“Every cop in the state is after you, and you’re worried about my ankle? What do you really want from me?” she asked.

“For now, all I want is for you to get in that bath.”

Liar. Marco knew what he wanted. Just once he wanted her to look at him like he was something other than a drug-stealing scumbag. He wanted her to look at him like she had the last time he’d been in her apartment, the night they’d made love.

“I won’t help you again,” Paige said. “Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?”

“I can’t do that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’ll be going, all right, but I won’t be leaving you alone. I’m taking you with me.”

Dear Reader,

There’s so much great reading in store for you this month that it’s hard to know where to begin, but I’ll start with bestselling author and reader favorite Fiona Brand. She’s back with another of her irresistible Alpha heroes in Marrying McCabe. There’s something about those Aussie men that a reader just can’t resist—and heroine Roma Lombard is in the same boat when she meets Ben McCabe. He’s got trouble—and passion—written all over him.

Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity continues with Born To Protect, by Virginia Kantra. Follow ex-Navy SEAL Jack Dalton to Montana, where his princess (and I mean that literally) awaits. A new book by Ingrid Weaver is always a treat, so save some reading time for Fugitive Hearts, a perfect mix of suspense and romance. Round out the month with new novels by Linda Castillo, who offers A Hero To Hold (and trust me, you’ll definitely want to hold this guy!); Barbara Ankrum, who proves the truth of her title, This Perfect Stranger; and Vickie Taylor, with The Renegade Steals a Lady (and also, I promise, your heart).

And if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, don’t forget to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest. Details are in every book.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

The Renegade Steals a Lady
Vickie Taylor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the loyal canines who serve our law-enforcement agencies and military everywhere.

VICKIE TAYLOR

has always loved books—the way they look, the way they feel and most especially the way the stories inside them bring whole new worlds to life. She views her recent transition from reading to writing books as a natural extension of this longtime love. Vickie lives in Aubrey, Texas, a small town dubbed “The Heart of Horse Country,” where, in addition to writing romance novels, she raises American quarter horses and volunteers her time to help homeless and abandoned animals. Vickie loves to hear from readers. Write to her at: P.O. Box 633, Aubrey, TX 76227.

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

Prologue

Paige Burkett arched in her lover’s arms. Beneath her palms, his shoulders shuddered like a locomotive, straining for that first forward inch under a heavy load. Paige’s head tipped back. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp and she hung there, eyes closed, suspended in the moment like a fly in amber.

The curtains above the bedside window parted, exhaling a breeze as hot and humid as a human breath. Overhead, the lazy spin of the ceiling fan circulated the smells of summer—the tangy brine of the Texas Gulf Coast, sweet rosemary from the pots lining the porch below, and sweat. Warm, moist flesh entwined with warm, moist flesh.

“Open your eyes,” the man above her commanded, and she complied, helpless to deny him.

Moonlight flowed like mercury over his glistening olive skin. Black hair, half an inch overdue for a trim, curled damply on the back of his neck. A twelve-hour shadow framed the sensuous curve of his mouth.

But it was his eyes that drew her attention, as they had since she’d first caught him watching her almost a month ago. The eyes of an angel, she’d thought then. Not the innocent orbs of some winged cherub, but the deep soulful wells of a mortal creature, torn between the heavenly aspirations of the divine and the sins of the damned. Dark, beckoning, full from their first glance of the inevitability of this moment, his eyes had called to her. Drawn her in even when better judgment warned her away.

Three years. For three years she’d denied herself this closeness. Told herself she didn’t need a man. Didn’t want one. Then one look from him, and she’d wanted nothing else.

Damn Marco Angelosi and his angel’s eyes.

He must have sensed the change in her mood. “Paige?”

She turned her head aside, away from his eyes. “It’s all right.”

“No.” Clasping her chin between his thumb and fore-finger, he nudged her face toward him. His black eyes probed deep inside her, to the root of her secrets. “It’s not.”

A subtle shift by him broke the fledgling bond their bodies had formed. His absence left her bereft, a hollow outline of the woman she had been. Anger flourished in the empty space.

It had to be all right. Marco might have started this thing between them, watching her all the time with those haunted eyes, but she was the one who had invited him inside tonight. Invited him to her bed.

She needed this. Needed him. Needed to feel like a woman again, if only for one night.

Paige surged up. A soft chop cut the arm he’d been leaning on from beneath him, and she flipped him easily to his back. Straddling his chest, she pinned his wrists above his head. “Then you’re just going to have to make it all right, Angelosi. Because I’m not letting you go until you finish what you started.”

He took stock of her for another long moment. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw. A smile ghosted around the corners of his mouth, then disappeared, gone before it ever really materialized. With a flick of his wrists, he reversed her grip so that it was he who held her captive.

Her breath caught as he pulled her close. The hair on his chest fired erotic shocks where it grazed her aching nipples. His lips hovered over hers, close but not touching. Gently he wound her arms around his waist.

“Then hold on tight, Burkett, because I plan to make it a lot better than all right.”

The promise tingled like a shower of tiny meteors on her skin. She reached for his face, but he was gone, working his way down her throat, touching, licking and kissing as he lowered himself. He paused to settle his mouth on her left breast, pulling the breath from her chest as his cheeks hollowed, suckled.

Cool air teased the slippery trail he left behind when his lips wandered along her ribs. He wriggled his hips between her splayed knees, sliding down the bed on his back. Pausing again, his tongue delved into her navel, then dipped lower.

Sharp sparks of pleasure darted from her core. She swayed, falling forward until only a white-knuckled grip on the headboard kept her upright. Electricity arced around her, through her. Her skin grew unbearably tight. Unbearably hot. Her blood thickened until the cells pulsed through her veins in great, throbbing knots.

“Now, Marco,” she groaned. “Oh, now.” Releasing the headboard, she clutched at his hair.

He pulled her down, rolled, and covered her with his hot, damp length. Perspiration beaded at his temples. Sinew corded in his neck and he bared his teeth, stark white against a swarthy complexion. Lacing his fingers with hers above her head, he pushed their hands against the mattress, levering his upper body away and driving his lower body inside.

Filled at last by his hardness and heat, Paige mewled her approval.

“Ah, that’s better.” That not-quite-there smile crossed his lips again, pure male satisfaction, she was sure.

Gradually adjusting to his thick intrusion, she stroked her hands down his smooth back, marveling at the power of his gathered muscles and the tremble of need, barely contained. Cupping his backside, she pulled him closer, taking his full measure.

“Much better,” she agreed.

His smile disappeared as he groaned. He eased away from her, then rolled forward, a thick wave tumbling heavily ashore. Again and again he moved over her, as rhythmic as the sea. And as deep.

The current of his passion dragged her under. She’d never felt more alive than she did at that moment, yet she was drowning. In him. The deeper he took her, the more intensely she felt the onrush of something even more dangerous, something as powerful—and unstoppable—as the tide.

Dark eyes bid her surrender to the flow.

Fear clutched at her from the shadows. Head thrown back, she gasped for air, for coherence. Her fingers bit deep into his shoulders.

His body pierced hers furiously. Seductively. Enticing her to match his pace. “Come on, let go.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

No, she mouthed soundlessly, her head thrashing from side to side.

Yes, his eyes commanded.

Gulping down her panic at the consuming void she felt approaching, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Growling, he interrupted his rhythm. With his teeth bearing down on the flesh of her neck, he wedged his hand between them, his fingers touched her where all her nerves joined together. Swirling. Spiraling. Creating a riptide of sensation.

She pushed at his shoulders. Cried out once.

And gave herself over to the vortex.

Wonder cascaded over her like moonlight on the crest of a whitecap. One by one the molecules of her body disassembled into pure energy and danced in the beam. Marco pulled back and thrust once more, then his back went rigid. He cried her name, guttural and raw, as his body pulsed inside her.

Paige held on to him as if he was the last life preserver on a sinking ship. She clutched with arms, legs, body, while the surge swelled around them, lifted them. She held him so close their hearts beat as one, their minds connected, both tumultuous.

It wasn’t until he gently kissed the tip of her nose and the creases of her eyelids that she realized the maelstrom had passed.

Still dazed by the intensity of what they’d shared, she rolled to her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. Without a word she waited for the shift of the mattress that would signal Marco’s exit from her bed, but Marco didn’t leave. Instead he wrapped his arms around her. He held her securely, almost possessively. One of his firm thighs insinuated itself between her knees and his beard stubble razed the back of her head as he smoothed her hair with his cheek.

Seconds, then minutes, ticked away. The flush gradually cooled from her skin. She shivered, and Marco pulled a blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

But surprise—and the warm current of his breath behind her ear—held sleep at bay. She wasn’t sure what she had expected tonight, but it certainly hadn’t been this. A joining that transcended sex into intimacy in its purest form.

He’d known exactly how to touch, how to move, to elicit her response. Like master and puppet he’d pulled her strings, and she’d danced for him. She’d held nothing back. She couldn’t have stopped the shattering climax he’d wrung from her even if she had wanted to—which she hadn’t.

No man had ever affected her so deeply. Touched her on such an elemental level. Had he summoned her very soul, she would have answered his call.

And that frightened her.

Marco possessed a will few men could match. He was intense. Driven. Obsessive in the pursuit of whatever—or whomever—he went after. Compulsive in the protection of anything in his keep. He would want too much from a woman, a lover. Demand too much.

More than she was willing to give.

Three years ago she’d given everything she had to a man. So much that when he walked out, there’d been nothing left of herself for her.

She’d worked hard since then to take charge of her life, to regain her independence, her self-respect. She didn’t plan to give it up to another man.

Not even a man with a sinful body and angel’s eyes.

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed twelve bells. Midnight. Appropriately, heralding both a new day and a time come to an end. For her first night with Marco Angelosi, she vowed, would also be her last.

Morning dawned in shades of gray instead of the pink and orange hues more common to coastal Texas. Paige welcomed the dull skies. A full-strength August sun would have been murder on her irritated eyes. She hadn’t slept much last night.

Despite the gunmetal canopy hanging overhead, she jammed on a pair of aviator sunglasses before stepping out of the Battan Industries warehouse she and her canine police partner, a German shepherd named Bravo, had just wasted another morning searching. This raid hadn’t turned up anything more than the last five.

Gulls screeched and circled above the nearby docks. A sea breeze toyed with the hair around her face. She tucked the yellow locks behind her ears and surreptitiously scanned the parking area for Marco.

Not that he had any reason to be here. He hadn’t been appointed to the multiagency task force assembled to investigate the influx of a new cocaine derivative called “Magic” into the area. But then, he hadn’t had a reason to be at any of the other task force busts, either, yet he had shown up at each and every one.

Department gossip rumored he was jealous. As Port Kingston Police Department’s best narcotics detective, he’d been the leading candidate to head up the task force. But for reasons unknown, his name had been left off the final postings.

Paige didn’t believe he was jealous. Marco was too much his own man to worry about office politics. She suspected his reasons for showing up where she was working were more personal. Or at least they had been. Today he had no personal reason to be here. Not after the way they’d parted.

Standing in her kitchen doorway at dawn, her bare feet chilling on the checkerboard tile floor and a terry robe wrapped around her like a suit of armor, she’d told him she couldn’t see him again.

He had taken her rebuff stoically, but something disturbing had simmered just beneath the black slate surfaces of his eyes. Something volatile and yet vulnerable. Not quite frightening, but not terribly comforting, either.

For a moment she’d thought he might argue. For a moment she’d wished he would. But Marco had apparently been raised to listen when a lady says no. In the end, his only rebuke had been a clipped goodbye and an unsettling look from eyes turned cold and hard as polished obsidian.

She’d spent the quiet morning hours afterward convincing herself that she’d done the right thing.

Outside the bedroom, men like him had little use for women like her. In their eyes, she was a lowly canine patrol officer, young, blond and petite, and therefore naive, witless and weak.

He was a renegade narcotics detective. Seasoned. Some might say jaded. Not to mention tall, dark and devastatingly handsome, his near-perfect Mediterranean features flawed only by a nose slightly bent in the middle, and an attitude to match. His station-house poodle jokes about the canine squad were legend in the department.

Despite the way it had felt between them last night, he would never see her for the cop—or the woman—she was, and she wouldn’t let herself be used by a man who saw her as anything less. Not ever again.

She slammed the steel door of the warehouse, but the noise made her jerk as if she’d been jarred from a dream—or a nightmare. Bravo thumped his tail against her thigh and whined. Rubbing his favorite spot behind his ears, reassuring them both, she set out across the parking lot.

A dozen or so officers and agents milled around in wind-breakers emblazoned with Police, DEA or Customs in big, block letters. A few of the men waved. Not in the mood for conversation, she fluttered her hand as she passed by. With any luck, she could make a getaway before one of them hailed her.

“Well, Officer Burkett,” Assistant District Attorney Jarvis Bickham chirped from behind her. Paige would have known it was Bickham even if she hadn’t recognized his voice. The parrot beak he called a nose cast a long shadow in front of them as he fell in step beside her. “How are you this fine morning?”

Grinding her teeth in an effort to crush her annoyance, she cut him a hard look. “Frustrated. Just like all those other cops over there.” She waved toward the cluster of men. “Where’s the Magic your source keeps promising us?”

More and more of the drug had been turning up on the streets of Port Kingston and nearby cities every day. So far, the task force had had no luck in tracing it despite the A.D.A.’s snitch, who was supposed to be feeding them information. As if created by the sorcery it was named for, the Magic seemed to appear from nowhere.

Supercoke, the users called it. It was a form of cocaine, ultrarefined and baked into hard bricks fifty or sixty times more potent than standard coke. Its potency meant smugglers could import smaller quantities—thus eluding detection more easily—and earn the same or greater payout.

It also meant death for the uninformed kids who didn’t properly dilute the stuff before they smoked it.

Bickham tugged at his tie uncomfortably. “There were drugs, right where my source said they would be.”

She gave a derisive snort. “A few kilos of low-quality marijuana, just like last time. It’s probably worth less than the cheap pottery it was stuffed in.”

Cheap imported flowerpots of thick ceramic, glazed in colorful geometric patterns, to be exact. Five of them. But the shipping label said six. One was missing, along with the marijuana that had probably been in it. A payoff to one of the customs agents, maybe. Or stolen by a warehouse worker.

She made a mental note to check the employee roster later, and to double-check the packing slips from the other low-yield busts the task force had made this month. It was possible this wasn’t the first time they hadn’t gotten all of the dope.

“Look,” the A.D.A. said a bit too brightly, as if glad to find an excuse to change the subject. “There’s Detective Angelosi.”

Paige’s heart lurched. She stopped. At her side, Bravo automatically sat. Lowering her sunglasses, she squinted at the figure hovering around her car. It was Marco, all right.

“Maybe he’s feeling a bit more optimistic today than you,” Bickham said.

Paige shrugged noncommittally. “I doubt it.” Not after the way he’d looked when he’d left her place this morning.

Her stomach fluttered. She jammed the glasses back on her face. Maybe she’d go chat with those Drug Enforcement Administration guys, after all.

“Why don’t we just go see?” Before she could slip away, Bickham hooked his arm around hers in a grip so tight it pinched, and dragged her forward. “Angelosi?” he called.

Marco looked over his shoulder. Paige caught a glimpse of deep blue circles under reddened eyes. Sagging cheeks. An unshaved jaw. He looked just like she felt—like hell.

He scanned the lot to see who’d called. She tensed, waiting for the jolt she always felt when that dark gaze landed on her. But the jolt never came.

His gaze cut across her as if she didn’t exist, then he walked away, his shoulders hunched and his forearms guarding his middle as if his stomach hurt.

Anger pooled in her gut. The brush-off shouldn’t have surprised her, she supposed, given the way she’d treated him this morning.

But this was work, not her bedroom. She was a cop, dammit. He would show her the respect she deserved. On the job, at least.

She exploded after him. Halfway across the parking area, she caught him with Bravo at her side, Bickham on her heels and in full view of the dozen officers and agents standing around. A couple of the others gathered closer, probably sensing something was wrong in the way she reached for Marco’s sleeve and spun him to her.

“Paige, no—” he started, then stopped. For a moment, his eyes held the same vulnerability she’d seen this morning in her kitchen, and then regret, bone deep.

Bravo whined. The dog’s tail thumped on Paige’s leg as he stepped forward, sat in front of Marco and barked, then scratched at Marco’s foot.

Paige’s face wrinkled as if she’d aged decades in the span of a second. The task force officers formed ranks behind her, recognizing Bravo’s “hit” signal, the sign that he’d found drugs.

“Marco?” she whispered. The tightness in her chest prevented her from speaking louder.

Marco’s eyes went blank. Carefully, painfully blank. Sighing, he let his hands fall to his sides. His jacket opened, and the packages he’d been hiding beneath tumbled out.

“Marco…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the five kilos of marijuana piled at his feet.

At least she needn’t second-guess her decision this morning to end their affair. Nor her presumption that he would only have used her.

Because he already had used her. He’d been using her all along, apparently, her and Bravo both, to find his drugs.

So he could steal them.

Chapter 1

Six months later

Midnight. Fitting, Paige thought, checking the luminous hands on her watch as she ran.

Midnight, moonlight, the bay of hounds muffled by a chilling mist—what better backdrop for a manhunt? Especially when the man being hunted was Marco Angelosi. Marco was a man of shadow and light, comfortable in the dark and as hard to get a handle on as a fistful of fog.

At one time he’d been a good cop. Dedicated. Driven. Although his methods were sometimes unorthodox, he’d had the best arrest record on the force, and his cases stuck.

But that Marco had been an illusion. What was fog, anyway, but a trick of the light?

Thin air.

As thin as the sharp, frosty air she couldn’t seem to pull enough of into her heaving lungs as Bravo, nose deep to the ground, pulled her along the rocky terrain of Lake Rowan State Park, fifteen miles north of Port Kingston.

“Break, Bravo.” She pulled the dog to a stop and listened, but the howling of the other canines had long ago faded into the night behind her.

Her sergeant would have her cleaning kennels until Christmas when he found out she’d broken off from the grid search and circled the lake on her own. Eventually he’d forgive her, though. He had to; he was her brother.

Besides, Sergeant Matt Burkett and the others were barking up the wrong road. She knew Marco Angelosi. Knew him intimately. She knew the confidence he had in his body.

He wasn’t on the highway.

She looked back at the black lacquer surface of Lake Rowan. That’s where Marco had gone. He’d swum the lake.

Never mind that it was February and the water temperature couldn’t be sixty degrees, or that the narrowest crossing from shore to shore spanned better than a mile.

Marco wouldn’t take the easy way.

Bending over against a stitch in her side, she raised her head to get her bearings. The shifting fog glowed around her, reflecting the light of the three-quarter moon and limiting her visibility to twenty or thirty feet in front of her. Curse this weather. It was making the job ten times harder than it should have been, and the job was hard enough already, emotionally and physically.

She shivered. Bravo let out a high whine.

Her hand automatically fell to the pleasure spot behind the dog’s ear and rubbed. “It’s all right, B. We’ll find him.”

No matter what, she added silently.

Marco couldn’t just walk away from a prison van wreck and pick up life where he’d left off. She would find him.

And then she would send him back.

Her fingers clenched around Bravo’s leash. Apprehending Marco wasn’t just her sworn duty as a peace officer; it was a matter of dignity.

After his arrest, Paige had quietly resigned from the task force. She didn’t deserve the post. She’d made a mistake, allowed her objectivity to be compromised and because of it the entire investigation could have been compromised. The combined agencies working the case still hadn’t found the source of the Magic, but at least no more evidence had disappeared from the drug shipments they had found.

Bravo’s nose twitched, turned into the breeze, snuffling. He had a scent. Marco?

Her skin tingled at the mere passing of his name through her mind. Like some genetically programmed reaction, the feeling was intense, instinctive and unstoppable. For a moment he was there, touching her again, his broad fingertips skimming expertly over her breasts, her belly, the insides of her thighs.

A moan rumbled up her throat, but she snatched it back, tamping down the surging warmth inside her by concentrating on the cold of the night. The chill seeped under her jacket and she felt the charge in the air. Her nostrils flared.

He was here; she felt him.

They’d been together only that one night, but oh, what a night. Chemically, electrically, she was still connected to him. She feared she always would be.

Bravo strained at his collar, eager to get back to work. Her breath less labored now, Paige stamped her boots in the fallen leaves, forcing circulation to her toes, and motioned Bravo forward with a flick of her hand.

The dog tugged her along as he picked up speed. He whined again and his tail thumped Paige’s thigh as she scrambled for footing on the slippery ground. He snuffled the base of a rocky hill, not terribly tall—twenty, maybe twenty-five feet high—but steep. On another night, another search, she might have taken Bravo around. But not tonight. Not when it was Marco she was after.

Her own heartbeat reflecting Bravo’s near-giddy excitement, she let go of the leash, urged Bravo on and scrambled up the hillside. Her fingers scratched at soil and rocks, clinging even where there were no handholds.

Finally she dragged herself over the top edge and, puffing hard, propped herself against a narrow trunk in a stand of pine.

Her first thought was for Bravo, loping up the trail ahead. The dog wouldn’t wait for her. He’d follow the scent, as he’d been trained, unless she called him back. It was up to her to follow him, which, in this fog, wouldn’t be easy.

Her second thought wasn’t a thought at all, but a pain, like a hand wringing dry her heart. On the hillside above her, a rock outcropping burst through the mist. On that rock stood the figure of a man.

Fog wafted across his outline like ribbons of silk, making him appear magical, ethereal. Prisoner’s coveralls plastered his figure like a bright orange second skin, detailing every curve, every bulge of a muscular physique she knew too well.

Her skin zinged. The temperature seemed to warm ten degrees in as many seconds, or at least the cold no longer mattered.

She’d found him.

Or had he found her?

He was looking right at her. He couldn’t possibly see her through the fog, in her little stand of trees, yet she felt certain he knew she was there. Could he feel her presence the way she felt his? The possibility set her blood pounding even harder.

His head snapped to his left. Brush crackled and twigs popped.

Bravo? Had he caught up to Marco already?

She moved from behind the tree trunk to call instructions to the dog. As she did, Marco leaped into a clump of scrub around the base of a cottonwood tree.

A few bushes wouldn’t protect him from Bravo. She ordered her feet to run. Heading out along the edge of the precipice, she opened her mouth to yell.

The words never had a chance to form in her throat. She saw the muzzle of a gun flash from the spot where Marco had disappeared. Instinctively she skidded to a halt, bracing for the impact of the bullet even before she heard the shot.

Her feet slipped on the rocks. She flailed her arms, struggling madly to regain her balance. A puff of air breezed by her temple. She wasn’t sure if the bullet hit her or not, because she was already falling.

She grasped at branches, at roots, but couldn’t hold on. Down she fell, tumbling, twisting, bouncing along the slope until there was nothing but the pounding of her body on rock, the snaring of her clothes and skin on brush.

Her last thought before darkness overcame her was of Marco, not as he’d looked on the rocks in prisoner’s garb, but as he’d looked in her bed. Naked. Virile.

And hungry.

Lying in the brush behind the man he’d just choked into unconsciousness, Marco forced himself to ease his forearm off the shooter’s throat just short of killing him.

The bastard had shot her. Shot Paige.

Pushing the man’s prone body away, Marco jumped up to run, but spared one last scathing glance for the limp form at his feet. He needed to get to Paige, but if he was going to make any sense of what was happening to him, to them, Marco needed to know who this man was.

That evening, while working on a prison crew cleaning up litter from the side of the highway, another prisoner, Tomas Oberas, had picked a fight with Marco, getting them both sent back to the lockup early. At the time, Marco had wondered what was going on. He’d never had a problem with Oberas before. On the way back to the prison, he got his answer.

The fight was a setup. Someone had wanted Marco on that van, with only one guard and no other prisoners except for Oberas. They’d wanted him there because they’d wanted him. And they’d nearly gotten him.

He’d barely escaped alive when they’d forced the van off the road. Then this man, and others like him, came after Marco. If it hadn’t been for the dense woods and nightfall, he would never have evaded them.

He hadn’t escaped them, yet, he thought, reminding himself not to get cocky. They were a determined group. He wasn’t sure what they wanted from him, but whatever it was, they wanted it badly.

Counting each precious second wasted, Marco dug his toe under the man’s shoulder and flipped him over. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t the one behind all this, of that much Marco was sure. Arranging a prison break took money. More money than a man wearing a stained sheepskin jacket, faded camouflage and boots with cracked soles would have.

He was just a hired gun. But whose?

Most likely the same person who had hired the other prisoner, Tomas Oberas, to pick a fight with him. Marco’s being on that van tonight hadn’t been a coincidence any more than the wreck had been an accident.

Fingers fumbling in his effort to hurry, Marco bent over and checked the man’s pulse. Steady and strong, but he’d have a headache when he woke, not to mention a sore throat. Next he pulled the man’s wallet out of a pocket. Kind of the shooter to bring credit cards along—those might come in handy. Another valuable moment flew by while Marco glanced at the driver’s license, memorizing the name—Lewie Kinsale—then holding the cards in his teeth while he ejected the rounds from the man’s rifle and flung the bullets as far as he could.

As long as he was helping himself, he shimmied the man out of his coat. Marco figured he needed it worse than this guy did. Skinny-dipping in the lake had nearly turned him blue. He’d known the water would be cold, but he hadn’t figured on the swim taking twice as long as it should have. On a good day he could swim the mile in less than twenty minutes. But today was definitely not a good day.

Knowing he would need dry clothes to prevent hypothermia when he reached the other side, he’d held his jumpsuit out of the water with his one good arm. With the other arm, the one he’d wrenched in the wreck, he’d pulled himself along as best he could, glass shards grinding inside his shoulder with every movement. For the last ten minutes of his swim, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see the far shore. The cold, black bottom of the lake had seemed almost inviting.

Marco shivered at the memory. He hadn’t given up then and he wasn’t about to give up now.

He gave the sheepskin sleeve a final yank and clutched the coat to his chest. Pulling the man’s belt out of its loops next, he fashioned a pair of makeshift handcuffs to slow the man down in case he woke sooner than Marco predicted. Finally, urgency battering his chest like a jackhammer, he turned to run.

He hadn’t taken the first step before he had to pull up short again. He froze, face-to-face with the most intense whiskey eyes he’d ever seen. Familiar eyes. And familiar lips, peeled back to reveal two rows of teeth. Very long, very sharp teeth.

“Bravo,” he finally managed to say, pushing the childhood horrors out of his mind. “Hey, boy.”

Bravo growled, low and deep.

“Long time no see.” The dog’s diesel rumble kicked up a gear. Marco swallowed. Hard. “You know who I am, don’t you? You remember me. You’ve been looking for me.”

Bravo took a menacing step forward. It took all the will-power Marco possessed not to step back. God, he hated dogs. Especially big ones like this—giant furry bundles of claws and fangs and eyes that locked on like laser-guided missiles.

Bravo swung his head around to check the trail behind him, a whine intermixed with his growls. Marco recognized the dog’s confusion. Hopefully he could use that uncertainty to his advantage. Slowly he wrapped the sheepskin coat around his left forearm, just in case Bravo wasn’t as confused as Marco thought.

“What’sa matter, boy? Don’t know what to do without Paige here to tell you?”

Marco took a brave step forward. The dog’s attention snapped back, but he didn’t attack. Marco’s confidence soared. He could do this. Bravo knew him. Marco had watched Paige handle the dog enough times. Had worked crime scenes with them. He even knew a few basic commands.

Paige had insisted on introducing him to Bravo up close and personal when he’d come into her house, despite Marco’s reluctance to be in the same room with the dog. Bravo was trained to protect her, she’d said. He needed to know Marco wouldn’t hurt her.

Marco had agreed quickly enough then. God knows he hadn’t wanted Bravo to mistake the, uh, gymnastics with Paige as a struggle. Not with the most vulnerable part of his anatomy attracting trouble like a lightning rod.

He’d sweated all the way through his brief Police Dog 101 course, but he had survived. Now that training was paying off in a way he’d never imagined. Bravo knew him as one of the good guys. The dog wouldn’t bite him.

He hoped.

“Paige isn’t coming, boy,” he said reassuringly. “You’re going to have to figure this one out on your own.”

Marco eased forward another step. Bravo barked a warning, shifting his weight from paw to paw.

Marco stopped. His heart spiked every time the dog blinked, much less barked. Dammit, he had to get past that dog. What was the matter with him? It was just an animal, a dumb mutt.

A dumb mutt with three-inch incisors and more schooling than most people with college diplomas.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for this.

Paige had told Marco that looking a dog in the eye was tantamount to a challenge. Sort of like staring a man down, direct eye contact established dominance…to the survivor.

Swallowing his fear, he looked down at Bravo. Unblinking, he held the dog’s gaze.

“Sorry, boy, but I’ve gotta go see about Paige.” He stepped forward, ignoring the foam dripping from the corner of Bravo’s mouth, or at least trying to. “You’re really just a big, prissy poodle, aren’t you?” Picturing Paige’s protector with a big frou-frou haircut bolstered Marco’s confidence again. “You’re not going to bite me.”

He moved past the dog, turning sideways but never releasing the dog’s stare as he passed. Bravo barked harshly, a decidedly unpoodlelike warning.

Determined not to show fear, Marco took another step. A twig snapped under his heel. Instinctively he jerked his head toward the sound.

Bravo lunged, taking Marco’s break of concentration as victory. And to the victor go the spoils, as they say. Marco just hoped the spoils didn’t include his jugular.

Bracing against the attack, he flung the arm he’d wrapped in sheepskin out in front of him. Long teeth sunk deep into the coat. At first there was only intense pressure, like a vise closing on his arm. Then the coat slipped, and Bravo’s teeth sunk through the sheep’s hide and into Marco’s. Into flesh and sinew.

He stumbled backward, fighting his panic as much as the pain. All he could think was Don’t go down. Don’t let him get you down.

His back hit a tree. He used the solid trunk to regain his balance. Bravo tugged with all his weight, sitting back on his haunches and pulling. Fire streamed through Marco’s arm, then ice. Then nothing. Numbness.

Okay. No more poodle jokes, ever. I promise.

With his free hand, he groped for the leash dangling from the dog’s collar and jerked. The German commands Paige had taught him came back in a rush and he reeled through them, searching for the right one. “Aus!” he commanded. Out.

The dog twitched, clearly confused by this man who was both master and prey. Marco repeated the command twice more, yanking on the leash until the dog reluctantly released his padded arm.

Ignoring the slide of blood down his palm, Marco pulled the dog close, all his attention on the ninety pounds of quivering canine at his side.

“Foos,” he ordered. Heel.

Unmoving, the dog glared at him like a rattler ready to strike. Matching glare for glare, Marco put all the breath he had into his voice. “Give it up, big guy. I’m in charge.”

The dog’s ears sloped back. A good sign, he thought.

“Now, foos!”

Bravo spun around Marco’s legs to sit at his heel. Marco smiled. Almost.

Flexing his fingers painfully, he unwound the punctured coat from his forearm and pulled it on.

“All right, let’s go.”

He jogged away, slowly letting out his breath when Bravo trotted along beside him instead of chewing his leg off.

Marco thought he’d have another showdown when they reached Paige’s crumpled form. Bravo circled his fallen mistress, whining and batting at her with his paw as if to wake her. Marco was beyond caring about the dog. The hounds of hell couldn’t have scared him more than the sight of her body folded on the cold ground.

Hardly breathing as he knelt at her side, he brushed the dirt and leaves from her face and uttered quiet thanks when her breasts rose visibly with her next breath. Her pulse bounced steadily off the fingertips he pressed to her carotid.

Bravo let out a low, moaning howl. All hint of aggression disappeared from the dog as he lay down at Paige’s side as if he knew she was in trouble.

“It’s all right, boy,” Marco reassured the dog. “She’s going to be all right.”

Bravo lapped his tongue over Marco’s ear.

“Thanks,” Marco said, wiping his face as he restarted his heart. “I think.”

Laying Paige’s head gently on the ground, he worked his hands over the length of her body, probing carefully. There was no sign of a bullet wound, thank God. The shooter had missed. Either Marco had tackled him in time to ruin his aim, or Lewie Kinsale wasn’t a very good shot. Marco didn’t care which; he’d take alive any way he could get it.

The sight of the abrasions on her face and the reddened areas that would soon be bruises sobered Marco quickly. A bullet wasn’t the only way to die out here. The cliff over his shoulder climbed some twenty feet up, its sharp slope made even more treacherous by jagged rocks, protruding roots and brush. It must have been a rough ride down.

The thought of spinal injury worried him most. But as he checked her out, she shifted her arms and legs restlessly. That was a good sign, he hoped. And the Kevlar vest she wore under her uniform would have offered some protection to her vital organs.

Lightly massaging the scalp beneath her full, blond hair, he found a gash on the crown of her head. The cut oozed blood steadily, but didn’t appear deep. All in all, he figured she’d been lucky, until he got to her left ankle.

She groaned when he wiggled her foot. He muttered a curse. The joint was already swelling. He couldn’t tell if the ankle was broken or just sprained, but either way she wasn’t going anywhere under her own power for a while.

Tamping down a feeling of impending disaster, Marco gently settled her foot back on the ground, raised his head and looked around. He needed to put some distance between himself and those hunting him. The night was deep and dark now, but it wouldn’t be for long. When the sun rose, he’d be an easy target.

As would Paige, if there were more like Lewie Kinsale prowling around these woods.

He looked down at her pale face. As it did every time he looked at her, every time he thought about her, his heart gave an involuntary twist.

After six months in jail, he’d thought his reaction to her would have dulled, but one look at her had brought back all the old feelings like rapier points at his chest.

Guilt. He’d made his mistakes.

Shame. He’d endured the humiliation his actions had brought about. More.

Frustration. He’d had heaven at his fingertips and let her slip away.

Six months in prison hadn’t taken any edge off those emotions.

Desire. If anything, being away from her had only made him want her more. So much so that he wondered if, at this point, the woman could live up to the fantasies.

And somewhere deep inside, below all the other feelings, stirred the strongest sentiment of all.

Anger. The cold sting of rejection.

She didn’t want to see him again. It was a mistake, she’d said the morning after they’d made love.

If that was true, it had been a damn costly one. Because of that one night with her, he’d lost his job, his freedom, and now very nearly his life. All for a woman who wanted nothing more from him than a single night’s pleasure.

At least that’s what she’d said.

He couldn’t help feeling there was something else holding her back. Something she was afraid of. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Her lashes fluttered. She was coming around.

As she struggled for coherence, he relieved her of her sidearm, shoving the pistol into one of the big pockets of the sheepskin coat, and tossed her crushed police radio into the woods.

“Welcome back,” he said when her eyes found focus on his.

Her back stiffened. Her face twisted, whether from pain or outrage, he couldn’t be sure. She raised a hand as if to strike him, but he easily blocked the blow and held on to her wrist to prevent her from trying it again.

She rolled away from him, scrambling to her hands and knees, but he rolled with her, pinning her beneath him. They came to rest in a tangled heap of arms and legs, her back to the ground, her chest heaving up to meet his with each laborious breath. With some difficulty, he managed to trap her arms above her head before she scratched his eyes out.

Her eyes spit venom.

“You’re under arrest,” she hissed.

Chapter 2

A burst of laughter warmed Paige’s cheek, but Marco’s eyes held no humor. Nor did his appearance.

His hair was shorter than when she’d seen him last, the cut almost utilitarian. She supposed simplicity took precedence over style in prison.

His haircut wasn’t the only thing about him worse for wear, she thought, her head still muzzy as her gaze trailed down over his face. He still had the eyes of a dark angel, but now one of them sported a blue bruise underneath. An abrasion marred his square jaw and blood coagulated over a split lip.

He looked like he’d been in a train wreck.

Her head cleared with the suddenness of a rifle shot.

Wreck. The prison van. Escape.

Oh God, he’d shot her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocked out the sight of him, the pain in her head and ankle, the singing of her traitorous nerves at the feel of him draped over her, his heart pounding and his body pulsing.

“I mean it,” she said. “I’m taking you in.”

He laughed again, then flexed his arms slightly, pressing his heat even closer. His body felt all warm and supple, and she was cold. So cold.

“You have no idea how good that sounds right now,” he said.

Her cheeks sparked like roadside flares. At least the fire chased away the cold. By God, whatever he did tonight, he was not going to make fun of her. She was a cop, and he was going to respect her for it, this time.

She reached for her holster, but her hand came away empty.

He smiled down at her, saying nothing.

“Bastard.”

His stony silence continued. He didn’t deny. Didn’t defend himself. Just like in court.

He’d been sentenced to four years for theft and evidence tampering. He could have gotten less if he’d offered some explanation for his actions, or shown some remorse. Instead he’d let the charges pass with a single comment.

Guilty.

She still wore the word, as if he’d stamped it on her soul.

Though she’d found the drugs on him herself, she and Bravo, she’d watched every minute of his trial, hoping for some explanation before the judge. Until it was over, and his sentence pronounced, she hadn’t really believed he’d done it. Hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Hadn’t wanted to believe she’d been used again.

A small sound of distress escaped her throat. She was at a loss for what to do next, how to get away, until Bravo whined beside her.

Slowly she raised her gaze to Marco’s.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

Confidence in her partner added substance to her words. “Bravo will rip your throat out if I tell him to.”

“I don’t think so.” Marco let go of one of her wrists and lowered his arm until she could see his bloodied sleeve. “The poodle and I have already reached an understanding about who is alpha male around here.”

“He bit you?” That wasn’t possible. No man got away from an attack by a well-trained police dog, and Bravo was the best. “What happened? How did you get him off?”

Levering herself upright, Paige grabbed at his arm, examining the bite.

Marco hissed and jerked away. His fingers looked like five fat sausages. “I guess he found me as distasteful as I find him.”

Bravo promptly disproved that theory by scooting up to Marco, tail wagging, and laying a big, fat smooch on the offended arm. Marco reared backward as if he’d been burned.

Paige was still trying to puzzle out both man’s and dog’s odd behavior when Marco, apparently recovered, clambered to his feet.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he groused. “We’re losing time.”

A shudder scuttled up her spine. “We?”

He scooped her into his arms, answering that question. “You didn’t think I’d just leave you here, did you?”

She pushed against his left shoulder and he flinched. A weak spot, she noted. Maybe one she could use against him, later. She was going to have to wait for the right time, and opportunity, to have any chance of escape.

“I think you’d better,” she said, forcing herself to be patient. “Or you’re going to be facing kidnapping charges.”

“Not if they don’t catch me.”

“There are fifty cops out there looking for you. How do you think you’re going to get away?”

He flicked his dark gaze down at her. “You’re going to help me.”

Her breath stopped cold. “Like hell.”

“You’ll do it.” He headed into the woods at a quick walk. “We’re going back to your car, and you’re going to drive me out of here.”

“I’ll scream my head off at the first cop I see.”

He stopped. His breath crystallized in front of his face like miniature storm clouds. “No you won’t.”

Shifting her weight onto one arm, his good arm, with the other he raised the pistol he’d taken from her to her cheek. The gun’s gleaming steel barrel chilled her flesh. She tried to turn away, but that put her face against his chest.

She preferred the gun.

“You won’t scream,” he continued in a voice more suited to seduction than intimidation, “because you don’t want another cop to go down with a bullet from your gun. The gun I took away from you.”

She almost laughed hysterically when she realized she’d been about to say that Marco wouldn’t shoot a cop.

He’d shot her, hadn’t he?

Damn him. Losing a gun, someone else getting hurt with it, killed with it, was every cop’s nightmare, and he knew it.

She gulped in a mouthful of air as sharp as knife blades, glaring at nothing over his shoulder. “I don’t need another cop to take you down. I’ll do it myself, when the time is right.”

He put the gun away, hefted her securely against him and set out at a jog. “I’m sure you’ll try.”

Marco had been running for nearly an hour and still couldn’t find a shred of rhythm. Each step landed harder and jerkier than the last. His lungs burned under the ribs Tomas Oberas had pounded. The forearm Bravo had bit throbbed. Paige’s weight in his arms, slight as it was, drove needles in and out of his bad shoulder.

Since he’d been a teenager, he’d used running as a way to leave the physical pain behind, the way his friends in Oklahoma had taught him. By concentrating on the exertion and the hypnotic beat of his step, he could go outside his body, outside his troubles, and more recently, outside the prison walls.

Yet tonight, when he tried to picture the red rock canyons of Oklahoma he once ran with his friend, Toby Redstone, and the other Caddo Indian boys, all Marco could see was Paige’s head lolling against his chest. When he tried to visualize a thunderstorm gathering over the tall grass of the plains, he saw only her hair fanned across his shoulder. Hair that reminded him of warm honey.

She’d cut it since he’d seen her last. A multitude of intriguing layers now fell around her cherubic face, curling in at the ends to cup her high cheeks and support her fine-boned jaw.

He definitely approved.

And the smell…

He breathed deep. Her hair smelled just the way he remembered. Like he’d dreamed about. Pure, clean baby shampoo.

Every night these last six months, he’d buried his nose in the single, thin pillow allotted for his bunk, inhaled a breath that shouldn’t have held the scent of anything except industrial detergent and the odor of too many men in too close quarters, and smelled baby shampoo instead.

Sometimes it infuriated him that he couldn’t get her out of his head. Sometimes he was glad to have the memory to hold on to. Either way, sleep was lost in the wanting and the regret.

He’d learned to live on the edge of exhaustion, which was a good thing, because he was beyond exhaustion now.

One foot in front of the other, he told himself. Inhale four beats. Exhale four beats. Focus on the rhythm.

But no amount of concentration blocked out the constricting pain in his gut when he felt her shiver in his arms.

She was cold. He held her closer and forced himself to evaluate more than the proud rise of her cheekbones and her perfectly pitched eyebrows. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was conscious.

She just didn’t want to see him.

He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

She was pale, but not deathly so. Instead of their usual red-wine color, her lips were light pink, and parted slightly as if she wanted to be kissed.

The urge to do just that took him with the force of a freight train. He could put some warmth back in those lips. Color back in her cheeks.

His heartbeat tripled and blood surged to the center of his body. The sharp pangs of regret troubling his gut softened to sweet hunger. Then he stumbled, caught himself and cursed, his breath sawing harshly through the quiet night air.

He should be watching where he was going, not eating up the sight of her like a starving man at a king’s banquet. She hadn’t wanted him even before she’d caught him stealing drugs from her bust. She surely didn’t want him now.

What they’d had was not to be repeated, regardless of any false hopes rising in his traitorous body. In fact, if she got her hands on her gun anywhere in his presence, he might never have to worry about that particular discomfort again.

She was a good shot, and she had reason to hold a grudge.

Up ahead, an engine came to life. Paige’s eyes snapped open. Her body tensed in his arms, but she said nothing as he pushed on.

Beyond the tree line, radios crackled. Hurried footsteps scuffed across gravel. This was it, the search command center.

In the fog, the parking lot looked like a sea of cop cars. Dozens of vehicles, many more than he had counted on, were strewn in front of him in no particular order. County Sheriff, Department of Corrections, City Police, Texas Highway Patrol—they were all in attendance.

All looking for him.

He couldn’t see Paige’s truck, but it must be nearby.

Throwing her a warning glance, he zipped out to the closest car and ducked behind the rear bumper. Bravo followed like a ghost, the slight click of his toenails on rock the only proof he was more flesh and blood than spirit being.

Zigging and zagging from vehicle to vehicle, the three of them crossed the lot. Marco chanced a look over the hood of their latest hiding place, reorienting himself and searching for Paige’s canine-equipped Ford Expedition.

“Where did you park the thing, New Mexico?” he grumbled.

He spotted her truck before she could answer. Not that she would have answered, anyway. Apparently she found satisfaction enough in glaring at him.

A few yards closer, and he could see the wire barrier behind the front seat that sectioned off the dog’s compartment.

Good.

He glanced cautiously at the mutt. Bravo hadn’t offered him any trouble since their showdown in the forest, but Marco would feel better when he got that animal and its fangs back in a cage. The arm he’d bitten hurt like a—

A car door slammed to Marco’s right. He hit his knees behind the front wheel well of a highway patrol souped-up Ford. The trooper was close.

Too close! Jesus, he could see the man’s shiny black shoes on the other side of the car. The feet were broad and the steps sluggish, like a man overweight and out of shape.

Marco flattened himself against the car door, holding Paige to him tightly. He did the best approximation of the “down” hand signal he could manage. Thankfully, Bravo dropped to the gravel despite Marco’s limited command of doggie sign language.

The trooper’s steps led around the front of the car. Marco’s heart shot into overdrive. His brain screamed for oxygen, but he didn’t dare breathe. He fingered the gun in his pocket.

Hell, if it went down like this, it was going to get ugly. Paige’s fingers curled in the collar of his jumpsuit. Her eyes implored him.

Looking away from her, he brought the gun to his side, his fingers stiff with dread.

The trooper stopped just short of coming around the corner of the Ford where he could see them. Another man, lighter on his feet, joined him.

They were so close Marco could smell the smoke of the cigarette one of them lit. The smoldering match landed just inches from Marco’s hand.

For the first time in a lot of months, Marco prayed, silently but fervently.

“Getting here kinda late, aren’t you?” The question came from the trooper’s position.

“Had to find a sitter for my little girl,” the other man grumbled. Riley Townsend. The voice was unmistakable, disgruntled as it was. Riley rounded out the Port Kingston canine squad at three, with Paige and her brother, Matt. If he got his dog out of his car, it was all over.

“It’s supposed to be my night off,” Riley finished, sounding no happier than he had before.

Marco didn’t blame the man. He’d seen Riley’s daughter, Alyssa, at a department picnic once. If he’d been called away from a kid like that to traipse around the woods all night, Marco wouldn’t have been too happy about it, either.

Paige recognized the voice, too. Marco felt tension spiral through her. It must have been hell for her, knowing help was so close, and not being able to call for it.

He pushed away his empathy for her. Help came in a lot of forms. A lot of packages. Sometimes people didn’t recognize it.

After a moment’s silence, Riley asked, in a make-peace tone, “So what’s the deal here? Anybody got a trail yet?”

“On your boy Angelosi? Nah. But we’ll get him.”

“He’s not my boy,” Riley said. “And you sound like you’re enjoying this.”

“To tell the truth, some of us are right looking forward to ridin’ him down. Don’t like what he did. One bad cop makes us all look like a bunch of thievin’ dopeheads, you know?”

There was a pause. Paige’s gaze turned up to Marco’s and he looked away, choking on the tattered remains of his pride. It was bad enough to hear condemnation like that. Worse to have to look in her eyes as she heard it, too.

“He was a good cop, once,” Riley said.

“Well, he ain’t no cop no more, is he?”

Riley’s pause was shorter this time. “No. I guess not.”

The trooper rocked heel-to-toe. “Damn straight. He’s just a con on the run.”

Riley snorted disgustedly. “He’s a minimum security walk-away. Nothing to get your shorts in a wad about.”

The trooper went still. “You didn’t hear the squawk?”

“What squawk?”

The trooper’s weight eased back as if he’d lifted his head or squared his shoulders. Marco heard him tap out another cigarette. “Got a light?” Shiny Shoes asked.

“Those things’ll kill you,” Riley answered. “What squawk?”

Sweat chilled along Marco’s spine, that and apprehension making his skin crawl. He needed to get out of there. Get Paige out of there. But he also needed to hear what the police were saying about him. He had a feeling it wasn’t good. Cops didn’t tell stories without milking them for all they were worth. The bigger the buildup, the better the punch line.

This one was getting a pretty big buildup.

The trooper hitched up his pants. A second later, Marco heard the strike of a match. A sulfurous scent mingled with the crisp fog. The trooper puffed, then blew out a slow breath. “Your boy Angelosi walked away, all right. Walked away from a burning van with a guard and a driver still pinned inside.”

Paige jolted in Marco’s arms. This time he couldn’t look away. In her eyes, he saw the horror, the flames she must be imagining. In his mind he smelled the smoke.

Heard the screams.

Dull blades of pain tore through him at the memory.

“They’re dead?” Riley asked.

“Uh-huh,” the trooper said. His voice bubbled with hatred. “Don’t know about you canine types, but for us troopers, that makes Angelosi a murderer.”

Paige’s nails dug into Marco’s chest. Her pulse galloped beneath his fingertips. Even in the near dark, he could see the sheen of revulsion in her eyes. She was going to call for help. Despite the danger to herself, she was going to give him up.

Her lips parted. The urge to press his own mouth over them hit him like a bolt from the heavens.

Her body arched as she pushed against him. The soft mounds of her breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest. She pulled in a deep breath, ready to scream.

Aw, hell.

Just before the sound welled out of her, he crushed her to him and stopped the noise.

Paige’s lungs burned with the need for air. When her head began to swim, she bit the hand Marco had clamped over her mouth. He flinched, but didn’t let her go. His other hand caressed the nape of her neck, stroking maddeningly.

A promise, or a threat?

Two sets of footsteps crunched across the gravel behind her, then receded into the darkness. A car door thunked, and an engine roared to life. Paige slumped back to the ground at the grind of tires over rock, headed the other way. Dully, she recognized the noise as the sound of hope pulling away. Dignity. For as Marco carried her to her truck and sat her behind the steering wheel, she realized she had none left.

He was going to use her again, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Yet.

Marco put Bravo in the back, then circled to the passenger door, climbed inside and handed her the keys. “Get on the radio,” he said. “Tell them you’re leaving.”

She reached for the microphone with an unsteady hand. “Matt won’t buy it.”

“Make up an excuse. Make it good.” Marco shifted her Glock in his hand, an unsubtle warning. “You don’t want your brother coming after us, do you?”

Her breath shuddering at that thought, she did as Marco said. “Adam four-niner,” she said, giving her call sign. “I’m ten-six to the vet’s office. Sorry, guys.”

“Adam four-niner, S-six. Where the hell have you been?”

“Ah…” She looked at Marco. “I must have slipped out of my grid. Got a little lost.”

“Why weren’t you answering calls?” Matt asked, sounding suspicious.

Paige poured confidence into her voice. She couldn’t live with herself if Matt was hurt because of her. “My hand-held went on the fritz. I’m in my vehicle now.”

There was a moment of silence, then Matt’s deep voice rumbled across the radio again. “What’s up with Bravo?”

“S-six, he stepped on some glass. I don’t think it’s serious, but I’m going to have it checked out.”

Matt sighed. “Roger, four-niner. Get him back out here later if he can work. We need all the help we can get.”

“Will do.” Paige returned the microphone to its clip with more than a little relief pouring through her.

Until she looked at Marco.

He smiled at her sickly. “Piece of cake.” Shoving the Glock back into his coat pocket, he said, “Let’s go.”

As soon as they cleared the search perimeter, Marco insisted on pulling over so that he could drive. They were twenty minutes down the highway before either of them spoke again.

“Where are we going?” she asked, rolling her forehead off the passenger-side window to look at him. The green lights of the dashboard gave his face an eerie cast.

“You still have the Miata?”

“Yes.” Her head ached too much to see any advantage in lying.

“Then we’re going to your place.”

He turned his eyes away and was quiet, his expression strangely serene, given the circumstances. She wondered if he was remembering, as she was, the first time he’d ridden in her bright blue convertible, the night they made love.

She’d been aware that Marco had been watching her off and on for nearly a month when they’d ended up working a narcotics bust together. Marco had been cuffing a prisoner when the man pulled an ice pick from beneath his belt and slashed Marco’s hand, then ran. Paige and Bravo gave chase, with Marco gaining ground behind them, bloody palm and all, yelling for her and her “poodle” to back off.

Determined to make the collar herself, to show the almighty narcotics detective what the poodle squad could do, she followed the suspect up a hay elevator and into a dilapidated barn. She’d pounded ten feet across the loft before realizing the floor was only half there.

Bravo had his man already, standing over him in the corner.

Breathing hard, Marco had rushed into the barn below her. “Don’t—”

She didn’t. But the floor collapsed, anyway. A second later she found herself sprawled across his chest, chaff from ancient bales of hay dancing in the sunbeams all around them.

“—move,” he’d finished dryly.

He needn’t have worried. She couldn’t, paralyzed as much by the feel of the muscled male body beneath her and the dark eyes boring into her as by the fall.

That night, as she lay in bed with a mystery novel, trying to banish the memory of his heat and the sudden, searing connection between them, she’d heard a tap on her window. Angelosi had stood outside throwing pebbles like a teenager, for goodness sake.

She’d met him in the driveway, her aqua-colored robe locked around her like a suit of armor. He was leaning against her new Miata, an indulgence, the first nonsensible thing she’d bought in years….

“What,” she asked sharply, irritation mixing oddly with excitement in her voice, “are you doing here?”

“This yours?” He stroked the hood, and her mouth turned to cotton.

She nodded.

“Put the top down and let’s take her for a spin. See what she can do.”

“It’s late.”

He laughed. “Yeah, and the breeze is warm and the stars are out. So what’s the problem?”

She fingered the neckline of her robe. “I’m not dressed.”

Leaning close, too close, he fingered her robe just the way she had, picked it back just far enough to see the lacy edge of her nightgown curved over the mound of her breast. “You look fine to me.”

Her breath caught at the rough edge to his voice. She jerked back, her mind spinning. She must be crazy. Insane to even consider this. At the moment, though, insanity—in the form of a tall, dark Italian-American looking at her like the wolf must have looked at Little Red Riding Hood—sounded pretty appealing.

“Give me five minutes,” she said, and ran to the house. She might just be crazy enough to go driving with him in the middle of the night, but she wasn’t lunatic enough to do it in her nightgown.

They drove out of the city, to the rural ranching counties. The stars glittered overhead like a mirrored ball at a dance hall as they streaked down country lanes that smelled of fresh-cut hay and livestock.

“Faster,” Marco urged, and she couldn’t say why, but she found an empty stretch of road and pressed the accelerator down until the wind whipped tears into her eyes and she felt like she was flying.

Far from being afraid, Marco threw his head back and laughed.

Breathless and exhilarated, she pulled back into her apartment complex just before midnight and invited Marco in, where he laid her down on her wide four-poster bed and took her for a ride every bit as breathtaking….

Her night with him had been a learning experience. A discovery.

Not that she hadn’t been with other men. She’d dated. Been intimate on occasion. Safe, mediocre sex with safe, mediocre men.

Nothing about Marco Angelosi qualified as safe.

Or mediocre.

He was wild. He was wicked. He scared her to death.

And he’d ruined her for other men.

From the moment she’d first gazed up into his angel’s eyes, she hadn’t wanted anyone else. She hadn’t wanted anyone else even after she’d sent him to prison. And Lord help her, she wouldn’t want anyone else even after she sent him back.

But she would send him back.

Chapter 3

“You okay?”

Marco’s voice sounded faraway. Paige jerked herself out of her reverie and glanced at the rearview mirror. She was surprised, for a moment, to see him so close—just across the seat from her. She was even more surprised to realize her cheeks were as wet as they had been that magical night in the Miata.

Must be due to the head injury.

As unobtrusively as possible, she wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Fine.”

He looked grim. “Your face is as pale as a baby’s bottom.”

“I’ve been shot at, fallen off a cliff and I’m being kidnapped. How am I supposed to look?”

His only answer was a frown. Or maybe it was a scowl.

She rubbed her sleeve harder across her face. She had to get her act together. She was a cop. They were almost to her house. She had to talk Marco into giving himself up.

“You won’t get far in the Miata,” she reasoned. “It’s too easy to spot.”

“Not if no one is looking for it.”

It was Paige’s turn to frown as Marco pulled her Port Kingston PD Expedition into a parking spot in front of the steps to her second-floor apartment. He had to know every cop in the state would be looking for her car within minutes after he left.

Unless there was no one around to tell them he’d taken it.

She shivered, sure that her blood temperature had dropped five degrees in the last five seconds. She didn’t even realize Marco had moved until the car door next to her swung open. One of his hands slid behind her shoulders and the other caught her behind the knees.

Her heart seized up like a bad bearing.

She studied the hard lines in his face, the bruises, the shadows under his eyes. This wasn’t the Marco she knew. This man was a stranger. A murderer, the state trooper had said, and she had no reason to disagree. He’d shot her. Kidnapped her.

For the first time since she’d known Marco, she was afraid of him—truly and deeply afraid. Each step he took with her in his arms added to her anxiety. Her fingers curled to fists on his back. Forget convincing him to turn himself in. She just wanted him to leave.

The thought twisted her pride. She was a cop. She had a job to do. But she was also a woman, alone and vulnerable, and she was hurt.

Bravo followed them up to the apartment entrance and ducked around Marco as soon as the door swung open. Marco followed him to the laundry room. A creature of habit, Bravo went straight to his kennel and stood over his bowl. She always fed him when they got off work.

Standing well back, Marco swung the gate to the dog pen closed with his foot. The clank of the closing latch signaled the loss of Paige’s last best hope for survival.

As she watched Bravo nose his empty bowl, whining, Marco carried her out of the room.

In the bedroom, she scanned frantically for potential weapons. Her thoughts raced with her heart. If he put her on the bed, there was the lamp. If he set her on the chaise in the corner, she might be able to reach the scissors in her sewing basket. If—

He walked right through the bedroom, into the bathroom, and plunked her down on the toilet lid, then promptly turned, dropped the stopper in the tub drain and twisted the faucets on full.

Her jaw hung slack. “What are you doing?”

He’d left the tiny bathroom before she finished the question, but he called back, “Get out of those clothes.”

Like hell. The image of her naked body swimming in a crimson tub, her wrists slashed, shimmered in her vision. Would he try to make it look like suicide?

The absurdity of the thought wiped the vision away a second later. The bruises and abrasions on her body would make suicide a tough sell. She wasn’t sure what he was up to, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

Growing more frantic, she scanned the cluttered bathroom counter for something to use as a weapon. The facial cleansers, perfumes and assorted hair products within her reach weren’t much of a match against the 9 mm Glock Marco had taken from her.

But they would have to do.

Keeping one eye and one ear turned toward the bedroom, Marco dumped ice from Paige’s freezer into a plastic bag. He’d taken the phone out of the bedroom, but he didn’t dare leave her alone for long. He didn’t think she was ready to give up yet. Not by a long shot.

Ice pack in hand, he hurried back through her room, refusing to let the wide, pine bed he passed mean anything to him. What was past was past. He wouldn’t dwell on it.

Yeah, right.

He was still trying to shake himself out of the daze brought on by the sensory assault of her bedroom when he walked into the bathroom. Too late, he realized he should have been more careful.

Through the steam, a pair of dark service blues lunged at him. Instinctively he threw his hands up. Her forearm collided with his and he grabbed on to her fine-boned wrist.

He heard a hiss, but didn’t identify the sound until it hit him.

Aerosol.

Fire ripped through his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but did nothing to douse the flames. Only the edge of the counter that caught his hip kept him from going to his knees.

He swiped at his face with his free hand, the pain shooting back from his eyes into his brain. Paige tried to jerk away, but he tightened his hold on her wrist and yanked her toward him, growling, “No!”

The hair-spray can clanked to the floor. Paige fell forward. Her sharp cry pierced the curtain of pain blinding him. He pried his eyes open long enough to see her huddled on the floor beside him, grasping her leg. He must have pulled her weight onto her sprained ankle.

Grunting, with one eye cracked open just wide enough to be sure she didn’t have any more tricks up her sleeve, he lifted her from the floor back to the toilet seat. “Don’t move,” he warned.

As soon as she settled back, he fell over the vanity and splashed cold water in his face. The wash cooled the fire in his eyes pretty quickly. The fire in his blood took a little longer. He gave himself a few more seconds. Then, when he had himself under control, mentally and physically, he straightened up, shutting off the faucets and drying his face with the rose-embroidered hand towel hanging over the counter.

“Good try,” he said tightly. “But not good enough.”

“This time.” She angled her chin defiantly, but the tremor in her chest ruined the effect.

“There won’t be a next time.” He bent to scoop the ice he’d dropped back into the plastic bag.

“Why don’t you just get it over with then, and get out of here?”

“Get what over with?”

“Are you having trouble building up the courage, or are you just dragging it out because you’re enjoying torturing me first?”

He stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was talking about. Understanding gradually dawned. His throat tightened. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You shot at me,” she said.

“If I’d shot at you, you’d be dead.”

She had to know that. He was the Port Kingston Emergency Response Team’s best marksman. At least he had been, once. But that seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You couldn’t afford to kill me. You needed me to get out of the park,” she said.

The cords in his neck pulled so tight he thought they might snap. A headache beat at the back of his skull. “And now I don’t need you so I’m going to kill you?”

A heartbeat passed. Enough time, even for Marco’s watery eyes, to read the confusion etched onto her features. To feel the genuine fear radiating from her. For it to twist through him like a corkscrew in the heart.

His jaw turned to granite. “You know me better than that.”

She turned her limpid gaze up to him. “I don’t know you at all. Not anymore.”

“That’s a lie.”

Mesmerized by the melted-honey swirl of confusion in her eyes, he stepped forward. When he reached out to cup her chin, she flinched—the final blow to his tattered pride—but he wouldn’t let her turn away. He brushed a wayward curl off her cheek, let the myriad feelings inside him boil close to the surface.

“You know me,” he said, reveling in the way her pulse kicked up where he stroked the soft underside of her jaw. “You know every inch of me.”

A tide of color flooded her cheeks. Suddenly disgusted with himself, he dropped his hand.

The water in the tub had nearly run over. Fixing his gaze anywhere but on hers, he pushed past her and twisted the faucets off. Mentally he shut down the flow of his emotions, as well. He couldn’t afford to feel anything toward her. Not anger, not lust and certainly not sympathy.

“If you didn’t shoot me, then…” Her voice trailed off as if she forgot what she was going to say. Her eyelids sagged as if she didn’t have the strength to hold them open. “Then who…?” She swayed left, then right on the toilet seat.

Marco crossed the room in one long stride, cupped the back of her neck and pushed her head between her knees.

“Breathe slow,” he said, squatting down next to her. “Deep.”

Damn. He didn’t think she was concussed, but he didn’t like this dizziness.

After a few moments, she raised her head slowly. Some of her color had returned, but not much. “Oberas? The other prisoner? Was he the one who shot at me?”

“Get in the tub,” he said in place of confirmation or denial.

“Why?”

“How should I know why someone would want to shoot you?” he said, more harshly than he’d meant to.

She looked at him strangely. “I meant why do you want me to get in the tub?”

He sighed, propping his hands on the tank behind her and looking her straight in the eye. “The warm water will keep you from stiffening up after that fall, and some of those cuts and scrapes are deep. You need to clean them out.” He handed her the bag of ice. “You can prop your foot up on the side and put this on your ankle.”

“Every cop in the state is after you, and you’re worried about my ankle? What do you really want from me?”

“For now, all I want is for you to get in that bath.”

Liar. He knew what he wanted. Just once he wanted her to look at him like he was something other than a drug-stealing scumbag. He wanted her to look at him like she had looked at him the last time he’d been in her apartment, the night they’d made love.

Dragging his hand through his hair, he lurched to his feet. He couldn’t think straight when he was that close to her.

She stood, balancing on her good foot by holding on to the towel bar, and motioning for him to turn around with her other hand. He complied. He could leave her that much dignity, at least.

One by one he heard the pieces of her uniform swish to the floor.

“I won’t help you again,” she said.

He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t stop himself from cutting his eyes to the mirror beside him. The steam put a soft haze over the image, but didn’t completely obliterate the pale curve of her shoulder, the tantalizing taper of her waist or the swell of her hip.

Despite the humidity in the room, Marco’s throat dried up. “I’m not asking you to help me.”

She glanced back at him, angling her naked body toward the mirror. He locked his eyes onto hers in the last clear spot on the glass. Only her eyes. Admirable restraint, he told himself. Not to mention self-preservation.

“I’m just asking you to take a bath.”

Marco closed the door behind him and leaned his head against the wood, waiting. When he heard water sloshing, he retreated to the kitchen. He needed to get away from the bathroom. Away from the thought of Paige’s lithe body sliding into a warm, wet bath, and the memory of his body sliding into a warm, wet Paige.

Every time she’d opened her mouth in there he’d turned a hundred and eighty degrees, from cursing her to wanting to kiss her, and back again.

Not that what he wanted mattered. He was all too aware she didn’t want him. Never would.

Hardening his heart to the loss of something he’d never really had, he mentally listed the things he would need from the apartment. In the hall closet, he found Paige’s extra ammo, along with another prize—a man-size sweatshirt and jeans.

An unwelcome pang of jealousy shot through his gut until he unfolded the sweatshirt and saw the Port Kingston PD logo. From the multicolored spatters on both the shirt and jeans, he’d guess Paige’s brother, Matt, had helped her do some painting.

After a quick change, Marco collected food in a cardboard box, along with towels and soap, blankets, a flashlight and matches. On his way out to stash the goods in the trunk of her car, he spotted a book on the couch. Sue Grafton’s novel O is for Outlaw.

Prophetic, he thought. And kind of sad.

He tossed the novel in the box with the other goodies. Maybe it would entertain her over the next few days.

Realizing what he’d just decided, he stared at the book as if it had bit him. Until that point, he hadn’t let himself think about where he would go from here. What he would do. He’d just concentrated on getting himself and Paige out of the woods alive.

Now his course seemed clear.

Six months ago he’d cut a deal that had landed him in prison. Tonight his partners had reneged on the agreement.

So much for honor among thieves.

He was sorry Paige had to be involved in this, but whether she knew it or not, she was a player in the game. A pawn to be sacrificed for the higher goal.

Him.

Marco couldn’t afford to give them that advantage. There was only one way to keep them from using Paige against him.

And that was to keep her with him.

Pawns could be played both ways. Used for offense as well as defense. She’d already helped him escape once. She might prove useful yet again.

Paige wasn’t going to be happy about being his hostage, he realized. In fact, she was likely to make the next few days pure hell.

He would have to watch himself every minute around her. She was a cop and a woman, and he’d managed to offend her on both levels. She knew how to fight dirty, and he was too easily distracted in her presence. Six months was way too long for him to be without a woman.

Without this woman.

If either one of them was going to survive this, he was going to have to stop thinking about how perfect her breasts were and how long her legs were and how good it would feel to get between them again. Instead, he needed to concentrate on avoiding those who were after him, cops and otherwise, while making sure Paige didn’t put a bullet where it would do the most damage the first chance she got.

He could do that.

Sure.

Still trying to convince himself, he stopped by the kitchen for more staples and loaded the supply box into the trunk of her car. As he walked back inside, he stopped to listen. All was quiet in the bathroom.

Too quiet.

Cursing his own stupidity, he took the hallway in a dead run.

Paige heard Marco coming. She swung her legs over the faux-wrought-iron railing of her balcony, ready to shimmy down to the ground floor, but another wave of dizziness assailed her. The concrete below rippled like moving water. Her vision closed to a narrow tunnel.

A pair of strong arms snagged her waist.

“Are you trying to break your neck?”

“I’m trying to save it!” She squirmed in Marco’s grasp, her fists landing ineffectual blows on his hips, his shoulders.

“Then get in here.”

“Let me go!”

“If I do that, you’re going to splatter your pretty little brains all over that parking lot down there.”

All the writhing and motion made Paige’s stomach turn. Her limbs softened to rubber. She moaned.

Marco scooped her up and lifted her over the railing. She felt the warmth and strength of his hands even through the cotton T-shirt and bike shorts she’d put on while he’d been in the kitchen. Hating the weakness that left her incapable of fighting, she sank against the strong, broad wall of his chest.

He plopped her down in the bathroom again, this time in front of the toilet instead of on it. He lifted the lid.

“I am not going to be sick,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Good.” He wet a washcloth and pressed it to her forehead. She pushed his hand away, holding the cool compress in place herself.

Somehow, she held her stomach. Spite, she figured. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her vomit. After a few minutes, he took the washcloth from her and eased her into the tub.

She had to admit the warm water felt heavenly, even with all her clothes on. Sinking back, she closed her eyes. Marco fished her injured ankle out of the water and propped it on the side of the tub, then laid the ice pack over the swollen joint. The odd combination of hot and cold made her skin tingle. Her breasts pulled tight.

She opened her eyes and realized the bathwater wasn’t the only thing making her tingle. Marco’s dark gaze wandered lazily up her body from her toes to the tips of her ears.

He was squatting next to the tub, a tube of antiseptic cream in his hands and something much more sinister in his flinty eyes. One hand dipped into the tub and tested the water. “Too hot?”

Way too hot. The water he stirred lapped at her chest. Her breasts grew heavier. The T-shirt she wore stretched across her nipples, chaffing, confining. She followed the trail of his gaze to the dark aureoles showing through the wet fabric.

Why in heaven’s name did a white T-shirt have to be on top when she’d reached into her dresser for something to wear?

She was still pondering that when he began to dab at her with the antiseptic, his expression impassive. He cleaned up her head wound first, then worked on the various cuts and scrapes, which seemed to be everywhere. He dabbed a little antiseptic on the side of her neck, like cologne.

A second later it started to burn. She hissed. Leaning forward, Marco blew on the wound. The cool stream of air pulled her skin tight. Her eyelids drifted shut.

She heard, felt, him swirling his hand in the water again.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?”

“No.” She would not feel anything for this man, attraction or otherwise.

“It was different between us. Special.”

Her heart knocked against her hands, which she’d folded across her chest. “It was a mistake.”

“Maybe.” He pulled his hand from the water, rose and stepped over to the sink, where he cleaned his own wounds, starting with the bite on his forearm. “Maybe not.”

She had no idea what he meant by that. Wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She was tired of his riddles.

She opened her eyes. Modesty be damned. She was getting out of here. Grimacing, she pushed herself up on one foot.

“Careful,” he warned. “Not too fast.”

Holding on to the wall for support, she tried to hop out of the tub. She might have made it, if the floor hadn’t suddenly tilted and her stomach hadn’t raised up into her throat, blocking her air. The room went as dark as if someone had turned out the lights. Then starbursts exploded behind her eyelids. The swaying floor tossed her off balance and she fell.

Right into the last pair of arms she wanted to catch her.

“What happened?” she asked when her vision cleared. The steady thump of Marco’s heart—maybe a notch faster than it ought to be—comforted her cheek.

“You fainted,” he replied roughly.

She straightened. Carefully. “I don’t faint.”

“Okay.” He sat her on the rim of the bathtub. “You took a little nap standing up—or falling down, rather—in the tub.”

“I mean it. I don’t faint.”

“I said okay.” He’d wet another washcloth for her forehead. Once he’d applied it, he tilted her head back and stared deeply into her eyes. This time there was nothing sensual about the gaze. “Maybe you’ve got a concussion, after all.”

She pulled the cloth from her forehead. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Why don’t you just go away and leave me the hell alone?”

“I can’t do that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means—” he pulled a towel off the bar and snugged it around her shoulders “—that I’ll be going, all right, but I won’t be leaving you alone.”

Shock raised gooseflesh on her arms as his meaning registered. He couldn’t— He wouldn’t—

One look into his shuttered black eyes, and she knew with dead certainty that he could. Most certainly would.

“I’m taking you with me,” he said.

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