“You find me attractive?”

“Yes,” Sin-Jin shouted again, then lowered his voice, “in a very irritating sort of way.” He took the empty glass out of her hand and put it squarely on the table. “Now, I think it’s time you showed me where this car of yours allegedly died.”

Sherry looked up with wide eyes. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“And why is that?”

Spacious or not, the room began to feel as if it closed in on her and there was this awful pain emanating from the center of her body. “Because I think my water just broke.”

Sin-Jin was almost disappointed. You’d really think a reporter could do better than that. “Ms. Campbell, I wasn’t born yesterday or the day before that.”

She was having trouble breathing. “I don’t think that when you were born is going to be an issue, but this baby…wants to be born…today.”

A Billionaire and a Baby
Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Brenda and Frank Corl,

with affection.

MARIE FERRARELLA

earned a master’s degree in Shakespearean comedy and, perhaps as a result, her writing is distinguished by humor and natural dialogue. This RITA® Award-winning author’s goal is to entertain and to make people laugh and feel good. She has written over one hundred books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide and have been translated into Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Japanese and Korean.

Come join the fun and excitement of Marie Ferrarella’s new miniseries, The Mom Squad—four single mothers who come together to experience life’s greatest miracle.

is…

Sherry Campbell—newswoman extraordinaire, benched when her boss discovered her little predicament….

A Billionaire and a Baby, SE #1528, available March 2003

Joanna Prescott—this teacher wanted a baby more than anything, and she found one at the local sperm bank!

A Bachelor and a Baby, SD #1503, available April 2003

Chris “C.J.” Jones—as an FBI agent and expectant mother, C.J. was always on the go, even when the risks were high. Was love and happily-ever-after just what C.J.’s heart needed?

The Baby Mission, IM #1220, available May 2003

Lori O’Neill—at the helm, this Lamaze teacher soothed and instructed her pregnant charges—and had her own little bundle about to appear.

Beauty and the Baby, SR#1668, available June 2003

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The question was finally directed at Sherry Campbell after ten minutes of covert and not-so-covert staring on the part of the new office assistant as she copied a file. The assistant, standing at the Bedford World News’s centrally located copy machine, wasn’t even aware that the state-of-the-art machine had ceased to spit out pages and was now content to sit on its laurels, waiting for her next move.

The assistant’s next move, apparently, was to continue staring. Her brow furrowed as she attempted to concentrate and remember just where and when she had seen her before.

Sherry stifled a sigh of annoyance.

It wasn’t that she was unaccustomed to that look of vague recognition on a person’s face. Sometimes Sherry was successfully “placed,” but as time went on, not so often. There was a time, at the height of her previous career, where that was a regular occurrence. She couldn’t say that she really minded. Then.

These days, however, people were just as apt to rudely stare at her swollen belly as they were at her face, that being the reason why her former career was a thing of the past. It was her unscheduled pregnancy that had gotten her dismissed from her anchor job and brought her to this junction in her life. Not in so many words, of course. Television studios and the people who ran them had an almost pathological fear of being sued because of some PC transgression on their parts. So when she had begun to show and told Ryan Matthews of her pregnancy, the executive producer of the nightly news had conveniently found a way to slip her into something less visible than the five o’clock news anchor position.

Within a day of her notifying Matthews that her waistline was going to be expanding, he had given her place to newcomer Lisa Willows and transformed her into senior copy editor, whimsically calling the move a lateral one. When she’d confronted him with his transparent motives, he’d lamely told her that demographics, even in this day and age, wouldn’t have supported her “flaunting her free lifestyle.” People, he’d said, still found unmarried pregnant women offensive and weren’t about to welcome them into their living rooms night after night.

Matthews’s words, even after five months, still rang in her ears. The fact that Sherry delivered the news behind a desk that was more than equal to hiding her increasing bulk from the general public, and that she’d never had a so-called free lifestyle—the pregnancy having arisen from her one and only liaison, a man who took no responsibility other than giving her the name of an abortion clinic—carried no weight with Matthews. With his spine the consistency of overcooked spaghetti, Matthews bent in the general direction of the greatest pressure. In this case it was the studio heads.

“If they can shoot around pregnant actresses on sitcoms to hide their conditions, why not me?” Sherry had insisted, but even then she knew it was no use. Matthews’s mind had been made up for him. She was politely and firmly offered her new position or the door.

She took the door.

Her first inclination to “sue the pants off the bastard” faded, even as her friends and family rallied around her, echoing the sentiment. The last thing Sherry wanted was to draw negative attention to the baby she was carrying. She’d come to the conclusion that the less attention, the better.

In mulling over her options, she’d decided to take her circumstance as a sign that she should return to her first love: the written word. This meant following in her father’s footsteps. Connor Campbell had been a well-respected, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist before his retirement. It was because of him that she had gone into the news business in the first place.

Determination had always been her hallmark. So, after allowing herself an afternoon to grieve over her late, lamented career, Sherry moved full steam ahead, firing all torpedoes. She went to Owen Carmichael, her father’s best friend and her godfather and asked for a job. Having started out with her father in the days before electric typewriters, Owen Carmichael was now the editor in chief of the Bedford World News.

Owen had been glad to hire her. Of course, she’d thought that he’d start her out with something a little more meaty than lighter-than-air fluff.

That was where her mind was right now, on the latest puff piece she was facing, not the assistant who stared at her with intense blue eyes and a puzzled frown on her face.

Sherry didn’t feel like going into her previous life, or the reasons for the change. She felt too irritable for anything beyond a polite dismissal. Also the woman had the look about her that said she lived to gossip.

“I get that a lot,” she told the other woman cavalierly. “I’ve got one of those faces people think they’ve seen before.”

The assistant looked unconvinced. “But—” And then the woman paused, thinking. Suddenly, her whole face lit up as if a ray of inspiration had descended on her. “Say ‘Hello, from the L.A. Basin.”’

That was her catchphrase, certainly nothing profound, but different enough to be remembered upon daily repetition. And she had been nightly anchor for four years before Matthews has ushered her out the door.

Sherry shook her head, her light-auburn hair swaying like a velvety wave about her oval face. “Sorry, I have to get upstairs to see Owen. Posthaste.” She made it sound as if Owen was sending for her rather than the other way around. She was preparing to beard the lion in his den. Glancing at the dormant copy machine, Sherry pointed at it. “I think it needs feeding.”

With that she hurried off, aware that the woman was still staring after her.

Hurrying these days was no small accomplishment for Sherry. She felt as if she was carrying around a lead weight strapped to her midsection. A lead weight that felt as if it was in constant flux.

On her way to the elevators, she tried not to wince as she felt another kick land against her ribs. At this rate she was going to need internal reconstructive surgery once her little squatter moved out.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she muttered to her stomach. She’d dragged herself into the office this morning because she’d been up half the night. Little whosit-whatsit was apparently learning the rumba. Either that or the baby had found a way to smuggle a motorcycle in there and had entertained itself through the wee hours of the night by constantly revving it up.

She’d been in no mood for what she found on her desk when she’d arrived. This week’s assignment was even worse than last week’s and she’d been convinced that that was the pits.

Breezing past Rhonda, her godfather’s secretary, a woman whose curves detracted from the fact that she had a razor-sharp mind and practically ran the department in Owen’s absence, Sherry walked straight into the managing editor’s office.

“Owen,” Sherry announced with more drama than she’d intended, “we have to talk. Please,” she tagged on. As a further afterthought, she closed the door behind her.

Owen Carmichael barely glanced up from his computer. Mind-numbing statistics and figures were spread across the screen, bearing testimony to various polls conducted by the paper’s PR department. He was scanning the figures while on his feet, his hands planted on the desk, his body leaning forward at an uncomfortable angle. It was an idiosyncrasy of his. He claimed he thought better in this position.

Of average height and far-less-than-average weight, he wore a shirt that was almost the same light color as his pants. With his semibald head, Owen gave the impression of an oversize Q-tip that someone had been nervously plucking at.

He glanced in his goddaughter’s direction with almost no recognition. His mind was clearly somewhere other than in the room.

“Not now, Sherry.”

She’d known the man as long as she’d known her own parents and was just as at ease with him as with them. Others might cower when he took on that low tone, but Sherry wasn’t among them.

“Yes, now.” She plunked the assignment on his desk, feeling that it spoke for itself. “It’s not that I’m not grateful for the job, Owen,” she began.

He raised his eyes to her face before lowering them back to the screen. “Then do it.”

All right, maybe the assignment wasn’t speaking, maybe it was whispering. She moved the sheet closer to him on the desk until the edge of the page touched one of his spread-out fingers. “Just what the hell is this?”

He spared it a glance. The title jumped out at him. “An assignment.”

“No,” Sherry corrected slowly, her voice deceptively low. “It’s a fluff piece.” By now she’d thought she would have graduated out of that classification, moved on to something with teeth, or muscle or an iota of substance. Her voice rose an octave as frustration invaded it. “It’s less than fluff. If I wasn’t holding it down, it would float away in the breeze, it’s that lightweight.”

Owen sighed, looking up from the computer in earnest now. “There’re no breezes in the office—other than the ones generated by overenergetic junior journalists flapping their lips. Aren’t women in your condition supposed to be tired all the time, Sherry? Why aren’t you tired?”

He didn’t know the half of it, but she felt this need to prove herself, to lay the groundwork for a stellar career. Her parents had raised her not to do anything by half measures.

Loving Drew fell under that category. Had she not leaped in with both feet, she would have realized that he wasn’t the type to stick around once the going got the slightest bit difficult.

“I am tired,” she told Owen, doing her best not to sound it. “Tired of standing on the sidelines, tired of doing pieces people line their birdcages with.”

One painfully thin shoulder rose and fell with careless regard. “Then write them snappier and they’ll read them before lining the birdcage.”

She wasn’t in the mood for his humor. “Owen, I’m a serious journalist.”

“And I’m a serious managing editor.” He temporarily abandoned his search and looked at her. “Right now there’s no place I can put you but in this department. The first opening that comes up for an investigative reporter, I promise you’ll have first crack at it. But right now, Sherry, I need you to be a good scout and—”

She didn’t want to hear it. Sherry splayed her hands on his desk, carefully avoiding the almost stereotypically grungy coffee mug filled with cold black liquid. “Owen, please. Something to sink my teeth into, that’s all I ask. Something more challenging than searching for a new angle on the latest local school’s annual jog-a-thon and/or bake sale.” Sherry leaned over the desk, her blue eyes pleading with his. “Please.”

“So, you think you’re up to a challenge?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she cried with enthusiasm. “An exposé, something undercover. I’m perfect for it.” Straightening, she waved both hands over her far-from-hidden bulk. “Who’d suspect a pregnant woman?”

“All right, you want a challenge, you got a challenge.”

Opening up the side desk drawer that the people who worked with him laughingly referred to as no-man’s-land, Owen took out a canary-yellow file folder and handed it to her.

Sherry took the folder from him, noting that it felt as if it hardly weighed anything. Opening it, she discovered that there was a reason for that. It was empty.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” She raised a brow, waiting.

“Fill it,” he told her mildly.

Pregnancy had all but eradicated her normally ample supply of patience. It was difficult to keep emotion out of her voice. “With what?”

“With a story on St. John Adair.”

Second verse, same as the first, she thought. This wasn’t what she’d been talking about. “But—”

Knowing what was coming, Owen cut her off. “Not just a story, a biography.” For emphasis, he spread his bony hands out in the air, as if touching the pages of a phantom newspaper. “I want everything you can find on this man. More.”

And here, just for a moment, she’d thought he was being serious. Instead, he was asking for one of those simpering write-ups in the People section. Frustration threatened to cut off her air supply. She tossed the folder on his desk in disgust. “Owen, this is just a dressed-up fluff piece on steroids.”

“Oh, really?” He picked up the folder. “St. John Adair, raider par excellence of the corporate world, the mere mention of whose name sends CEOs dashing off the sunny golf course and to their medicine cabinets in search of the latest high-tech antacids. The man who’s fondly referred to as Darth Vader by even his closer associates. The man who has no biography, is said to have arrived on the scene full-grown, springing out of some shaking multi-mega business corporation’s worst nightmare.”

She was aware of the man’s name, but not his awesome power. The focus of her interests lay elsewhere. “Business corporations don’t have nightmares.”

Owen’s thin lips curved. “They have Adair,” he contradicted. “And we have nothing on him. No one does.” He held out the folder to her. “You want a challenge, there’s your challenge. Find out everything you can on Adair—find out more than everything you can on him,” he amended. “I want to know what elementary school he went to, what his parents’ names are, does he even have parents or was he suckled by wolves in the Los Angeles National Forest like Pecos Bill—”

Sherry struggled to keep back a smile. This was way over the top, but she had to admit, Owen had her curious. “Pecos Bill didn’t grow up in the Los Angeles National Forest—”

“Good, that’s a start.” He tendered the folder to her again. “Give me more.”

Eyeing him, she took the folder from Owen. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. Nobody else has managed to get anything on him or out of him other than ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’ I came, I saw, I conquered.”

“I don’t need the translation, Owen. Julius Caesar, talking about his triumphs,” she added in case he was going to clarify that for her, as well.

Owen had launched into his coaxing mode, one of the attributes that made him good at his job. “You can be the first on your block to find something out on him.” He pretended to peer at her. “Unless, of course, you think it’s too hard—” He reached for the folder.

It was a game. She knew what he was up to and because of the friendship that existed between them, played along. She backed away to keep him from reaching the folder. “No, it’s not too hard.”

The grin transformed what could charitably be called a homely face into an amazingly pleasant one. “That’s my girl.”

She looked at the folder, already planning strategy. “When’s the deadline?”

“The sooner the better. You tell me.”

Now that she thought of it, she remembered her father saying something about Adair. Something along the lines of his coming out of nowhere and creating quite a sensation. Her first impulse was to call her father and ask if he had any connections that could lead her to the man, but she quickly squelched that. She wasn’t about to walk a mile in borrowed shoes unless there was no other way. She didn’t want to be her father’s daughter, she wanted to be Sherry Campbell, use her own devices, her own sources.

She turned the folder around in her hand. “And you really think of this as an investigative piece?”

Owen gave her his most innocent expression. “Is this the face of a man who’d lie to you?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “As I recall, you’re the one who told me about the Tooth Fairy.”

To that, he could only plead self-defense. “Your tooth had fallen out. You were crying your eyes out.” He spread his hands out. “You were five years old. What was I supposed to do?”

“Exactly what you did.” Wheels began to spin. Mentally she was already out of the office. Sherry slapped her hand across the folder, her eyes sparkling. “Okay, you’re on.”

“Great.” He was already back looking at the computer screen. “Don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.” The assignment she’d brought in was still on his desk. He held it up. “And give this other piece to Daly.”

She darted back to retrieve the paper. “I’ll do it in my spare time.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good.” The familiar sound he was waiting for didn’t register. Owen glanced up from his screen. “The door?”

Sherry nodded as she crossed the threshold and eased the door closed behind her.

A smile sprouted and took root as she deposited the assignment into the yellow folder and tucked it under her arm. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d been after, but if it was a challenge, then she was more than up to it. God knew she needed something meaty to work on before she completely lost her mind.

The woman’s voice, crisp, clear, with “no nonsense” written over every syllable, echoed in Sherry’s ear, “No, I am afraid that Mr. Adair is much too busy to see you. Try again next month. At the moment he’s booked solid.”

The woman sounded as if she was about to hang up. “The man has to eat sometime,” Sherry interjected quickly, hoping for a break. “Maybe I could meet with him then.”

She could almost hear the woman sniff before saying, “Mr. Adair has only working lunches and dinners. As I’ve already said—”

Undaunted, Sherry jumped back in the game. “Breakfast, then. Please, just a few minutes.” That was all she needed for openers, she thought, but there was no reason to tell the guardian at the gate that.

Unmoved, the woman replied, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“But—”

The next moment Sherry found herself talking to a dial tone.

With a sigh she hung up. She was getting lazy, she thought. The way to get somewhere was in person, not over the telephone. She knew that. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed damn well was going to come to the mountain. With climbing gear.

Although these days, she thought, pushing herself up out of her chair, she wasn’t sure just which part she would be cast in, Mohammed or the mountain.

The meeting had run over. It was within his power to call an end to it at any time, but Sin-Jin Adair liked to choose his moments. Authority wasn’t something he believed in throwing around like a Frisbee; it was a weapon, to be used wisely, effectively. So he had sat and listened to the employees that he’d culled over the past few years, as he’d taken over one corporation after another. Keep the best, discard the rest. It was a motto he lived by.

A bastardization of his father’s edict. Except that his father had applied it to women. Sin-Jin never did.

“Leaving early, I see.”

He nodded at his secretary. Like everyone else around her, Edna Farley was the soul of efficiency. He and Edna had a history together, and her loyalty was utterly unshakable. It was another quality he demanded, but one he could be patient about. He valued the kind that evolved naturally, not one that was bought and paid for. If you could buy loyalty easily, then it could just as easily be sold to a higher bidder, thereby rendering it useless. That he paid his people top dollar ensured that they would not be tempted to look elsewhere in search of worldly goods.

“Not as early as I’d like. Go home, Mrs. Farley.”

“Yes, sir.” The woman peered out into the hall as he strode out. “Don’t forget the Cavannaugh meeting tomorrow. And Mr. Renfro said he would be calling you at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Good night, Mrs. Farley.”

Walking away, he smiled to himself as the less-than-dulcet tones of Mrs. Farley echoed behind him, reminding him of appointments he didn’t need to be reminded of. Everything he needed to know about his schedule was not tucked away in some fancy PalmPilot, but in his mind. He had a photographic memory that had never failed him.

Reaching the elevator, he pressed for a car. Just as he stepped inside, he was aware that someone had slipped in behind him. The floor had appeared deserted a moment earlier.

“Sorry,” a woman’s voice apologized a second after he felt someone bump into him from behind.

Turning around, he was about to say something when he saw that it had been the woman’s stomach that had made contact with him.

Rounded with child. The phrase came floating to him out of nowhere.

So did the smile that curved his lips ever so slightly. “That’s all right.”

Sherry looked down innocently at the bulk that preceded her everywhere these days. She placed her hands on either side of the girth.

“Can’t wait for this little darling to be born so I can move it around in a stroller instead of feeling as if I’m lifting weights every time I get up.”

Because pregnancy, children and loved ones existed on an unknown plane, Sin-Jin could only vaguely nod at her words. A rejoining comment failed to materialize. The only thing he noted was, pregnant or not, the woman was extremely attractive.

His father had said there was no such thing as an attractive pregnant woman, but then, his father had demanded perfection in everything around him, if not in himself. The man was interested in ornamental women, not pregnant ones. Like a spoiled child in a toy store, his father had gone from one woman to another, marrying some along the way. He was vaguely aware that the man’s tally stood at something like seven.

Or was it six? He’d lost count. The slight smile widened on Sin-Jin’s lips, curving somewhat ironically.

Not bad, Sherry thought. The man was almost human looking when he smiled. She already knew that he was handsome. That much she’d gleaned while surfing the Internet for more than two hours, trying to piece together anything she could find on the man. She’d discovered that Owen was right. There wasn’t anything on St. John Adair that didn’t have to do with business. It was as if he disappeared into a black hole every night when he left the impressive edifice that bore his name.

It made her feel like Vicki Vale, on the trail of Batman.

Well, Batman was smiling, she thought. Perhaps not directly at her, but close enough.

Maybe Adair had a weak spot for pregnant women. It would be nice to be given an ace in the hole because of her condition for a change.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself. No time like the present.

Leaning around Adair, Sherry pressed the emergency stop on the elevator. The elevator hiccuped and came to an abrupt, jarring halt between the eighteenth and seventeenth floors.

The smile on his lips vanished instantly as a score of different scenarios crowded into his mind. Was he being threatened, kidnapped? There’d been two botched attempts at that in the past four years. He began to doubt the woman was pregnant. It made for a good disguise, put a man off his guard.

He was on his guard now. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sherry’s smile was sweetness personified as she looked up at him. “I was wondering if you could give me a moment of your time, Mr. Adair.”

Chapter Two

For one heartbeat, there was nothing but silence within the elevator. Sin-Jin stared at the only other occupant in the car as if she had lost her mind. He wondered if she was dangerous in any sense of the word.

“Who are you?”

Sherry was ready for him. Opening her purse, she took out the press card that she’d carefully laid on top just before entering the multiwinged building that bore Adair’s name. This was not the time to fumble through the various paraphernalia that she deemed indispensable and always dragged along with her.

She held her identification card aloft for Adair’s perusal. And watched a transformation.

The unfriendly look on his face turned to something that, in a different era and country, would have reduced pagan worshipers to quivering masses of fear had Adair been their emperor, or, more probably regarded as their god. She felt a little unnerved herself.

Sherry shook herself loose from the hypnotic effect and squared her shoulders. Fierce expression or not, he wasn’t about to make her back down.

Adair’s glare was hot enough to melt the plastic on her ID. “You’re a reporter?” It sounded like an offense second only to being a serial killer.

Damn, but she could see how he could strike fear into the hearts of those around him. She reminded herself that she wasn’t afraid of anything except a magnitude-seven earthquake.

“Investigative,” she informed him crisply, as if that fact took her out of the general pool that merited his disdain and elevated her to a higher plateau.

It didn’t. Electric-blue eyes nearly disappeared into small, darkly lashed slits. “All right, then go investigate something.”

The growled order only had her stiffening her backbone. She met him on his own battlefield, smiling sweetly. “I am. You.”

“The hell you are.” He reached past her to press the elevator release button only to have her hit the red stop button again. Stunned, he glared at her. “You will stop doing that.” It was a command, brooking no disobedience, no dissent.

Her smile never faltered as she met his words with a condition. “I will if you promise to answer a few questions for me.”

Mrs. Farley had pleaded with him to take on a bodyguard. Had even gone so far as to line up several for him to interview, but he’d then refused flatly, thinking it a waste. Now he wasn’t all that sure. At least bodyguards would keep annoying reporters where they belonged. Away.

“I never make promises I have no intention of keeping.” Again he pushed the button to restart the elevator and again she stopped it. “Look, lady—Mrs. Campbell—” he amended, exasperation evaporating the very air in his lungs.

“Right in the first place, wrong in the second,” she informed him cheerfully, then suggested, “Why not just Sherry?”

She didn’t think it possible, but his dark expression darkened even more.

“Because, ‘just Sherry,’ I don’t intend to get that friendly with you.” He hit the release button and the elevator made it to another floor before she abruptly halted it with a counterpunch. “You keep this up and the cable’s liable to break. We’ll wind up free-falling the rest of the way. That might be on your agenda, ‘just Sherry,’ but it’s not on mine.”

The glare he shot her bordered on filleting her nerves. She could see his underlings scattering and running for cover like so many Disney mice before the villainous cat in Cinderella. The thought did a lot to calm her nerves and made it difficult for her not to grin.

Sin-Jin’s eyes slid to her belly. “Are you even pregnant?” It could have been a ruse used to allow her to gain access to his floor. In his experience, reporters were capable of all sorts of devious deceptions.

She surprised him by taking his hand and placing it on her distended abdomen. “Most definitely.”

As if burned, Sin-Jin pulled his hand back. Although not soon enough. He’d felt the stirrings of new life beneath his palm. The child she was carrying had moved—probably on cue, he thought cynically.

What was a pregnant reporter doing here, lying in wait for him? He thought of the meeting he’d just left. “If this is about the Marconi merger—”

Sherry cut him short. “It’s not,” she told him. Raising her eyes to his face, she dug up all the charm she could muster. “It’s about you.”

Suspicion entered his eyes. He’d never had any use for reporters, feeding off the misery of others for their own ends. “What about me?”

“That’s exactly what I want to find out. What about you? Nobody knows anything about Darth Vader, the Corporate Raider.”

He winced inwardly at the label. If it was meant to flatter him, it missed its mark by a country mile. The limelight had never meant anything to him. Sin-Jin didn’t do what he did for any sort of recognition. He did it because he was good at it, good at trimming fat off selected businesses and getting them to run more efficiently. Once he accomplished what he set out to do and the businesses were running at their maximum peak, he grew bored with them, selling them off to other corporations while he turned his attention to something else.

That this sort of thing attracted a great deal of attention and generated an almost obscene amount of money was without question. But it was never about the money. It never had been, perhaps because there’d always been so much of it when he was growing up. Every movement he’d ever made had been cushioned in it, as if somehow money could take the place of everything else that was deemed important in life. Like parental love and warm memories to draw on when things became difficult.

He’d had the best upbringing that money could buy. All needs taken care of, everything done in a utilitarian fashion. It was the kind of upbringing that could have produced an emotional robot, which was what his enemies had accused him of being.

If no one knew anything about him, it was for a reason. Because he wanted it like that. “And it’s going to remain that way,” he informed her.

As he reached to bring the elevator back to life, she moved to block his access. “Why?”

For just the smallest second, he almost forgot that they were stuck, suspended between the eighth and ninth floor like a yo-yo that had gotten tangled in its own string. The annoying woman who kept insisting on getting into his face had eyes that were probably the deepest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Undoubtedly, she used that to her advantage, just as she used her present condition.

“Does the word privacy mean anything to you?” he demanded. “Or is that particular term missing from the lexicon distributed to the ignoble fourth estate?”

“Ouch, they weren’t kidding when they said you could fillet a person at ten paces with just your tongue.”

“No,” he informed her tersely, “they weren’t.”

But rather than take offense at his words, she smiled, her face lighting up as if he’d just given her a ten-carat diamond instead of an insult.

She probably saw it as a challenge. He supposed he could relate to that. Challenges were what he responded to himself. The harder something was to obtain, the more he wanted to secure possession.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a question crept forward. How difficult would it be to possess the woman crowding him in the elevator?

The next instant Sin-Jin blanketed the thought, smothering it. She was someone else’s wife or at the very least, someone’s significant other. And unlike his father who reveled in it, he didn’t poach on another man’s land or try to win another man’s woman if she captured his attention.

Satisfied that the verbal duel was over, Sin-Jin pressed the release button on the keypad only to have her reach for it again. The high school physics assurance that for every action there was a reaction teased his brain. Mr. Harris would have been happy that he’d come away with something from his class, he thought.

Rather than allow the annoying woman to bring the elevator to yet another teeth-jarring stop, Sin-Jin caught her by the wrist and held on tightly.

“The game is over.”

Sherry raised her chin. The look in her eyes told him that she wasn’t intimidated. He realized with a jolt that he found it arousing.

Man does not live by bread alone. Or, in his case, by corporate takeovers, he thought. Maybe it was time he got out a little instead of burning the midnight oil.

“What are you hiding, Mr. Adair?” Sherry wanted to know. Anyone so secretive had to have something he didn’t want revealed. She felt her curiosity climbing. “What are you afraid of?”

Sin-Jin realized that he was still holding her wrist. Tentatively he released it, ready to grab it again if she tried to stop the elevator’s descent. “Being on trial for justifiable homicide.”

Humor, she liked that. Even if it was a little dark. Sherry smiled in response, aware that it threw him off. She liked that, too.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure you don’t do away with me, at least not until I get my story.”

He edged closer to the doors, blocking any access she might have to the keypad in case she decided to make a lunge for it. “Tempting as the trade might be, I’m not prepared to give you a story in exchange for your fading out of my life.”

The elevator came to a stop. “When will you be prepared?”

The doors opened. He saw the security guard sitting at the desk in the lobby. If this hounding reporter gave him any more trouble, he could turn her over to the man. “There’s an old song, ‘The Twelfth of Never.’ I suggest you take your cue from the title.”

With that, Sin-Jin got off.

Just as she began to follow Adair, the baby kicked. Hard. It momentarily took her breath away. Long enough for Adair to get far enough ahead of her.

“You can run, Adair, but you can’t hide,” she called after him.

Sin-Jin never broke stride and didn’t bother looking over his shoulder. But his words hung in the air as he made his exit through the revolving doors.

“Watch me.”

The glove had clearly been thrown down. Owen had been right. This was a definite challenge. Exhilaration filled her.

“I intend to do more than that, Adair,” she murmured with a grin.

Two hours later, drained, Sherry flirted with the thought of just going home and crawling into her queen-size bed. By her count, she was down some ten hours of sleep in the past five days because her baby insisted on kickboxing for hours on end.

But tonight was her weekly Lamaze class and she hated to miss that. If nothing else, she could definitely use the camaraderie. Not to mention the fact that Rusty, her former cameraman and present coach, would be there. She could pick his brain about Adair. The man had a way of ferreting things out. If Rusty Thomas didn’t know about something, it didn’t bear knowing.

The practical side of attending her class was that she was a little more than a month away from her due date. A minor sense of panic was beginning to set in at the peripheral level. She needed all the preparation for the big event she could get.

Stopping home for a small dinner and a large pillow, Sherry changed her clothes to something even looser and more comfortable. Fifteen minutes later she was on the road again, driving to Blair Memorial where the classes were being held in one of the hospital’s outlying facilities.

The cheerfully painted room was built to accommodate a hundred. Twenty couples had signed up. They were down to thirteen after the instructor, Lori O’Neill, had shown the birthing movie. Apparently there were miracles that were a little too graphic for some people to bear. Sherry liked the extra space. It made the gathering seem more like a club than a class.

Entering the class, her pillow tucked under her arm, Sherry looked around the area. Almost everyone was here. She nodded at couples she recognized by sight, if not by name. They were a cross section of life, she thought, being brought together by their mutual condition. In the group there was an independent film producer, a lawyer, three teachers, a doctor and an FBI agent, not to mention an assortment of other people.

She looked around for her group, two women she’d gotten close to in the last few weeks. Spotting Chris Jones and Joanna Prescott, Sherry made her way over to them. They had all been introduced to one another by Lori. The incredibly perky instructor had felt that the three women would form a strong bond, given that they were all single moms for one reason or another. Lori referred to them as The Mom Squad. Sherry rather liked that label.

“So, how was your week?” Joanna asked the moment Sherry came within earshot. Of the two of them, it was Joanna who could relate more closely to the woman she recognized as the former anchorwoman of the nightly news. Joanna, a high school English teacher, had lost her job for the same reason that had seen Sherry out the door of her studio. An unmarried pregnant woman was the elephant in the living room as far as the board of education was concerned. Rather than cause problems and be in the middle of an ugly trial that might affect her students, all of whom had rallied around her, Joanna had agreed to leave.

She knew the frustration that Sherry had dealt with.

“Don’t ask.” Sherry sighed the answer as she did her best to sink down gracefully. It wasn’t an easy accomplishment. Of the three, Sherry was the furthest along.

And the largest, she thought ruefully. These days Sherry felt as if she was all stomach and very little else.

“The Mom Squad’s all here, I see.” Walking up to them, Lori placed an affectionate hand on Sherry’s shoulder. She nodded at the two coaches who accompanied the other two women. “Hi, Sherry, where’s your coach?”

Sherry glanced toward the doorway. Two couples came in, but no Rusty.

“He’ll be along,” she assured Lori. “Punctuality was never Rusty’s strong suit.”

“Well then, for your sake, I hope this baby turns out to be late,” Lori teased.

Lori shifted, trying not to look too obvious. Her back was aching. And with good reason. She hadn’t told the others yet but she’d found herself in the same delicate condition that they were in. Five months along, she wasn’t showing too much yet. With any luck, she’d be one of those rare women who could hide inside of moderately loose clothing and never show.

The noise at the door had her turning to look. “Oh, more arrivals.” About to go off and greet the newcomers, she paused for a final word with the trio. “We still on for ice cream after class, ladies?”

Chris and Sherry nodded. “Try and stop me,” Joanna laughed. “I’ve been fantasizing about a mound of mint-chip ice cream all day.”

“See you later,” Lori promised before she hurried away.

Sherry glanced at her watch, wondering what was keeping Rusty. Class was almost starting. Thinking about what she wanted to ask her former cameraman, she leaned over toward Chris. Blond and vibrant, Chris Jones was not the kind of woman who came to mind when someone said FBI agent, but that was exactly what she was, having been part of the Bureau for over six years now.

“Chris, what do you know about St. John Adair?”

“If you’re asking if the man has an FBI dossier, I wouldn’t be able to answer that—” And then Chris smiled. “If he did.”

Sherry made the natural assumption. “Which means he doesn’t.”

“Ruthless takeovers aren’t a crime in themselves, except perhaps to the people who lose their jobs because of them.” Chris cocked her head as if curious. One by one they’d each spilled their stories over various mounds of ice cream at Josie’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor. “Why do you want to know?”

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sherry pressed her hand to the small of her back, wondering if the perpetual ache she felt there was ever going to be a thing of the past. “My editor wants me to do an in-depth piece on him. I actually cornered the man in his elevator today.”

“And?” Joanna pressed.

Sherry frowned. “Mr. Adair wasn’t very cooperative. Didn’t even volunteer his name, rank and serial number. I think if he had his druthers, he would have had me up against and wall and shot.”

Joanna nodded at the information. “I’ve never seen anything written up about him. From what I’ve heard, he’s really closemouthed.” She glanced at Chris for confirmation. “Maybe he’s got some skeletons in his closet.”

Why else would someone be that secretive, Sherry wondered, nodding. She glanced again toward the doorway. No Rusty. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Well, if it makes a difference, none of them have gotten there by foul play. At least,” Chris qualified, “not to the Bureau’s knowledge.” She stopped and nodded toward the doorway. “Hey, there’s your coach.”

Without waiting for Sherry to turn around, Chris raised her hand and waved at the short, wiry man until he saw her. Raising a hand in response, he waved back and made his way over to the small, tight group.

Sherry sidled over to make room for him. Jerome Russell Thomas had been the first person to learn about her pregnancy, before her parents, even before Drew. They’d been out on a rare field assignment together, trying to corral a statement from a high-seated judge who had been brought up on bribery charges when she’d had to excuse herself. She’d barely made it to the ladies’ room in time before her lunch, breakfast and whatever might have been left of her dinner the night before came up unceremoniously.

When she’d emerged from the ladies’ room ten minutes later, sweaty and slightly green, Rusty was waiting for her just outside the door. One look at her and he’d asked her how far along she was. Her heated denial was short-lived in the face of his gruff kindness.

“My kid sister was the same shade of green that you are with her first,” he’d told her matter-of-factly. “Couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. Only thing she lived on was mashed potatoes and beef Stroganoff. You might want to try some.”

Rusty had also stood by her when Drew had decided to pull his disappearing act on her and had been there for her when the studio had all but given her the bum’s rush.

Having shown his true colors through the hard times, Rusty had seemed like the logical choice to be her coach. When she’d asked him, Rusty had protested vehemently at first, telling her that she would be far more comfortable if she had a woman as her coach. That he would be far more comfortable if she had a woman as her coach.

But Sherry had remained adamant, insisting she wanted him, and finally, he’d given in and agreed, grumbling all the way. She’d expected nothing less of him.

“Sorry I’m late. Had to fight off a horde of women at my door to get here,” he cracked.

Given the truth of the matter, the only female in his life, other than the ones he worked with, was his dog, Blanca. Sherry didn’t waste any time commenting on his fanciful excuse. Instead, the moment he dropped down beside her, she hit him with her question.

“What do you know about St. John Adair?”

Accustomed to her abrupt, greetingless greetings, Rusty paused to think.

“What everyone else knows. That he’s one of the richest son-of-a-bitches around. I don’t trust a man who looks that comfortable in a suit in ninety degree weather.” Rusty never cracked a smile. “There’s talk he’s the devil. Why?”

She watched Lori work her way to the front of the room. They were getting ready to start. “Owen’s giving me a crack at an investigative story.”

Rusty filled in the blanks. It wasn’t hard. He looked at her stomach, his meaning clear. “Couldn’t he have started you out on something easier? Like finding out where Jimmy Hoffa’s buried?”

Sherry shifted slightly. As if that could hide something. “Easy doesn’t put you on the map.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Neither does coming up to a dead end.”

She didn’t buy that. Although Lori was saying something to the gathering, Sherry lowered her voice, doing her best to appeal to Rusty. “You know everything there is to know about everything, including where all the bodies are buried. Tell me how I can get to him for a few minutes where he can’t get away. Other than an elevator,” she added.

“You always did know how to flatter a guy.” It was a tall order, but not anything he wasn’t up to. There was very little he wouldn’t do for Sherry. In the vernacular of the old-timers who had taught him his trade, he considered Sherry Campbell one hell of a broad. “Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up for you, although it probably won’t be very much.”

Sherry got herself into position, ready to begin. “At this point, I’ll settle for anything. I tried to corner him in the elevator but I couldn’t get anything out of him.”

“Any man who can say no to you just isn’t human.”

Touched, Sherry leaned over and kissed Rusty’s leathery cheek. “Thanks, Rusty. I needed that.”

Rusty tried not to blush. “Shhh.” He pointed to Lori. “Teacher’s talking. You’ll miss something.”

She was still smiling at him. “I’ll always have you to fill me in.”

Rusty’s blush deepened beneath the bronzed, craggy suntan.

Chapter Three

“Ladies, I have a confession to make.”

Lori sank her long-handled spoon into the mound of whip cream atop her fudge-ripple sundae before looking up at the other three women seated with her in the ice-cream parlor booth.

The establishment, decorated to resemble something straight out of the early fifties, provided an informal atmosphere where they could each give voice to the concerns that were troubling them, concerns about the way their lives were about to everlastingly change because of the heart that beat beneath their own. It was something they all looked forward to far more than the classes that were to ready them for the upcoming big event.

“Let me guess,” Chris interjected, deadpan. “You’re not really a Lamaze instructor, you’re actually an international spy.” Not being able to hold it back any longer, Chris grinned as she glanced around at the others. “Sorry, occupational habit. I’ve been bringing my work home with me a lot.”

Joanna nodded knowingly. “Trust no one, right?” A healthy spoonful of cookie-dough ice cream punctuated her declaration.

Chris acknowledged how good it felt to laugh about her work. So much of it revolved around darker elements. “That’s only a rule of thumb when you’re checking out aliens on Sunday nights, Joanna.”

Sherry leaned forward. They were meandering again. That was usually a good thing as far as their conversations went, but Lori looked as if she had to get something off her chest. “What’s your big news, Lori?”

Lori let her spoon all but disappear into the dessert. Sherry noted that, unlike the rest of them, Lori had hardly eaten any of hers. A distant bell went off in her head, but for now she kept her suspicions on ice.

“Well,” Lori blew out a breath, “I don’t know if it’s big—” She hesitated.

Chris was a firm believer in cutting to the chase. Even when she was trying to relax. “Sure it is, otherwise you wouldn’t be hemming and hawing. C’mon, woman, out with it.”

There was no putting this off. Even if Lori wanted to, it would be evident soon enough. And these women had become her friends. Initially, she’d been the one to encourage them to turn to her and one another. Now she needed them. Life certainly had an ironic bent to it.

Her glance swept around the square table. “I think that my ties to this little group are going to get stronger.”

Joanna looked at her, slightly confused before a light slowly began to dawn. The light had already reached Chris, but before she could say anything, Sherry beat her to it. “You’re pregnant.”

Pressing her lips together, Lori nodded.

“And you don’t think you and the dad are going to get together.” It wasn’t hard for Chris to fill in the blanks, given the nature of the expression of Lori’s face.

“Not anymore.” Lori looked down at her dessert. Rivulets of light brown were flowing down along the entire circumference of the tulip-shaped glass bowl, forming a sticky ring around the base. She dabbed at them with her napkin. “My husband is dead.”

Chris looked at her sharply. “Oh, Lori, we’re so sorry.”

“Yes, I know. So am I,” Lori said, her hand inadvertently covering her still-flat stomach, mimicking a motion she’d seen time and again in her classes. She tried to sound positive. “I’ll be all right.”

“Of course it will.” Sherry could see that the woman didn’t really want to talk about it, that what she wanted right at this moment was to have the unconditional support of her friends at a time in her life that could charitably be called trying.

Reaching out, she squeezed Lori’s hand. When Lori looked in her direction, Sherry quipped, “So, how about those Dodgers?”

Laughing, the others took their cue, and the conversation drifted to all things light and airy, temporarily taking their minds away from the more serious areas of their lives.

A great deal of ice cream was consumed within the next hour.

The insidious ringing sound burrowed its way into the tapestry of her dreams, shredding the fabric before Sherry could think to snatch it back and save it for review once she was awake.

The instant her eyes were opened, the dream became a thing of the past.

The only thing she could remember was that it had created a warm haze of well-being within her. Something to do with a man loving her, caring for her, that was it. Instinctively she knew the man had been Drew during his better days, even though the face hadn’t belonged to him.

Was it morning already?

The phone. That horrid ringing noise was coming from the phone, not her alarm clock.

With a huge sigh, Sherry groped for the receiver. It took her two tries to locate it. Her eyes were shutting again, refusing to surrender to the intruding morning. She tucked the receiver against her ear and the pillow.

“This better be good,” she threatened.

By no stretch of the imagination was she now, or ever had been, a morning person. As far as she was concerned, God should have made sure that days began no earlier than eight o’clock, which was still pretty obscene in her book, but at least doable.

“Rise and shine, Cinderella. You told me to call when I had something.”

Rusty. Rusty was talking in her ear.

Her eyes flew open. She struggled to defog her brain. “What do you have?”

“Not overly much,” he warned her.

She knew better. Rusty wouldn’t be calling her at this hour, whatever it was, if it was nothing. He didn’t have a death wish.

“It’s too early to play games, Rusty.” Blinking, Sherry turned her head and tried to focus on her clock. It was barely five o’clock. No wonder she felt like death. “God isn’t even up yet. Talk to me. What did you find out?”

“There’s this mountain retreat. It belongs to someone else, somebody named Fletcher, but Adair likes to go to it just after he does a takeover—I won’t say a successful takeover because when he’s involved, they’re all successful,” he commented. “Going there is his way of celebrating.” The raspy sound that passed for his laugh undulated through the phone lines. “Personally, if I had his kind of money, I’d be out on the town. Hell, I’d be out buying the town.”

Still lying against her pillow, Sherry dragged her hand through her hair. “So he’s shy, okay, we already know that. Where’s this retreat located?”

“At the foot of the San Bernadino Mountains, just outside of Wrightwood.”

She’d been to Wrightwood a couple of times herself. It was a small town, predominantly known for its noncommercial skiing. All the dedicated skiers went to Big Bear, which was located on the other side of Wrightwood. The former offered snow and gridlock during the winter months. Wrightwood offered scenery, charm and relative isolation. She could see Adair going there.

Sherry waited, knowing, even in her semiconscious state, that there was more.

Rusty paused dramatically. “I managed to find out that Adair’s going there this weekend. As a matter of fact, he’s already on his way.”

Sherry took it for granted that what he was telling her was not common knowledge. If it was, Adair would be on his way to a media circus camped out on the front lawn. Given his personality, that would be the last thing he’d want.

She smiled to herself. Rusty never ceased to amaze her. The man was definitely a national treasure. She blessed the day she’d gone to bat with him with their former station manager when the man had wanted to terminate Rusty, saying he wasn’t a team player. It had gained her a lifelong ally.

“I know that I shouldn’t be asking this, Rusty, but how did you find this out?”

She could almost hear his smile as it spread over his generous mouth. He had a nice smile, she thought absently.

“Mrs. Farley keeps religious notes.”

The name was vaguely familiar, but at five in the morning, nothing was overly clear. “And she is?”

“His secretary. Has been for years. As a matter of fact, he brought her with him when he first came to SunCorp.” That was what the corporation had been called before he’d changed the name to Adair Industries. “From what I’ve gathered, Adair trusts her the way he doesn’t trust anyone else.”

That would have been the lioness at the gate, Sherry thought. The woman who hadn’t allowed her to see Adair. She’d asked the secretary for an audience with Adair before resorting to the elevator trick. There hadn’t seemed to be anything remarkable about Edna Farley. Obviously she hadn’t looked closely enough. “Interesting. And you got these notes how?”

“I know a lot of people, Sherry. Some of them don’t stray more than five feet from their computers at any given time.”

Hackers, he’d used hackers. Well, whatever made the world go around, she mused. “Got a location on this retreat?”

He chuckled. She knew better than to doubt him. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

“Last time anyone checked.” Awake now, she opened the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed and pulled out a pad and pencil. “Okay, shoot.”

Rusty hesitated. “Look, instead of my giving the directions to you over the phone, why don’t I just come over in a couple of hours and drive you over there myself?”

Rusty had his own job. She knew for a fact that he couldn’t afford to take time off. The station manager would be all over him if he did. “You’ve already done enough, Rusty.” There’d been concern in his voice. She found it sweet but shackling. “I can take care of myself.”

Rusty huffed. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re pregnant.”

She hated the fact that people viewed her differently because of her condition. Of all people Rusty should have known better. “Being pregnant doesn’t mean I can’t see over the steering wheel, Rusty, or that I’ve suddenly forgotten how to take corners.”

He laughed gruffly. “I’ve seen how you drive, Campbell. They should have taken away your keys the second anyone found out you were expecting.”

“Sweet of you to worry, Rusty, but I can take it from here. Just give me the directions.”

He knew better than to argue with her. When it came to being stubborn, he’d learned his first week on the job that Sherry had no equal. He rattled off the directions, including which freeway exits she was to take and for how long. He prided himself on being thorough.

“If you change your mind about going alone, you know where to find me. I’ll be the one on the arm of the sexiest cover model in the room.”

“That’s just how I’ll expect to find you.” Laughing, she hung up.

With a sigh, Sherry dug her fists in on either side of her and then pushed herself up into an upright position.

Adair.

The memory hit her like a thunderbolt. The face of the man in her dream, the one who was supposed to have been Drew, had belonged to Adair.

Her eyes widened before she dismissed the thought. Her brain had obviously taken recent events and combined two areas of her life. Either that, or she was hallucinating. The only thing that Adair had going for him was piles of money. Okay, that and looks, she amended. Neither of which meant anything to her. The next time she was going to trust a man, he was going to have to be strong, sensitive and caring.

A sense of humor wouldn’t hurt, either. As for looks, well, she already knew what that was worth. Pretty faces, like as not, usually were the domain of shallow, vacant people. Drew was living proof of that.

With yet another deep sigh, Sherry got off the bed and went to the bathroom. The first visit of many today, she thought wearily.

He liked it here.

Liked the massive wood-framed rooms, the sparse furnishings, the wide-open spaces, both inside and out. He’d driven most of the night to get here after his late meeting with his lawyers to finalize the deal he’d been working on. It was worth it.

Sin-Jin looked through the bay window that faced the mountain and the landing pad where his private helicopter stood, waiting his pleasure. He wouldn’t be using it today. He wanted nothing more than to stay here.

There was no doubt about it. There was something bracing about being alone in the wilderness.

Of course, he didn’t attempt to delude himself that he was the thriving descendent of some savvy, resourceful frontier backwoodsman. He liked his creature comforts along with his solitude. Although he had to admit that he had toyed with the idea of not having a phone here. But in the end his sense of practicality had won over his need to be alone. The compromise was that only Mrs. Farley had his phone number here.

He trusted her implicitly. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his privacy. Privacy had become paramount for him. That was why the cabin he chose to stay in was registered to John Fletcher in the county books. No one suspected he was here today.

Mrs. Farley and he went way back. Far further than anyone suspected. Certainly a lot further than his years as a corporate raider. Other than his uncle, Edna Farley had been the first person to make a positive impact in his life, the first person who had made him feel that he mattered.

Who knew what path his life would have taken if not for her, he mused.

He owed her, owed her a great deal. Though not very vocal, he’d told her as much years ago. All she had ever asked of him was to let her earn her keep. He would have been more than willing to set her up with a lifetime trust fund in any place of her choice. She would have been set for life, but she’d chosen to work at his side. That was typical of her.

He had to admit, he rather liked that. In a way she was the mother his own mother had never been, although Edna Farley never blatantly displayed maternal feelings. They were alike that way, each shut inside with their own emotions. But she took care of him nonetheless. As he did her.

Sin-Jin looked at the gray flagstone fireplace, debating building a fire. The air was nippy up here, a hundred miles away from where he usually resided. It was barely fall, but cold weather found its way faster to this part of Southern California. There was no snow on the mountains yet, but prospects looked good, he thought. The local shopkeepers would be happy.

Maybe someday he’d retire here, he mused. It would be an idyllic life. His mouth curved. As if he could stand a life with no challenges for more than a few days.

The sound of barking in the distance alerted him. Striding across the hardwood floor, Sin-Jin went directly to his gun cabinet and took out a rifle. As he moved to the front door, he loaded the weapon. That was Greta barking. His Irish setter was his flesh-and-blood alarm system and as far as he was concerned, she did a far more effective job than any state-of-the-art laser beams. There were other advantages as well. A high-tech system couldn’t curl up at his feet in the evening and look up at him with soulful brown eyes that helped to ease the building tension of his everyday life.

Pulling the door open, Sin-Jin looked around. The woods were some three hundred feet to his right, but from this vantage point, he saw nothing.

“What is it, Greta?”

At the sound of his voice, the barking increased. As he listened, he placed the direction of origin. It was coming from several yards away. Sin-Jin strode toward the sound, his fingers wrapped around his weapon, ready for anything.

Anything except for what he found.

It was that woman again, that reporter who’d jumped into the elevator with him the other day and tried to waylay him for a story.

Damn it, how the hell did she find this place?

He scowled as he went toward her. She wore a white parka that hung open around her. He doubted that she could even come close to zipping it up around her stomach.

Something Campbell, that was it. Cheryl? No, Sherry.

He grew angrier with every step he took. She had the face of an angel and the body of a lumbering bear all primed for hibernation. Why wasn’t she hibernating?

“You’re trespassing!” he called out to her. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

Sherry struggled to catch her breath. The all-terrain vehicle she’d borrowed from a friend had decided that it wasn’t altogether happy traversing this terrain and had given up the ghost about half a mile down the road. Walking had never been a problem for her, even while carrying around the extra pounds that her baby had brought with it, but this particular half mile had all been uphill. The dog appearing out of nowhere hadn’t exactly helped matters any. Her heart was still pounding wildly. Luckily the dog had decided to be friendly.

“Right now, having car trouble,” Sherry managed to get out.

Yeah, right. You’d think that someone who wrote for a living would be more original than that. “If you expect me to believe that—”

“Go see for yourself.” Turning, Sherry pointed behind her down the mountain. “It’s about half a mile down the road.”

He had half a mind to call the sheriff and have her arrested. That would put the fear of God into her. Fuming, Sin-Jin glared at her. The woman was panting. He eyed her stomach. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating from the effort it had taken to get here.

“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded. Pregnant women were supposed to stay near hospitals, not hike up mountainsides.

“Probably.” She stopped to draw in more air. Her lungs were finally beginning to feel as if they weren’t about to explode. She tried to smile and succeeded only marginally. “I’ve been accused of that on occasion.”

Sin-Jin glanced down at Greta. The dog was prancing around the woman who kept insisting on intruding into his life. It was as if Greta and the reporter were old friends. The barking, now that he thought about it, had been the friendly variety, the kind he was apt to hear when Greta wanted to play. Obviously the animal didn’t see the woman as a threat.

He wondered if Greta was getting old.

Sherry tried to wet her lips and discovered that she couldn’t. Her mouth felt as dry as dust. “I hate to trouble you, but would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

“Yes.” Disgusted, Sin-Jin paused. It would serve the woman right if he sent her on her way just as she was. He sincerely doubted that there was anything wrong with her car. But she was obviously pregnant, and there were beads of perspiration along her brow despite the cold temperature. The walk up here, for whatever reason, had cost her. He glanced back at the cabin. Sin-Jin didn’t relish the idea of taking her in there. “I don’t suppose you want it out here.”

Sherry was beginning to feel very wobbly, as if her legs were turning to the consistency of cotton after being soaked in water. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit down.” She glanced at her surroundings and second-guessed what he was about to say. “Preferably not on a rock.”

She raised her eyes to his, the blueness assaulting him. In the light of day they looked even more intense than they had in the elevator. There was something really unsettling about the way she looked at him. His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he gazed into her eyes.

Probably just the altitude getting to him, Sin-Jin reasoned.

“What a surprise,” he muttered. “All right, come on.” He waved her forward. “But once you’re rested, you’re going back.”

She didn’t bother trying to keep up. Walking was now a challenge.

“My car died,” she reminded him.

“I’m pretty handy with a car. I’ll get it going.” There was no room for doubt in his voice. He glanced over his shoulder to see if she’d heard him. Her mouth was curved. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’ve learned something about you already.” She struggled not to huff as she followed. “I don’t recall reading anywhere that you were handy with cars.”

Sin-Jin blew out a breath, saying nothing. Instead he glanced at Greta, who was prancing excitedly from foot to foot as she ran alongside of the woman, only to backtrack and then begin again. She gave the impression of trying to shepherd the reporter into his cabin.

“Traitor,” he muttered under his breath.

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