“What kind of ‘protection’ did you really provide?

“We lived in fear for my father‘s life every day, of his being found and killed. And for what? Because he testified in a federal trial to get you a conviction.”

“Not my conviction,” he said. “The government’s. Look,” he said. “I could have sent another agent here. Instead, I came to see you because I thought familiarity—”

“Breeds contempt?” Cameron walked toward the door. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Marshal Ransom. If there’s nothing else—”

“I’m not finished. Sit down,” he said.

Cameron knew she was close to losing the last of her control. She didn’t want Ransom to know how shaken she’d felt tonight. Didn’t want to hear what else he’d come to say…

“I think you’re in danger,” Ransom said, holding her gaze. “I think you’re next.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We have another month of spine-tingling romantic thrillers lined up for you—starting with the much anticipated second book in Joanna Wayne’s tantalizing miniseries duo, HIDDEN PASSIONS: FULL MOON MADNESS. In Just Before Dawn, a reclusive mountain man vows to get to the bottom of a single mother’s terrifying nightmares before darkness closes in.

Award-winning author Leigh Riker makes an exciting debut in the Harlequin Intrigue line this May with Double Take. Next, pulses race out of control in Mask of a Hunter by Sylvie Kurtz—the second installment in THE SEEKERS—when a tough operative’s cover story as doting lover to a pretty librarian threatens to blow up.

Be there from the beginning of our brand-new in-line continuity, SHOTGUN SALLYS! In this exciting trilogy, three young women friends uncover a scandal in the town of Mustang Valley, Texas, that puts their lives—and the lives of the men they love—on the line. Don’t miss Out for Justice by Susan Kearney.

To wrap up a month of can’t-miss romantic suspense, Doreen Roberts debuts in the Harlequin Intrigue line with Official Duty, the next title in our COWBOY COPS thematic promotion. It’s a double-murder investigation that forces a woman out of hiding to face her perilous past…and her pent-up feelings for the sexy sheriff who still has her heart in custody. Last but certainly not least, Emergency Contact by Susan Peterson—part of our DEAD BOLT promotion—is an edgy psychological thriller about a traumatized amnesiac who may have been brainwashed to do the unthinkable….

Enjoy all our selections this month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor,

Harlequin Intrigue

Double Take
Leigh Riker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Like many readers and writers, Leigh Riker grew up with her nose in a book—still the best activity, in her opinion, on a hot summer afternoon or a cold winter night. To this day, she can’t imagine a better combination than suspense and romance.

The award-winning author of ten previous novels, she confesses she doesn’t like the sight of blood yet is a real fan of TV’s many forensics shows—a vicarious “walk on the wild side,” not to mention great research for her own novels. And when romance heats up the mix? It doesn’t get any better than that.

Born in Ohio, this former creative-writing instructor has lived in various parts of the U.S. She is now, with her husband, at home on a mountain in Tennessee with an inspiring view from her office of three states. She loves to hear from readers! Write to Leigh at P.O. Box 250, Soddy Daisy, TN 37384, or visit her Web site www.eclectics.com/authorsgalore/leighriker.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cameron McKenzie—After growing up in Witness Protection, this celebrity chef craves a normal life. When her reluctant protector, J. C. Ransom, shows up, Cameron doesn’t want to believe she holds the key to her father’s unsolved case—or that she is now the target of a killer.

J. C. Ransom—The U.S. Marshal responsible for a federal witness—Cameron’s father—thinks he failed to do his job. Now James McKenzie is dead and his killer is on the loose. Cameron may be next…

James McKenzie—His testimony sent a vicious crime boss to jail. Was Cameron’s beloved father the victim of revenge?

Kyle McKenzie—Estranged from Cameron for many years, he wants to reconcile with his sister. Could he be harboring a deadly secret?

Venuto Destina—His stint in federal prison—and now-failing health—have weakened but not vanquished the deadly crime kingpin.

Emerald Greer—About to make her comeback on the courts, the temperamental tennis star has what seems to be a perfect life—until she disappears.

Grace Miller—As an assistant to the ill-tempered Emerald, this plain Jane’s coveted job is no picnic. Could a resentful Grace have orchestrated a kidnapping—and murder—to snuff out her famous employer?

Ron Davis—Emerald’s hunky personal trainer would restore her to full glory on the tennis courts. That’s his job. But Ron’s interest in Emerald may be far more personal and sinister, even deadly….

For Dianne Kruetzkamp, for friendship, support and all

those mutual brainstorming sessions. Thanks so much.

And for Jasmine, the best little kitty on earth.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Denver, Colorado

The man was almost dead.

J.C. watched the life slip out of him, but no matter how he tried, J.C. couldn’t stop the slow, inexorable march of death.

My fault.

Jordan Christopher Ransom, Deputy U.S. Marshal. It was his mission, for God’s sake, to protect…to safeguard his charge.

J.C.’s mouth twisted at the thought. Sitting on the cold ground in January with James McKenzie in his arms, he cursed himself for not figuring things out in time, not getting here faster, not being able to prevent what had finally come down in this grim, dark alley. And instead of hearing the whistle of the wind all around, he heard the utter silence that follows violence. After the gunshots, the running feet. The shouts.

Some of them had been his own.

No matter.

James was still lying here, his eyes on J.C., pleading as he slowly bled to death. His stomach knotting, J.C. worked his fingers deeper into the hole in McKenzie’s neck, but he knew his efforts to stanch the blood flow from a major vessel, no matter how hard he pressed, would do no good.

It was a killer wound.

From the cold-blooded bastard who had vowed revenge.

And achieved his goal after all.

Or so it seemed.

J.C.’s jaw tightened. In the darkness he heard the wailing of sirens coming closer. He’d called for help on his cell phone moments before.

“They’re on the way,” he told McKenzie, sounding desperate with relief, but the other man’s eyes didn’t change. “We’ll get you somewhere safe.”

His job. But he had failed.

McKenzie’s mouth opened then closed, as if the attempt to speak was simply too much. And of course it would be.

“Hang in there,” J.C. muttered.

The advice proved futile. His own heart thumped against the inside of his coat, against the blue steel semiautomatic in his shoulder holster. No reason to have it out now. They were alone. The coward had gone. He tightened his grip around McKenzie in cold comfort. It was the last the man would feel in this lifetime, and whether or not J.C. had ever believed McKenzie was innocent, he tried to provide solace.

It was the least he could do.

Because of me you’re lying here in a pool of your own blood.

McKenzie clutched at his coat sleeve, his voice weaker now.

“Cameron…” Then in a final gasp, another name. “Ven.”

Her name went through J.C. not like a sweet reprieve but like the bullets James had taken for J.C.’s brutal error, and he wondered for a moment if his own blood had spilled on the ground. The place smelled of rotting garbage, but of stale whiskey, too, and now of death.

He didn’t trust McKenzie, not one bit more than he’d trusted his own father. Even McKenzie’s name, his real name before the many aliases he’d used, was only a point of reference now for J.C.

But that didn’t mean he wanted him dead either.

A chill raced along J.C.’s veins, like guilt. His fingers clenched around McKenzie’s shoulders, then moved up to his throat.

And he realized he felt nothing. Nothing.

That last faint beat of blood was gone, like the assassin who had struck Cameron’s father. All that remained was the ever-closer scream of the sirens that shattered silence. The sirens, and now his own fear.

The body slumped against him. J.C. looked down into blank, staring eyes. James McKenzie was dead. All he’d left behind was a daughter and those last few words.

The cops and the ambulance shrieked to a halt at the entrance to the alley. But J.C. didn’t move.

This isn’t over yet, he kept thinking, and the words kept echoing inside.

Chapter One

New York City

Her father had been dead for nearly a year. Venuto Destina had been out of prison for a week. And Cameron McKenzie was still looking over her shoulder.

Now she felt the back of her neck prickle, and the too-familiar thought shot through her brain. I’m being followed. Unable to fight the lifelong urge, she glanced behind her again along the dark Manhattan street but the footsteps she imagined hearing had died.

She saw no one.

Relief swept through her, canceling the swift rush of adrenaline, and for a moment she felt her heartbeat begin to slow. She often worked late—how else could The Unlimited Chef, Cameron’s cooking business for celebrities, show more than a small profit?—but she never liked walking home by herself.

It was necessary, of course, for her own peace of mind. Yet on this cold December night—the week after Thanks-giving—with light snow falling, she liked it even less. As if to acknowledge a threat, fewer people seemed to be out. Only a handful dotted the normally crowded sidewalks and several restaurants had closed early tonight. On this side street in the Seventies off Third Avenue, where Christmas lights already twinkled in almost every window, she felt utterly alone.

She strode briskly toward her apartment, arms wrapped around her too-thin coat trying to keep warm, but the chill seemed to penetrate her very bones. Just a few more blocks, she told herself. Then she’d feel safe.

Suddenly, her pulse hitched again. Her heart took up a noisy pounding.

Was that another footstep behind her? The sound of a man’s shoes muffled by the lightly falling snow? She would not look.

Then the blare of a passing taxi’s horn sent a shock blast through her body, and she struggled against panic. Now she heard nothing. The danger she had lived with for most of her life was gone, like those imagined footsteps. Safe, she tried to think.

Only the past lurked behind her now, not some assailant or unseen threat that seemed to hover in the cold air like a hand about to snuff out her breath.

Cameron silently scolded herself. This unfounded paranoia was why she forced herself to walk home each night rather than hail a cab or hop a city bus and bathe herself in its harsh interior light. She wouldn’t take the easy way out.

“I am going to lead a normal life,” she said aloud.

Even without Dad.

At the thought of James McKenzie, she pressed her lips tight.

She missed him. Oh God, how she missed him.

But he, of all people, wouldn’t want her cowering behind closed doors. Wouldn’t want her shivering in terror because Destina was free.

With one ear still tuned to any sound behind her, she picked up her pace.

She would go home, fix a cup of hot chocolate, open her mail…

Normal things. Everyday things.

She had yearned for them too long. Now, most of the time, she had them.

Yet the vague feeling of impending doom stalked her every step and Cameron finally surrendered again to the heart-thumping need to look over her shoulder. One more time. Just to be sure…

Seeing nothing, she felt in a pocket for her key then clutched it tight, ready to strike out at some attacker’s eyes. Frowning, she swept into the lighted lobby of her high-rise apartment building. There, too, the lobby was already decked out with wreaths and a huge tree. Normally, the sight would cheer her.

“’Evening, Fred,” she greeted the elderly doorman. And checked the sidewalk outside, reflected in the mirrored glass of the elevator bank, while she waited for the car.

“A cold one,” he said, clearly relishing the overheated lobby.

She shivered. “I’m glad to be home.”

“This is New York, not Arizona. You need a warmer coat.”

“Or thicker blood.” Leaving his laugh behind, she stepped into the elevator.

Blood. There must have been so much blood when her father…

Cameron blinked and stared up at the floor indicator. Two, three, four…at number eight the doors glided open. Cameron knew she was being silly, but she held them back anyway—and peered out into the long hall. Looking left then right, she confirmed that it, like the street downstairs, remained empty.

With her key gripped tight in a fist, she hurried to her own door. Her sensible shoes sank into the dense plush of the hallway carpet. She couldn’t afford this address, but she needed it. Image was everything.

After all, she had been forced to reinvent herself. More than once.

Turning her back on the hall, she slipped the key into her lock.

Startled by a slight sound from behind, she froze. Alarm flashed through her body like a scream. Dread pooled in her veins and her pulse beat thundered again. I was right, I was right, dammit. Before she could spin around, she felt someone at her back. She sensed the hard male body inches from her spine, watched the large, callused hand cover hers on the key. Her nose picked up his scent, but the lone word didn’t calm her.

“Relax.”

That harsh male voice, deep and low, sent her crashing back into the nightmare. That scent he carried, so uniquely his…she’d hoped never to smell it again. A hint of outdoors, of musk, of heat. Even a frigid December in New York couldn’t protect her.

Maybe, Cameron thought, there was no escape.

HE SHOULD LET HER GO. Now.

Yet he couldn’t seem to move and J.C. silently cursed himself again.

He knew better than to come up behind a solitary woman in a dimly lit hall—especially an edgy woman like this—just as he’d known not to follow her home, or to accost her downstairs in the building lobby.

Frankly, there didn’t seem to be an optimum place to confront her.

Just as there would be no easy way to tell her what he’d come to say.

In the past week everything had changed.

J.C. kept his mouth shut. His professional training hadn’t covered these bases, no way, but he’d done enough damage, especially with James McKenzie. From the race of the pulse at Cameron’s slender wrist, he guessed she wouldn’t relax until next week. If then.

Fresh guilt swamped him. Nothing new, but for the past year he’d devoted his every waking moment to official routine, official protocol, to one careful bureaucratic step at a time. It hadn’t helped. He didn’t sleep much and when he did, he dreamed of death and destruction and his own deadly error in that Denver alley.

Cameron… Ven…

Then there were the shakes, the sweats.

No wonder he’d finally been relieved of his duties.

Unfortunately, a medical leave of absence wouldn’t close this case.

Now, not unlike J.C., he could see that Cameron McKenzie was no more than a breath away from hyperventilating—his fault all over again—and he couldn’t seem to let go of her hand, or to block out the feel of her so near, or even to remember who he was and how to do his job. Unofficially this time.

Never mind business. Cameron made his head swim. Her strong yet delicate-feeling bones beneath his harder grip sent a swift rush of desire through his own body, and he had to remind himself why he had tracked her down. When he inhaled the fresh smells of shampoo and clean female skin, mixed with the faintest hint of some tempting spice—perhaps from her dinner—he felt his heart beat faster. J.C. fought the urge to lean even closer, to touch her.

She always had that effect on him.

That, and more.

For an instant, J.C. felt grateful. He could almost stop obsessing about the night in the alley, about James. And his latest suspicion. He could almost believe panic wouldn’t overtake him again. He could almost hope that he affected her the same way she always got to him.

Talk about wishful thinking.

No wonder she hated him, J.C. thought. Certainly she wouldn’t have opened her door to him tonight. So here they were, standing in the hall of her expensive apartment building—which didn’t strike him right—and Cameron, all five feet four inches of her, with her medium-length flow of dark hair and stiffened shoulders and taut, willowy frame, appeared about to faint.

When he gave her the latest bad news, she probably would.

Because J.C. had been thinking. He’d gone over—obsessed over—every detail in the Destina files. And he’d altered his view. Destina hadn’t gotten his revenge—not all of it anyway—and maybe James hadn’t said his daughter’s name at the end of his life merely as a goodbye. In the past days since Destina’s release from prison, someone had been making inquiries, not about James but about the big chunk of money that remained missing twenty-five years after Destina’s trial.

J.C. was convinced Destina had a new target.

“Let’s go inside,” he muttered, his cheek a fraction of an inch away from the softness of her silky hair. Her skin would feel equally slick, he imagined. For an instant J.C. allowed himself to envision Cameron in his bed, her hair spread out across his pillow, his fingers tangled in its rich, warm depths. Her wide hazel eyes would look up into his and her smile would light his weary spirit just before his mouth covered hers. As the kiss deepened, his hand would drift between them to seek her perfect breast, then the nip of her narrow waist, the modest swell of her hips, and he would hear Cameron moan.

The imaginary sound made J.C. straighten. If he didn’t step back, in the next few seconds she would realize exactly what effect she had on him.

On the other hand, her obvious impression of him came as no surprise. She pushed back, dislodging his hand from hers on the key then whirling around. He gazed down into her hazel eyes and saw the dislike he expected. Her voice dripped with it, along with the remnants of stark fear.

“J. C. Ransom. What the hell are you doing here?”

EVERY TIME CAMERON saw a U.S. Marshal, it meant trouble.

Despite that, she couldn’t help noticing that J. C. Ransom was one intriguing hunk of obviously red-blooded male.

Her senses clanged like a five-alarm fire bell as she took him in.

Tall, lean, broad-shouldered and sleekly muscled, he sure fit the Marshals’ service profile. His sun-streaked hair, on the other hand, didn’t. He could never blend into the background. Thick and silky, his hair always drew her gaze first, gleaming like a California surfer boy’s. But the lethal-looking gun he carried under his jacket ruined the effect. As did the hard metal badge clipped to his belt that glinted in the hall light. Just when she thought she had control of the situation, she made the mistake of gazing into his eyes.

Oh, God.

She shouldn’t have looked. Dark, enigmatic, almost navy blue, they wore that intense look of purpose that Cameron identified with him. The look that had always meant he’d be whisking her off to another relocation, another move away from new friends and treasured new belongings. Another escape under darkness to somewhere else, to somewhere safe. Where did he get such eyes? Were they military—or no, U.S. Department of Justice—issue?

That blue gaze could burn a hole through titanium, but the most Ransom had ever gotten from her in return was a heartfelt glare of rebuke for destroying her security, her life, again. Carefully chosen from her repertoire of careful looks. Nobody saw anything in Cameron McKenzie that she didn’t want them to see.

She’d learned that when she was three years old.

Yet at twenty-eight, a woman not a child, she saw the world through newly changed lenses. Those blue eyes looked different now, not only his usual sexy as sin but…haunted. Yes, that was it. And that was new.

“What happened to you?” was the next thing she managed to say.

Ransom’s gaze had settled on her lips, watching her speak, watching her react to his stare with a quick dart of her tongue over her lower lip that turned his dark eyes to midnight blue.

She hadn’t seen that look before.

Not willing to explain her observation, or to ponder his, she busied herself opening the lock with shaking fingers, hoping to slip inside and shut the door in his face.

Ransom was everything she hated, everything that reminded her of being afraid.

Her ploy didn’t work. He straight-armed the steel door panel and followed her inside, so close behind her that she could feel his body heat. Had his footsteps been the ones on the street behind her?

In the foyer Cameron whirled to face him.

“I suppose you have some reason for scaring me half to death.”

“Maybe you’d better sit down.”

“I’m fine standing up.” She wasn’t on a level with him—Ransom stood just over six feet—but she managed to meet his gaze squarely, hoping he wouldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. “Make it quick. I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed.”

“So would I,” he murmured.

Cameron blinked under his steady regard. He couldn’t mean that the way it sounded in that husky tone, but his eyes held hers and it wasn’t his official, government-agent gaze she saw. Those blue eyes had warmed with what Cameron recognized as desire. Her pulse pounded harder. Now there was another twist.

A dozen images of him flashed through her memory.

Maybe, until her last years in the program, she had simply repressed that hot, dark look. And before that…

“I’ve known you since I was thirteen,” she said. “I never heard you crack a dirty joke, even with your buddies. So I assume…”

“This isn’t a joke. I need to tell you something.”

His gaze had cooled and he was back to business again. The way she knew him best. And liked him least. Cameron tossed her coat over a chair in the living room—her only real furniture. She wouldn’t invite him any farther into her sanctuary. Her first home of her own. This U.S. Marshal had no right to violate her privacy here. He had no right to stun her with his masculine good looks, either. But his statement had drawn her attention.

Straightening, she turned back to him. “Well?”

“It’s about your father.”

“God. I should have known.” Cameron cast a quick glance toward the fireplace mantel—and the copper urn that held her father’s ashes. Then she sank onto the arm of the chair, her legs suddenly weak. “You’ve never minced words before. Why start now?”

“Look, I’m sorry, Cameron. I don’t know how to tell you this except to just say it.” He stepped closer to her and she tilted her head to look up at him. “You know Destina was released from federal prison last week?”

“Yes. I did read the papers.” To be honest, she’d stayed glued to CNN for days, hoping for any scrap of information, any statement from Destina that would allay the last of her fears. She’d seen a glimpse of his son at the prison gates, but only the briefest flash of the camera’s eye on Destina himself, and then later, outside his rural Connecticut compound. “There wasn’t much reported. What they didn’t tell me was why.”

“Supposedly he earned an early parole for health reasons. Compassionate release.” Scoffing at the very label, Ransom took a seat across from her on the folding chair she kept for rare guests in her sparsely furnished living room. “Nobody believes that,” he said, “but it’s the official word.”

“That means he’s ill?”

“Usually means it’s terminal.”

“My father is already dead. Destina killed him.” He’d always said he would.

Ransom lifted his eyebrows. “There’s no physical evidence, but I agree with you. Destina may have been in prison at the time, but he has a long reach. His organization employed any number of assassins when James testified against him.”

She couldn’t keep the reminder to herself. Her voice shook. “And Destina vowed revenge because my father spoke the truth.”

“That truth—if it was the whole truth—put Destina behind bars.”

She sighed. “Now he’s out. And presumably sick.”

“Either that or his lawyers are more clever than they were years ago. The assassins, too. All I know is, your father died in Denver and you’re in New York.” He hesitated, as if he had decided to keep something more to himself. “That’s why I’m here.”

Her mouth thinned with disapproval. “The U.S. Marshals to the rescue?”

“I know you don’t like that—or me—but it’s necessary. Just as you know James was in WITSEC when he died.” It was the official name for the more familiar Witness Protection program. “That made him our responsibility.”

“Looks like you did a lousy job.”

He flinched and Cameron cautioned herself to hold her temper. Ransom knew how she felt, but he was no longer her keeper. Twenty-two years in WP had been that many years too long. Now he had no jurisdiction over her.

Cameron tried to forget looking over her shoulder on the way home.

His mouth tightened. “James was secure in Denver for—”

“Three years. Since you brought me the happy news in Phoenix that my family would have to relocate again.”

“Because you had decided to leave. When your brother left WP, we couldn’t risk him inadvertently leading someone else—Destina—to James, your mother, or you.”

“How many times did we relocate, Ransom? Five? Fifteen?” A flash of guilt about Phoenix went through her, but she knew, of course. They were all losses, engraved on her heart like her father’s murder. “I left in Phoenix because what was the point, after all? Maybe my brother was right to leave, too. He just realized it first.” She didn’t know where Kyle—at least, that had been his WP name the last time she saw him—was living now, and the knowledge pained Cameron, but she felt too angry to stop. “If you people were doing what the taxpayers of this country hired you to do, my father wouldn’t be dead!”

The edges of his mouth had turned white. “I admit that we—”

“What kind of ‘protection’ did you really provide?”

This time he said nothing. His whole face had turned pale.

“News flash, Ransom. We lived in fear for my father’s life every day, of his being found and killed. And for what? Because he testified in a federal trial to get you a conviction.”

“Not my conviction,” he said. “The government’s.”

“You are the government.” She rose from the chair, still shaking. “It wasn’t you who spent all those years hiding behind closed blinds, afraid of every slam of a car door or backfire in the street! Afraid of telling something—anything—to a neighbor or a friend that would indicate another life.”

Ransom stood up, too. “I know that wasn’t easy. But putting that bastard behind bars, making a serious dent in Venuto Destina’s multicrime organization, had to seem worth it.”

“Spoken like a man who’s never lived behind closed doors.”

Ransom ran a not-quite-steady hand through his sun-streaked hair.

“Look,” he said again. “I could have sent another agent here. Instead, I came to see you because I thought familiarity—”

“Breeds contempt?”

He held up both hands. “I guess so.”

Cameron walked toward the door. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Marshal Ransom. If there’s nothing else—”

“I’m not finished. Sit down,” he said again.

“Why?” Cameron waved a hand in dismissal. “I have lived all over this country, in a dozen or more ratty little houses. Under a dozen or more different names, which, I might add, is why I now prefer the name I was born with. It’s my father’s name too—”

“The name he took back when he died,” Ransom said.

“And that’s why I gave the marshals my real name as their contact—your contact—when I left the program.” She dragged in a breath. “I learned very young, when I lost that name, to be careful what I did and said and who I said it to, and at this point when I no longer have to watch my tongue or hide who I really am I am extremely tempted to tell you to go to hell.” She took a breath. “However, my mother managed to instill in me a few manners. So instead of throwing you out right now, I’ll listen. For two minutes.” She paused. “Then I’ll toss you out into the hall.”

Cameron knew she was close to losing the last of her control. She didn’t want Ransom to know how shaken she’d felt tonight. Didn’t want to hear what else he’d come to say…

“Destina.” The name again shot fear along her nerve ends, as it had on the darkened street earlier. “I think you’re in danger,” Ransom said, holding her gaze. “I think you’re next.”

Cameron thought she’d heard him wrong. She hoped she had. “I’m in danger? But the only reason I lived in Witness Protection was because of my father. He’s dead now.” Saying the words still hurt. “Destina’s already had his threatened revenge.”

“Has he?” Ransom cleared his throat. “It would help if you could tell me about the money that’s still missing. Since Destina’s release, someone has been sniffing around. I’m sure James knew where it is.”

“The money?” To Cameron, it was just a shadowy mention, in hushed tones, between her parents long ago when she was a child. What did the still-missing funds in the case have to do with her? Or even her father now? The government didn’t pay its witnesses well. James, her mother, Kyle and Cameron had lived in near poverty. Surely Ransom didn’t think… “Why would my father know anything about that?” Unless he thought James was a crook, too. Which he seemed to. “Why would I?”

“Because the one thing that kept you all sane in WP was family. Maybe that didn’t mean as much to Kyle, or whatever he calls himself now, or maybe he got restless and left the program to stay sane himself. But you stayed. A lot longer.”

“I had to. I was still a kid—and then my mother was ill.”

“But after she died…?” he pressed.

“My father was all alone. He needed me while he adjusted to her loss.”

“See what I mean?” Ransom looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Family,” he repeated. “If James knew about that money, then you know about it, too.”

Cameron glared. “By what circuitous route of logic did you figure that out?”

“You love your father. He loved you. He’d tell you everything. No secrets.”

“He didn’t tell me about any money,” she said, her jaw tense, “because he…didn’t…know…about…it…himself.” She spaced the words so he’d understand.

Ransom looked around, as if he’d just now noticed her apartment. “I’d say you’ve already spent some of it.” He gestured at the room. “Look at this place. Fancy address, fancy building. Marble lobby. A doorman. You’re on a relatively high floor—with a good view, I bet—and in New York. Even I know this rent must be well into four figures. You’re what?” he said. “A cook?”

She stiffened. “A celebrity chef.”

“You feed other people. How much does that pay?”

“Not enough right now.” With the admission, she seemed to have walked into his trap again. “That doesn’t mean I steal. Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard, Marshal. You might fall on your face.”

“Deputy Marshal.” Giving her a look, Ransom strolled through the living room.

Her sparse living room.

Cameron watched him take in the old chair she’d bought at a flea market in SoHo, the bare windows. She wasn’t sure she’d ever buy draperies, because she couldn’t bear to shut out the light, the world outside. But she had plans, eventually, to furnish the place. To sink roots at last, for herself.

“It’s an investment,” she said, seeing his appraisal of the barren surroundings. “I need the good address. It gives me an air of respectability, of prosperity. I doubt the kind of clients I solicit—celebrities—would sign on with someone who worked out of a slum, which is more like what I can actually afford.” She hesitated, knowing she was again playing to his preconceived opinion of her. “I assure you, I do earn enough to pay the rent. That’s about all, but for now it has to do.”

Ransom remained silent.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’m closer,” he admitted, “but not there yet.”

His steady gaze made Cameron’s eyes lower. Her pulse drummed with tension, and something more. She didn’t want to acknowledge the effect that blue gaze was having on her, yet his hot, hungry stare made her tremble inside. Desire flowed, thick and heavy, in her veins before Cameron pushed the response aside like an unwanted thought. This was Ransom. If he chose to believe she and her father were thieves like Destina, she couldn’t prevent it. She didn’t need to like him for it, though. She didn’t need to feel tainted herself.

Wasn’t it enough for him, for the U.S. Marshals, that in the end her father had given his life for justice? To accuse him now, when he could no longer defend himself, of stealing…to accuse her…

“Tell me one thing, Deputy Marshal. How did Destina’s men find my father in Denver?”

“I couldn’t say.” He frowned, his blue eyes turning even darker. “Unless you tipped someone off.”

Fresh anger boiled inside her. “There is no way I would lead anyone—most of all, Destina or his men—to my father. We had an elaborate system for communication, which we used as seldom as possible and always with extreme caution. It was foolproof.”

“Apparently not.”

“How dare you—” Unable to go on, she paced the room. “As for the missing money, I know nothing about it.”

“Destina must think you do.”

“And so do you,” she said to him.

Not answering, he studied the living room again. “Your decor doesn’t look too comfortable. Is there a spare bed I can borrow for the night?”

Cameron’s heart lurched. She had only one bed—actually, a new mattress but on the floor. Next payday she’d buy the frame, then, eventually, a headboard. In the meantime she’d lived too much of her life under the U.S. Marshals. Now, she was done with that.

“Forget it. You’re not staying here.”

“How about a sleeping bag?” He tested the carpet’s softness with a foot.

“I don’t have one.” Cameron flung open the door and pointed a finger. “Out.”

Ransom didn’t budge. “Look, until we can build a case against Destina and he’s back behind bars, I’m going to protect you. Like it or not.” He stared at her. “Until that money is entered as evidence.”

That evidence—which Ransom thought she was part of—seemed more important to him than it did to Cameron, who despised Destina with her very soul. He had ruined her childhood, destroyed her family, shattered her father and caused her mother’s death from overwork and a broken heart. That didn’t mean she believed Ransom.

“Do you have a court order?”

“Do I need one?”

“Definitely. Yes.” Cameron urged him into the hall. “Otherwise, I’m finished with government protection.” And you. “If you remember, the last time we talked was by phone after Dad died. I wanted it to be the last time. Thanks—again—for your condolences.”

Again, he hesitated then apparently changed his mind. His tone gentled. “I told you then I was with James when he died. And I’ve been thinking about what he said. I’ve decided that with his last words he was warning me—warning you.”

Cameron’s mouth trembled. Oh God, Dad. None of what Ransom had said thus far could be true. James wasn’t a thief. She wasn’t in danger.

“He said your name,” Ransom reminded her, his haunted blue eyes on hers. “And something else.” He paused, as if he didn’t want to finish. “He said ‘Ven.’”

“Meaning Destina?” Her blood chilled.

“Think about it.”

But to her surprise, Ransom didn’t argue about staying. He took out a small pad, scribbled on it, then tore off the sheet and handed it to her.

“My cell phone number,” he said, “and the place where I’m staying—with a friend from the NYPD.” Then he stepped into the elevator and, with the closing doors, disappeared—as if he, not Cameron, had vanished into Witness Protection.

Slowly, she crumpled the piece of paper.

She had the uneasy feeling she hadn’t seen the last of him.

Chapter Two

Blood dripped from her fingers.

The room spun around her and Cameron stared down at the knife she’d dropped on the counter. Her new employer’s personal assistant looked at the accident scene. And swallowed.

“I can’t believe I was that stupid,” Cameron said, her assurance seeming to come from a distance. This was all Ransom’s fault, she wanted to think. Ven… I’ve decided he was…warning you. She hadn’t slept at all last night after Ransom left but had startled awake at every sound. It was only the afternoon but she felt bone-tired. “You’d think I never attended culinary school, or learned how to cut an onion without dicing my own finger.”

Grace Jennings paled another shade. She wrung her hands. “Should I call 911?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then let me get the first-aid kit.”

While she was gone, Cameron grabbed a towel. Her heart was thumping, but she breathed deeply to get it under control. It wasn’t only Ransom who troubled her. She couldn’t seem to do her job today without thinking about her father.

After holding the two fingers that she’d clipped with the sharp blade under cold running water, she accepted a pair of bandages from Grace, who still looked as if she was about to faint.

Cameron hoped she wouldn’t pass out herself. She hadn’t seen Grace leave the kitchen of Emerald Greer’s large coop apartment, hadn’t heard her come back. Grace moved like a ghost. Or Cameron felt too shocked by her own negligence on top of her anger at Ransom to register anything but pain. Her fingers began to pulse with it.

“Hand me that bowl of zucchini, please.” She was still shaking but hoped Grace didn’t notice, Emerald Greer either if she happened to appear at just the wrong moment. Cameron shot a glance at the kitchen doorway but with relief found it empty. She added green squash to the other fresh vegetables sautéing on the industrial-style range, and another enticing aroma wafted upward into the warm, moist air.

Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to work. But activity seemed preferable to pacing her apartment all day, fretting. Or remembering Ransom.

He wasn’t easy to forget. Or to ignore, for that matter. She tried to think objectively. Broad shoulders, lean build, long legs, well-muscled arms and strong hands…he had a powerful physique, but so did other men. Ransom’s masculine appeal didn’t stop there. Her first sight of him last night might have stolen her breath, not to mention her will. His sensual mouth and piercing blue eyes could melt any woman’s defenses. But Cameron didn’t intend to let him—or his masculinity—slip under her guard.

With swift, abrupt motions she stirred the mixture in the pan. “If this doesn’t tempt the boss from her exercise room, I don’t know what will.”

“Emerald hates vegetables.”

“I’ll change her mind. Ratatouille Provençal has never failed me before.”

Brave words. Cameron wasn’t that sure about Emerald. Neither was Grace.

“She’ll change your mind first,” Grace said.

Cameron’s hand throbbed. She didn’t exactly regret her decision to work for Emerald Greer. Time in the celebrated but injured tennis star’s kitchen bought Cameron a valuable client—and time she hadn’t expected to need to calm her nerves about Ransom.

To her fury, he hadn’t given up as easily as she thought last night. He’d obviously followed her to work this morning, his footsteps echoing hers. Briefly at first, she had let her paranoia kick in again until she realized—this time—who walked behind her. A couple of weeks in this well-appointed setting couldn’t hurt, the money either, but Cameron refused to call it hiding out.

The money.

Ransom was wrong. Let him dog her trail if he liked. No one but him was after her.

“Now the yellow squash,” she said, tipping pieces into the pan. Fresh garlic had gone in first with salt and pepper then a splash of red wine. She added the onions that had led to her accident.

“How did your other clients go today?” From her perch on a stool at the center island, Grace brushed wispy brown bangs from her forehead. “Two, you said,” clearly trying to distract them both.

“A psychiatrist on West End Avenue and that dress designer in the Village. I saved time by making both of them similar menus. Did all my shopping at once—” She broke off. “Don’t let me bore you with Fulton Market. But that veal saltimbocca…”

“You leave everything in the refrigerator when you’re done?”

“For some clients, a week at a time. Three meals per day, seven days.” It usually took Cameron six hours at each of their apartments to cook and fill the containers. Today, she’d taken only four and hurried to leave time for Emerald. “I put their prepared foods in the fridge or the freezer. I don’t usually cook in-house for someone like Emerald and stay to serve.” She was being well paid to do so, however, and then there was Emerald’s upcoming wedding, a top story in all the newspapers. She stifled a yawn. “The doc wanted a huge fruit salad, the designer likes pasta. Everyone has favorites.”

Grace looked wistful. “Wish I could afford your services.”

“It’s not expensive. You’d be surprised. You will be surprised when I give you my bill for Emerald.” She stirred the vegetable mixture then added a waiting bowl of quartered tomatoes. Cameron would catch up on her sleep later, and the pay she earned was only part of her concerns. “After I cook for my clients, I clean their kitchens. That’s the worst part.” She held up her chapped hands. “If you can recommend a good dishwashing liquid, let me know. I do all the pots by hand. Are you staying for dinner, Grace?”

Sometimes she did, Cameron had discovered, sometimes not. It depended on the workload Emerald gave her, Grace claimed, but Cameron suspected the decision depended more on Emerald’s mood. Cameron had quickly learned that her newest client was not only a celebrity, she was a very difficult woman.

Before Grace could answer, Emerald entered the kitchen, still sweating from her workout with Ron, her personal trainer. Cameron’s exercise program consisted of her nightly walk home. Emerald wore hot-pink tights and a crop top today. Oh, and a frown. When the front door closed in the distance, Cameron remembered hearing raised voices earlier from the fitness room. So Ron wasn’t staying. Emerald cast a glance at the sink where the bloodstained towel lay.

“What happened in here?” She turned to Grace. “Attacking our new chef? What did she suggest—skim milk and dry toast?”

Despite Grace’s obvious embarrassment, which made Cameron uncomfortable, too, she decided the high color in Grace’s cheeks improved her looks. With her mousy brown hair and almost colorless eyes, she normally appeared bland, even invisible. Grace seemed to define the old term spinster, and even the little mole beside her mouth had more color than her drab beige clothes, which failed to hide Grace’s plump yet small-boned figure.

Cameron’s heart went out to her. She checked the pan of salmon fillets poaching on another burner. “It was my fault. I honed my knife too sharp.”

Grace looked thankful for Cameron’s intervention, but Emerald quickly dismissed the incident in favor of her own problems. She seemed to be Grace’s opposite, a classic blue-eyed blonde in contrast to Grace’s brown on brown, always outspoken compared to Grace’s softer tones. In the overhead light a huge diamond flashed on Emerald’s hand.

And a collage of recent media coverage went through Cameron’s mind.

Emerald was engaged to Theodore Kayne, a Wall Street success story who’d made his fortune buying up midsized companies then turning them into giants in their consumer specialties. Rich wasn’t the word for him.

“We’re still waiting to hear from that French bakery?” Emerald asked Grace as if she couldn’t wait another second for the answer. She slid onto the stool beside her. “Their quotes for the wedding cake and the groom’s cake were both too high. They promised to refigure by today.”

“They’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.”

Cameron smiled, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Piece of…cake. I could bake for you, Miss Greer, if you’d like me to.”

She was already handling the rehearsal dinner. What was another task? More income, she thought. She would use fresh edible flowers on the cake, purple and yellow and white pansies, maybe a few marigolds for trim…

“We’ll see.” Emerald shrugged. “Gracie, go home. I’m too tired to work tonight. Ron forced me to a near cardiac arrest today. Pure torture. He’ll have my biceps looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s before he’s done. I’ll be too muscle-bound to hold a racket. And my poor knee so soon after surgery…that man is a sadist.” She went to the refrigerator to get a soda. “Did Ted call?”

“Mr. Kayne’s assistant said he has meetings all evening. He’ll phone tomorrow.”

Emerald looked displeased with her fiancé. “What about the Zeus reception?”

Grace’s gaze flickered. With irritation?

That surprised Cameron. She didn’t imagine Grace had much passion. Zeus Sportswear was Emerald’s latest sponsor and Kayne’s newest acquisition. With Emerald as celebrity spokesperson for the company, he intended Zeus to move from its present middle-of-the-pack position to a dominant market share of the industry.

“Eight o’clock tomorrow night,” Grace told Emerald. “The limo will pick you up at seven-thirty.” She stopped. “Will you need me then?”

Emerald smirked. “I never need you, dearest. I keep you around for amusement.” She grabbed a carrot then slid off the stool, her assistant apparently forgotten. “Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

Cameron sent Grace a look of commiseration.

“A half hour,” Cameron said. “I need to finish the endive salad, too.”

“I don’t need salad. I need fat, protein and cholesterol.”

Cameron forced the smile this time. “That’s not why you hired me.”

Without answering, Emerald stalked from the kitchen, limping a little every few paces, letting the door swing shut behind her. Cameron stirred the vegetable ratatouille, trying not to see Grace’s glare for her employer.

“She didn’t mean that,” Cameron murmured. “About you—or dinner.”

“You don’t know her. Yes. She did.”

“She’s a champion,” Cameron pointed out. “Temperamental.”

Which had a benefit for Cameron. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Emerald’s rudeness had made her forget Ransom, at least for now.

Grace scoffed, “She’s worried about her career. You should have been here right after her knee surgery. The first time Ron worked with her, she turned the air blue.” Grace shrugged. “Wonder how Ted Kayne will deal with her.”

For the second time, Cameron saw that look of resentment.

“Everything comes easy to her,” Grace complained. “Too bad she doesn’t appreciate it.” She rose from the stool at the counter as if she knew she’d said too much. “With the ‘champ’s’ permission, I’m off.”

“Have a good night, Grace. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“The only thing I worry about is Emerald Greer living to be a hundred.”

Her words lingered in the fragrant kitchen and Cameron stared after her. Like Cameron, she supposed Grace was too well paid to quit her job.

If Cameron did her own job here, did it well, she might even keep from going mad over her father’s death. She might be able to overlook Ransom and the traitorous desire he aroused in her.

Still, working for Emerald wasn’t easy. If I didn’t need the money…

The thought died before it had formed, to be replaced by another.

Tell me about the money.

Cameron pushed aside Ransom’s words, too. She couldn’t afford to indulge him or to antagonize Emerald Greer.

In a best-case scenario, if Cameron’s wedding reception for her was a success, Emerald might recommend her to her friends, assuming she had any.

WHILE EMERALD ATE DINNER alone that night, Cameron took an hour off. The click of silver on china from the dining room had set her nerves on edge. So did the empty echo of each movement in the silent apartment. So did Ransom’s visit last night. She needed a break. She would wash the pots and pans later.

Outside, after taking a breath of air, she refused to check the street for any sign of her unneeded “protector.” Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she stopped first at a nearby pharmacy to buy emery boards and nail polish. In her line of work, her hands suffered every day. Then at the corner banking center she deposited her last week’s receipts. The mundane tasks should have calmed her, eased the pulse of blood in her cut fingers. But they didn’t. Cameron felt the back of her neck tingle again.

When she turned from the automatic teller, Ransom stood there.

Frowning at her. Wouldn’t you know.

Cameron’s heart whapped against the lining of her coat. She shivered, feeling cold.

His deep blue eyes regarded her in the darkness, and then the ATM. “Did you know that’s one of the most dangerous things you can do?”

“What?”

“Stick a bank card in a machine on the street. With your back turned to anyone who might approach.”

Cameron eyed him without apparent interest. “I don’t need a keeper, Ransom. Quit following me. The only one after me is you. I’m perfectly safe.”

He hitched his chin at the line of stores across the street. “There’s a suspicious character over there by the tobacco shop.”

She barely glanced in that direction. “He’s just a homeless guy. The city is filled with them, sad to say.”

If she could afford to do so, Cameron would start her own soup kitchen. But she didn’t even have a day off lately—for which she was actually grateful, because that meant business was getting better—and at least for now, she couldn’t afford to donate her services. Yet she knew exactly how it felt to be without a home, or roots.

“Don’t be naive,” Ransom said. “He could be a druggie. Insane. Violent…”

Cameron studied his grim expression. Even that couldn’t disguise his beautiful eyes. “It must be even sadder to feel so jaded about mankind.”

“I’m surprised you don’t. Considering how you grew up.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Ransom.” She started off down the street. He followed her again. “I never did like the U.S. Marshals. I haven’t changed my mind.” She went fifty feet before she spun around again. The whole day was getting to her. His reminder of James’s death. The money, and Destina. No sleep. Three clients today, one of them too demanding to make even the money that appealing. Cutting her hand had topped off the day, not to mention Ransom, stalking her like a madman himself. “Will you stop? I don’t need protection.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

“Oh,” she said, “just doing your job?”

“More or less.” He lifted a broad shoulder, defined by his wool coat. “I’m on leave of absence,” he admitted. “Burnout,” though that didn’t seem to be the full explanation. “Too much, too long on the Destina case. Guess I should have mentioned that last night.” His breath frosted in the chill air, reminding Cameron that she felt colder by the minute. When he didn’t go on, she started marching down the sidewalk toward Emerald’s building, its cheerful Christmas lights and welcome heat.

Ransom trailed two paces behind.

“You work late,” he said, but Cameron wouldn’t look at him.

“That’s how I build my business. Emerald Greer is my most important client to date.”

“Talk about a tough case.”

“You know her? Not just from the TV news?” Surprised, she couldn’t keep from asking. Ransom was at her shoulder now, inches away, his stride matched to hers. Cameron felt her blood beat faster, warming her from the inside.

“I know of her. She had a nut, a guy named Edgar Mills, harassing her on the circuit a while back. A friend of mine—the guy I’m staying with—works the stalker unit here in New York. Said he had to sympathize with the stalker.”

“Did your friend arrest him?”

“Gabe never had enough to make it stick.”

She missed another step. “So Edgar Mills is still on the loose.”

She could sense his smile in the dark. “And I suppose you’re Emerald Greer’s new best friend. You always did want connections.”

“I always wanted to get out of some crummy, run-down house in some crummy, run-down neighborhood—”

“In some crummy, run-down town,” he finished for her. “I can’t blame you.”

“Well, I’m out now. I’m making a new life—for myself. Friends are going to be part of that.” As soon as she had time. She had reached the entrance to Emerald’s building, and Cameron stopped with one foot on the first step to the lobby. “So is walking to the corner bank without a shadow.”

She felt him shrug again. His shoulder brushed hers and a slow trickle of heat crept down Cameron’s spine like the prickle of awareness last night at her door. She didn’t have to think hard to realize she’d almost prefer having to look over her shoulder for an assailant than feel any attraction to Ransom.

“Disagree if you want,” he said. “That’s your right. It doesn’t change anything. I won’t have you end up like your father.”

When he reached for her hand, alarm jerked along her nerve ends. Ransom held it up between them and Cameron’s twin white bandages gleamed in the dark. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Nothing sinister. I got careless with a knife.”

Cameron’s heartbeat slammed. His nearness surrounded her, seemed to smother her like that attacker from behind. Or a lover? By the time Ransom released her, she no longer felt chilled. She was sweating.

“Be more careful,” he said, his eyes dark and hot.

Hoping to comfort herself, she turned and went up the steps. The lighted lobby, with its Christmas tree, beckoned her. She saw Emerald’s doorman step out from behind his podium. “I can take care of myself,” she said like a litany.

“With my help,” Ransom added. Then he faded again into the night.

She had no doubt he would be waiting for her when she left Emerald’s apartment later. Waiting, in the dark.

EMERALD GREER DIDN’T SEEM to have any friends.

No one came to see her that evening. At midnight she summoned Cameron into the den just as Cameron prepared to leave for the day, and a sense of utter loneliness seemed to hang in the air. More than that, so did some undefined tension.

Cameron stepped across the threshold into the discreetly lighted room all done in white: ceiling, walls, carpet, deep-cushioned chairs and sofas. It was so totally different from her own nearly barren apartment that immediately she felt out of place.

Emerald looked edgy. Perhaps Cameron was about to be fired.

In that case, never mind her employer’s lack of friends or her own hope for more clients like Emerald. How would Cameron pay her rent?

Emerald flicked a glance at the phone then went to the bar. “Drink?”

“No, thank you.” It didn’t seem wise to try being cozy with her boss.

“Your back must be aching by now. Your hands look raw.”

She did hurt—her cut fingers, too—but Cameron managed a smile. “The pots are clean. And breakfast for tomorrow is in the fridge.”

Lifting her glass of wine, Emerald made a gesture with her free hand.

“Sit down. You work too hard.”

“I don’t mind. I have to.”

Emerald studied her. “I suspect you always will push yourself. Even when there’s no need. You and I are alike in that.”

So true. And they shared other similarities. Their builds, for instance, if not their opposite coloring. Although Emerald’s slightly heavier frame supported more muscle, they were the same height and nearly the same weight, Cameron guessed. Yet this very apartment pointed up their differences. It was a far cry from the program, when Cameron had lived simply, and even at first her father’s modest monthly government stipend didn’t buy luxuries. At times even food and clothing had been hard to come by. Sadly, her mother had borne the brunt of responsibility to support the family. And finally it had killed her. Cameron wouldn’t forget that soon. She needed to take care of herself.

“I’ve worked in restaurants since I was sixteen,” she said. “After I finished culinary school in Arizona, I became sous chef in a local spot, later moved to several other places—” she had never mentioned specifics before, and only now because her father was gone “—then became head chef at a golf club before I moved to New York, where I hope to stay.”

“You lived in Scottsdale? Phoenix?”

The two resort communities were loaded with golf courses, but Cameron raised an eyebrow, not answering directly.

“I left home to play tennis at nine,” Emerald said. “Thank fortune—and my lethal serve—I’ve never been back. That little upstate town was a nowhere place.”

Surprised by the confidence, which only confirmed her suspicion that Emerald was essentially a solitary person despite her celebrity, Cameron relaxed into her chair. Where was this late-night girlie session leading? She watched Emerald pour more wine, rattling the glass with a none-too-steady hand as she detailed her own unhappy childhood before tennis. Finally, she sighed.

“But enough of that. I’m pleased with your work, by the way.”

Hope flared inside her. Maybe this wasn’t bad news then. If it was, why would Emerald open up to her? Cameron felt obligated to offer something, too. She wouldn’t hide the truth. She straightened—then told Emerald about her life in Witness Protection. It was the first time in three years that she’d told anyone.

To her surprise, Emerald didn’t judge her. “That was your father, not you. Whatever his problem, you and I are self-made women. I like that.”

Neither of them had led normal lives, Cameron realized. Could she form a personal bond with Emerald? Having admitted to her own past, Cameron seized the opportunity she’d been given. “Ms. Greer, I’d welcome the chance to continue working for you. If you have colleagues who need someone like me…”

She smiled. “I’m also a selfish woman. I like the notion of exclusivity.”

Cameron frowned. “I couldn’t afford just one client, if that’s what you mean.”

“We’ll see.” She fidgeted with her glass and Cameron again thought she seemed nervous, not about letting Cameron go, but as if she was filling the silent air with conversation while she waited for something, someone.

She had a nut harassing her…

A clock ticked on the mantel. Twelve-fifteen. Emerald’s second sharp glance at the phone beside Cameron made Ransom’s words seem more immediate. Or perhaps Emerald simply expected her fiancé to call. But no, Grace had said tomorrow.

Cameron’s frown deepened. She really should go. It was late, and after last night she needed sleep. Obviously, she wasn’t about to be fired…but what was going on here?

If Cameron hadn’t wanted to avoid Ransom as long as possible, she would have left much sooner. And found him waiting downstairs, no doubt, to walk her home in the dark. When the telephone shrilled next to her, Cameron jumped as if he’d suddenly appeared from nowhere.

At the next ring, her gaze darted to the phone. Emerald startled, too, then froze. Her carefully made-up face paled.

“Please. Answer.”

On the third ring Cameron caught up the receiver, feeling even more uneasy when the caller spoke. His vicious tone made her pulse lurch, her stomach tighten.

“Listen, bitch. I’ve had enough. You tell me what I want to hear, or else… I’m coming after you. Understand?”

He hung up before Cameron could hand the phone to Emerald.

Stunned by the violence in the man’s gravelly voice, which sounded mechanically altered, she slowly replaced the receiver then turned to Emerald. For an instant, Cameron had feared the call might be for her. But who would call her here? Unless Ransom wanted to frighten her into accepting his unnecessary protection.

Emerald asked, “What did he say this time?”

By the shocked look on her face and her words, she had heard from this man before. Edgar Mills?

Cameron repeated the message then watched Emerald’s face turn even whiter.

“He’s phoned every night for the past week. I can’t imagine why, except that my engagement to Ted was made public right before the calls began.”

“Did you tell the police?”

Emerald moved stiffly toward the bar again. She filled her glass and drank half the wine down in a single swallow then topped off the glass. And confirmed what Ransom had said earlier.

“I’ve told them. It never helped.”

“But surely if you—”

“I am not phoning the police. They’ll say the same thing they did before—that unless the man physically confronts me, which they consider ‘unlikely,’ there’s little they can do. And they’re probably right. I already have a restraining order.”

Cameron’s pulse was still racing, hard. Now she understood why Emerald would stay home alone at night, why she didn’t appear to have friends. Maybe she never knew who to trust, a familiar feeling for Cameron, too. Emerald tried again to defuse the call’s importance.

“The man is a rabid fan…one of the type that always feel they own you. It’s possible my coming marriage has upset him.”

“And he wants you to say the engagement is off.”

But then, why such threatening words—even though he hadn’t mentioned murder? Emerald finished her wine. She had more color in her face now, but the topic was obviously closed. “Thank you for staying, for talking.”

“I can stay longer if you like. Or call Grace for you. And Ron.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s foolish to allow someone like that to upset me.”

Forcing a smile, she walked to the door of the den, and taking her cue that it was time to leave, Cameron followed her. She hesitated then reached out to touch Emerald’s forearm in comfort. She felt hard muscle under quivering flesh.

“You’re sure…?”

Emerald didn’t answer. She pulled away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ah, she was being dismissed—and put back in her place.

But Cameron couldn’t as easily ignore the threat she’d heard.

I’m coming after you…

A fan—perhaps Edgar Mills again—who had become unhinged but posed no real danger to Emerald?

Cameron didn’t know.

But all the way down in the elevator to the street, the words reminded her of Venuto Destina’s vow of revenge. Of her father. And of Ransom’s caution.

With her heart still in her throat, she walked out into the night.

You’re in danger. You’re next.

She couldn’t shake the feeling. If Ransom had been right, which she doubted, it seemed she wasn’t alone.

Emerald Greer didn’t have friends. But she did have enemies.

THE DARKNESS SWALLOWED Cameron up. The feeling of menace followed her home.

Even the blast of taxi horns, of people laughing in the doorways of restaurants and bars, made her skin twitch and her senses buzz. If Ransom was behind her, somewhere in the darkness, he was a darn good tail. She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t even smell that subtle scent of his aftershave.

If he was there, as she assumed, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing tonight.

Should she stop, turn around, tell Ransom about Emerald’s caller?

No, that was a matter for the NYPD. And his friend Gabe.

She didn’t want Ransom trailing her, she reminded herself. She didn’t want him in her life, except to find James’s killer.

As for the missing money and Emerald’s telephone threat…

None of that related to Cameron.

Why feel so spooked, then?

It was Ransom’s fault, she decided, key clutched tightly out of habit in her hand when she left the blackness of night and prepared to step out of the shadows near her building. Just a few paces more and she’d be in the light. Inside, with her doors locked and the dead bolt thrown. Maybe she’d toss the covers over her head tonight.

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she sensed movement.

“Ransom!” she cried out.

That quickly, a hand had touched her shoulder. She froze, heart lurching into high gear, as if it would reach a thousand beats per minute, her pulse throbbing in her injured fingers.

Cameron tried to wrench away. But in the next second, she learned it wasn’t Ransom.

The man behind her tightened his grip on her shoulder and she screamed.

Chapter Three

“Hey,” the man growled, “take it easy.”

That first voice in the darkness had barely spoken, his mouth close to her ear, before a second, deeper voice shattered the still night. “Let her go, dammit!”

Ransom barged out of the shadows, hauled the other man’s grip from her shoulder and then spun him around.

Cocking one fist, he slammed it into her assailant’s jaw. Cameron heard the sickening sound of flesh hitting bone. The small package the other man had been carrying dropped to the pavement. And her gaze jerked upward.

In the darkness she made out a set of features that set her pulse skittering: a square jaw, a generous mouth, shadowed eyes glittering with anger. She saw a mop of dark hair above a wide forehead. He reeled back, staggering, a hand to his head.

He had a wide forehead, like her father’s.

Cameron froze in shock. It couldn’t be…

When his fist balled for a retaliatory blow at Ransom, she quickly stepped between the two men.

“Wait!” She shoved at Ransom’s chest. It felt like granite under her hands. “Stand back and listen. Both of you.” She glared into his heated dark gaze, shielding the man behind her, as if she could. He’d always been bigger than she was, and he towered over her now. But Cameron had no doubts. “This is my brother,” she said, slowly and carefully so Ransom would understand through the red haze of his own fury. Then she turned. Blood trickled from the corner of the other man’s mouth.

“Kyle, you’re bleeding.”

Even bloodied, he looked good to her. She’d never thought to see him again. For a second, his betrayal of her family years ago—their family—flashed through her mind. The attempts she’d made to find him when James died had proved futile. Cameron gave him a curious look.

“I’m all right,” he said. “And yes, it’s Kyle—the name I was using when I left WP. Nothing like a souvenir, huh? Call me sentimental.” He moved his jaw, experimenting, she supposed, to see if it was broken. “I went back to McKenzie for my last name. Might as well,” he added. “Preserve the family heritage, you know.”

Cameron continued to study him. Did he know, somehow, that their father was dead? Whatever he had done, Kyle had a right to know. He deserved her loyalty—at least until they were alone.

She spun around on Ransom. “You are out of your mind.”

His jaw set. “Some guy pounces on you in the middle of the night, and I’m not supposed to react?” He shook his head, obviously disgusted. “You are an accident waiting to happen.”

“If so, it’s my accident. I didn’t ask you to be my bloodhound.”

“I’m a trained bloodhound. The habit’s hard to break.”

Cameron turned back to her brother, who was blotting his mouth with a handkerchief. The simple motion touched her. James had always carried one and Kyle had learned the habit from him at an early age. Taking over the job, she tsked at the amount of blood she saw oozing from his cut lip. “He didn’t break anything, did he?”

“Teeth all here. My jaw still works,” he muttered behind the linen, which smelled of James’s favored aftershave, too. She stooped down to retrieve his package and handed it back to him.

“Come inside. I need to see you in the light.”

She didn’t mean only to clean his wound. Before she opened the door to the lobby that was decorated for Christmas, Ransom reached out to do it for her then ushered them inside. Cameron balked.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Upstairs. With you.” Nodding to the doorman, who stepped back at the look in his eyes, he punched the elevator button. “I’m hoping he’ll listen to sense, since it’s clear you won’t.”

“What’s this all about, Cam?”

At Kyle’s shortened version of her name—older brother to kid sister—she felt her resistance to him weaken. Kyle was five years older than Cameron. No matter what he’d done long ago, he was still family, and for the first time since their father’s murder, she wanted to collapse in grief, surrender to it at last. Feel safe in Kyle’s arms. Or could she? Cameron glanced into her brother’s brown eyes.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she agreed with Ransom.

If Kyle didn’t know about their father, she wanted him to hear it now from her. But she also wanted his presence to protect her—from Ransom.

IN HER LIVING ROOM, perched on the chair arm while Kyle told her about his life since she’d last seen him, Cameron helped him pat disinfectant over his bruised jaw. The skin was already beginning to turn a dark, mottled purple and she could almost see the imprint of Ransom’s knuckles. He packed a mean punch. All that training, she supposed. From the look of him, he spent time in a gym, too, and she’d felt all that hard muscle and powerful strength up close, against her, at her door only last night. Now Cameron refused to glance his way. Despite her snarled feelings about her estranged brother, Kyle was more welcome in her home than any government agent.

She still couldn’t believe Kyle had just stepped out of the dark—out of her past—like this. After her unsuccessful search to find him, she’d given up. By then, James was gone and his ashes were in the copper urn on her mantel. What was the point? The crisis, she decided, had passed. If Kyle didn’t locate her one day, he would have to remain a shadowy part of her childhood.

Cameron glanced at the mantel. If they did reconnect and she forgave him, she and Kyle would scatter their father’s remains—together—near their family’s original home. Near their mother’s final resting place, too.

Now he had found her, but seeing him again continued to unsettle her. He hadn’t reacted much to the news of their father’s death. But then he and Kyle had been poles apart for so long, she admitted. One minute she wanted to lash out, to punish him for leaving years ago, for not being there when James died. In the next…should she climb onto his lap, as she had at the age of five, or hug him as she had at twelve, the night he left their family? Any comfort seemed better than none at all.

Kyle winced then set the peroxide bottle on the crate Cameron used for an end table. “I’m sorry as hell, Cam. About Dad, too. But I only discovered where you were—where you are—a few days ago. When I got to New York, I looked in the phone book, then called Information.” He held her gaze, as if fearing she would send him away. “I do that everywhere I go. I check every name of yours that I remember from the program, plus your real name. I’m glad you returned to that when you left the program. Glad you didn’t invent an entirely new one.”

“I’ve changed names too many times in my life. I don’t need another.” Her forceful tone was meant for Ransom.

“Yeah,” Kyle said, “I know how that was.”

Ransom shot her a look and Cameron stilled. There was another reason she’d taken back her own name, and after all this time she finally recognized it. “I…guess I wanted you to be able to find me. If I used another name—again—you never would.”

Kyle agreed, then bypassed any further talk about James. Catching up, he told her about his career in the aerospace industry. He lived in Houston now—or had, until a recent job layoff caused by the loss of a government contract—but had traveled a great deal. In part on business but partly, he claimed, to be able to hunt for Cameron and, even now and then, for their father. “I wanted to make amends,” he finished.

“If you were so determined to find Cameron,” Ransom murmured, “why not use the Internet? You can find anybody’s number there—except your father’s, of course.”

Kyle didn’t answer, but Cameron noted he was careful not to make eye contact with Ransom. She didn’t bother to hide her own disapproval. Why was Ransom hanging around? Why didn’t he leave?

Ransom was roaming the small apartment like a convict on death row. Every time he met her gaze, which Cameron, too, tried to avoid, his eyes seemed to darken another shade. His barely leashed intensity bounced off the walls. They were beginning to close in on Cameron, too. Like Ransom. She didn’t have to look at him to feel that slow heat inside, to sense his nearness.

“I’m sorry about your job troubles,” she told Kyle, redirecting her own thoughts, “and just before Christmas, too.”

He dismissed his business failure. “I’ll get another. In the meantime, I have interviews—some here—plus unemployment benefits.” He moved his package aside on the chair cushion. Even those small gestures were her father’s, too. Maybe the years apart no longer mattered. “Of course, I also have bills to pay.”

Considering the circumstances, Cameron felt a strange sense of welcome peace wash through her. Even his total estrangement from James couldn’t override her relationship with him. With Kyle she wasn’t alone in this…whatever it was.

She didn’t buy Ransom’s theories about Destina. But Kyle, it turned out, wasn’t as sure. While Ransom filled him in on his version of Destina, he listened intently.

“So you think Venuto is responsible for our father’s death?” he asked Ransom. “And Cameron may be his target, too?”

Cameron clenched her teeth. She wouldn’t say a word. Let Kyle sort this out, come to the same conclusion she had, send Ransom on his way. For that alone, she might forgive Kyle. When Ransom finished his rant about the still-open investigation, Cameron added, “But no one has tried to reach me.” She held both arms out. “See? I survived last night by myself. I’d have been fine all day without you staking out my employer’s apartment, watching everyone who came and went.”

“The doorman and I found a lot to talk about.”

“Revenge?” Kyle was still working through Ransom’s theory. “After all this time? That’s hard to believe—”

“Destina swore to destroy your father for his testimony. He was always a threat,” Ransom said. “Isn’t that why your family went into the program in the first place? But apparently you didn’t agree about the need to keep out of his way.”

“I left WP for reasons of my own. That’s between me and my father—between Cam and me now. I didn’t leave because I thought Destina posed no further danger to my family. I was just willing to take my chances in the light.”

Cameron frowned at his surprising admission. The same old sense of loss she’d experienced since Kyle left “home” years ago raced along her nerve ends. The last quarrel with their father, the shouted words that couldn’t be taken back, words she didn’t quite remember, Kyle leaving in the middle of the night…

Ransom stuck to his guns. “Your leaving years ago doesn’t mean Destina can’t strike for vengeance even now. Or try for that missing money. He’s still a powerful man.”

“So is his son,” Kyle said. “Have your people interviewed Tony Destina?”

“When he stood still long enough. Tony’s been busy. Since his father’s release from prison, he’s had Venuto in some pricey private clinic. Right now no one seems to know where that is.”

He didn’t say more, and Cameron glanced away from Ransom’s dark eyes to exchange a look with Kyle. In contrast to Ransom, it was easy to read her brother’s face—composed yet concerned—and she could almost hear him thinking, I’m here for you.

But would he stay? Cameron blinked back the tears.

Oh, Benjamin.

The sudden thought of his birth name, so long unused, overwhelmed her. For that single instant she had allowed herself to see him as the boy he’d been years ago, before the program, before they lived in hiding and fear, before the trial and Destina. Then in the next breath he betrayed her all over again.

“I think Ransom is right. You’re in danger now, Cam.” He still didn’t look at Ransom, but Cameron did—and saw a flash of victory in his eyes. Her own brother had helped him. “I don’t like your being here alone,” Kyle said. “I don’t like you working until all hours then walking home by yourself. You didn’t even hear me coming tonight.”

See? Ransom’s gaze echoed the statement.

Cameron looked away. She busied herself putting the disinfectant back in the first-aid kit, then neatly lined up a stack of bandages in the case.

“I can—” she began.

“Take care of herself,” Ransom finished for her. He prowled the other end of the living room, not far enough away from her for Cameron’s taste. Why couldn’t she seem to ignore him as she wanted to? Why didn’t he go?

“I disagree,” her brother said, making things worse.

“Kyle…”

“It’s all very well to be independent, Cam—under normal circumstances. But obviously, this is not normal. Until Dad’s killer is caught, you aren’t safe either. If Destina feels you know where that money is—that damn money—he sure can’t learn that from Dad. He won’t stop until you tell him.”

Cameron shuddered. “I don’t know where it is! I can’t believe this. I thought you’d be on my side.” She turned a beseeching look on him, probably the same look he’d seen the night he left WP, left her. “My job keeps me sane. I can’t sit around here worrying. Wondering. Feeling afraid again.”

He glanced around the spare room. “Then come with me tonight. To my hotel.”

She started to shake her head, but he took her hands and held them, searching her eyes with his. “My place isn’t fancy—” he glanced at her living room “—but it has furniture. The second bed’s already made up. You can stay with me.”

“Until when?” she said. “Until you find another position in Houston, in Detroit, or Seattle?” To her horror, her eyes filled. “I need my space here, Kyle.”

Kyle looked toward Ransom, who was still walking her carpet. If he wore a hole in it, she’d kill him. She sure as heck wouldn’t meet that heated gaze of his again. Or, at the moment, Kyle’s cooler one. Why were they joining forces against her?

Kyle gripped her hands tighter. He blocked out Ransom and lowered his voice. “I don’t care for the marshals any better than you do, but we need to end this thing. In the meantime, I’d feel much better with you beside me.”

“I know you would.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’d heard the sarcasm in her tone. “I know, I’m being the older, overly protective brother. Let me be just that, Cam. I’ve missed you for too many years.”

True enough, on her part.

Yet, in that moment, she realized she wasn’t ready to simply trust him again. Trust didn’t come easily to Cameron, and Ransom had a point. Why had Kyle shown up now? she wondered. Because he was in trouble? She’d been in New York for almost three years.

“Too many years,” she agreed. “I’m grown up now.”

He smiled, his gaze running over her in approval. “No more scrawny kid with big eyes and scabs on her knees. You turned out good, Cam. Now, about tonight…”

“I’m staying right here. Alone,” she emphasized. “I don’t believe there’s any threat to fear. Besides,” she added, taking a breath before she admitted, “I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”

With a sigh Kyle folded her in his arms. “I was afraid of that.” She felt him look over her head at Ransom, felt the long-missed warmth of Kyle’s body.

“We heard the lady,” Kyle said.

Ransom crossed the room. “Then good night. I guess.”

“You’ll give us a heads-up on the investigation?” Kyle pressed.

Ransom didn’t answer immediately. He opened the door then turned to look back at Cameron. She had no doubt he’d stay nearby tonight, make friends with her doorman rather than Emerald’s, but she wondered whether because of his medical leave he even had any official part in the investigation. It didn’t seem so. Yet despite the irritation he always caused, she felt that stubborn, slow tingle of need run down her spine.

“You’re okay with this?” He nodded at Cameron then at Kyle.

“I’m…okay.”

He studied her for a long moment before glancing at her brother again. “Then do what he says.”

“Why don’t you stay awhile longer—and deputize him?”

Ransom’s mouth twitched. “Cute, Cameron. Very cute.”

When the door closed behind him, she leaned back in Kyle’s arms. But the lingering buzz Ransom caused in her veins, through her entire body, didn’t cool. “That man makes my blood steam.”

Kyle surprised her by saying, “I think you make his blood steam, too.”

She flushed. “I didn’t mean…attraction.”

He frowned. “Well, he does.”

She made her voice flippant. “Oh. Is that why he stalks me everywhere?”

“From now on, kid, I’m your stalker.”

She smiled up at him, but Kyle’s eyes stayed serious and Cameron’s niggling distrust of his surprise appearance tonight remained. “I’m not making light of Destina,” she tried to assure him. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll fix us both some cocoa before you go. Ransom tends to be a bit obsessed. I’d rather move on with my life. Our lives.”

“It’s a nice idea, Cam.”

As if he didn’t believe that was possible yet either.

With her confused emotions still running high, her awareness of Ransom and the anger he made her feel and her wariness of himself on his mind, Kyle started for the kitchen. But he paused to retrieve from the chair the small package he’d brought with him.

“Here. Open this. It’s for you.” He urged her fingers to the string that tied it closed. “Something from another time,” he added. “A peace offering.”

When she pulled off the paper, tangling with the string, an object fell out and thudded to the floor. Cameron picked it up and her heart melted.

“Oh, Kyle.” In a flash she recognized the soft-bodied doll from her childhood—the treasured doll she’d had to leave behind when her family entered Witness Protection. Along with everything else, her favorite toy had been abandoned. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had made that first move except her mother, her father, Kyle and Cameron.

Her throat tightened. Cameron cradled the doll, feeling a slight stiffness here and there. It must have been left in the rain at some point, then dried. The doll looked dirty and worn—apparently well loved—but its button eyes brightly stared up at her as they had done so often at night before she fell asleep. At three years old, on the verge of having her world destroyed, she’d clutched that doll for a final time like a talisman against the dark that would soon engulf her. Now she had a piece of her life back again.

“Where did you find this?”

“At Gram’s.” After leaving the program—before he’d vanished without a trace—Kyle had gone to live with their maternal grandmother until he finished school. Like their mother and James, Gram was dead now. But she’d saved this doll for Cameron. All those years.

Kyle had guessed at its significance to her. She didn’t know what to say now except, “Thank you,” which seemed so inadequate.

Kyle shrugged. “I knew you’d appreciate the memento from our childhood. All I remember is getting uprooted and living where I didn’t want to go, always lying about who I was.”

Like their names, she thought. She wasn’t ready to forgive Kyle. But at least now she had the chance to rebuild what they’d lost.

“WHY WOULD YOU choose not to?” Emerald said in a strident tone late the next afternoon. “How could you refuse?”

She didn’t mean Kyle, and Cameron felt her first reaction—a simple no—take flight. She surveyed the pile of evening gowns on Emerald’s wide bed and tried not to stare. Black velvet, bronze satin, red silk…they must be worth more money than Cameron’s entire wardrobe—mostly practical pants and shirts—several times over.

Emerald’s hands fluttered over the obviously expensive fabrics. And again, Cameron thought how nervous she seemed. Last night’s phone call must still be bothering her. Why else had she made such an outrageous suggestion?

She didn’t really have a choice, Cameron realized. If she wanted to keep her job here, if she wanted to talk her way into other clients through Emerald, she would have to do as Emerald asked. No, demanded.

“Stand in for you?” she said. “Me?” Determined to decide her own fate, she tried to back out. “I realize we’re the same height and build, more or less, but…”

Irritation edged Emerald’s tone. “It’s only for one night.” She ripped another dress from a hanger in her closet. Dark green watered silk flowed onto the bed and drank up the soft light from the bedside lamp. Once more she ran through the scenario. “You’ll come to the hotel just before the Zeus reception ends. We’ll trade clothes there in my dressing room. Then I disappear in your jeans while you take my place in the evening dress I wore to the reception. You climb into my limousine for the ride home and wave to the press through the tinted windows. No one will actually see you except getting in and getting out of the car. You’ll wear my coat, which has a hood to hide your face. Now, is that so hard?”

Emerald dashed back to the walk-in closet and came out with a suitcase. She threw in lingerie, shoes, pants and blouses. They didn’t match but Emerald didn’t seem to care. She seemed intent upon one thing now—leaving town.

At a sharp rap on the open door, Emerald jerked around. She clutched a pair of designer jeans in both hands, her knuckles white. Her features didn’t relax but faint relief sounded in her voice when she recognized her personal trainer, a huge, barrel-chested man, lounging in the doorway.

“Ron. I thought we had finished for the day.”

“Torture’s over but I wondered about my pay.”

“Grace will write a check, you know that. See her.”

Uh-oh, Cameron thought. More trouble. Ron’s frown and the hard look in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. Turning her back, Emerald dropped the jeans then rearranged the gowns on the bed.

“Grace had a headache.” Ron straightened, his gaze raking Emerald. “Probably from one of your browbeatings. She went home.”

“Then she’ll pay you tomorrow.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been put off.” He glanced at Cameron, who felt decidedly uncomfortable being in the middle of their quarrel. “You have no idea what you’re in for,” he told her. “Greer’s up to her pretty ears in unpaid bills. Her staff’s income is the last to be dealt with, which I’m sure you’ll learn.”

“I will talk with you tomorrow, Ron,” Emerald cut across his statement. “Don’t be late tonight.” He doubled as her chauffeur, Cameron knew, and would drive her to the Zeus reception. Carrying a dress, Emerald walked toward him, clearly intent upon shutting the door behind him for now. “Thank you for the workout. I’m still perspiring. I must have lost five pounds.”

“That why you’re shaking now?”

Cameron had noticed, too. Emerald was not in control.

“Or is it the guy who keeps calling?” He stepped back into the hall before Emerald reached him. The muscles of his massive chest and biceps stood out when he folded his arms. Not a man to make an enemy of, Cameron thought. “Better watch it, Champ,” he said. “There are a lot of nuts out there. If he takes it in mind to turn up here—”

“I’m sure you’ll protect me.” Emerald’s voice dripped with both honey and vinegar, but her fingers twitched again on the silk in her hands.

“That’s why you pay me.”

His sarcastic tone served as a reminder that she owed him. As if satisfied with that for the moment, Ron gave Cameron a nod, turned and went soundlessly down the hall.

For a long moment no one spoke. Emerald threw down the silk gown.

Then she said, “Don’t let his muscle-bound appearance fool you. Ron is minor league. I pulled him out of the gutter two years ago. He’s not that good a driver, either. When I’m back on top in my game, and my knee is fully healed, he’ll be the first to go.”

“Still,” Cameron mused, “I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

“He’s a nobody. Grace undoubtedly paid him—and he simply wants more.”

She turned back to the suitcase, pushed everything flat inside and closed the latches. When she faced Cameron again, she was smiling.

“Imagine being afraid of him, or that deranged man who called. They won’t touch me.” She waved toward the dresses on the bed. Red, green, black. “I think the bronze satin will do for you. It suits both of us.” She returned to the closet then handed Cameron a sleek, long-haired object.

Cameron recoiled.

“Take it,” Emerald said with a half smile. “My wig for those bad-hair days. If you’re going to impersonate me tonight, you’ll need to be blond.”

Cameron frowned. “What if this doesn’t work?”

“Of course it will work. Most people are completely unobservant. Unless you’re forced to play tennis, you can easily pass for me.” A pleading note had entered her voice and Cameron sank down on the bed, knowing she’d been defeated.

As far as she could tell, Emerald had plenty of colleagues and professional acquaintances—all potential clients for Cameron—but no real friends. Ron and Grace didn’t appear to like her either. As for enemies, that “fan”… Cameron shuddered at the memory of his harsh voice, his threat. She knew all about that—in the past. Now she had her job to consider. Plus, she felt a connection to Emerald.

“Well, if it will help…”

Emerald headed for the bathroom to shower.

“You’ll save my life,” she said, sounding confident again. “I’ll be at Ted’s if anyone needs me. Grace has his number.”

Cameron knew a look of escape when she saw it.

“I need a few days out of the limelight,” Emerald said over her shoulder. “When I get back, we’ll see about a reward for your service.”

“Miss Greer. Emerald…”

But she was gone in a click of heels on marble tile.

HOURS LATER, Cameron gazed at herself in the mirror of Emerald’s dressing room at the Waldorf-Astoria. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo beneath the low-cut neckline of the bronze satin gown.

“Well?” she said, taking care to hide her bandaged fingers in the skirt.

“Perfect.” Wearing Cameron’s jeans and sweater, Emerald stood behind her.

Cameron compared their images. Briefly, another wave of uncertainty about tonight darkened her eyes, but she had to admit, she didn’t look half-bad. She and Emerald did resemble each other—in reverse now. Their shoulders were on a level, their heads, too, and anyone would be hard-pressed to notice the few pounds’ difference between them. When Cameron put on a coat, it would be impossible to discern unless that person knew them well.

Which made her ask the question.

“What about Ron?”

“I didn’t tell him. It won’t matter. He’s being paid—and he will be paid—to drive me to this hotel then home again. I have nothing more to say to him tonight.”

Because of their earlier quarrel, that left Cameron to explain the ruse to Ron later. Emerald didn’t seem to care.

So, big deal. She could play someone else—again—for one night. She’d had plenty of practice, and she had to admit, the dress was flattering. The bronze satin nipped in Cameron’s waist and emphasized her smaller breasts. No jeans tonight. This might be her one chance to shine.

If she succeeded, Emerald would be grateful.

As a reward, The Unlimited Chef might benefit from her gratitude.

Cameron would be that much closer to making it on her own. Being normal.

Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to relax.

What was the harm? Even in the back seat of a darkened limousine, she would be more a part of things, out in the open and free, than in all her years in Witness Protection. Maybe it would be fun to lead a harmless press, rather than a killer, off the track.

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