Naked in His Arms
Sandra Marton

UNCUT

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

COMING NEXT MONTH

PROLOGUE

HE WAS a hard-bodied, six foot four inches of angry male.

His hair was midnight-black, his eyes deep-sea green. He had the high cheekbones of his half-Comanche mother; the firm jaw of his Texas father.

Tonight, the elegant savagery of his mother’s people ran hot in his blood.

He stood in a room where darkness was broken by ivory swaths of moonlight. Shadows lurked in the corners, lending an ominous chill to the air. The sighing of the wind through the trees outside the house added to the sense of disquiet.

The restless stirrings of the woman asleep in the big four-poster bed were a manifestation of it.

She was alone, this woman he’d thought he loved. This woman he knew. Knew, intimately.

The delicacy of her scent, a whisper of spring lilacs. The silky glide of her gold-streaked chestnut hair against his skin. The taste of her nipples, warm and sweet on his tongue.

His jaw tightened. Oh, yes. He knew her. At least, that was what he’d thought.

Long moments passed. The woman murmured in her sleep and tossed her head uneasily. Was she dreaming of him? Of what a fool she’d made of him?

All the more reason to have come here tonight.

Closure. The glib catchall of overpaid twenty-first-century shrinks who didn’t have the damnedest idea of what it really meant.

Alex did. And closure was what he’d have as he took the woman in this bed, one final time.

Took her, knowing what she was. Knowing that she had used him. That everything they’d shared had been a lie.

He would wake her from her dream. Strip her naked. Pin her hands high over her head and make sure she looked into his eyes as he took her so that she could see it meant nothing to him, that having sex with her was a physical release and nothing more.

There’d been dozens of women before her and there’d be dozens after her. Nothing about her, or what they’d done in each other’s arms, was memorable.

He understood that.

Now, he needed to be sure she did, too.

Alex bent over the bed. Grasped the edge of the duvet that covered her and drew it aside.

She was wearing a nightgown. Silk, probably. She liked silk. So did he. He liked the feel of it under his fingers, the way it had slid over her skin all those times he’d made love to her with his body, his hands, his mouth.

He looked down at her. She was beautiful; there was no denying that. She had a magnificent body. Long. Ripe. Made for sex.

He could see the shape of her breasts through the thin silk. Rounded like apples, tipped with pale pink nipples so responsive that he knew he had only to bend his head to her, let the tip of his tongue drift across the delicate flesh, breathe against it to draw a guttural moan of pleasure from her throat.

His gaze moved lower, to the shadow of her mons, a dark umbra visible through the silk gown. He remembered the softness of the curls there. The dark, honey-gold color. The little cries she’d made when he stroked her, parted her labia with the tips of his fingers, put his mouth against her, sought out the hidden bud that awaited him and licked it, drew it into his mouth as she arched toward him and sobbed his name.

Lies, all of it. No surprise. She was a woman who loved books and the fantasy world in them.

But he was a warrior, his very survival grounded in reality. How come he’d forgotten that?

How come his body was turning hard, just watching her? That he still wanted her enraged him.

He told himself it was normal. That it was simple biology. Part A fit into part B, and part A had a mind all its own.

Maybe. And maybe that was why he had to do this. One last encounter, especially in this bed. One last time to taste her. To bury himself deep between her silken thighs. Surely, that would burn the rage out of him.

Now, he thought, and he feathered his fingers lightly across her nipples.

“Cara.”

His voice was strained. She whimpered in her sleep but she didn’t awaken. He said her name again, touched her again, and her eyes flew open. He watched as they filled with terror.

Just before she could scream, he pulled off his black ski mask and let her see his face.

Her expression changed, went from terror to something he couldn’t identify.

“Alex?” she whispered.

“Uh-huh. The proverbial bad penny, baby.”

“But how…how did you get in?”

His smile was slow and chilling. “Did you really think a security system could keep me out?”

For the first time, she seemed to realize she was almost naked. Her face colored; she reached for the duvet but he shook his head.

“You’re not going to need that.”

“Alexander. I know you’re angry…”

“Is that what you think I am?” His lips curved in a smile that used to strike fear in the hearts of those he’d dealt with in what he thought of as his other life. “Take off that nightgown.”

“No! Alex, please! You can’t—”

He bent and put his mouth against hers, kissing her savagely even as she struggled against him. Then he grasped the neckline of the flimsy nightgown and ripped it from her.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “I can do anything tonight, Cara. And I promise you, I will.”

CHAPTER ONE

NOBODY had ever asked Alexander Knight if a man’s belly could really knot with anxiety but if someone had, he’d have laughed and said bellies couldn’t knot any more than pigs could fly.

Besides, why ask him?

Anxiety wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.

He knew what it meant to feel his nerves tense, his blood pound. Taut anticipation, after all, had been part of his life for a long time. You couldn’t put in years in Special Forces and then in covert ops without experiencing moments of stress, but that wasn’t the same thing.

Why would a man be anxious when he’d trained himself to face danger?

Alex pulled his BMW into a parking slot behind the building he hadn’t seen in three years. Hadn’t seen, hadn’t thought of….

Hell, that was a lie. There’d been too many dreams where he’d awakened, heart pounding, sheets tangled and sweaty.

The first thing he and his brothers had agreed on, even before they’d come up with the idea of starting a company called Risk Management Specialists, was that there wasn’t a way in hell they’d ever walk through these smoked-glass doors again.

“Not me,” Matt had said grimly.

“Or me,” Cam had added.

And Alex had said, Damned right. It would be a hot day in January before he so much as drove by the freaking place.

His jaw tightened.

So much for promises. It was November in D.C., the weather gray and cold, and he was going through those damned doors, walking across the tiled floor to the security desk.

The hell of it was, it all felt as familiar as if he’d never left. He even found himself reaching into his pocket for his ID card but, of course, there was no card in his pocket, there was only the letter that had brought him here today.

He gave his name to the guard, who checked it first against a list on his clipboard, then on his computer monitor.

“Move forward, please, Mr. Knight.”

Alex stepped into the seemingly benign embrace of the security gate.

Checkpoint one, he thought, as the electronic snoops did a preliminary scan. This was his last chance to turn and walk straight out the doors.

A second guard handed him a visitor’s ID badge.

“Elevators are straight ahead, sir.”

He knew where the damned elevators where. Knew, after he stepped inside and pressed the button, that it would take two seconds for the doors to slide shut, seven for the ride up to the sixteenth floor. Knew he’d step out into what looked like a corridor in any office building—except that the luminescent ceiling was filled with lasers and God only knew what else, all checking him from head to toe, and that the plain black door marked Authorized Entry Only would open after he touched his thumb to a keypad and looked straight ahead so that another laser could scan his retina and verify that he really was Alexander Knight, spook.

Ex-spook, Alex reminded himself. Still, he pressed his thumb to the pad, just to see what would happen. To his surprise, it activated the retinal scan and a couple of seconds later, the black door swung open exactly as it had years ago.

Nothing had changed, not even the woman wearing a dark gray suit seated behind the long desk facing the door. She rose to her feet as she had a hundred times in the past.

“The director’s expecting you, Mr. Knight.”

No “Hello.” No “How have you been?” Just the same brusque greeting she’d always offered when he’d had to stop here between assignments.

Alex followed her down a long hall to another closed door. This one, however, opened at the turn of a knob, revealing a large office with bulletproof glass windows overlooking the Beltway that circled Washington.

The man at the cherrywood desk looked up, smiled and rose from his chair. He was the only change in this place. The old director who Alex had worked for was gone. His assistant had replaced him, his name was Shaw, and Alex had never liked him.

“Alex,” Shaw said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Alex replied.

It was a lie, but lies were the lifeblood of the Agency.

“Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable. Have you had breakfast? Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

The director sat back in his leather swivel chair and folded his hands over his slight paunch.

“Well, Alex. I hear you’re doing quite well.”

Alex nodded.

“That company of yours—Risk Management Specialists, is that the name? I hear excellent things about the work you and your brothers do.” The director gave a just-between-us-boys chuckle. “Quite a compliment to us, I think. It’s nice to know the techniques you learned here haven’t gone to waste.”

Alex’s smile was tight. “Nothing we learned here has gone to waste. We’ll always remember all of it.”

“Will you?” the director said, and suddenly the phony smile was gone. He sat forward, folded his hands on his desk, his blue eyes boring into Alex’s. “I hope so. I hope you remember the pledge you took when you joined the Agency. To honor, defend and serve your nation.”

“To honor and defend,” Alex said coldly. To hell with phony pleasantries. It was time to get down to basics. “Yes. I remember. Perhaps you remember that the Agency’s interpretation of that pledge was the primary reason my brothers and I resigned.”

“An attack of schoolboy conscience,” the director said, just as coldly. “Misguided and misplaced.”

“I heard this lecture before. You’ll understand why I’m not interested in hearing it again. If that’s why you asked me to come—”

“I asked you to come because I need you to serve your country again.”

“No,” Alex said, and rose to his feet.

“Damn it, Knight…” The director took a deep breath. “Sit down. At least listen to what I have to say.”

Alex looked at the man who had been second-in-command here for more than two decades. After a moment, his face expressionless, he took his seat again.

“Thank you,” the director said. Alex wondered how much it had cost him to say the two simple words. “We have a problem.”

“You have a problem.”

That garnered a sound that was almost a laugh.

“Please. Let’s not play word games. Let me speak my piece in my own fashion.”

Alex shrugged. He had nothing to lose because no matter what the director said, he’d be walking out the door and away from this place in another few minutes.

Shaw leaned forward. “The FBI’s come to me because of a, uh, a delicate situation.”

Alex’s dark eyebrows rose. The FBI and the Agency didn’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. Not in public, not in Congress, not anywhere it mattered.

“The new head of the FBI is an old acquaintance and…well, as I say, a situation has arisen.”

Silence. Alex swore to himself he wouldn’t be the one to break it but curiosity got the best of him and curiosity, after all, didn’t mean he’d get involved in whatever was happening here.

“What situation?”

The director cleared his throat. “The oath of secrecy you took when you joined us is still binding.”

Alex’s mouth twisted. “I’m aware of that.”

“I hope so.”

“Suggesting I’m not is an insult to my honor. Sir,” Alex added, his tone making a mockery of the honorific.

“Damn it, Knight, let’s drop the nonsense. You were one of our best operatives. Now, we need your help again.”

“I already told you, I’m not interested.”

“Have you heard of the Gennaro family?”

“Yes.”

Everyone in law enforcement had. The Gennaro family was deep into drugs, prostitution and illegal gambling.

“And you know about the indictment against Anthony Gennaro?”

Alex nodded. A couple of months before, a federal prosecutor in Manhattan had announced the indictment of the head of the family on charges that ranged from murder to leaving the toilet seat up. If convicted, Tony Gennaro would live out his life in prison, and the family’s power would be ended.

“The feds tell me they have an excellent case. Wiretaps. Computer files.” The director paused. “But their ace in the hole is a witness.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“The witness has not been cooperative. After initially agreeing to help, the witness balked. Now the Justice Department is uncertain as to what will happen next. The witness has finally agreed to come forward—”

“Under pressure,” Alex said, with a tight smile.

“The witness has agreed to come forward,” the director said calmly, “but—”

“But, the Gennaros might get him first.”

“Yes. Or the witness might decide against testifying.”

“Again.”

The director nodded. “Exactly.”

“I still don’t see—”

“The attorney general and I go back a long way, Alex. A very long way.” The director hesitated. Alex had never seen him do that before; it made the hair on the back of his neck rise in anticipation of what would come next. “He feels that the usual methods of witness protection won’t work in this particular situation. I agree.”

“You mean, he’s not eager to put this witness in a cheap hotel room in Manhattan, hit up his budget for a one-man guard detail 24/7, count on the hotel staff not to talk about their star guest or sell the info to the highest bidder?” Alex smiled thinly. “Maybe they’ve learned something while I’ve been away.”

“What they need—what we need—is an experienced operative. A man who’s been in the line of fire, who knows better than to trust anyone, who isn’t afraid to do whatever it takes—whatever it takes—to keep this witness safe.”

Alex stood up.

“You’re right. That’s exactly the kind of man you need, but it isn’t going to be me.”

The director rose, too. “I’ve given this a great deal of consideration. You’re the right man, the only man, for this assignment.”

“No.”

“Damn it, Knight, you pledged your loyalty to your country!”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand, Shaw?” Nobody ever used the director’s name. It hung in the air between them, a deliberate reminder of Alex’s removal from the life he’d once led. “I’d say it was nice seeing you again,” he said, reaching for the door, “but hell, why lie about it?”

“They’ll never get a conviction without your help!”

Alex opened the door.

“They’ll kill the witness! Do you want that on your conscience?”

Alex looked at the older man. “My conscience won’t even notice,” he said tonelessly. “You should know that better than any man alive.”

“Knight! Knight, come back here—”

Alex slammed the door behind him and walked away.

He drove the BMW back to the airport, dropped it at the rental place and bought a seat on the shuttle to New York.

Anything was better than another few hours spent breathing the air in a town where politicians kissed babies while the agencies they funded dealt in death plots hatched by cold-eyed men who lived in the shadows.

He knew it was the same in every other government across the planet, but that didn’t make it easier to accept.

He had almost a full hour to kill, so he settled into the first-class lounge. The attendant poured him a double bourbon; the brunette sitting across from him looked up from reading Vanity Fair, looked back down, then did a double-take and looked up again.

Her smile would have made her dentist proud.

Somehow, the already short skirt of her Armani suit slid up another couple of inches. That was fine with Alex.

The lady had great legs.

Come to think of it, she had great everything. When she smiled a second time, he picked up his drink, crossed the room and took the chair beside hers.

A little while later, he knew a lot about her. Actually he knew all a man needed to know, including the fact that she lived in Austin. Not too far from Dallas.

And she was definitely interested.

But even though he kept smiling, Alex suddenly realized that he wasn’t.

Maybe it was that session with the director. Maybe it was being back in D.C. It had stirred up a lot of memories, most of them unwanted, including what a young innocent he’d been when he’d taken the Agency oath.

Nobody had told him that words like “serve” and “honor” could be perverted into something that stole a man’s soul.

His obligation to the Agency had ended the day he’d resigned. Besides, from what Shaw had said, this didn’t have a damned thing to do with defending and serving his country.

It had to do with a crime family and a witness.

A witness whose life was in danger.

The brunette leaned closer, said something and smiled. Alex didn’t hear a word of it, but he smiled back.

Shaw wasn’t given to hyperbole. He used words like those only when he meant them.

Damn it, he should have listened to Matt and Cam. They’d had dinner together at their father’s home. Things had changed in their relationship with the old man. It wasn’t perfect but it was a lot better than when they’d been growing up. All it had taken to accomplish that, Alex thought wryly, was Cam almost dying and Matt involved in a shoot-out.

His sisters-in-law had bustled off to the kitchen to get coffee and dessert. He and his brothers had joked around for a while, even the old man joining in, and then Alex had casually mentioned that the director had asked to see him.

“He wants me to fly down tomorrow.”

Matt laughed. “He must be nuts, thinking you’d come.”

“You told him what he could do with his request, right?” Cam said.

Alex hesitated. “I have to admit, I’m curious.”

“To hell with curiosity,” Matt said bluntly. “Whatever Shaw wants, you can bet your ass it isn’t good.”

Later, his father had drawn him aside. He’d been quiet through the conversation, so quiet Alex had almost forgotten he was there.

“You never talk about your time in the Agency,” Avery said quietly, “which makes me suspect it wasn’t all pleasant. But you must have believed in it once, son, or you’d never have taken the oath that made you part of it.”

It was true. He had believed. In the oath to serve and respect his nation, its people…

Damn it. A pledge was a pledge.

He was on his feet before he remembered the brunette. Hell. He’d completely tuned her out. The fixed smile on her face made him wince.

“Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I, ah, I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be staying in D.C. Business, you know?”

She looked surprised but she made a quick recovery, dug in her purse and handed him a small vellum card.

“Well, call me,” she said brightly. “When you have the chance.”

He smiled, said all the right things. But he knew he wouldn’t call and, he was sure, so did she.

He parked in the same lot. Went through the same smoked-glass doors, through the same security gate. Rode up in the same elevator. Pressed his thumb against the same keypad, had his eye scanned by the same impersonal machine.

If Shaw’s secretary was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it.

“Take a seat, Mr. Knight,” she said, and scurried down the hall.

Seconds later, Alex stood inside the director’s office. Shaw rose from behind his desk, smiling broadly, and held out his hand. Alex pointedly looked at it, then ignored it.

“Let’s get something straight,” he said coldly. “I do this one thing, you never contact me again.”

Shaw nodded.

“I work alone.”

“I know you’d prefer that, but—”

“I work alone,” Alex said sharply, “or I don’t work at all.”

Shaw’s mouth thinned but he didn’t protest.

“And I have carte blanche. I’ll do whatever it takes to safeguard this witness without interference or second-guessing from you or anybody else.”

Shaw nodded again. “Done.”

“Tell me the basics.”

“The witness lives in New York City.”

“Married? Single? How old is he?”

“Single. Mid-twenties. And it’s a ‘she,’ not a ‘he.’”

A woman. That only complicated things. Women were invariably more difficult to handle. They were emotional, hormonal…

“The witness’s connection to the Gennaros?”

Shaw’s lips curved in a cold smile. “She was Anthony Gennaro’s mistress.”

No wonder she was important to the feds. And hostile. This particular lady would know a lot, including just how vicious Tony Gennaro could be.

The director handed Alex a large manila envelope. “That’s everything we have.”

Alex opened the folder and took out a photo. Gennaro had good taste in women. Excellent taste.

“Her name is Cara Prescott,” Shaw said. “She lived with Gennaro until recently.” He smiled coldly. “She worked for him.”

Alex turned the photo over. All the details were there. Name, DOB, last known address. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. And yet, the photo told him the words were meaningless.

Cara Prescott’s hair would be the color of ripe chestnuts; her eyes would be flecked with gold, and her mouth would be a tender pink.

She had a look that could only be called delicate, even fragile. He knew it was only that, a look, but scum like Gennaro would have been drawn to it like the proverbial moth to the flame.

He looked up. Shaw was watching him with a little smile on his thin lips.

“Beautiful woman, don’t you think?”

“You said she was Gennaro’s mistress,” Alex said, ignoring the question. “Now you say she worked for him. Which is it?”

“Both.” The little smile twisted. “Then Gennaro took a more personal interest in her.”

“And now she’s going to testify against him?” Alex glanced at the photo again. “Why?”

“Because it’s her civic duty.”

“Can the crap, Shaw. Why has she agreed to testify?”

The director plucked a bit of lint from his dark gray suit coat. “Perhaps the thought of prison doesn’t appeal to the lady.”

“Federal prison isn’t a day in the park but it’s a hell of a lot safer than turning against the Gennaro family.”

Shaw was still smiling, but his eyes were icy. “Perhaps someone told her she might not go to a federal prison. That New York might charge her with a felony, unless she cooperates.”

“Did she commit a felony?”

“Anything is possible, Alex. Surely you know that.”

Yes. Oh, yes. He did. And, the truth was, it didn’t matter. In the dark world of the Agency, the end always justified the means.

“What else?”

For the first time, the director looked uncomfortable. “I may have understated her hostility.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s not just a hostile witness, she’s hostile to accepting the government’s protection. She may, ah, she may object.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “And if she does?”

“If she does, your job is to change her mind. Any way you see fit. Do you understand?”

Now Alex knew why the Agency had been called in. The feds wouldn’t do anything that smacked of subterfuge or, even worse, coercion.

The Agency would. He would. Even now, doing things that danced on the edge of the law was Risk Management Specialists’ bread and butter.

“Well,” Shaw said briskly, “now to the details. You’re flying the noon shuttle to New York. There’ll be a car waiting in your name at Hertz, and a reservation at the Marriott on—”

“Tell your secretary I won’t be needing any of that.”

“I don’t think you understand, Knight. This is our operation.”

“I don’t think you understand, Shaw.” Alex took a step forward, until the men were only inches apart. “I’ll run this my way. I don’t want anything from you or this office, not until and if I ask for it. You got that?”

There was a long silence. Then the director nodded.

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I understand perfectly.”

For the first time, Alex smiled. “Good.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE time the shuttle landed at LaGuardia, Alex had come up with a plan.

Before he made any kind of move on Cara Prescott, he wanted to check her out. The drab bureaucratese of the file Shaw had handed him didn’t give him a feel for the woman.

He wanted to see Tony G’s former mistress with his own eyes. Find out how she spent her time. Walk around in her space.

Then, only then, he’d decide what to do next.

Until recently, the lady had lived in Gennaro’s sprawling mansion on Long Island’s North Shore.

Now, she lived in a loft in lower Manhattan, one of those neighborhoods identified not by a name but by an acronym nobody understood. Shaw said the feds had found her without any sweat. They’d been surveilling her, he said, but he’d seen to it they were pulled off.

At least, that was what he claimed.

Another reason to take his time and check things out, Alex thought as he headed for a car-rental counter. He’d said he wanted no interference on this job and he meant it.

When he was ready, not before, he’d introduce himself to the Prescott woman.

“Introducing himself” was probably a nice way of putting it, he thought as he handed the rental clerk his charge card. Assuming the lady was as hostile as Shaw said, it wouldn’t be a very polite meeting, but he’d worry about that when the time came.

He drove away from LaGuardia in a nondescript black minivan. Stopped at a mall and bought a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, black sneakers and black jeans. He already had his cell phone with him. Then he went into a camping-goods store and added a gym bag, a flashlight, a thermos, binoculars, a nightscope and a palm-sized digital camera.

You never knew when gadgets like those would come in handy.

He checked into a big, impersonal hotel, put on the black clothes, packed the gear in the gym bag and made a phone call.

Within the hour, an old friend who asked no questions provided him with a loaded 9mm pistol and an extra clip. He shoved the pistol into the small of his back and the full clip into his sock.

He was as ready as he’d ever be.

By midnight, he was parked across from Prescott’s apartment building. It was on a street Manhattan realtors loved, a commercial slum just waiting to turn into a yuppie haven.

No self-respecting New Yorker was going to pay attention to a black minivan, or to him.

He watched the building all night. Nobody went in or out. At five in the morning, he set his internal alarm for half an hour’s sleep. A week spent with his mother’s elderly uncle, a guy Anglos erroneously referred to as a medicine man, had taught him how to go deep inside himself to gain needed rest for his mind and his body.

At five-thirty, he awoke refreshed and finished the coffee in his thermos.

At eight, Cara Prescott came down the steps.

She wore a long black raincoat that flapped around her ankles, a newsboy cap that covered her hair and oversized dark glasses despite the grayness of the morning. Jeans and sneakers peeped from under the coat’s hem.

Along with the phony name on the mailbox in the lobby—C. Smith—and an unlisted phone number it had taken him all of an hour to get, he figured this was her attempt at a disguise.

Anybody determined to locate her would see through it in a New York minute.

Either she believed in hiding in plain sight, or she believed in luck.

Alex watched her walk up the street. He gave her a head start. Then he got out of the van and fell in half a block behind her.

She made a stop at the Korean deli on the corner, came out with a foam cup of what he figured was coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. When she headed back toward him, he melted into a doorway, waited until she went by, then fell in behind her again.

She went into her apartment building. He got into the van.

The hours crawled by. What the hell was she doing up there? If she spent her time locked away like that, wouldn’t she go stir-crazy?

At four-thirty, he had his answer.

Cara Prescott came down the steps again, wearing the same long raincoat, the cap, the dark glasses even though, by now, the sky was charcoal. But no jeans peeped out from the coat’s hem and the sneakers had given way to low-heeled black shoes. She walked briskly toward the corner, checked the traffic light, crossed the street and kept going.

Alex followed.

Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to a bookshop. A stooped-shouldered old guy with white hair greeted her. She smiled, took off the coat and hat and dark glasses…

Alex caught his breath.

She was demurely dressed. Dark sweater, dark skirt with an unexciting hem length, those practical shoes.

He already knew the lady had the face of a Madonna. Now, he knew she had the body of a courtesan. Not even drab colors could conceal her high, full breasts; her slender waist and gently rounded hips. She had long legs that he could almost feel wrapping around his waist. Her hair, a mass of gold-tipped chestnut curls clipped into submission at the nape of her neck, was sinful temptation all by itself.

A man could undo that clip, plunge his hands into those curls as he lifted that perfect face to his.

Alex’s body responded in a heartbeat.

Tony G might be a stone-cold killer, but the son of a bitch had excellent taste when it came to women.

The old guy said something to Cara Prescott. She nodded, went to the cash register and opened it. That sight was almost as startling as the sight of all those feminine curves.

Gennaro’s former mistress worked in a bookstore?

Either she was desperate for a job, or she had more brains than he’d credited her for. Her former lover would never think to look for his woman in a place like this.

Alex checked his watch. It was a little after five. The store’s hours were on the door. It was open until nine in the evening. Excellent. It gave him a four-hour window, more than enough to get into her apartment.

Once he’d done that, he’d have a better handle on Cara Prescott. All he knew now was that she was hot looking, smart enough to try to lose herself in the city but stupid enough, greedy enough, to have gotten into bed with a man who ordered people killed without compunction.

He had to know more if he was going to come up with an approach that might land him her cooperation or, failing that, her compliance.

Getting into her apartment was child’s play. A credit card slipped between the jamb and the lock did the job.

His estimation of the Prescott woman’s street-smarts went down a notch, then zoomed up again when bells went off over his head.

Literally.

She’d tacked a strip of them right over the door.

Alex grabbed the bells, silenced them and waited. Nothing happened. Evidently, whoever else occupied the building had learned the primary New York rule of survival.

If something went bump in the night and you weren’t the one being bumped, you ignored it.

He shut the door carefully. The lady might have other booby traps around. He waited again, until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then he took out his flashlight, turned it on and swept the area with its narrow beam.

The apartment was one enormous room. No walls, just yawning space filled with shadows. There was a minuscule kitchen and bathroom at one end, a stack of cardboard boxes at the other. Whatever else he’d expected of a woman who slept with a killer—gilt, fringe, cherubs—wasn’t there.

So much for that stereotype.

There was no furniture to speak of, either, just a narrow bed, a chest, a couple of small tables and chairs that might have come from the Salvation Army.

He made his way through the place slowly, opening drawers and carefully poking inside without disturbing the contents. He found only the stuff most women had: sweaters, jeans, lingerie.

Lace lingerie. Bras that would cup her breasts like an offering. Panties that would ride high on her long legs and dip low enough so they barely covered what he knew would be gold-tipped, feminine curls.

Alex shifted his weight. He had an instant erection, one that strained at the taut denim of his jeans. He hadn’t been with a woman for a while. Was he that desperate that handling this one’s lingerie, thinking about how it would look on her, was enough to give him a hard-on?

Any man with enough money could have Cara Prescott. A woman had the right to do what she wanted with her body but if she chose to auction it to the highest bidder, she wasn’t a woman he’d want in his bed.

He wandered into the bathroom. The sink was chipped and stained; an equally battered shelf above it held small vials and bottles. He opened one at random and brought it to his nose. Lilacs? He wasn’t up on flowers or on perfume: he liked a woman to smell like a woman, especially when she was aroused and eager for his possession, but as perfumes went, this wasn’t bad.

A narrow closet was crammed between the bathroom and the kitchen. He opened it, poked through a sparse lineup of drab skirts, sweaters and dresses. Half a dozen pairs of shoes were stacked neatly on the floor: this morning’s sneakers, sensible heels. Not a pair of stilettos in sight.

Too bad.

The lady’s endless legs would look sexy as hell in strappy sandals with heels high enough to give a nosebleed to the lucky man she wore them for. Heels, one of those lace bras, a pair of the matching panties, and her chestnut hair wild and curling over her shoulders would—would—

Alex scowled as he shut the closet door. This was pathetic. Who gave a damn what she’d look like dressed in next to nothing? Nobody but her lover, her ex-lover, and whatever attracted Tony G would never attract—

Click.

Alex froze.

Someone had just turned a key in the front-door lock.

He switched off the flashlight and looked around for a place to hide. The closet was it. It was deep, even if it was narrow as a coffin. Besides, he didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice.

Quickly, he stepped inside, pulled the door toward him but didn’t quite shut it. He slipped the gun from the small of his back and held it down against his thigh.

The front door swung open; the jingle of Cara Prescott’s improvised security alarm told him he had company.

The lady of the house was at work. The feds had been called off. There were only two possibilities.

His guest was either a very unlucky burglar…

Or a killer on Tony Gennaro’s payroll.

Each time Cara opened the door lock, she thought what a pitiful excuse for a lock it was.

She’d asked the super to change it and he’d scratched his head and nodded and said uh-huh, sure, yeah, he would.

So far, nothing had happened.

Okay. She’d deal with it herself. Tomorrow, first thing. Tomorrow was her day off. Too bad it was too late to call a locksmith now, when she had unexpected time on her hands.

Half an hour ago, Mr. Levine got a phone call. His sister was ill; he had to go to New Jersey. Cara had offered to keep the shop open but he’d said no, he appreciated it but she was too new, she didn’t know enough about his system.

Cara smiled wryly as she locked the door from the inside.

She knew enough to know the old man didn’t have a system. Not that she’d told him that. He’d been kind to her, hiring her despite her admitting she’d never sold anything in her life.

Even now, worried about his sister, he’d taken the time to assure her that he wouldn’t hold back her pay.

“It’s not your fault you won’t put in a full evening, Ms. Smith,” he’d said. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

For one awful second, she’d almost said, “Who?” She still wasn’t accustomed to being Carol Smith. Hair clipped back, no makeup, just a young woman on her own in the Big Apple.

Truth was, she’d never even known anyone named Smith. She had the feeling Mr. Levine suspected that. He’d asked for her social security card, she’d promised to bring it in but she hadn’t, and he’d never mentioned it again.

“I have a daughter just about your age,” he’d said when he’d hired her. “She lives in England and I like to think people look out for her there.”

In other words, he was an old man, lonely for his daughter, and she was capitalizing on it.

But she wasn’t going to think about that. She was doing what she had to do, to survive.

Anthony Gennaro wanted her to come back to him. The FBI wanted her to go into protective custody.

All Cara wanted was for her life to return to normal.

That meant never seeing Gennaro again and not testifying against him, either. No matter what he was, he hadn’t done her any harm. Not the kind of harm that counted, anyway.

Besides, as she’d told the agents who’d interviewed her right after she’d moved out of his mansion, she didn’t know anything.

You do, they’d said, you’re just not aware of what it is. That’s why we want to take you into custody. We can keep you safe while we help you remember.

When she’d refused, they’d gotten angry. Told her Gennaro would never stop searching for her. Made threats about sending her to prison.

That was when she’d decided to disappear from the Long Island motel where she’d spent a couple of nights. And how better to disappear than to move to Manhattan, where you could lose yourself in the crush of humanity?

She found a job and a place to live and until she exhausted the money she’d saved during the months she’d spent cataloging the library in the Gennaro mansion, she was safe.

More or less.

Cara carried one of the kitchen chairs to the door and propped it beneath the knob. That and the old sleigh bells she’d found in an antique shop on Ninth Avenue weren’t much of an alarm system but right now, they were all she had. She’d get the lock changed tomorrow but there’d still be the skylight….

She didn’t want to think what it might cost to alarm the skylight.

“Look up there, Ms. Smith,” the rental agent had bubbled. “See? You have a real skylight.”

What she had was a way for somebody to get in from the roof, but there was no point in being paranoid. The FBI wanted her to believe Anthony Gennaro would hurt her, but she knew better.

He wanted her back alive, not dead.

Besides, skylight or no skylight, the rent was right. So she’d said yes, she’d take the big, ugly loft.

And here she was.

As for the skylight…she’d ask the locksmith for suggestions. He could gate it off. Make it impenetrable. Yes, and turn this big, empty space into a prison.

Good practice, considering that she’d probably end up there anyway, according to those two FBI agents.

Cara swallowed hard.

“Stop it,” she said in a no-nonsense voice.

She wasn’t going to give in to self-pity. What she was going to do was take a long, hot shower, heat a can of soup and read a book until she was too tired to do anything besides tumble into bed and sleep.

Briskly, she slid out of her raincoat. Took off the newsboy cap and the dark glasses. Her sweater and skirt. Then she toed off her shoes and padded toward the far end of the loft, pausing in front of the closet, hand curved around the knob before she remembered her robe was on the hook behind the bathroom door.

The bathroom was small and badly lit. Its saving grace was a glass shower stall with top and side sprays and an abundance of deliciously hot water.

Cara switched on the light, took the clip from her hair, then opened the stall door and turned the shower on. Steam began rising, clouding the pebbled glass as she undressed and placed her clothes neatly on the closed—

What was that?

Her heart banged into her throat. Something was moving. She could hear it. A scuffling sound. Feet?

Was somebody breaking in? Was the FBI right? Would Gennaro send his men after her?

A little gray mouse darted from under the sink, shot across the floor and disappeared out the door.

Cara gave a weak laugh. A mouse. A mouse! Her imagination had turned it into a monster. She was letting fear dominate every aspect of her life.

No more.

Still…she felt a chill shrivel her flesh. For a moment, for a heartbeat, she’d been certain someone was here.

Watching. Waiting…

Ridiculous!

Cara stepped into the shower stall and shut the door, lifting her face to the spray. The water and the steam would do their magic and ease away her fear.

She hadn’t come this far to fall apart. Survival was all that mattered now.

Resolutely, she took a tube of shampoo from the shower ledge, squeezed some into her palm and began washing her hair.

CHAPTER THREE

ALEX didn’t take a real breath until he heard the thud of the shower door closing.

Jesus, that was close!

His plan had been to get a handle on Tony G’s mistress. He sure as hell hadn’t intended to hold out his hand, introduce himself and say, “Yeah, you’re right. I just broke into your apartment.”

He’d make his approach in a public place. The bookshop. The deli. She’d be less likely to make a scene if there were other people around.

Women were like that. Innately passive. It was their weakness. He’d seen instructors work like hell to drum politeness out of them.

You don’t like the way somebody looks, they’d say, you scream, yell, make a scene. Make noise. Lots of it.

Women in the program eventually caught on. Civilians rarely did. Raised to be polite, they struggled with the idea of calling attention to themselves. It was bull, but it was how it was.

And it would work to his advantage.

The Prescott woman wouldn’t make a fuss if he approached her the right way.

So, he’d stay with his plan. After all, nothing had changed. She hadn’t seen him. He thought she would, when she’d paused at the closet, so close he could smell her scent.

Lilacs, definitely. Soft and feminine.

She’d looked that way, too. Soft. Feminine. And incredibly sexy, walking around just the way he’d imagined her, in a lace bra and panties the color of cream, the color rich against her golden skin. No stilettos but she was a turn-on without them.

All he’d had to do was slip from the closet…

The way he did now.

She’d left the bathroom door open. He glanced at the shower. The glass was pebbled, translucent but not transparent. He could see her outline through it.

See that her arms were raised, her breasts lifted, her body gracefully arched.

Alex scowled, dragged his gaze from the bathroom and made his way noiselessly toward the front door, then paused. At least he could check the phones for bugs. He had enough time for that.

Working silently, he took out a pocketknife, undid a couple of screws in the base of the first phone…and found a bug.

Damn.

He put the phone back together and moved to the second one. Another bug. As he put the screws back in, thunder rolled overhead, its roar as loud as a freight train.

Thunder, in November? he thought, looking up at the skylight just in time to see a bolt of lightning blaze across the sky. It illuminated a small object in the corner of the skylight.

Something was up there that sure as hell didn’t belong.

Alex grabbed a chair, put it under the skylight and climbed up. No good. He was six foot four but even with the added height, the skylight remained tantalizingly out of reach.

He got down, checked the area again, eyes sliding past the broom in the corner, then returning to it.

Maybe.

He grabbed it, got back on the chair. Success! A couple of pokes and the thing he’d spotted came loose and clattered to the floor.

The sound was like a gunshot and he held his breath, listening for the Prescott babe to come running, but the shower was going full blast.

Alex scooped up the thing he’d dislodged.

It was a wireless camera. Incredibly small, barely the size of an oversized button, and it was recording everything that happened here.

Including his break-in?

One thing was certain. If there was one camera, there were others.

The woman he was supposed to protect was being watched. By Gennaro’s hoods? If Gennaro knew where she was, why didn’t he just come and get her? It could be the feds, but Shaw had promised to call them off.

To hell with trying to figure it out. Whoever was watching her could damned well have watched him for the past half hour, too.

For all he knew, they were on their way here right now.

Thunder raged overhead. Was the shower still running?

Noiselessly, he made his way to the bathroom. Yes, it was. Tendrils of steam curled from the opening over the stall.

Slowly, he moved inside the room, ready to spring if Cara Prescott chose this moment to turn off the water and open the glass door. She’d panic at the sight of him. There was nothing he could do to prevent that, but he did intend to control it.

Her panic would be all the worse because she was naked. That wouldn’t matter to him. Sex didn’t enter into this. She was a job, that was all.

But her fear, coupled with the element of surprise, could work in his favor. The old rules still applied.

He took a couple of deep breaths to slow his heartbeat and oxygenate his blood. Now, he thought, and in one quick motion, he slid the shower door back.

Cara Prescott whirled toward him. Her face contorted with fear and she gave a scream that might have curdled the blood of a man who’d never inspired terror before.

As for her scream bringing the neighbors…it wouldn’t. The bells had proved that. And then there was the sound of the shower and the thunder rumbling overhead.

Still, why take chances?

He stepped forward, put one foot into the stall and wrapped his arm around her neck, covered her mouth with his hand and pulled her back against him.

“Pay attention, Ms. Prescott. Do as you’re told and—Damn it!”

She sank her teeth into the tender web of flesh between his thumb and his forefinger. He yanked his hand free and adjusted it so that it covered her nose as well as her mouth.

She reacted instantly, her body arching like a bow against the threat of imminent suffocation.

“Do that again,” he said, his voice a warning growl, “and I’ll be forced to retaliate. I repeat, Ms. Prescott. Do as I tell you and you’ll be all right.”

He had her on her toes now, her head tucked against his shoulder in an ugly parody of a lover’s embrace. Water streamed down on them both and still she fought him, hands clamped around his wrist, using up whatever air was in her lungs in a desperate attempt to save her life.

Alex released the pressure, let her drag in a breath, then covered her nose and mouth again.

“Listen, damn it,” he said, putting his lips to her ear. Her skin was cool and wet; a strand of hair fragrant with the scent of lilacs drifted across his mouth. “Behave yourself and I’ll take my hand off your nose. Fight me, and I’ll keep it right where it is until you pass out. Understand?” She didn’t answer, but her struggles were growing frenzied. “Understand?” he repeated, the word a hard demand.

She gave a frantic nod.

“Good. Just remember. One sound, one false move, and I won’t give you a second chance.”

He moved his hand so it covered only her mouth but kept his arm right where he wanted it, hard around her throat. She was on tiptoe, off balance physically as well as emotionally, and that was the way he intended to keep her for a while.

Her nostrils flared as she gulped for air; the sound of her breathing was harsh. Her body trembled against his.

“Easy,” he said softly. “Calm down, and listen.”

She shuddered, but he could feel some of the rigidity easing from her body. When it did, he slackened the pressure of his encircling arm just enough to show her he was pleased with her response.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth. I don’t want you to scream. I don’t even want you to talk. Do this right, you’ll be fine. Yell, bite, come at me—whatever you try, I’ll stop you. And I promise, Ms. Prescott, you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Her eyes widened; he knew his use of her name had finally registered.

“Understand?” he said again.

She gave a jerky nod. Alex waited a few seconds. As he’d hoped, a clap of thunder roared overhead. He took his hand from her mouth, half expecting her to scream despite his warning, but she didn’t.

Good, he thought, and swung her toward him.

He told himself to remember that her nudity gave him a psychological advantage but that it meant nothing to him sexually.

Still, only a eunuch wouldn’t have noticed that her skin was the color of rich cream. That her breasts were full and round, her nipples the soft shade of pink you might see within a delicate seashell.

And only a eunuch, or maybe a saint, wouldn’t have wondered if her breasts would feel silken against the roughness of his palms, if her nipples would taste like honey on his tongue.

Her face, as white as paper, grew two patches of crimson under his scrutiny. Shaken, she put one arm across her breasts and the other over her loins in an instinctive, age-old female posture of defense.

A useless defense, had he chosen to force himself on her.

He didn’t like that she’d think him capable of that. He was a lot of things, had been a lot of things in his time with the Agency, but he wasn’t a rapist.

When he took a woman, he wanted her eager for his possession. For the hard thrust of his body, the demanding caress of his hands and mouth.

Yeah, but who gave a damn what Cara Prescott thought? Her fear would work to his advantage. Deliberately, he let his gaze move slowly down her body. Taking in the flat belly and patch of gold-tipped curls she tried to hide was just a way of reminding her that he held the power.

And, goddammit, if he was getting hard, it wasn’t anything personal. Danger created an adrenaline rush. A natural high that far surpassed any drug.

Add a beautiful woman, a hint of sex, and you had one hell of a mix.

He understood all that. If only his body would get the message.

He was seconds away from being fully erect. Already, he could feel his engorged flesh pressing almost painfully against the denim of his fly.

His reaction infuriated him. He didn’t like being out of control, not even for a heartbeat. That this woman, one step up from a whore, should exert sensual power over him made it even worse.

Concentrating on that did the trick. His erection went south and his brain came online.

Towels hung from a plastic rod near the sink. He grabbed one and thrust it at her.

“Cover yourself,” he snapped.

Her hands shook as she clutched the towel to her wet body. It didn’t hide much—he’d somehow plucked a hand towel from the rack, not a bath towel. Just as well. It was enough to let her feel a little less exposed but not enough to make him lose the psychological edge.

Her breasts, full and beaded with water, rose above the towel’s skimpy folds.

“I’m not a burglar. And I don’t work for your lover.”

Still no response. The smell of her, soap and water, lilacs and woman, rose on the humid air.

“I don’t want to hurt you. Do you understand?”

She didn’t respond for what seemed a long time. Finally, she jerked her head in assent.

“Good.” A muscle knotted in Alex’s jaw. “Now, step out of the stall. Nice and slow. No quick moves.”

She did as he’d ordered, her eyes never leaving his. He tried to do the same but it was impossible. The towel wasn’t just small, by now it was soaked. It clung like a second skin, drawing even more attention to her wet, naked body, and to hell with eunuchs and saints.

Only a dead man wouldn’t have let his gaze drift down those curves again.

No wonder Gennaro had wanted her, he thought, and forced his eyes back to her face.

“My name,” he said softly, “is Alexander Knight.”

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “What—what do you want?”

Progress. At least she was talking. It was time to ease up.

“I want to help you.”

She made a sound that would have been a laugh if she weren’t so scared. He couldn’t blame her.

“I know about you and Tony Gennaro.”

The color in her face heightened but her voice was surprisingly steady. “Who?”

Alex’s mouth twisted. He had to give the lady credit. She was stark naked and scared witless but she was starting to pull herself together. That was good—but he didn’t want her thinking she could outsmart him.

Time to up the ante.

“Don’t play games, Cara. I don’t like them.”

The use of her first name was supposed to remind her that he was in charge. It didn’t. The pulse in her throat still leaped, her eyes still shone with fear, but something about her had changed.

She was starting to plot a way past him.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her chin lifted. “Give me my pajamas.”

His eyebrows rose. “What?”

“My pajamas. My sweats. There, on top of the toilet. Give them to me.”

She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t even asking. She was giving orders in an attempt to assert some control.

He understood that. It was what he’d have attempted, if the tables had been turned.

He also understood that there wasn’t a way in hell he could let her get away with it. That she was smart and tougher than she looked only meant he had to make sure she understood that he was a lot tougher.

Alex reached out. Deliberately, eyes locked to hers, he cupped her buttocks and drew her against him. His erection was instantaneous. Good, he thought coldly, as he brought one hand around her and ran his knuckles lightly across the swell of her breasts.

The flicker of defiance he’d seen lighting her eyes gave way to naked terror.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, sweetheart. I told you not to play games.” His mouth curved in a cold smile. “Or maybe you figure you’re a tempting enough package to get away with this crap. Well, you’re right about being tempting.” He moved against her, just enough so she could feel the heavy weight of his arousal. “You’re very tempting.” His smile faded. “But I’m not interested.”

The look on her face called him a liar.

“Okay,” he said softly, almost agreeably, “you’re right. Under other circumstances, I might be.” The wet towel clung to her breasts; he reached out, cupped the warm, rounded flesh and told himself to ignore the quick pull of lust in his belly. “But these aren’t other circumstances, and I’m not interested in buying what you sold old Tony.”

“I don’t—” Her voice quavered, then steadied. “I don’t know any Tony.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re gonna have to trust me here, baby. If I worked for the man, you’d be dead by now…but only after I first had you on your back, with your legs spread.”

He’d wanted to make her flinch and it worked. Good. This wasn’t a time for subtlety. Besides, a woman who slept with a Mafia don wasn’t a woman with delicate sensibilities.

He needed her to be obedient. If he felt a twinge of regret at the way she was trembling, it was only because he’d been a long time out of this business, not because she was so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Hell, what did her beauty have to do with anything? The truth was, a woman who knew how to use her looks could be incredibly dangerous. You learned that fast in the cloak-and-dagger world.

Alex grabbed the sweats and gave them to her.

“Get dressed,” he growled. “Then we’ll talk.”

Talk?

Cara bit back a crazed laugh.

A madman broke into your apartment, dragged you from the shower, looked at your naked body with eyes like lasers, touched your breasts, God, touched your breasts, and she was supposed to believe he wanted to talk?

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from screaming and pulled on the sweats, hunching over as best she could to keep him from seeing more than he already had.

The sweats were old and ratty and oversized. The “oversized” part was good. At least, she felt less vulnerable. Standing in front of a brutal stranger, naked, had put a lump of fear the size of a boulder in her belly.

It had to be a good sign, didn’t it, that he’d decided to let her dress?

“Okay,” he snapped. “If you have questions, ask them fast.”

If she had questions? She really was going to laugh any minute now…or pass out at this madman’s feet.

How come he didn’t look like a madman? If she’d seen him on the street, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

What a lie, Cara. You know damned well that you would.

What woman wouldn’t look at a man like this? He was tall, well over six feet. His hair was an inky black. His eyes were the deep green of a northern sea, his cheekbones so high they were like slashes in his hard, handsome face.

And his body.

Long. Lean. Taut with muscle….

“Do you like what you see, baby?”

Her eyes flew to his. He was smiling, a knowing smile that made heat bloom in her cheeks.

“I want to be sure I know what you look like,” she said coolly, despite the slamming of her heart against her ribs, “so I can give the police an accurate description.”

“Ah, Cara,” he said softly, “that’s not very bright.” His smile tilted, became something that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “If I were here to—how shall I put this? To do you harm, your sad little threat would make me think twice about leaving you alive.” His smile faded. “I asked you if you had questions. If you do, you’re running out of time to ask them.”

She swallowed hard in an attempt to bring saliva into her dry-as-cotton mouth.

“You said you don’t work for—for this man you think I know. Then, who do you work for?”

“The government.”

She took a step back. “I told the FBI I don’t want anything to do with—”

She clamped her lips together, but it was too late. Another of those feral smiles spread over his lips.

“Now, isn’t that interesting?” he said softly. “You don’t know Tony G but you’ve been talking with the FBI.”

What was that old saying? The best defense was a good offense. Ignoring what he’d just said was a start.

“If you work for the government, let me see some proof.”

“Like what? A badge? A photo ID?” His smile twisted. “A letter from J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Hoover’s dead.”

“Yeah, and guys like me would be, too, if we went around carrying ID. You’re just going to have to take my word for it. I don’t work for the FBI. I’m with a government agency that doesn’t advertise.”

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