryness. She passed a man who, despite his black rain slicker, looked almost as drenched as she was. The rest of the alley was deserted. Most people had more sense than to stroll the New Orleans streets in a storm.

“Sara Parker.”

The words turned the rivers of rain on her skin into instant sheets of ice. For the space of an instant she almost convinced herself that she’d imagined them.

Until they were repeated.

“Sara Parker from Chicago.” The voice was louder this time. The man was right behind her.

After a barely imperceptible hesitation, she quickly masked her reaction. Survival instincts, well honed, surged to the surface.

She schooled her expression to a politely quizzical mask before she turned. “If you’re talking to me, you’ve got the wrong person.”

The man smiled, a menacing grimace. “I don’t think so.” His arm raised and her throat seized. Her focus narrowed to the yawning black muzzle of the gun he had pointed at her head. “Victor Mannen sends his regards.”

Time slowed, then froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Distantly, she heard a shout, but didn’t look away. She couldn’t. The slow-motion sequence of death had her in its grip.

She was oddly unsurprised at the way she’d meet her end. It had only been a matter of time. Hadn’t she always known it? But it seemed curiously ironic that only a few minutes ago in Nick’s arms she’d felt more alive than she had in years, and now she was going to die.

The man’s words were almost gentle. “Goodbye, Sara.”

Tearing her gaze away from the finger squeezing the trigger, she ducked, swung one of her bags, hitting his gun hand. She heard a shot as she stumbled away, waited for the agonizing pain to tear through her.

And instead staggered as the man tumbled forward against her, his hands clutching at her before he crumpled at her feet.

She stared, transfixed by the crimson stain spreading from the tear in his slicker. Heard the groans emanating from him as he struggled to his knees. And then her mind flashed back to the scene in the safe house in Chicago. The bodies crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. And Sean, sweet sad Sean, with his eyes wide and lifeless.

Abruptly, she dropped her bags, her purse, and ran. Blindly. Wildly. Away from her attacker and away from the images still vivid and raw after six years. And when strong arms came around her, halting her flight, she reacted like a thing possessed, struggling madly.

“Amber, it’s over. It’s over now.”

It was the soothing tone that registered, rather than the words themselves. Nick. She sagged against him, unable to control the shudders racking her body. His arms were a safe harbor in a storm-tossed sea. Her mind grappled with incomprehensionable fragments. His presence in the alley. The gun still clasped in his hand. And the words he murmured over and over as his lips brushed her hair.

“Nothing will be allowed to hurt you, ma petite. No one. I promise you that.”

“And you didn’t recognize this guy? Had never seen him hanging around the café, on the street…?” Detective Matt Chatfield’s narrowed blue regard was unwavering.

Sara shook her head. Someone had found a wool blanket for her and draped it around her soaked form. She huddled into it now, wishing its warmth could banish the chill in her veins.

The detective’s gaze flicked to the man beside her. “How about you, Mr. Doucet?”

“I never got a look at him.” Nick reached over, took one of Sara’s icy hands in both of his. She gave it a discreet tug, but he held it firmly. “He never turned around.”

“So you shot him in the back.”

The detective’s voice was carefully expressionless. Nick’s was not. “I shot him in the center of the right shoulder blade so he’d drop the gun he had aimed at Amber. He did.”

Sensing some undertone at play between the two men, Sara gave up the struggle to free her hand and studied them. Physically, they were almost opposites. They may have been around the same age, but Chatfield was taller, broader. His face was as enigmatic as Nick’s, just as hard, but he was blond and blue eyed, in contrast to Nick’s darkness. There was no mistaking the cop’s toughness, but for some reason it was Nick who seemed the more dangerous.

“I suppose you have a permit to carry concealed?”

Silently Nick rose, withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. He passed it to the other man, who studied the permit before nodding, handing it back. “Where’s your weapon now?”

“I gave it to the first uniform on the scene.”

Chatfield raked him with a quick glance. “Ankle holster?” He waited for Nick’s nod before asking, “What did you say you were doing in the alley, Mr. Doucet?”

There was an unsettling glitter in Nick’s eyes, but his tone was civil enough. “Amber and I had parted several minutes earlier. I’d forgotten to give her back one of her bags.”

She looked at him, surprised. In her hurry to get away from him earlier that day she’d completely forgotten the sack of fruit he’d insisted on carrying for her. An involuntary shudder worked through her. If Nick’s kisses hadn’t completely shattered her logic, if she’d been capable of remembering to collect the bag before leaving him, she’d be dead right now. The cold certainty of that fact formed a brick of ice in her chest.

Settling back in his chair, Nick said, “Wouldn’t your time be better spent trying to find the guy who tried to kill her instead of going over all this information again?”

Imperturbably, Chatfield picked up his pen. “I’ve got uniforms canvassing the area. From the amount of blood he lost, I doubt he got far.” His gaze shifted to Sara again. “Ms. Jennings, let’s go over your statement again. You said the man didn’t ask for your purse, for money. Did he say anything?”

Her chest squeezed tight as she sensed the minefield ahead. “He said something, but I couldn’t understand it. I thought he was talking to someone else. When I turned around, I saw his gun.”

The detective scribbled a note. “Did you catch any of it at all?”

She manufactured a tired smile, strove to hide the tension in her body. “When I noticed the gun I didn’t pay attention to much else.”

“I think he mistook Amber for someone else. The name he called out was Sara. Sara Parker.”

Nick’s words sent a slice of panic tearing through her. She hadn’t guessed that he’d been close enough to hear the gunman’s words. It took effort to keep her features impassive as Chatfield raised his brows, looked at her. “Do you know who this Sara Parker is?”

She shook her head, but the detective didn’t look convinced. “She’s not a friend of yours, maybe? Someone who has an enemy? ’Cuz maybe this guy didn’t mistake you for her, after all. Maybe he thought you could lead him to her.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Her voice was firm, and her words were at least partially true. It had been a long time since she’d been Sara Parker. She’d left that identity half a country away, at least a lifetime ago.

“You’re on the wrong track,” Nick said bluntly. His fingers squeezed hers lightly, a reminder that he was holding her hand. “This guy wasn’t after anyone else. He thought Amber was Parker, and she was going to die for it.”

The detective made another notation on his pad. “Did he say anything else?”

Nick paused, glanced at Sara. When she didn’t answer he said, “I couldn’t make out everything. But I could have sworn I heard him mention Chicago.”

Chatfield lifted a shoulder. “Well, who knows. We’ll tug on those strings, see if they lead anywhere.” His gaze shifted to a point behind them, and he rose. “Excuse me for a minute, would you, please?”

Sara’s well-defined flight instinct was screaming at her, urging her to flee. She quelled it with effort. She couldn’t stay in New Orleans now, of course. Her story, her identity, wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. If anyone started digging they’d find that Amber Jennings from Detroit, Michigan, had died twenty years ago. And it wouldn’t be long before that discovery led to the next, far more risky one.

She didn’t intend to stick around that long. She’d be packed and headed out of the state within an hour of leaving the station. It wasn’t as though she lacked experience disappearing. She’d vanished dozens of times before.

But rarely had the thought left her feeling this desolated. And she didn’t want to examine the source of that feeling too closely.

“Are you warming up, chérie?” Nick’s voice sounded low and caressing in her ear, and she nodded, despite the chill that seemed to permeate her system. “Your hands are still like ice.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m not looking forward to a hot shower.”

“The detective should have enough for today. I’ll tell him I’m taking you home. You could always come back in tomorrow.” Nick rose and crossed the room before she could protest. She’d have to devise a way to dislodge him so she could make her escape. But for now, at least, she was grateful for a few moments to herself. The stress of the pretense she was engaged in, on top of her brush with death, was overloading a system already taxed by her unfamiliar reaction to Doucet.

“What the hell do you mean, there’s no trace of him?”

Sara jerked, startled by the note of menace in Nick’s voice. She turned to see him standing nearby with two police officers she didn’t recognize, and the detective. Chatfield ushered them all to the table. “The gunman hasn’t been found, Miss Jennings. I’m sorry.”

Her stomach dropped at the detective’s words. Moistening her lips, she said, “But…he was wounded. How could he have…”

“We think he may have had a car waiting nearby. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to find him. If he shows up at a clinic or hospital, we’ll get word of it.”

If. The word reverberated in her mind. And surely the gunman would avoid seeking medical attention for that very reason. Which made it all the more imperative that she vanish quickly. Completely. She’d escaped the hit man in Phoenix three years ago, hadn’t she? It was more comfortable to ignore the niggling inner voice that suggested maybe her escape that time had been sheer luck.

And maybe her luck was running out.

With a flick of his hand, Chatfield dismissed the officers and sank down in a chair opposite Sara, studying her gravely. “Miss Jennings, I want you to know there’s still a good chance we’re gonna catch this guy. I want you to go through a few books of mug shots, see if you recognize him. And I’ll follow up on that mistaken-identity lead, because it seems like we might have hit the jackpot on that one.”

Slowly, she raised her chin to look at him, dread circling in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I made a couple phone calls, checked some databases. There was a murder case about six years ago in Chicago, where the prime witness for the Justice Department disappeared. Her name was Sara Parker.”

Over the last half-dozen years Sara had become an accomplished actress, but it took all her abilities now to gaze steadily at the man, to fight the fear and panic welling up inside her. “So you think this guy today came hunting for that witness and almost killed me instead?”

Chatfield gave a slow nod. “It seems possible. But I don’t want you to worry. We’re giving this close attention, and we’ll have someone posted outside your apartment until we bring this guy in. Every effort will be made to guarantee your safety.”

She gave an unamused laugh. “You can’t really guarantee anything of the sort, can you, Detective? Nobody can.”

“We’ll do our best, ma’am.” He got up and crossed the room, came back carrying a stack of books. She didn’t bother telling him that his department’s best wouldn’t be enough. If the Department of Justice had failed so horribly, what could the New Orleans Police Department do? The answer was bleakly apparent.

Nothing.

Two hours later she flipped one of the books closed and rubbed her eyes. Chatfield looked up from his desk nearby. “Nobody familiar in there?”

“They’re starting to all look alike. Maybe we could finish this tomorrow.”

He got up and came to the table. “Sure. You’ve been through a lot today. I’ll have a uniform drive you home and I’ll tell Mr. Doucet you’re leaving.” Nick had stepped out to make some phone calls a few minutes earlier. It occurred to Sara that her departure couldn’t come at a better time.

She let the blanket slip from her shoulders, and concentrated on folding it neatly. “I’ll take the ride, but you don’t need to bother Mr. Doucet.”

The detective’s shrewd blue eyes observed her carefully. “Okay. I just thought…I guess I figured the two of you were together.”

“No.” Sara lay the folded blanket over the chair and reached for her purse. “We’re not together.”

The policeman who took her home went into her apartment ahead of her, checked it for intruders, then turned to go. The process reminded Sara of the precariousness of her position here, the need for a swift escape.

“Thank you for the ride, Officer.” Nerves stretched to the snapping point, she could barely conceal her impatience to have the man gone.

He seemed impervious to her tension, lingering in the doorway. “There’ll be a car right outside, ma’am. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

She managed a wan smile, waited for him to close the door, and locked it after him. Then she flew into action. Her suitcase was dragged from beneath the bed, drawers opened, emptied into the bag. She spent little time on packing niceties; speed was of the essence. Swiftly, she cleared the closet of clothes. She didn’t have much. It didn’t make sense to spend the little money she had on things she’d only wear for a matter of months.

Each personality demanded a different wardrobe. She left the belly-showing sweaters and low-riding jeans. Amber Jennings had had an affection for the skimpy garments. Sara’s next identity would be Amber’s opposite.

For the same reason, she ignored the collection of cat statues placed carefully on the windowsills. She’d picked the whole set up at a flea market. Hailey, Carla, Amy—whoever she became next—wouldn’t be a cat lover, but perhaps an avid sports fan.

On her hands and knees, she reached for the hem of the comforter, flipped it up. Searching for the pocket she’d carefully sewn in the fabric, she withdrew the bills she’d stuffed inside and jammed them in her purse.

Still on her knees, she froze when a knock sounded at the door. She wasn’t proud of the first blinding wave of panic that washed over her. Nor the second emotion, which followed closely when she heard a voice call out, “Amber, it’s Nick.”

She closed her eyes, let her breath out with a rush. Nick. It was too much to ask that he wouldn’t follow her home, but another five minutes and she could have missed him completely. It was also useless to damn fate. She’d learned that years ago.

Closing the suitcase, she shoved it beneath the bed, out of sight. “I’m getting ready to turn in.”

“I need to talk to you, Amber. Open the door.”

Sara threw a quick glance around to check that there was nothing to give her plans away, and then resigned herself to the inevitable. Moving swiftly, she went to the door, unlocked it. He hadn’t changed his clothes; he’d come directly from the police station. For the first time it occurred to her that before they’d been caught in the storm, she’d never seen him look less than immaculate. His obviously custom-tailored clothes were wrinkled now, his expensive shoes probably ruined. But it didn’t lessen the impact of his appearance. Didn’t detract from the aura of latent power that surrounded him.

He pressed the flat of his hand against the door, as if expecting her to try to keep it closed against him. The idea had merit, but she knew it would be futile to try. Letting him push it open, she stepped back, and he followed her in. Immediately he shrank the apartment with his presence, and she knew that if she hadn’t been leaving, she would have been reminded of him in this space each time she was in it.

“You haven’t changed.” His gaze raked her soggy clothes, then made a quick survey of the apartment, before returning to her. “Have you eaten?”

“I…no. I’m not hungry.”

He let the door latch behind him, came farther into the room. “So if you haven’t been eating or standing under a hot shower, what have you been doing?”

Because she didn’t want to answer the question, she asked one of her own. “Why are you here, Nick?”

He slipped his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure you should be left alone tonight.”

She deliberately misunderstood his words. “I’m not alone. The officer who brought me home said there would be a car out front.” She was counting on that, in fact, when she slipped out the back. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”

He paid no attention to her words. “This room is freezing.” Crossing the room, he went to close the window near her bed she routinely kept open. When his hands went to the sash she blurted, “Don’t shut that!”

The alarm in her voice was unmistakable, so she swallowed, forced a calmer tone. “I like it open.” She didn’t miss the assessing look in his eyes as he stepped away from it slowly, nor the shift in his attention when he saw the flipped-up comforter that she’d forgotten to smooth back into place.

With a feeling of inevitability, she watched him go down on one knee, look at the edge of the suitcase partially revealed. Glancing at her again, he cocked an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

“Where would I be going?” Her shrug was deliberately casual. “I keep some of my clothes in that, because the space in here is limited…Nick!” He was pulling the suitcase out, popping its lid. He surveyed its full contents for a moment before rising, turning to her.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible. “Where are you going, Amber?”

She’d always had the ability to recognize when to cut her losses. Her chin tipped upward. “I’m not sticking around to be used as target practice in some crazy man’s six-year-old vendetta.”

He seemed to choose his words carefully. “If they find the guy they’ll need you to identify him.”

“They have to find him first, though, don’t they?” She wasn’t acting now. The words, the situation, was all too real. “Excuse me for not being a dutiful citizen. I have no intention of being used as live bait for a killer.”

“And you were expecting to sneak by the NOPD with suitcase in hand?”

“There’s a back door,” she snapped.

“And another car posted there.”

His words struck her hard in the chest. Stunned, she could only stare at him.

“They’ve got three officers posted around this building. You aren’t going to be allowed to go anywhere. The department is taking this very seriously, especially while they think the gunman might have been related to a high profile case in Chicago.”

Reaction set in, and she began to shake. There had to be a way out of here. She’d been in tighter spots than this and had always found an escape. But rarely had she already been this shaken, this stressed. “I won’t stay, wondering when he’s going to find me again. I can’t.”

“All right.”

His words made no sense to her, especially with her mind already whirling with plans. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said calmly, bending to pick up the suitcase, “that if you really want to leave, I’ll take you.”

“You’ll take me?” Distrust filtered through her panic. “You’ll take me where?”

He regarded her patiently. “I’ll get you out of the city. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Of course it was. And at the moment Sara was unable to think of a way to accomplish that on her own. A measure of cool reason returned. It would be easy enough to slip away from Nick once he’d gotten her out of New Orleans. Her choices right now were depressingly limited.

“All right.” If her agreement surprised him there was no sign of it on his face. He merely turned and headed toward the door, leaving her to follow. And as she trailed after him, she tried to quiet the inner alarm that warned her she was only exchanging one kind of danger for another.

Chapter 3

Nick sat in a plush armchair in his private jet and studied Sara as she slept on the couch opposite him. To watch the even rise and fall of her chest, the softness that came over features usually kept in an expressionless mask, seemed curiously intimate, even intrusive.

Since he wasn’t a man to grow fascinated by a woman, he excused his interest by telling himself there could be quite a bit to learn from the act. A person with no fears and nothing to hide might well sleep spread out, arms flung wide. It was telling that Amber slept curled up in a ball, burrowed into the softness of the couch.

And it was disturbing to him to feel this primal surge of protectiveness just watching her.

Frowning slightly, he considered the unfamiliar emotion. With the exception of his grandmother, people didn’t get close enough to him to touch him in any way. The one time he’d relaxed his guard had resulted in tragedy. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. He didn’t even know this woman, and it was maddening to have to keep reminding himself of that. Maddening to know just how much he wanted to.

He shifted a bit, strangely uncomfortable with the fact. However, he wasn’t one to dodge the truth, even when it was pointed straight at him. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking it would be easy to gain her trust. She’d accepted his help only because she’d had no other options. He realized that. But he was a man who knew women—knew how to strip away the layers of complexities and defenses to bare the essential woman beneath.

Nature had given him one gift toward that end, and birth had determined another. Women were attracted to his looks and intrigued by his money. But if Nick was interested, they gained far more from him than the superficial. He truly enjoyed females—their minds, their softness, the little quirks that made each an individual. Despite their differences, all wanted the same thing, and he gave it freely—his attention, his respect, if not his heart. He enjoyed watching a woman warm under his care. Perhaps it was overcompensation for feeling little or nothing himself. It didn’t matter. Because as he watched Amber sleep he thought he had never seen a woman more in need of a man’s attention. Nor one more determined to fight it.

She stirred a bit, capturing his gaze again. Her eyelids didn’t flutter; awareness didn’t return slowly. Her eyes just opened in the next moment, and she appeared instantly alert. He imagined he awakened much the same way, even without the nightmares to rouse him. And when the familiar guarded mask slipped over her features, he was struck, not for the first time, of that similarity between them, as well.

“What time is it?” She sat up, raked her fingers through her hair. She’d showered once they’d boarded the jet, and changed her clothes. Now she was tilting her head, peering across the aisle.

Raising his wrist, he looked at his watch. “About 3:00 a.m. We’re nearly there, but you could have slept a bit longer.”

She didn’t respond, and he wondered if she felt a bit dazed by the rapid series of shocks she’d undergone in the last twelve hours. It would be enough to sucker punch most other people. But if Amber was stunned at all it didn’t show. Instead, she looked at him steadily. “This could get you into trouble with Chatfield and the NOPD, couldn’t it?”

Her words gave him pause. Was she actually concerned about him? “I’ll call from the house in the Keys when we get there. I imagine they’ll be unhappy, but as long as I agree to bring you back when they catch the suspect, I don’t anticipate a problem.” At least, not a problem he’d concern himself with.

“The Keys?”

“A series of small islands off the coast of Florida. I’ve got a place on Key Largo. Have you ever been there?”

She merely shook her head, and he felt a flicker of impatience, one he ruthlessly squashed. She was as close-mouthed as any woman he’d ever met, determined to reveal nothing personal about herself at all. And because he recognized that her reticence mirrored his own, he also realized it was a wedge she used to prevent him from getting too close.

“Approaching the island. Landing in minutes.”

At the pilot’s voice, Nick gestured toward a chair. “We’ll need to put our seat belts back on.”

She did as he bade without comment, settling into the seat. Thoughtfully, his gaze lingered on the death grip she exerted on the armrests. Fear of flying? Or just of landings? He didn’t know, and already knew better than to ask.

Abruptly, his earlier impatience drained away. Getting to know Amber was a process of fitting miniscule pieces together in an effort to construct a bigger, constantly shifting picture. He fastened his own seat belt, feeling a flicker of anticipation. Before they left the island again, he vowed, he’d know everything there was to know about the woman.

“There are four bedrooms. Mine is the front one. You may take your pick from the other three.”

Rather than demurring politely, Amber took Nick at his word and followed him from one room to the other. She didn’t merely peek into the bedrooms, but walked inside and seemed to pay an inordinate amount of attention to the windows.

The scene from her apartment flashed into his mind. Don’t shut that! I like it open. And again he found himself wondering whether her desire for the open window was induced by preference or need.

“I’ll take this one,” she finally decided, after looking at the three selections. The one she’d chosen was across the hall from his, and faced the ocean. But he had a feeling it was the porch roof right below the window, rather than the spectacular view it afforded, that had decided her.

He didn’t comment on her choice, merely set her suitcase down near the closet. Then he turned to face her, hands tucked into his pockets. “There’s an adjoining bath, and I called ahead, had the kitchen fully stocked. Sleep as late as you want. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have a big breakfast.”

A small smile flickered across her mouth. “It’s already morning, and I rarely eat breakfast.”

He was striding to the door. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow. I’m going to start showing you some self-defense tactics. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

At her silence he glanced back, saw her jaw hanging open. “No. Why would you want to do that?”

He reached the door, rested a hand on the jamb. “So you’ll feel safe, Amber.” While she was still regarding him from rounded eyes, he gently closed the door behind him, but didn’t walk away. Not yet. He waited. One minute. Two. Then he heard her footsteps, a pause, the slight scrape of wood against wood.

She’d opened the window.

From the position of the sun in the sky, Sara concluded that she’d slept far later than normal. She rarely had the opportunity to sleep late, and even more rarely, the inclination. Sleep meant dreaming, and her dreams had never made for restful nights.

As she showered and dressed, she considered the surreal sequence of events that had brought her here. Nick had managed their escape with ruthless efficiency. With her elbow in one hand and her suitcase in the other, he’d walked her out the front door of her apartment building, right up to the cruiser parked at the curb. He’d informed the officer inside that he planned to take Sara home with him, even inviting him to contact Chatfield about the idea. Nick had given him his address, then guided Sara to the car he’d parked illegally on the other side of the street.

Back at his family home, he had gently coerced her to eat a light dinner, and to speak with his grandmother again. Although it was obvious that Celeste was curious about her sudden reappearance, this time with Nick, she made no mention of it.

Then, following a timeline known only to himself, he’d risen, kissed his grandmother’s cheek and guided Sara out the back, across the grounds. When she’d seen the chopper on the pad waiting for them, the whole scene had taken on a James Bondish aura.

Mansions. Helicopters. Private jets. Beach homes. She’d lived in dozens of states over the last few years, donned as many identities. But her lifestyle had remained constant. With no friends or family to help her, no education, and credentials that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, she worked minimum-wage jobs, staying in clean but cramped apartments. It was no surprise to her that money could make a great many things possible. But it did surprise her that Nick Doucet would use his to help her.

Toweling her hair with one hand now, she walked to the window. The sun turned the water a shattering blue that hurt the eyes even as it beckoned the body. She cupped a hand to shield her gaze and watched as a figure swam up to shore, then rose out of the ocean.

Nick. Her blood pumped warm and molten. He strode naked out of the water, like a mythical god rising from the waves. With his hair slicked back and that glorious body gilded by the sun, every bone, sinew and muscle was highlighted in sensuous detail.

Her mouth went abruptly dry. The day in the rain-storm…yesterday?…she’d guessed at the power in his lean hard body, but nothing in her experience would have led her to imagine the reality. She was unused to such imaginings, in any case.

At that moment he looked up, and their gazes met for an instant. An echo of the electricity that had flowed between them the day before flickered to life. Dismayed by the intensity of her reaction, she stepped away, strangely shaken. She was almost convinced that she had nothing to fear from the man.

But she was no longer certain she could make the same claim about herself.

When Nick offered her another Belgian waffle, she pushed her plate out of reach. “No, thanks. I usually work through breakfast, remember?”

“We’re going to have to change your eating habits. You need to build muscle.”

His casual assessment of her needs annoyed her. “I prefer my weak useless build, thanks.”

His dark eyes met hers. For an instant, she was reminded of the look they’d exchanged earlier when he’d caught her watching him come out of the ocean. When she’d admired his build. To hide her response at the memory, she reached for her orange juice.

“I was serious last night, Amber. For your own peace of mind you need to learn to defend yourself. I’m not suggesting it will help in every situation, but having some skills in that regard will make you feel more secure.

“I can manage on my own.”

“Really?” He matched her challenging tone. “How’d you sleep last night?”

Her hand faltered, very slightly, in the act of setting down her glass. “Fine, why?”

His smile was faint. “Liar. But that will change. You’ll be tired enough from our daily workouts to get a decent night’s rest. Sleep is important to overall health, too.”

She was starting to get a really bad feeling about all this. “What did you have in mind?”

The wariness in her voice seemed to amuse him. “Nothing too diabolical. Daily running. Conditioning. Self-defense tactics. Have you been following any sort of fitness regime?”

It was all she could do not to laugh. “No, I’ve been kept rather busy working for a living.” And staying alive.

Imperturbably, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose. “Put on a pair of tennis shoes and meet me outside.” He left the room, seemingly unaware of her glare. She really shouldn’t be surprised that he was a man used to issuing orders. But she’d never been particularly fond of following someone else’s directives. The time was nearing for Nick Doucet to find that out for himself.

An hour later she was bent over, hands resting on her knees, breath sawing in and out of tortured lungs. She hated running, always had. Wasn’t this why she’d failed gym in ninth grade? Well, that, and the fact she’d skipped the class most weeks. Even then development of a healthy lifestyle had been the least of her worries.

She heard footsteps approaching, then a pair of hard masculine legs filled her vision. Refusing to look up, she willed her breathing to even out.

“Not bad for the first time. We’ll try again after supper, see if you can push it a little farther.”

Without changing position, she slowly raised her head. “You have got to be kidding.” Didn’t he realize that she’d felt like dropping ten minutes ago? It had taken sheer stubborn pride to get her this far, and she knew darn well they hadn’t been jogging for more than twenty minutes.

“C’mon. You can walk back.”

Crawling was more her speed at this point, but it seemed she had more pride than sense. She straightened, turned back toward his house. “Look,” she said, when she could speak without wheezing. “I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this.”

That put another of those faint smiles on his lips. “No, you don’t. But you will.”

He wanted honesty? Fine. “You’re right, I don’t. I also don’t see the point.”

“Running is good conditioning, and speed can also come in handy if someone is after you.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” she asked, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in her tone. “I could have outrun that bullet yesterday.”

He was showing an irritating ability to ignore her. “If you’re in shape, you can fight back. I don’t mean like taking on a guy twice your size, but having some moves that can injure him so you can get away.” He cast a critical gaze up and down her form. “You’ve got a good stride and you don’t run like a girl. Those are two factors in your favor.”

She wondered what she ran like if it wasn’t a girl, but wisely refrained from asking. Her breath was better saved for getting back to his place without embarrassing herself.

He allowed her to collapse for half an hour in one of the chairs on his deck, and drink two glasses of ice water, before nudging her again. “All right. It’s time for the next round.”

She didn’t bother to open her eyes. “No.”

A moment ticked by. And then another. It took effort not to look at him. She could feel his calm perusal of her still form. But in the next moment her eyes flew open, in alarm, as she found herself being carried off in his arms. “Nick! Put me down.”

“Of course.” Despite the agreeable tone, he didn’t set her on her feet until they’d reached the destination he’d obviously had in mind. The room at the back of the house held various pieces of weight training equipment, with a plastic-encased foam mat on the floor.

Her patience snapped. “I’m not doing this, do you understand? I have no interest in learning karate or whatever the heck you want to teach me.”

He slipped out of his shoes. “Teaching you the martial arts would require a bit more time than we have to spend. All I’m going to do is show you some basic defense maneuvers that might buy you some time or scare off a mugger.”

A mugger? She almost gave an incredulous laugh. As if a mugger was at the top of her worries. Victor Mannen hadn’t hired muggers to stalk her for the last six years. It wasn’t losing her purse that she feared every time she walked down the street. Nick might think he was helping her with this crazy self-defense and conditioning course he was embarked on, but she’d found the best defense was not to get caught in the first place. She preferred to expend her energies to that end.

“Take off your shoes and socks.”

“No. I’m not doing this.”

With a shrug he approached her on the mat, and she warily backed away. “Let’s start with the basics. If you see the guy before he grabs you, you’ve got the chance to run. But what if he comes up on you from behind?” With one smooth movement he stepped in back of her, clasped one arm lightly around her neck. “Show me what you would do to escape from this hold.”

Ice splintered in her veins. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. “Let me go.” The demand wasn’t as strong as she would have liked, but its message was clear.

“There are three ways to break a hold like this, and I’ll teach you all of them.”

She knew that low voice in her ear belonged to Nick. Logically she knew it. But logic didn’t always dictate emotion.

“I mean it, Nick. Let me go, now!”

“Show me what you’d do, Amber. The guy has you like this, leaving his other hand free to—”

His words were cut off as she erupted in a flurry of motion. Blinded by panic as she was, there was no strategy in her movements. Only instinct, raw and primal, screaming for release. She was a whirlwind of biting, kicking, scratching, gouging actions, with real fear as the impetus. It was long moments before she became aware that she was free; even longer before Nick’s voice, soothing, with an underlying note of grimness, registered. “It’s all right, Amber. It’s all right. No one’s touching you, see? There’s no one here.” He used the same rhythmic cadence he would use to calm a frightened animal. “Take my hand.” She stared at it, outstretched toward her. There were angry scratches on the back of his wrist. Scratches she’d put there. She shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself.

“Take my hand, Amber. I’m not going to hurt you. Look at me.”

But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to see his expression, whether it be one of horrified fascination, or something even worse. Didn’t want to stand before him, raw and more exposed than she’d been in years. Demons could lurk inside for any number of years, partially hidden, tempting one to believe they didn’t exist anymore. It made it all the more bitter when they sprang forth, mocking her efforts to keep them buried.

She lurched forward, not sure her feet would work, half-surprised when they did. Brushing past his outstretched hand, she crossed the room, praying for the strength to make it upstairs. And wishing with all her heart that she’d never accepted Nick Doucet’s offer of help.

Nick made no move to stop her. When she’d turned toward him again he’d been prepared for tears, would have preferred them to the haunted look in her eyes. That look had hit him with a force far greater than any of the blows she’d managed to land.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw, more shaken than he’d like to admit. The woman was having too great an effect on him, so much so that he couldn’t even predict his own reactions. It was a totally unfamiliar occurrence, and it couldn’t be allowed to continue.

He knew from brutal experience what happened when he lost his objectivity on a case. People wound up dead. Letting down his guard, even a fraction, increased the danger. So he was going to have to find a way to manage this…connection to Amber Jennings, without compromising the assignment. The reminder stiffened his resolve, but the fact that he’d needed it at all was worrisome.

Hearing a sound in the doorway, he slowly raised his gaze. She was watching him, her face ashen, but otherwise composed.

“I’m…sorry for what just happened.”

Her words released something fierce inside him. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

She didn’t argue, just continued standing there with ramrod straight posture that almost completely hid the trembling in her limbs. “I…I want to learn what you tried to teach me.” She attempted a smile, but couldn’t quite manage to pull it off. “I want to learn how to defend myself. And how to shoot.”

For a man who’d just considered the importance of governing his reactions to the woman, he was doing a damn poor job of taking his own advice now. She looked like a strong wind would knock her over. It was all he could do not to go to her, lend her his support. And knowing what his touch had done to her only a few minutes earlier made him long to put his fist through a wall. “All right.” His voice was clipped. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”

“No, today.” If his tone was grim, so was hers. “I won’t freak again, I promise.”

He stared at her, recognizing the barely smoothed nerves and the savage determination in her expression. And realized the courage it had taken her to approach her own fears head-on. “All right. Let’s try it again.” He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made earlier, so he led her to the body-size punching bag hanging in the corner. “Back up against the bag. It’s the attacker.” With effort he kept his voice brisk and impersonal. “If your hands are free, you clasp them together—” he demonstrated “—and drive your elbows back into his stomach.”

He watched, issued suggestions, and she practiced with a stoic sense of purpose that had been missing earlier. He showed her how to place her fingers together in one straight line, and how to use them to jab someone in the throat to disable him. He bent his wrist back and demonstrated how to use the heel of the palm beneath an attacker’s nose with enough force to drive him back, giving her opportunity to flee.

“We’ll concentrate on defensive moves, techniques that will buy you enough time to turn and run.”

“Can’t you teach me how to take an opponent down?”

He shook his head, reached out and repositioned her hands. “Your build and strength are against you. You just need enough moves to take the attacker by surprise and cause some serious pain.” His lips curled briefly. Far from the wild, frantic woman who had run from the room earlier, she was hanging on his words now with a fierce purpose that was impossible to miss. He didn’t have the faintest idea what had caused the change, but he promised himself that soon he’d find out.

When she was perspiring from her exertions, he said, “That’s enough for today.”

She didn’t argue. Bending her head, she wiped her forehead with the edge of her T-shirt, revealing a band of soft, smooth skin. “Now we’ll practice shooting.”

“I think we’ve done enough for one day.”

“I want to learn.”

He was beginning to observe a rather noticeable stubborn streak in her. With a mental shrug, he acquiesced, and drove her across the island to a shooting range.

Half an hour later, with his hands on his hips, Nick surveyed the target outline she was practicing on. She’d listened to his instructions carefully before emptying the clip in her gun, but there wasn’t a mark on the cardboard.

Cocking an eyebrow, he strolled back to her. “That was an interesting start,” he said through his headset.

She glowered at the weapon she held. “I don’t like guns.”

That was easy enough to discern. It showed in the way she looked at them, full of suspicion and perhaps a glimmer of fear. Despite his repeated suggestions, she still held the weapon gingerly, instead of clasping it firmly in her hand.

With more patience than he would have dreamed he possessed, Nick reloaded her weapon, handed it back to her. “Okay, let’s start again. Show me your stance.” At least she’d gotten that part right, he noted. “Good. Feet shoulder width apart, and remember, the gun is an extension of your arm. Use your other hand to brace it.” If she’d been anyone else he would have stepped up behind her, guided her hands into the proper position with his own. Instead, he reached over, attempted to arrange them correctly as he murmured directions. “All right. Try it again and don’t close your eyes this time.”

Her second attempt was slightly more accurate than the first. There was a hole squarely in the center of the outline, which he chalked up to luck, and a few others scattered around the outer edge.

“Better. Want to try it again?”

She relinquished the gun to him just a little too eagerly. “Tomorrow, all right?”

He nodded and took off his headset. When he would have turned away, she caught his sleeve to stop him. His gaze dropped to her slim hand for a second before she let it fall to her side. “I just wanted…to thank you, I guess. For everything. Yesterday…helping me leave last night…and today. I guess I never did thank you for saving my life.”

The words sounded as though they were hard for her to form. They were harder, much harder, for him to hear. He ejected the spent cartridge from her weapon with savage force. “I don’t want your gratitude, Amber.”

“What do you want?”

The quiet question, no less intense for its lack of volume, snared his attention. Slowly his gaze raised to hers. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

To her credit, she didn’t flinch. “I told you once…”

“That you wouldn’t sleep with me.” He shifted his focus once more to the gun, prepared to hand it in.

“It’s not fair…”

“If you’re concerned for my feelings, don’t be.” He gestured for a nearby employee to come and get the weapon and ear guards. “I rarely do anything for altruistic reasons.” His words served a twofold purpose. They should hold a warning for her, one she’d be wise to heed.

And they should serve as a warning to him.

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