Hard To Tame

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?”