“You know what I want. I’m willing to give you time to figure out if it’s what you want, too.”

She blinked. “How much time, exactly?”

The cagey little note in her voice had him smiling inside. He liked that in her, the determination to surrender only on her terms. Because he wanted her complete cooperation when they finally consummated this edgy chemistry they generated without even trying, he steeled himself to give her room to maneuver. But not too much room.

And not too much time. Twenty years was a long time to burn for a woman.

That decided, he allowed his private smile to show on his face. “I’m booked on the red-eye tomorrow night.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “In that case, you’d better stay for dinner.”

Dear Reader,

The excitement continues in Intimate Moments. First of all, this month brings the emotional and exciting conclusion of A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY. In Familiar Stranger, Sharon Sala presents the final confrontation with the archvillain known as Simon—and you’ll finally find out who he really is. You’ll also be there as Jonah revisits the woman he’s never forgotten and decides it’s finally time to make some important changes in his life.

Also this month, welcome back Candace Camp to the Intimate Moments lineup. Formerly known as Kristin James, this multitalented author offers a Hard-Headed Texan who lives in A LITTLE TOWN IN TEXAS, which will enthrall readers everywhere. Paula Detmer Riggs returns with Daddy with a Badge, another installment in her popular MATERNITY ROW miniseries—and next month she’s back with Born a Hero, the lead book in our new Intimate Moments continuity, FIRSTBORN SONS. Complete the month with Moonglow, Texas, by Mary McBride, Linda Castillo’s Cops and…Lovers? and new author Susan Vaughan’s debut book, Dangerous Attraction.

By the way, don’t forget to check out our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest on the back of every book.

We hope to see you next month, too, when not only will FIRSTBORN SONS be making its bow, but we’ll also be bringing you a brand-new TALL, DARK AND DANGEROUS title from award-winning Suzanne Brockmann. For now…enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Daddy with a Badge
Paula Detmer Riggs

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PAULA DETMER RIGGS

discovers material for her writing in her varied life experiences. During her first five years of marriage to a naval officer, she lived in nineteen different locations on the West Coast, gaining familiarity with places as diverse as San Diego and Seattle. While working at a historical site in San Diego she wrote, directed and narrated fashion shows and became fascinated with the early history of California.

She writes romances because “I think we all need an escape from the high-tech pressures that face us every day, and I believe in happy endings. Isn’t that why we keep trying, in spite of all the roadblocks and disappointments along the way?”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Prologue

He was alive. Barely. Now it was up to the cardiac team to keep him that way.

Sweat-stained and exhausted after the frantic struggle to keep the patient from bleeding to death, the surgeon in charge of the Level-1 trauma unit at George Washington University Hospital stripped off her bloody gown and gloves before heading down the sterile corridor in search of the patient’s family.

While she and her team had been battling the almost impossible odds, a crowd had gathered—predominantly large, solemn-faced, broad-shouldered men with narrowed, watchful eyes.

Among the group were the two men who had ridden in the ambulance with the ashen-faced man now in surgery, their once pristine shirts bloodied while performing CPR until the medics had arrived.

All were members of the Special Investigations Branch of the Secret Service. The patient, Rafael Cardoza, was a senior agent in the same branch. His weapon as well as his badge and ID had been vouchered by the admitting clerk after they’d cut off his blood-soaked clothing.

Falling silent as she approached, they stood stiffly the way people do when they feel helpless, hands in the pockets of conservative suit coats, their carefully unobtrusive ties loosened, the requisite dark sunglasses tucked away in breast pockets.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, is Agent Cardoza’s family here yet?” she asked, her voice reflecting her utter weariness.

In answer to her question, most looked toward a solid, massively muscled man in his mid-fifties who stood to one side of the crowded corridor, alone in a little island of deference. A pleasantly homely man, he had thick iron-gray hair, a granite jaw and steely blue eyes.

“Cardoza’s parents are in Oregon. According to his wishes, they’re to be notified only in the event of his death.” He stopped, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

“He’s alive,” the surgeon hastened to assure him.

“Thank God.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I’m his immediate superior and his friend. Name’s Lincoln Slocum in case you need to know.” That done, he sharpened his gaze. “Fill me in.”

Though he spoke quietly, she had a ridiculous urge to snap to attention. She recognized the name as the newly appointed Director of the Secret Service, though in reality the photo in the Washington Post hadn’t come close to portraying the powerful life force of the man.

“Agent Cardoza was hit twice in the chest,” she related in a voice that was equally quiet. “One of the bullets punctured his left lung, the other may have nicked his aorta, which is why Dr. Forchet took him straight to the OR as soon as his blood pressure was stabilized.”

He accepted that impassively, with only a slight movement of his stern mouth to betray his feelings. “Worst-case scenario?”

“He’s lost a great deal of blood, which makes surgery extremely risky. His heart might also have been damaged. Dr. Forchet won’t know until he cracks the chest.”

No one spoke. The tension was palpable, a lethal black energy that seemed to suck all the air from the surrounding space. The silence was broken by a frustrated curse.

Finally Director Slocum released a long breath. “Rafe’s as tough as they come. He’ll make it.”

She thought about the stripped-down body she’d seen only in clinical terms—lean and muscular and larger than average, bronzed where his skin had been exposed to the sun, paler where it had not. His shoulders were wide and packed with latent power, the torso long and corded with hard muscle, the waist narrow. Without an ounce of extra fat on the long frame, every superbly developed muscle, tendon and sinew had been outlined perfectly like an anatomy lesson come to life.

In spite of the Latin name, the man had a Viking’s golden coloring and height. She’d had only a glimpse of his features before the second-year resident had inserted a breathing tube, but the rough-cut features had been overlaid with a rugged strength. Masculinity personified, she thought with a giddiness born of exhaustion. A beautiful tawny gold man with a heart that had faltered but fought on.

Did he have a mate? she wondered, thinking of her own adorably rumpled husband waiting for her at home. A woman with enough courage and strength to keep from being overpowered by his? A romantic at heart, she fervently hoped so.

“He’s tough,” she echoed, infusing her voice with a certainty she desperately wanted to feel. “He’ll make it.”

With a lot of luck, she thought as she turned away—and perhaps a little help from whatever benevolent deity looked after men like him.

Gut knotted even tighter now, Linc Slocum watched her until she disappeared behind the double doors to his left. Only then did he allow his stiff shoulders to relax.

He’d been at the White House, meeting with the President’s Chief of Staff, when he’d been notified that one of his men was down, shot while guarding a witness at a government safe house in Maryland.

No, not just one of his men, damn it. His best man, his go-to guy. In spite of the fourteen years difference in their ages, they had a bond, he and Rafe—an immigrant steelworker’s kid and the bastard son of a teenage runaway, brought up by a Mexican-American laborer and his wife after his birth mother had abandoned him in a horse barn.

“Any word, yet, sir?” Preoccupied with his own thoughts he hadn’t seen Rafe’s partner of three months approaching. Each year the new hires seemed to get younger, he thought with an inner sigh. Even Rafe, at a lean and muscular thirty-eight, had started complaining about feeling old. But then Linc doubted that Rafe had ever truly been young.

“He’s holding his own,” he said, smiling briefly to let the rookie know his concern had been noted and appreciated. “The doctor said it might take a while to patch things together.”

Seth Gresham’s lips tightened as he struggled to settle his emotions. “Twenty more minutes and I would have been there,” he grated in an emotion rough voice.

“Any idea how the shooter found her?”

“Damned if I know, sir.”

Rafe was too savvy to let himself be tailed. But this kid? It was possible, though unlikely. Among other things, Rafe had a way of getting the young ones up to speed fast.

Apparently Rafe had been in the kitchen making breakfast when the woman he’d been protecting had inexplicably—and against express orders—opened the front door to a man who’d claimed to be Rafe’s relief.

It had been damn clever, the way the shooter had worked it. Arriving not too early to alert Rafe, but late enough to minimize the chance of being spotted.

“You think the shooter was Folsom himself?” Gresham asked tersely.

“Could be. Or he could have hired a pro.”

“Damn frigging flu bug. Rafe never should have had to pull that kind of routine duty.” Stan Vincent was head of the investigative branch—and Rafe’s immediate superior—although both he and Stan knew that Rafe played by his own rules, which, given the unshakable integrity at the man’s core, were far stricter than the ones in the book.

“We both know there was no ‘should’ to it, Stan. The woman only agreed to testify because Rafe convinced her she’d be protected. Nothing but an act of God was going to keep him from looking out for her.”

Slocum bit down hard on the rage that threatened to break free.

Jacob Peter Folsom was a cold, calculating predator, a swindler and a cheat who raped with words instead of his body. The specifics varied, but his M.O. was always the same. Contrive to meet a lonely—and well-off—woman on vacation, romance her with flowers and dancing and a healthy dollop of charm, winning her trust during moonlit strolls and candlelight dinners.

Alice MacGregor had been the principal of a prestigious boarding school located in Virginia’s horse country. A dedicated scholar and empathetic teacher, she had entered her fortieth year a virgin with a spotless reputation and an empty womb.

While on a Mediterranean cruise she’d met a man who’d introduced himself as Jason Smythe-Jones. Cultured, sophisticated and well-read, he had claimed to be a history professor at Bennington in Vermont.

Still fit and athletic at forty-seven, he had beautiful silver hair and piercing blue eyes. In her statement Alice, as well as several of his other victims, had mentioned his remarkable resemblance to George Hamilton.

A highly intelligent, bluntly honest woman who knew all too well that her face would never be considered more than passably pleasant, she would have been immune to a traditional seduction. Instead, Smythe-Jones, aka Jacob Folsom, had praised her mind and her dedication to her students. To sweeten the pot, he’d asked her to be the mother of his children. For all her intelligence and sophistication Alice had been bedazzled.

They’d married in a flower-filled chapel in Venice before returning to Alice’s small home on the school grounds. Two months later Alice had been bankrupt, her reputation in tatters, her job in jeopardy. After cleaning her out, her new husband had simply vanished. This time, however, he’d been caught when, in a wholly improbable coincidence he’d attempted to sell her highly recognizable vintage Mercedes convertible to the mother of one of Alice’s former students.

Out on bail, he’d first tried to charm his bride into refusing to testify. When that hadn’t worked, he’d threatened to kill her. Something in his eyes had made her believe him. Rafe had been the one to calm her fears. Now brave, heartbroken Alice MacGregor was downstairs on a slab in the hospital morgue, and the man who had tried to protect her was fighting for his life a few doors away in the OR.

“I don’t get it, sir,” Gresham said in a low, frustrated tone. “Ms. MacGregor was too trusting, yeah, but she wasn’t a stupid woman. Just the opposite, in fact.” He took a fast breath, his expression earnest. “In fact, none of the victims seem like the type to be conned. Near as we’ve been able to piece together, almost all are college graduates with responsible jobs. The one in Miami was a neurosurgeon and the one before Alice is an associate dean of women at San Diego State. As far as I can see, there’s not a bimbo or airhead in the bunch.”

Slocum was astounded by the man’s naiveté. “Bimbos and airheads don’t usually have fat bank accounts and platinum charge cards,” he said tightly.

“He targets professionals in their thirties or forties because most of them have been too busy getting to the top to have time for romance,” Stan amplified when Gresham’s face reddened. “Most have biological clocks that are clicking down, which makes them especially susceptible to a man who professes to want children very badly.”

Slocum felt a certain sympathy for the rookie, who still expected evil to make sense. “Folsom’s smart and he’s charming. He knows exactly what a woman wants—and he gives it to her.” His jaw hardened. “If she’s lucky, he’ll only destroy her life before he walks away.”

There was no need to say more. Every man and woman there knew that unless Folsom was stopped, there was every possibility that Alice MacGregor would not be the last woman to end up dead, simply because she fell in love with a monster.

Chapter 1

Portland, Oregon—Six months later.

As soon as Dr. Daniela Fabrizio picked up her office phone and heard the tobacco-ruined voice of the repair shop mechanic on the other end, she’d expected bad news. In fact, it was worse than bad.

“Did you say eleven hundred dollars?” she forced out when breath returned to her body. “To fix that…that lemon?”

On the other end of the line Bruno of Bruno’s Economy Automotive Repairs cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, ma’am. ’Leven hunnert it is. ’Course that could be a mite high on account of we might be able to get some of the parts used. I got my parts girl callin’ around, but it bein’ the start of the holiday weekend and all, it’ll prob’ly be Tuesday or Wednesday before I know for sure.”

“But you said it was just the transmission.”

“Lady, there ain’t no just to it when it comes to them foreign jobs. This here model of your’n is especially wonky.”

“Wonky. I…see.” Danni squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find that safe place in her mind. Unfortunately, it seemed to have disappeared, along with darn near everything else she and her late husband Mark had accumulated during twelve years of marriage. Like the silver Lexus Mark had given her four years ago on their tenth anniversary and the healthy nest egg from his insurance settlement that she’d put aside for Lyssa’s college education.

This morning on the way to the restored Victorian white elephant on the edge of Portland’s historic district that she shared with two other psychotherapists, the nine-year-old hatchback that was now her only mode of transportation had started bucking like a deranged bronc.

By the time she’d made it to the nearest off-ramp, narrowly averting death by collision several times, her entire thirty-six years on earth had passed before her eyes. She’d barely made it to the ramp’s shoulder when smoke had started pouring out from under the hood. The driver of the tow truck she’d called on her cell phone had recommended Bruno’s.

“Couldn’t you just fix some of the gears? I mean, I only need Drive and Reverse and Park. The others are just superfluous.”

This time Bruno snorted something approximating a belly laugh. “That’s a good one, Miz Fabrizio. Yes, ma’am, it surely is. But no can do.”

“In other words, it’s all or…nothing. Transmission-wise.”

“That’s about the size of it, yep.”

She drew in a lungful of air. The pink hybrid tea roses she’d brought from home yesterday morning gave off a cloyingly sweet smell, and her stomach did a slow, clammy roll. The Cajun chicken salad she’d forced down at her desk five hours earlier had clearly been a mistake.

“So worst-case scenario, if I want it fixed, I have to come up with eleven hunnert—hundred dollars?”

“Yep. Like the man says, cash on the barrelhead.”

No one said that these days. No one had said that for a hundred years at least. Nevertheless, the meaning was all too clear. No money, no car.

Like it or not, Lyssa would have to transfer to a middle school closer to the house they were currently renting on Mill Works Ridge. It would break her daughter’s heart to leave her friends in Lake Oswego, but even with a student pass, the bus fare was more than their already whisper-thin budget could handle.

She took another breath, fighting a sick feeling of helplessness. The phone rang twice in Paul Baxter’s office next door before the service picked up. Outside, a MAX train swooshed past. A horn tooted cheerfully. It was the start of Memorial Day weekend, and downtown was emptying fast. Happy people rushing out to have fun despite the gray skies and icy wind.

The weather was due to break late tomorrow night, however, with the promise of sunshine for the rest of the long weekend. As a special surprise, she’d planned to take Lyssa down to the family vineyard near Ashland on Sunday. Fortunately Danni hadn’t told her yet. Her little girl had already had too many broken promises in her twelve short years.

“Okay, say you can get those used parts,” she said with determined cheerfulness. “What’s the best I can hope for, cost-wise?”

“Hmm. Let me do some calculatin’ here.”

“With a sharp pencil, okay?”

“Ain’t no need for a pencil. I got me a knack for figures, do it all in my head.”

Which, as she recalled, was shaped exactly like a bullet. With a greasy “gimme” cap on top.

Torn between laughing hysterically or pleading piteously, Danni clamped her mouth shut and leaned back against the high back of her cushy executive chair. One by one she toed off her low-heeled pumps, then closed her eyes.

She’d been up since six, with scarcely a moment to herself since she’d dropped Lyssa off at school. Her calendar had been packed, with only a hurried twenty minutes for lunch. Her last session had been highly emotional, and she’d been drained by the time Cindy Habiz had left, calmer, finally, but still dangerously volatile.

Now it was nearly 5:00 p.m. and she still had patient notes to dictate so that their part-time medical assistant Ruthie could transcribe them over the weekend. Friday was also her night to stop at the market for groceries. Did taxis charge extra to carry groceries? she wondered, feeling a little giddy.

“Well, near’s I can figure, the best we can do even with used parts would be a thou.”

Sharpen the damn pencil again! she wanted to shout. Instead, she dropped her head and rubbed her forehead with her free hand. The spot above her right eyebrow was beginning to throb and her stomach was growing more iffy by the second.

“I can pay you a third now and the rest over the next three months.” It would mean more belt-tightening, but—

“Sorry, little lady, I don’t give credit. Got burned too many times by deadbeats, y’know?”

“Yes, I suppose you have.” Danni felt truly queasy now. Humiliation had a taste, she’d learned. It was beyond bitter. She cleared her throat, but the bitterness remained. “Uh, let me see what I can do and I’ll call you Tuesday morning.”

There was a momentary silence before Bruno said in a softer tone, “Tell you the truth, I don’t like takin’ plastic on account of the service charge, but I s’pose I could make an exception, seein’ as how you’re expecting a little ’un and all.”

A sudden wash of tears blurred the outlines of her mauve-and-blue office. The kindness of strangers, she thought. “I’m afraid that won’t help, but thank you for the offer,” she said in a wobbly voice.

Both of her platinum cards had been cancelled. In the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet was a thick file folder full of overdue statements and threatening letters. While she’d been basking in newlywed bliss—and her adoring husband’s constant attention—Jonathan Sommerset, may he rot in the hottest bowels of hell, had managed to steal every cent of her liquid assets, sell her beautiful home on a bluff and all the furnishings before destroying her credit rating.

The damage he’d done to an innocent young girl desperate to feel a father’s love again was his greatest crime, however. For that alone, the lying weasel deserved to spend the rest of his worthless life in a particularly nasty prison.

There was one bright spot however. Her own silver lining. A tired smile curved her lips as she pressed her hand to her swelling tummy. Jonathan had given her a baby.

Her baby, and Lyssa’s, not his. Never his.

As desperate as she was financially, she had still gotten the best of the bargain. Perhaps that was the best revenge, she thought with a small measure of satisfaction.

“Miz Fabrizio, you still with me?”

“Still here.” Barely. “Uh, tell you what, Bruno, let me see what I can do about raising the money, and I’ll call you on Tuesday.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be waiting.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Miz Fabrizio, say you wasn’t able to come up with the money, I’d be willing to take that old hatchback off your hands for…say, four hunnert.”

She sucked in a breath. “Cash on the barrelhead?” she couldn’t resist asking as her headache suddenly increased exponentially.

“Why yes, ma’am.” He chuckled. “You might do you some askin’ around before you accept, but I promise you, it’s a right fair offer. You’re not gonna get a better one.”

Her throat was suddenly clogged with tears. Somehow she managed to thank Bruno before putting down the phone. And then, alone in the office that was the only thing Jonathan hadn’t been able to steal, she buried her face in her arms and cried.

Finally, after frustrating months of mistaken identities and dead ends, they’d scared up a lead. It was thin, little more than wishful thinking but even that was more than they’d had in weeks of chasing down dead-end leads.

Rafe had been running on the treadmill in the Treasury Building’s basement gym when Gresham had come charging in, waving a fax from the Portland, Oregon office. The local authorities had put out a “wanted for questioning” alert for a man using the name Jonathan Sommerset who matched Folsom’s description.

The charge was credit card fraud, swindling and forgery. The suspect’s M.O. was strikingly similar. A “chance” meeting with a lonely widow on a luxury cruise to Acapulco, a whirlwind courtship ending in a romantic wedding in a chapel on the beach before sailing home.

The honeymoon had scarcely been over before he’d managed to have his name added to the deed to his bride’s house and the title of a nearly new Lexus sedan. Naturally, he had insisted on adding her name to the deeds to his condo on Maui and the flat in San Francisco as well as his brokerage account and savings accounts, all of which existed only on official looking documents Folsom had created on his laptop computer. In turn, she’d given him total access to her bank and savings accounts, both of which were all too genuine.

Then, as was his pattern, he had convinced her to invest in a revolutionary new method of converting sawdust to decking material impervious to weather and pests. The process was real, as were the reams of supporting documentation. Only the stock certificates were phony.

Ten weeks after the wedding Sommerset arranged to take his wife and stepdaughter to England as a birthday surprise for the girl. Two days before departing, he’d pleaded a sudden business emergency, sending them on ahead. Excuse followed excuse until three weeks had passed. By the time the woman had gotten suspicious and flown home, Folsom had systematically emptied her bank accounts, sold her home and all the furnishings and maxed her credit cards before disappearing.

That had been almost three months ago, long enough for the trail to have gotten colder than a hooker’s heart. Picking the victim’s brain for some forgotten detail, some chance recollection that might put them on the scent again was their only hope.

They’d been on the red-eye that same night, landing at Portland just as the sun was rising this morning. The head of the Service’s local office had lent them a vehicle, a no-frills sedan that smelled like a Texas honky-tonk, and drawn a map to the Portland PD precinct that had caught the case.

Even though it was raining steadily, Rafe had cracked the windows, front and back. The breeze that streamed through was flavored with pine and brought back memories of the crowded migrant camp by the river where he’d spent the first seventeen years of his life.

He shifted until his shoulders were wedged against the door. Even then and with the seat pushed back all the way, he couldn’t stretch out his legs far enough to get comfortable.

Damn, he hated this, he thought sourly. Memories were a bitch, especially the mean, gut-twisting kind that snuck under a man’s guard to deliver a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He’d known it was going to be rough being in Oregon again, but he’d figured to handle it fast and dirty, no more than forty-eight hours to find out all he needed to know, then he’d be outta here again. For good, this time.

It wasn’t until he’d met with Detective Sergeant Case Randolph and heard the name of the victim that he’d known just how rough.

Twenty years ago he’d been wildly, blindly in love with Daniela Mancini.

In the case folder had been a photograph, taken of the happy couple right after their wedding. It was like a slice in his heart to see the photo of his adorable Princess looking stunningly happy in a flowing white Mexican wedding dress, her dark eyes glowing as she looked up into the face of Jacob Folsom.

He’d spent a lot of years telling himself she’d probably gotten fat and sour-tempered. Just his luck the young girl who had been a beauty at sixteen had matured into a sensuous, elegant lady with a body that could make a dead man weep.

“Nice neighborhood, this. Real homey like, you know. Almost makes a guy want to settle down and raise himself a couple of kids.”

Jarred from his dark thoughts by the sound of Seth Gresham’s perfect prep-school diction, Rafe opened his tired eyes long enough to shoot his talkative partner a sardonic look.

“Thought you were committed to playing the field.” In contrast to Seth’s cultured voice, his own was strictly blue-collar and inclined toward hoarseness when he was tired, a residual affect of the tube they’d stuck down his throat to keep him breathing. Women tended to consider the gruff texture a turn-on, something he wasn’t above using to his advantage when it suited him.

“I said ‘almost,’ compadre,” Gresham tossed back with a grin. “As long as the ladies keep smiling back, I’m keeping my options open.”

Seth nudged the seat back another notch and loosened his tie before pulling a folder from the hand-sewn briefcase at his feet. Inside were copies of Sergeant Randolph’s notes.

The man had lousy handwriting, but he knew his stuff. It was a textbook report, concisely detailed, every question Rafe might have had answered. Just in case, he read it twice. By the time he’d finished the second read, his gut was twisted into an icy knot.

It was Folsom, all right. Rafe would bet his farm on it, the one he’d bought in the Maryland countryside about ten years back when he’d felt the need to have space and fresh air around him. He felt the same way now.

“Taxi just turned the corner.”

Without moving, Rafe opened his eyes and glanced toward the end of the street. Mill Works Ridge was only two blocks long. On one side, far below the street was the mighty Columbia River. On the other was an alley leading back to Waverly Avenue, the main access road.

His gut tightened as the cab pulled to the curve in front of the house listed on the crime report as Danni’s address.

“What the hell?” Gresham muttered under his breath as he shot to a sitting position.

“Could be a visitor.”

“Definitely female,” Gresham said as the passenger struggled to get out of the cab’s back seat. Swathed in a bright red slicker, she made a vivid splash against the gray landscape.

As she emerged and straightened, Rafe felt his world tilt. It was Danni. And she was pregnant.

A driving rain stung Danni’s face and obscured her vision as she struggled to balance two bulging grocery sacks, and the large shoulder bag that served as both a briefcase and purse. Ducking her head deeper into the slicker’s hood, she edged crab-like toward the curb, only to have a sudden gust of wind bang the cab’s door against her hip.

“Thanks for all the help,” she muttered in the direction of the grossly overweight cabby with really bad body odor who had refused to leave the protection of his equally smelly cab to help carry the groceries to her front door.

“Fact of life, lady,” he said with a shrug. “I get paid to drive. Anything else costs extra.”

Extra she didn’t have. “I’d hate to have your karma,” she muttered before ducking her head against the stinging drops.

Struggling against the wind, she finally made it to the safety of the curb, then turned awkwardly to slam the cab door. As she did, one of the sodden bags tore, spilling the contents into the muddy water surging along the gutter. Cold spray hit her shins as cans thudded onto the pavement. A large can of tomato juice smashed her toes, sending pain shooting through her foot.

She jerked back, only to lose her balance. With a cry, she dropped the other bag, and reached out desperately to keep herself from falling. He came from nowhere, a large man in a dark suit moving fast. An instant later, she was wedged against a chest as hard as granite, her head tucked against a bronzed throat. Steely arms held her steady while his wide back sheltered her from the rain and wind.

“Easy, I’ve got you.” The voice came from far above her head, a deep baritone with a faintly hoarse quality. She smelled soap on damp skin and felt the edge of a starched collar against her cheek. Heart thudding, she clutched at the strong arms supporting her.

“Don’t be frightened, Daniela, we’re Federal agents.”

Federal agents? Men in Black, or in this case a lovely charcoal gray? In safe and solid Mill Works Ridge, the same community known affectionately as Maternity Row? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She fought it down. Later, she would fall apart.

“If you’re IRS, you’re wasting your time. The old blood and turnip thing. I’m the turnip.”

She thought he chuckled before she remembered that government types had no humor. “Good thing we’re Treasury, not IRS, then.”

He loosened his hold but kept his arms around her. After straightening carefully, she pushed back her hood so that she could see his face. At the same time he lowered his head so that his gaze met hers, and for a moment she felt as though she were poised at the top of a ski run, with a pristine slope of freshly-groomed powder falling away in a dizzying drop below.

She knew that face. Oh, how she knew it! Once she’d held it in her mind so that she would fall asleep thinking of him. After he’d left her, his image had tormented her in dreams for months.

The proud angles and strong planes were more sharply chiseled now, but still breathtaking. Beneath slashing brows the color of sun-washed sand, his eyes were an unusual sage green with sun crinkles at the corners and dense lashes. His chin was solid, with a hint of a cleft, his features boldly drawn, as though with swift, angry strokes on an imperfect canvas—all but his lips which had the smallest of curves at one corner. Like the beginning of the sweetest of smiles.

It wasn’t really a smile, but a scar, one she’d put there herself when she’d been six and he’d been eight. He’d caught her crying because her brothers had gone fishing and left her behind, so he’d taken her to his own favorite spot along the Little Applegate.

Instead of a steelhead, she’d hooked him, then in her dismay jerked hard on the line, slicing his mouth as the hook pulled free. Blood had spurted like a fountain, and she’d gotten hysterical. He had ended up comforting her.

“My God, Rafe?”

His mouth slanted. That same cleanly defined mouth that had brushed hers in her first real kiss. “So you do remember. I’m flattered.”

Remember? How could she forget? Suddenly cold to the marrow, she shivered violently.

His face changed, growing hard. “Give me your hand. You need to get inside.”

Somehow she drew herself taller, pitting her five foot four inch admittedly out of shape form against six feet three inches of hard-bitten, decidedly intimidating muscle. “I’m not moving an inch until you tell me why you’re suddenly on my doorstep after twenty years.”

“We’ll talk inside.”

“Oh no we—”

His gaze narrowed, acting remarkably like a whiplash. She refused to be afraid. “Inside, Daniela. Maybe you’re immune to pneumonia, but I’m not.”

Without waiting for permission, he slipped the strap of her briefcase from her shoulder and slung it over his own, before tucking a big hand beneath her elbow. She started to turn, only to have his hand tighten.

“Gresham!”

Startled by the sudden bark of command, she glanced up to find him looking over his shoulder. As though conjured by Rafe’s will alone, a tall, dark-haired man appeared, his suit blue instead of gray, his tie knotted in the same full Windsor Mark had preferred.

Ice blue eyes in a tanned, aristocratic face met hers with frank curiosity as he inclined his head a polite two inches then waited while Rafe performed a perfunctory introduction.

“Dr. Daniela Fabrizio, meet Special Agent Seth Gresham, of the Greenwich Greshams.”

The young agent’s mouth curved into a boyish grin. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Agent.” Her voice came out too thin, and she took a fast breath. Heart thudding, she willed herself to calm down. Adrenaline wasn’t good for the baby. It wasn’t all that good for the baby’s mom, either, she realized, as the dull headache that had gotten worse while she stood in the checkout lane took on a sharper edge.

“I need to get Dr. Fabrizio inside,” Rafe informed his partner curtly. “Make sure that rubbernecking cabby’s not thinking about calling out 911 on us, then get the damn groceries.”

“Yes sir.” Gresham shifted his gaze to her, then asked politely, “Ma’am, are you square with the driver?” His voice was Eastern, the diction perfect.

“Unfortunately, yes, the jerk.” She drew back to glare at the cab driver who was leaning forward, staring white-faced through the passenger’s window. “Took my tip, then refused to move his fat…self to help me.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked toward the cab. “Might be a good idea to rattle his chain a little, make him rethink the way he treats his paying passengers.”

“Be a pleasure,” Gresham said, his grin flashing white again before he turned away. The wind blew his coat back, revealing a gun in a holster hugging his side.

“Are you sure he’s old enough to carry a gun?” she muttered, feeling more ancient by the moment.

“He’s old enough.” Rafe tightened his grip and helped her up the two short steps to the brick walk.

Grateful for his support, she concentrated on sidestepping the puddles formed by the walk’s uneven surface. Water from the gutter squished in her sodden shoes, and her last pair of panty hose were now spattered with mud. To add insult to injury her mashed toes hurt like the very dickens, making her limp.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded after only a few steps.

“I was attacked by a can of tomato juice,” she shot back impatiently.

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

“Because it’s silly and—” Her voice ended in a gasp as she was suddenly swept off her feet and into his arms.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re supposed to take care of yourself when you’re pregnant?” he grated close to her ear.

Only everyone from her father and her doctor, Luke Jarrod, all the way down to Bruno of automotive repair fame, she thought peevishly. “I am doing my very best, I assure you,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.

Behind her, she heard the cab roar away, leaving more foul air behind. Though it wasn’t quite six-thirty, the gloom had caused the streetlights to wink on. The rain was coming down harder, now, driven sideways by the wind.

“Is your daughter home?” he asked as they neared the small porch with its rose-covered trellis.

“No, Lys is…” She stopped abruptly and narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “How did you know I have a daughter?”

“It was in the file,” he said as he climbed the three steps to the porch.

“What file?”

“Later.” As he swung her around, her sleeve brushed one of the lavender roses climbing the terraces, and she caught a whiff of its perfume. Roses in the rain, her favorite scent.

“Where’s your house key?”

“In my briefcase. If you’ll just put me down, I’ll—”

“Gresham, get your butt over here and unlock the damned door!”

She winced. What did he have to be so angry about? She was the one whose life was imploding. Reminding herself that she was a responsible, mature adult and not an hysterical six-year-old, she drew back her head and treated him to her coolest shrink look. “Wouldn’t it be more sensible if you just put me down and let me unlock the damned door?”

“Probably.” He flicked her an impatient glance. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re still shivering.”

She hadn’t actually, but she noticed now. Noticed, too, that her head was splitting. Even more annoying for a woman who prided herself on her coping skills, it was becoming a struggle to keep her mind from wandering off on odd little side trips. Like remembering the last time she was smashed up against that muscular chest.

They’d both been naked and…

Oh God, don’t think about that now, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. It had taken years—years—before she stopped remembering every touch, every kiss, every fevered word they’d spoken to each other in the heat of passion.

“Sorry, had to get the rest of the oranges,” Gresham said as he vaulted up the steps. “Sneaky little suckers rolled halfway down the block.”

Remembering the sodden bags, she started to ask him how he’d managed when she saw the dark blue tote bag slung over a shoulder that wasn’t nearly as broad as Rafe’s. A stalk of celery protruded through the open zipper. Grateful for the distraction, Danni burst out laughing, then winced as pain crashed through her skull.

Rafe jerked his attention to her face. He’d spent time recently in the sun and the same rays that had burned his tan to a golden bronze had bleached his brows to a tawny hue. “What’s wrong now?” he demanded impatiently.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” She sighed. “Even I don’t want to know all the things that are wrong in my life at the moment.”

His mouth softened, and time seemed to spin backward to the innocent days when she had run to him with all her problems, confident he would make everything better. “Put your head on my shoulder, Daniela,” he commanded in that oddly hoarse voice.

“No, I’m fine.” But suddenly her eyes were stinging.

“You always were part mule,” he grated.

“Like you weren’t,” she muttered, but suddenly her cheek was resting against his shoulder and her eyes were drifting closed. Just for a minute, she told herself firmly. Until her head stopped clanging.

Vaguely, she was aware of Gresham unlocking the door. She heard the faint creak of the hinges as he entered. She frowned when Rafe didn’t immediately follow. “If you’re waiting for a polite invitation, consider it extended,” she murmured in a voice that seemed oddly slurred.

“Shut up,” he ordered brusquely.

Before she could answer, his companion returned. “It’s clear.”

She blinked. “What’s clear?”

“Just checking your house for intruders, ma’am,” Gresham said, smiling at her. “All part of the service.”

Narrowing his gaze, Rafe shot his partner an impatient look. “You want to make sure you got all those canned goods?”

Gresham’s boyish smile faded. “Yes sir.”

As Rafe carried her inside with the same loose-jointed stride that could cover twice as much ground as her short legs, Danni roused herself to lift her head. “Okay, we’re inside now. What’s going on? Why are you here?”

He looked down at her. “To ask you a few questions.”

“Questions about what?” She stared at that hard shuttered face and felt an inexpressible feeling of loss. Why hadn’t he loved her? she wondered before ruthlessly pulling her mind back to things she could control.

“Not what. Who. Jonathan Sommerset.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Do you know Jonathan?”

“I know him.”

Hope flared, and her heart gave a leap. “Do you know where he is?” she asked with a pathetic eagerness she hated, yet couldn’t seem to disguise.

“No, that’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. First you need to get out of those wet things, and I need to make a phone call.” He set her down gently, keeping one hand on the small of her back until she settled firmly on both feet in the center of the square foyer.

“But—”

He cast a lazy glance at her sodden suede pumps. “You’re dripping on the rug. Pretty nice rug, too. Looks expensive. Be a shame to ruin it.”

He was right, damn him. “Then get your big feet off of it!” she shot back before turning around to climb the stairs.

“Mind if I make some coffee?” he called after her.

“You lay one hand on anything in this house, and I’ll sue!”

Chapter 2

After peeling off her sodden tunic and skirt, Danni couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Even wrapped in her thick terry cloth robe, she felt frozen inside. Deciding a bath would help, she hurried into the bathroom and turned on the hot tap. As soon as the tub was full, she slipped out of the robe and into the steamy water. A blissful sigh escaped her lips as she sank to her chin and closed her eyes.

In her mind’s eye she pictured a meadow with wildflowers. Nearby, a clear, sun-gilded stream rippled a soothing tune. The sun-warmed water was soothing and soft, bubbling around her bare ankles, and the rocks were smooth under her feet.

Secure in her safe place now, she took slow, even breaths, filling her lungs with steam-warmed oxygen until she felt her heart rate slowing to a normal rhythm. One by one she relaxed her muscles until the tension drained away. Relaxed and in control once more, she allowed herself to think of the man downstairs.

His father, Enrique, had been field foreman of Mancini vineyards since before she and Rafe had been born. His mother Rosaria had helped Danni’s mother in the house until Mary Elizabeth Mancini had died of complications a few weeks after Danni’s birth.

Alone with four children under the age of eight Eduardo Mancini had brought Mary Elizabeth’s spinster sister Gina to Oregon from her home in New Jersey to live in the big house and look after Danni and her three older brothers. With only Rafe to demand her attention then, Rosaria had become housekeeper, cook and, in many ways, Danni’s second mother. It was only natural, she realized now, that she and Rafe—only two years apart—had become playmates.

Little by little they’d grown up tussling like bear cubs, fighting and making up like all siblings do, going to school together, running through the fields like gypsies during the summers and holidays. Year by year Rafe had gotten taller and stronger, until finally by the age of fifteen he’d towered over everyone but her two big brothers, Eddie and Vito. Little by little his bony shoulders filled out, then thickened with muscle. Naturally athletic, he made both the varsity soccer and football teams his freshman year.

Danni was changing, too. Finally, after being the ugliest of ugly ducklings, she became a swan—with breasts. Gloriously full, rosy-tipped breasts like all of the Mancini women. She’d also had curvy hips and a tiny waist that was the envy of all her girlfriends.

The boys in school started noticing. Her brothers began driving her crazy with warnings about the things boys would try to do to her if she wasn’t careful. A perceptive woman, her aunt Gina had seen the way Danni looked at the tall, deeply bronzed boy with the look of a Nordic warrior about him and warned her brother-in-law of danger ahead.

Papa had just laughed. Both Rafe and Danni knew the way things worked on Mancini land. She lived in the big house, Rafe lived in the workers’ camp near the river. They were friends, yes, but nothing more. It was good for her to test her woman’s powers on someone who wouldn’t take advantage of her.

Besides, Danni had been promised to Marco Fabrizio in her cradle. Everyone in the valley knew they would marry on her eighteenth birthday, uniting two proud families.

Still, on her sixteenth birthday, Papa had sat her down and told her about her family bloodlines and her responsibility to keep herself unsullied for Mark.

Danni had listened, but she hadn’t really heard. She only cared about Rafe, who, despite her developing body, treated her with the same brotherly affection as always. And then one hot August day it happened. She’d been washing Papa’s new Mercedes, wearing only skimpy cut-offs and a halter top. Rafe had spent the day pruning vines and had stripped off his shirt in order to duck under the spray to cool off. They ended up fighting over the hose and her top had gotten soaked. The thin fabric had clung to her breasts, revealing nipples that stood out like hard pebbles.

Rafe’s breath had hissed in, and he’d stood transfixed, the hose still in his hand. The laughter in his eyes had given way to a heated look that had made her mouth grow dry. It had taken her a moment to notice the distinctive bulge behind the fly of his worn work jeans.

As soon as he’d seen the direction of her gaze, he’d turned a fiery red, thrown down the hose and stalked off toward the river. After that everything was different. Instead of teasing her mercilessly the way he had for years, he’d taken to turning red every time she came close. When he’d tried to talk to her, he’d actually stammered.

That summer big, tough Rafe Cardoza started bringing her wildflowers. Lord, but she’d gloried in her new power.

All that changed when he kissed her for the first time. Then she’d been the one whose words hadn’t come out right. The one who turned red with a melting heat that made her restless inside. She’d learned then that kisses were addictive. Like all addictions, however, she soon craved more. So, it seemed, did he.

They’d met in secret at first, usually in the grassy, sun-dappled spot beneath a corkscrew willow where Rafe had taught her to fish. No one in their families had known how things had changed between them. Not until Rafe had asked her to his senior prom. She’d been wild with excitement. Not even Mark Fabrizio’s anger when he’d found out had dented her bliss.

The night before the prom had been unseasonably hot. The big old farmhouse hadn’t been air-conditioned in those days, and the fan by her bed only served to move the steamy air around in a thick circle. When Rafe had thrown pebbles at her window to get her attention, then suggested a moonlight swim, she’d been more than ready.

Instead of taking her to their spot by the river Rafe had decided to go to the pond instead because the path to the river was treacherous at night, even when the moon was high. In the pond, hidden behind a thick tangle of blackberry canes, they’d played in the cool water like kids, splashing and ducking one another.

Realizing that sound carried, Rafe had stifled her giggles with his hand first and then his mouth. Those playful kisses soon grew more passionate, their mutual touching more intimate. Soon his hands were sliding into the cups of her bathing suit to massage her breasts, and hers were tugging at his trunks.

Bathed in silver, they explored one another awkwardly, driven by their wild need for one another. They’d made promises, spoken words of love that seemed shiny and new. She’d explored his body with a frank interest that seemed to arouse him even more, until finally something seemed to snap inside him.

It happened fast then, the two of them kissing frantically as they stripped off their suits. His eyes had grown hot when he’d looked at her naked body for the first time, and his hands had trembled as they’d explored her with a touching reverence.

With each virgin touch, new sensations had thrummed through her, until she’d been writhing beneath his hand, desperate for something she couldn’t quite understand.

She’d been sobbing in pleasure and need when he’d parted her thighs. There would be pain, she knew, but it would pass, and then he would be inside her. Eagerly she reached for him, opening her legs wider. She remembered a feeling of moist warmth and then his body was covering hers. She braced for the invasion—and then he had rolled away from her, his breath coming in harsh gasps and those big fists clenched tightly.

He must have explained, but the words were lost to her now. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t listened. The terrible feeling of humiliation and hurt, though, she remembered vividly to this day.

The next morning, with her eyes swollen from the copious tears she’d shed and her throat raw from the sobs she’d swallowed so that no one would hear, she’d found out that they’d been seen. By whom, she’d never known for certain. One of her brothers, probably. It hardly mattered. The damage had been done.

Her father’s brown eyes had been filled with disappointment and sorrow when he’d told her that her brother had confronted Rafe with the truth and insisted that he marry her. Danni had felt a rush of joy, only to have her heart ripped in two when Papa had added in a tight, angry voice that Rafe had left the valley instead. If there was a baby, it was agreed between her father and Tonio Fabrizio that Mark would claim it as his own.

At first no one believed that she was still a virgin. But when her period arrived on schedule, they’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Or so she’d thought, until Mark had been visibly shocked on their wedding night to discover her untouched. Humiliated and angry all over again, she’d cried into her pillow after he’d gone to sleep.

She’d never seen Rafe again.

Both Rosaria and Enrique were careful never to mention him in her presence. On the rare occasions when she happened to run into one of his brothers or sisters, his name never came up. But he was always there, a silent, invisible presence.

Once the family star, he’d become a pariah overnight, his name erased from the tattered Bible that had been one of the few family possessions Enrique’s father had brought with him from Mexico after his parents had been killed in a flash flood in their small village near Oaxaca.

Not only had Rafe shamed his family by violating the daughter of their patron, but he’d also added to his sins by refusing to restore her honor by marrying her. As far as Enrique was concerned, the son he’d once adored was dead. He was not to be welcomed into their home if he returned. No one was to speak his name or pray for him on Holy Days.

Rosaria was forbidden to cry for him. But she had, Danni knew. Sobbing into her apron in the pantry of the old farmhouse where no one could hear.

Danni had cried too. Buckets. She’d lost weight because she couldn’t eat and cut her hair short because Rafe had loved it long. She burned her scrapbooks and photo albums and everything he’d ever given her. Nothing had helped.

It’s just puppy love, cara mía, Papa had said, holding her while she sobbed.

It was better this way, she’d see. Rafe would never have felt comfortable in the big house on the hill and she hadn’t been raised to live in a trailer in the migrants’ camp. Rafe would never be able to provide for her the way she deserved. The best he could hope for was a job as foreman like his father, or maybe a job as a mechanic, if he really worked hard. No, it was better for everyone that he’d left.

Only now, it seemed, Rafe Cardoza had come back. Bigger, tougher, with eyes that looked as though they’d forgotten how to laugh and a dangerous edge to his personality.

A man of substance, Papa, she thought, breathing in steam. A man who wore beautifully tailored suits as though born to them and carried himself with a steely confidence. And unlike the last time she’d seen him, a man who was clearly accustomed to being in charge.

Of Agent Gresham, perhaps, she thought lifting her chin in a way her brothers would have recognized. But not of her, she vowed, reaching for the soap.

Once she would have willingly thrown away her heritage and her honor and her family’s love for him. Now she simply wanted him to ask his questions and go away again. For good, this time.

Rafe opened cupboard doors until he found a serious looking coffeemaker. His spirits rose a notch as he pulled it out and plugged it in.

He’d given up his pack-a-day cigarette habit while he’d been in the hospital. Not that he’d had a choice, given the reality of life in Intensive Care. But once they’d weaned him off the ventilator and his lungs had learned to handle decent air again, he’d made it a permanent life change.

Caffeine was his only addiction now. He figured it would take another stint in ICU to wean him off the dozen or so cups of black coffee he drank every day.

“You want coffee?” he asked his partner who stood near the built-in pantry at the end of the work surface, dealing with Danni’s groceries.

“Yeah, with a heavy shot of Kahlua.”

“You wish, rookie.”

Laughing, Seth dipped into his duffel and pulled out another can. Using the towel he’d found hanging on a peg by the sink, he wiped off the mud before putting it on the shelf.

“Did she tell you when the daughter was due home?” he asked as Rafe hung his suit coat on the back of a Shaker style kitchen chair.

“Started to, then got sidetracked.”

One by one he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves. He hated suits, but tolerated them the way he tolerated service politics and dumb-ass restrictions put on field personnel by ACLU types who hadn’t a clue how rough it was out there on the streets.

“Have to say the lady’s got great legs for a shrink. Nice ass, too.”

Rafe felt his temper flash before he yanked it back. “We’re here to pump her for information, not ogle her butt,” he said in the steely tone he used when the rookie needed his attitude adjusted. One thing about Gresham, he was quick, Rafe thought as his partner’s expression went blank.

“Think she still loves the bastard?” Gresham asked a few minutes later as Rafe filled the pot at the sink.

“Who can tell with women.”

Rafe hadn’t let himself think about more than the bare facts of the case. Seeing her softly rounded tummy had slammed him back hard, and he was still reeling. Thinking of Danni as a victim of fraud and forgery had been safe. Something that was familiar, part of his job. Imagining Danni in bed with that piece of slime, though, that would be a mistake.

Rafe didn’t like mistakes.

Consequently he did the extra work required to make sure he didn’t make many. In this case, that meant keeping the past blocked off and his mind focused on the job they’d come to do. Caffeine would help.

After conducting a methodical search, he found a bag of coffee grounds in an antique canister marked ‘Lump Sugar’ and measured out enough for a full pot.

Watching him, Gresham filched a chocolate chip cookie from a bag that had already been opened. Apparently Danni snacked as she shopped. “Think she’ll ask us to stay for dinner?” he asked as he chewed.

“Jeez, Gresham, don’t you ever think about anything but food?”

“Yeah, but you won’t let me talk about my sex life.”

Rafe shot him a look as he switched on the coffeemaker. “Talk about it all you want—as long as you don’t blur the lines between private and personal when you’re on the job. Mistake like that just might get you killed.”

It was advice he would do well to remember, he thought as he tugged his tie free of his collar and slipped open the button.

Daniela was just one more victim. He was a government cop determined to bring down one more bad guy, so he would ask his questions, make concise notes with cross-references and annotations, give her his card, and walk away—this time on his own terms.

This time without regret.

This time without tears in his eyes.

Chapter 3

Danni was halfway down the stairs before she smelled coffee brewing. Oh sure, just take over my house, she thought with a wild mix of emotions. On second thought, why not let someone else give it a shot? After all she wasn’t doing such a hot job handling things herself.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she heard them in the kitchen, talking in low tones. Though she did her best to remain quiet as she walked through the living room into the dining room, the conversation ceased before she reached the kitchen door.

Rafe was standing in front of the fridge, transferring eggs from the carton in his hand to the door. He’d hung his suit coat over the back of a kitchen chair, loosened his conservative gray and red striped tie and rolled his blue striped shirtsleeves nearly to the elbows, revealing wide, corded wrists and thick forearms furred with curly hair bleached almost white by the sun.

Beneath the well-fitting shirt, his chest was a massive wedge of hard-packed muscle, his torso long and lean, his hips narrow. Tucked into a leather holster clipped to his belt was an ugly black gun that seemed far too enormous to be a simple handgun.

His partner still wore his suitcoat, a nifty double-breasted pinstripe. Standing with his back toward the door, he was stowing canned goods in the cupboard pantry, shoving them with a haphazard carelessness that had her teeth grinding.

“I hope you do windows,” she said, glaring at them both in turn.

Rafe simply flicked her an impatient gaze. In contrast, Gresham turned to offer a friendly grin. “Only under extreme duress, ma’am.”

He had dimples, too, she noticed, and beautiful manners. His hair, neatly styled and cut to mold a head that was definitely patrician, was the color of semi-sweet chocolate. He had a straight nose, an angular face and a perfect tan. He was—in a word—gorgeous.

“Feeling better?” Rafe asked, looking at her directly now.

“Much better, thank you,” she said coolly.

“Coffee’s ready.” He closed the refrigerator door with a hard thump before tossing the empty egg carton into the trash can under the sink. “Made it strong. Figured it’d help drive away the chill.”

His thoughtfulness made her feel petty. She bit off a sigh. What was wrong with her that he could cause her to regress to the level of an insecure teenager? “Unfortunately, I’m on restricted caffeine intake for the duration. Doctor’s orders.” She patted the bulge beneath Mark’s old USC sweat shirt. “I’ll just put on some water for tea.”

He shrugged. “It’s your kitchen.”

“Exactly.” For as long as she could swing the rent, anyway, she thought as she carried the kettle from the stove to the sink. As she turned on the water, she was aware that Rafe was looking at her belly.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months.” She shut off the water, then carried the kettle to the stove and turned on the burner. She turned then, and deliberately met his speculative gaze. “I got pregnant shortly after Jonathan and I married. He said he didn’t want to wait, and at the time…” She took a shaky breath. “At the time neither did I.”

She caught the look Gresham sent Rafe and frowned. “Before I say another word, I want to know what right you have to ask me these questions.”

In response he retrieved a slim black leather wallet from the back pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers and flipped it open. Frowning, she stepped close enough to read the small print.

One side was a laminated card identifying the bearer, Rafael Martin Cardoza as a Special Agent of the Investigative Branch of the United States Secret Service. Attached to a removable black leather insert on the opposite side was a gold badge in the shape of a five-pointed star.

Surprised and a little awed, she lifted her gaze to his. “I thought Secret Service agents guarded VIPs.”

“Some do. In fact it’s the first billet a new agent receives when he leaves the academy.” He indicated his partner with a quick look. “Until a few months ago Gresham was assigned to the Vice President’s wife.”

“What happened two months ago?”

“He got promoted.”

“To what?”

“Major cases like yours.”

She frowned. “Mine? I don’t understand.”

“When the man you know as Jonathan Sommerset used your credit card, he committed fraud. Since the issuing institutions are in differing states, that makes it a federal crime.”

“The man I know? You mean that’s not his real name?”

Instead of answering, he returned his ID to his pocket, then drew out what looked like a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”

It was a mug shot, one of those frontal and profile views she was always seeing on crime-stopper shows on TV. The face above the numbers and the name Jacob Folsom was Jonathan’s. Her stomach roiled. “This is Jonathan Sommerset, my husband.”

“His real name is Jacob Peter Folsom,” he said without inflection.

She blew out air. “I need to call Case. He should know that.”

“Case?”

“Detective Sergeant Case Randolph. He’s the one trying to find Jonathan. He also happens to live next door, in the house with the fuchsia door. He’s put out an APB or whatever you call an arrest warrant.”

“I’ve read his notes. So far nothing of substance has turned up.”

“Substance meaning what?”

Impatience tightened his mouth. She suspected he was far more accustomed to asking questions than answering them. “Meaning Folsom has gone to ground and no one has picked up his tracks.”

Case had repeatedly warned her the more time that passed, the more likely they wouldn’t be able to recover her assets, even if they found him. Even so, disappointment crashed through her. “Why is it with all the electronic gizmos and spy satellites and lightning-fast communications equipment you law enforcement people insist you need, no one has been able to find one middle-age swindler?”

Rafe turned his sleeves back another turn. “Miss him, do you?”

Her temper flared. “That’s a stupid question, Rafe. The man cheated me! All I want from him now is a divorce—and my money.”

Beneath the hood of dusty blond eyebrows his eyes crinkled with a sardonic amusement. “In that order?”

“In any order!”

After she rid herself of all ties to the man she now abhorred with every fiber of her being, she intended to devote herself to her children and her career, period. No more whirlwind romances for her. No more “Isn’t it wonderful to be so gloriously in love?” fantasies.

As for her husband of less than six months, she only wanted him back in her life long enough to sign the divorce papers waiting for him on her attorney’s desk and pay her back what he stole before they shipped him off to jail. Forever, if there was any justice left in this world.

“Where do you keep your mugs?” Rafe asked, lifting the coffeepot from the burner.

“Second cupboard. The ones with violets are for coffee, the daisies are for tea.”

He shot her a measuring look before retrieving two violets and a daisy. “A little obsessive about your mugs, aren’t you?”

“Needing to impose order on chaos is a perfectly healthy coping tool,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, as you pointed out, it’s my house.”

He poured coffee in the two mugs, left one on the counter for Gresham, then lifted his own to his mouth for a quick sip. “Your house until the Paxtons return from London, anyway,” he said, watching her over the steam.

Surprise sifted through her. “Was that in the file, too?”

He lifted an eyebrow, his expression mocking. “No, I got that from one of those electronic gizmos.”

She jerked the top off a cloisonné tin containing a selection of herbal teas. “My life is a train wreck and the man is playing ‘Can you top this’?” she muttered, ripping the bag from its neat paper envelope.

“Oh no, ma’am, us G-men aren’t authorized to indulge in games on duty.” He slid the daisy cup down the counter toward her. As she caught it, she saw surprise cross Gresham’s perfect features. Interesting, she thought, tucking it away for further study. Understanding and predicting human behavior was a passion as well as a profession. It made her feel secure to know within several plus or minus percentage points how someone would react to stimulus.

Rafe made her feel anything but secure.

“Nice house,” Gresham said as he picked up his mug. “Reminds me of the place I lived as a kid.”

His voice was part F.D.R., part J.F.K. Harvard, maybe? Definitely Ivy League at any rate. She suspected it hadn’t been all that long ago since he’d graduated. Maybe four or five years.

“My daughter likes it.” She would like Seth Gresham, too, she thought, hiding a smile. Lyssa had recently discovered boys. Later than most in today’s times, but that was partly due to lingering trauma. Knowing her daughter, she would rapidly make up for lost time. She wasn’t looking forward to the mood swings and separation struggles that were part and parcel of navigating one’s way through puberty, however.

Finished with the tea bag, she started to dump it into the trash, then thought better of it. Use it up, wear it out and never buy anything that’s not been marked down at least twice—that was her motto now.

She could get one more cup from this sucker, even though it would be weaker than she liked. Conscious that both men were watching, she plunked the soggy dripping bag onto a saucer from the cupboard overhead. She’d become an expert at detecting pity. She saw only a flicker in Gresham’s eyes, but not Rafe’s. His were cool and watching, physically familiar, but otherwise the eyes of a stranger.

“Would you mind if we go into the living room?” she asked after fortifying her tea with two spoons of sugar. “If I’m going to be subjected to the third degree, I’d like to do it sitting down.”

Without waiting for an answer, she led the way to the living room, more self-conscious about her altered body contours than reason dictated. It was instinctive, this awareness of the reaction she aroused in the male of the species, hard-wired into her psyche by eons of evolution like the fierce need to protect her offspring.

Not that she cared whether she ever attracted another man again in her entire life, she reminded herself firmly. Especially not one who looked at her with a stranger’s coolness, even as her blood swam with the memory of his mouth hot on hers.

The Paxtons’ living room was a mixture of tasteful antiques, comfortable modern pieces and accent pieces that ranged from priceless to endearingly homey, like the elaborate dollhouse Morgan had made for their daughter Morgana.

In the abstract, if not the literal, it had reminded her of the house she’d shared with Mark and Lyssa during what she’d come to consider the magic years. It had taken all of her control to keep from dissolving into a puddle of self-pity the first time she’d seen the exquisite little house.

“I sublet the place furnished,” she said when she noticed Gresham looking at the array of ceremonial masks Morgan Paxton had brought back from South Africa after covering Nelson Mandela’s release for his network.

“Interesting,” was all that Gresham said. “Especially that guy with the yellow eyes.”

Danni grimaced at the devil figure with its malicious grin. She preferred the benign face next to it, the one with the quizzical eyebrows and fuzzy yellow hair. The tribal equivalent of the archetypal jokester of Western mythology.

“The Paxtons’ twin sons start kindergarten next year, and Morgan is taking a year’s sabbatical in order to show his wife Raine and their kids Europe.”

Gresham looked impressed. “Used to watch him reporting from Baghdad during Desert Storm. Man has more grit than sense.”

“The Emmy he won is in the den.”

Gresham lifted both brows. “What’s he like in person?”

Her face softened as she recalled the generosity of both Paxtons. “Even more impressive than he appears on screen. And very kindhearted.”

“How’d you end up renting his place?”

Danni recognized the attempt to establish rapport and wondered if Seth was the designated good cop. Rafe, on the other hand, had made little attempt to be more than marginally friendly. A professional decision or a personal one? she wondered as she forced a smile from her tired facial muscles for Gresham’s benefit.

“You mean you don’t already know every tiny detail of my life?” she teased, playing along.

His grin flashed again, revealing perfectly aligned, blazing white teeth. “That particular fact must have slipped by.”

“My obstetrician, Luke Jarrod, lives on the corner across the street. He’s also a colleague and a friend. When he found out I was essentially penniless and homeless, he talked the Paxtons into hiring a housesitter.” She managed a smile. “Me, of course!” Her smile faded. Her facial muscles felt stiff. Sometimes she felt as though she were strangling on her pride. “The house wasn’t available for a month so Luke and his wife Maddy let Lyssa and me stay with them until then.”

Though her budget was as thin as paper, she’d insisted on paying rent, both to Luke and now to the Paxtons—but at a far lower rate than a house like this would ordinarily command. Because she worked hard to keep the house and contents in perfect condition, she’d managed to convince herself that it wasn’t really charity.

“Sounds like you have great friends.” Gresham looked genuinely interested in her well-being.

“I do. And I’m very grateful.”

“Guess I envy you. This job being what it is I’m never home long enough in any one stretch to do more than nod at my neighbors in my place in Alexandria.” Holding his mug in front of him, he wandered around the room, inspecting the eclectic memorabilia.

Holding his own mug, sipping occasionally, Rafe waited politely until she settled into the corner of the plush sofa with its heavenly eiderdown cushions before taking the chair opposite. Face impassive, he watched her steadily. The body language was classic, the dominant male of the pride sizing up his prey—or his next mate. Her skin warmed, then grew tight and itchy. She refused to squirm.

Cupping both hands around her mug, she lifted it to her lips. She inhaled the steam, then took a sip. It was an old habit of hers, stimulating both senses simultaneously.

“What are those, toys?” Gresham asked, pausing in front of a curio case.

Some toys, Danni thought with a private moment of amusement. According to Raine, several of the small carved figures inside were worth more than the Lexus she still mourned.

“Those are Chinese chop marks. Mandarin warlords used them to make their marks on correspondence and military orders. Jade is relatively soft, so that it can be carved with the mandarin’s name, like a stamp.”

“Clever.”

Rafe lifted one sun-bleached brow and tilted his head slightly. As a signal it was so subtle it would have eluded anyone but a trained observer. She herself wasn’t completely certain until Gresham ambled over to another easy chair and settled comfortably.

Apparently Rafe had decided they’d succeeded in putting her at ease.

Looking deceptively relaxed, Seth took a couple of quick sips of coffee, then set the mug on a beaten silver coaster he took from the ornate holder on the table at his elbow. After producing a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat, he flipped to a clean page, then glanced up. Not at her, she noted, but at Rafe.

On the other hand Rafe was looking at her, a level, steady gaze that seemed to peel away the confident façade that had been her only protection in recent weeks. She felt a flare of resentment, and then humor surfaced. What difference did it make if he saw through her to the scared, humiliated woman beneath? she thought. Once a man had seen a woman naked, there wasn’t much left to hide.

“I’ll tell you all we know, and then I’d like to ask you some questions,” Rafe said, his mouth curving slightly, but not far enough to engage the comma shaped creases that she knew bracketed his mouth when he truly grinned. “Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.” Feeling a little chilled in spite of the warm tights and fleece sweatshirt that reached nearly to her knees, she curled herself a little deeper into the cushions, then rested her mug on her thigh.

Rafe took a sip, then leaned forward to rest both forearms on his splayed thighs, his coffee mug held between both large, callused palms. It was a masterful use of body language, an optical illusion of sorts that made him look smaller and less intimidating as well as encouraging her to think of him as a friend instead of an adversary. She had to admire his savvy, but then, he had undoubtedly undergone expert training in one of those ultrasecret facilities outside Washington.

In this case, his attempt to manipulate her only put her more on guard. She took a sip of her too-sweet tea and contrived not to grimace at the syrupy taste.

“Folsom was born in L.A. in 1952 and grew up in Las Vegas. The details of his early years are sketchy, but we know his mother was a part-time blackjack dealer and full-time prostitute. Folsom’s first brush with law enforcement came at the age of eleven when he was picked up for trying to use a credit card he’d boosted from one of his mother’s johns.”

She realized he was waiting for her to comment and roused herself to admit, “He told me he grew up in a house on Philadelphia’s Main Line and that his parents were killed when their yacht capsized in a storm off St. Thomas when he was a senior at Andover.”

Gresham glanced her way. “That’s one of his favorite scams.”

“One of his favorite scams? That implies there are more.”

Rafe flicked a look toward his partner. Gresham’s face turned red. Clearly a blunder on the young agent’s part. The mom in her wanted to pat his head and tell him this lion’s roar was worse than his bite, but she wasn’t all that certain she would be telling him the truth.

“Folsom’s wanted for a long list of similar felonies,” Rafe said without changing his tone.

“How long a list?”

The hesitation was little more than a flicker of the thick curly lashes framing those sage green eyes. “Fourteen that we’ve definitely traced back to him. Possibly more.”

“He’s swindled fourteen other women before me, and he’s still running around free?” she asked, both incredulous and outraged.

Perhaps a less self-assured man would respond defensively. Rafe merely nodded. “He’s been arrested five times. Only three of those arrests resulted in prosecution. Twice he was acquitted when the victim recanted her accusation under oath.”

“And the third trial? Was he convicted?”

“He never went to trial.” Something shifted deep in his eyes, and she felt her own narrow.

“Why not?”

His mouth flattened, and his eyes were suddenly haunted by some dark emotion. “The complainant was shot and killed before she could testify.”

Danni’s lungs seemed incapable of inflating, and then suddenly, they drew in air in a violent rush. “Are you saying Jonathan murdered her?” she cried after forcing the air out again.

“We don’t know that for sure.” It was the literal truth, no more, no less. The man who’d pumped nine bullets into Alice—and four into him—had matched Folsom’s general height and weight, but so did half the adult males on the planet. The shooter’s hair and face had been covered by a ski mask, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. In Rafe’s gut, however, he knew Folsom had either pulled the trigger or hired it out. Either way, the bastard was directly responsible for Alice’s murder.

Danni’s face was still too pale, and her eyes told him she was still grappling with another shock. “But…but you, personally, think he…Folsom did it.” It wasn’t a question. Even though he hadn’t moved, he suddenly felt his back smash up against a solid wall.

The truth or a lie? Though it gave him no real pride to admit it, he had the knack of telling either with equal credibility. Because lying grated against every principle of decent behavior his parents had instilled in him, however, he preferred to stick as closely to the truth as the circumstances of the interview permitted. More importantly, the quick intuitive tug in his gut told him she would resent a lie if it was ever revealed. Which, in his experience, had a way of happening at the worst possible moment.

He sat back and kept his gaze steady on hers. “Yes, I think that one way or another he was responsible. The evidence was too sketchy to make a case, however, and the charges against him were dropped. We kept him under surveillance, of course, but he managed to slip out of town undetected during a bad snowstorm.”

It jolted her, he saw, but she pulled herself together enough to ask calmly, “When…when did this happen?”

“December 2nd last year.”

“I met Jonathan on December 27th.”

“Where exactly was that, Doctor?” Seth asked.

“On board the SS Holiday Pleasure. My father and my brother had arranged for the cruise as a surprise.”

“You went alone?”

“Yes.” She took a breath, then looked down at her hands. Her nails were filed short with clear polish. She wore no rings. A platinum-and-emerald wedding set had been included on the list of stolen property. Hers from her marriage to Fabrizio, he assumed.

“My daughter Lyssa was severely injured in the accident that killed her father. She was in ICU for weeks with major internal injuries and then in and out of the hospital for months after that.” She drew a breath. “The paramedics said that it had been a miracle Lyssa had survived. As it was her legs had been broken and one side of her face had been badly cut.”

“No airbags?” Gresham asked quietly.

She shook her head. “My husband had just finished restoring an old Jag XK-150 and he’d driven it that weekend because he wanted to show his father. The state trooper who investigated said he probably would have survived if he’d been driving my Lexus or his Cherokee, both of which have airbags.”

“You weren’t with them, then?” Rafe asked, although he was pretty sure she hadn’t been.

“No, Mark and Lys had gone down to the vineyard for the weekend, but I’d stayed home to catch up on case notes.”

“Vineyard?” Gresham asked.

“Mark’s family owns Fabrizio and Sons Wine. My father and brothers run Mancini Vineyard. The two properties adjoin one another in the foothills west of Ashland which is close to the California border.”

Gresham’s eyes lit up and he broke into a grin. “Great wines! I especially like Mancini’s Pinot Noir.”

Rafe shot him a look and he lost the grin.

“Thank you,” she said with a brief smile.

“How is your daughter now?” Rafe asked before lifting the mug to his mouth for a sip.

“Bouncing back, finally, but it was a long haul.”

“How about you? Are you bouncing back, too?”

Following his example she took a sip and tried to decide how much of herself to reveal. “It’s funny,” she said finally. “I ran a workshop in grief management when I first started practicing. I had all the tools, but somehow I was so busy taking care of Lys and trying to keep my practice going I guess I forgot to use them.” She lifted an impatient hand and skimmed back the thick hair that still shimmered like a raven’s wing in the sun when she turned her head. Her face had grown pale, highlighting the freckles splashed over the bridge of her nose. He’d counted them once between teasing kisses. Now he no longer remembered—or cared—how many there had been.

“I had sort of a meltdown on what would have been our twelfth anniversary. My family was already worried about me, and after that my father decided I needed to get away and relax. He arranged everything, even had my secretary reschedule my patients for the ten days I’d be away. I flew from Portland to L.A. the day after Christmas and boarded the boat the next day. I met Jonathan when he sat next to me at dinner the first night out.” Her face tightened. “If he’d come on to me, I might have been suspicious, but he was a perfect gentleman.”

She rubbed her palm up and down her arm as though trying to warm herself. “It seems even more horrible when I think about him touching me with the same hands he might have used to…to kill someone.”

Suddenly, her cheeks turned the color of putty, and sweat broke out on her forehead. With a garbled moan, she set her mug on the glass-topped coffee table, then struggled to push herself out of the deep cushions.

Rafe put his own mug on the table with a sharp crack and got to his feet. Gresham did the same. Rafe reached her first.

“Danni—”

“Don’t, please,” she cried before clamping her hand over her mouth. Before he could stop her, she pushed him away and spun around to race toward the back of the house and the bathroom he remembered seeing there.

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