"You don't have to apologize," Harry said quietly. He refused to feel bad about using Alessandra as unsuspecting bait to catch Trotta. After all, she'd married Griffin Lamont. She'd had to know at least some of what was going on. She was no innocent bystander, despite her attempt to play that part.
"Yes, I do. You saved my life," she told him. "If you hadn't pulled me out of there… When the second car exploded…"
"Luck," Harry told her. "It was all dumb luck." He smiled, and she managed a very small, very shaky smile back.
But it quickly faded, and she looked away.
Harry knew despite his promises, she didn't trust him any more than he trusted her.
And rightly so.
Chapter Five
A pair of pajamas were out on the bed, waiting for her, after Alessandra got out of the shower.
They were men's pajamas, made of stiff new flannel, boxy and oversize, in a green plaid print.
She looked about twelve years old in the bathroom mirror, wearing those pajamas, her pale face scrubbed completely clean of makeup. She went out into the other room of the suite still combing her hair, self-consciously aware that she was by no means looking her best. But she had no makeup, no hair gel, no perfume, no clothes besides these green plaid pajamas.
And that raincoat, which hung on the back of a chair.
This whole wretched scene had to be a mistake.
The sight of FBI agents Harry O'Dell and George Faulkner sitting in her hotel suite made this entire situation seem even more absurd.
There had to be some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding. She'd returned the stolen money, but somehow the wires had gotten crossed. Someone hadn't gotten the word and her name had been put on the "still owes a million dollars or her life" list instead of the one marked "paid in full."
Maybe all she'd need to do was make a simple phone call to Michael Trotta, explain about the confusion, and let him straighten everything out.
Because why would Michael order her to be killed? It didn't make sense.
Harry O'Dell was on the phone again. He'd made a beeline to the telephone to make a call the moment they'd stepped into this hotel room. Then, as now, he hung up in frustration, as if his call hadn't been answered.
He turned, hesitating only very slightly as he saw her standing there. But then he forced a smile, choosing to pretend he didn't notice the magnetic pull of attraction she, too, felt every time she so much as looked at him.
"Feeling any better?" he asked.
She was exhausted. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she'd last slept, longer than that since she'd last eaten, and she was barely standing. She'd completely missed the morning meeting with Social Services—not that she had any hope of getting care of Jane now. Her home had been burned to the ground, and according to Harry O'Dell, there was a contract out on her life. Was she feeling better?
Could it get any worse?
Still, she nodded politely. "Yes. Thank you."
What was it about Harry, anyway?
He may have been solidly, muscularly built, but he was short. If she wore her usual three-inch heels, she'd be at least an inch taller. Even under the best of circumstances, she'd be hard-pressed to call him handsome. And with his rumpled, ill-fitting suit, permanent five-o'clock shadow, the puffy bags underneath his eyes, and his lawn-mower-styled hair, this could hardly be considered the best of circumstances.
Still there was something about him…
As she watched, he shrugged out of his jacket. His button-down dress shirt had short sleeves. Dear Lord, Harry was definitely one of the top ten most-wanted fugitives on the run from the fashion police.
"Did you get a chance to look at the room service menu?" he asked.
She was holding both the menu and the list she'd made of things she'd need. Clothes, underwear, shoes, moisturizing lotion, a notebook to write in, something to read, a jacket. Her stomach growled and she glanced at the menu again. Unfortunately, it hadn't changed while she was in the shower. "Isn't there somewhere else we can order from?"
Harry laughed aloud. "Look, princess, I know it's not gourmet food, but it's here in the hotel and it's what we're going to eat. So suck it up and order a burger."
"I don't eat red meat," she said coolly.
"Now, there's a surprise."
"The fish chowder's pretty good here," George suggested, glancing up from the TV, where he was watching a basketball game with the volume muted.
"Perfect," Harry said. "Have the chowder. If George says it's good, it's good. Are you going to get all bothered if have a burger?"
"No—"
"Great. Then we're set."
Alessandra shook her head. "The chowder won't work. I know it's not on the menu, but maybe they could grill some chicken, plain. That and a salad—"
"This isn't luncheon at the country club," Harry interrupted. "You're on the run from Michael Trotta. It's in your best interest to keep a low profile—and that includes reducing the pain-in-the-ass factor for the kitchen staff. The menu's not that short. Pick something from the menu."
"But everything has cheese in it, or some kind of heavy cream or—"
"Go crazy. Have an extra thousand calories. After surviving that blast, you deserve to celebrate."
"I can't—"
"Sure, you can."
"No," Alessandra said. "You don't understand. I'm allergic to milk—to all dairy. Does the word anaphylactic mean anything to you?"
"Oh, shit," Harry said.
"Anna-what?" George asked.
"Phylactic," Harry said. "It means the princess here is so allergic to milk that if she accidentally has any, her body starts to shut down. My ex's cousin had an anaphylactic reaction to peanuts. If there was so much as a quarter of a teaspoon of peanut oil in something she ate, she'd be dead within a matter of minutes. She carried around this special little injection thing filled with adrenaline that she'd shoot into herself if she felt a reaction coming on. It would supposedly give her enough time to be rushed to the hospital."
"An Epi-pen," Alessandra said. "Mine was in my purse." Her purse and its entire contents had no doubt gone up in flames. "I thought it would be a good idea to have one, so I put it on the list of things I need for tomorrow morning."
Harry took the list from her, glancing at it quickly. "Christ," he said. He turned the paper over, but there was nothing written on the back. "Is this all? I mean, it looks like you forgot to include the plane tickets to Paris and the pet ferret. And what about that autographed poster of John Travolta you always wanted?"
Alessandra felt herself flush. Her list was long. But he'd told her to write the things she needed, and she needed every one of the items on that list.
"If there's a problem…" she started to say.
"Nope," Harry said, handing the list to George. "No problem. The FBI has plenty of money for three new pairs of shoes. We don't need to buy silly little things like bullets."
Alessandra's temper flared. Instead of quietly burying it, the way she'd done for years with Griffin, she let it snap loose. "I don't know the rules," she told him hotly. "Don't expect me to be able to play this game without telling me the rules. I've got nothing. My feet are bare. I need sneakers, something to wear with a dress, and boots for when it rains. You told me to make a list—"
"I imagined it would be necessities. Things like a toothbrush and maybe a stick of deodorant." He took the list back from George. "What the hell is Neutragena soap? Can't you use the stuff from the hotel? And what the hell do you need with three different kinds of lotion?"
"One's for night, one's for day—it's got a sunblock—and the third is a hand lotion. Not that it's any of your business." Being mad—and showing it—felt good.
Except Harry didn't seem to care that she was mad.
"From now on," he told her, "and until you get settled in the Witness Protection Program, everything you do, every molecule of air you breathe is my business. It has to be, if I'm going to keep you safe."
&nbs
p; Harry sat down, rubbing his forehead as if it ached. "I don't suppose it's too much to hope that you kept your milk allergy secret from everyone you knew—including your ex-husband?"
His question was absurd. Alessandra didn't answer.
He glanced at her, his dark brown eyes glinting with self-mockery. "Yeah, sorry. Stupid question." He sighed. "So we've got to assume Michael Trotta knows. And all he'll have to do to find you is have his men make some discreet inquiries, find out if any of the local hotels have been asked to prepare any special meals with no milk, no butter, no cheese." He shook his head. "Shit. Why couldn't this be easy? Just for once."
"If it were easy," George stood up, "you'd go find something hard to do. From now on, no room service—at least not for Alessandra. I'll go find a deli—pick us up some sandwiches. You want your usual?"
Alessandra looked up to find Harry staring at her, something unreadable in his eyes. His gaze was probably meant to intimidate. After all, her pain-in-the-ass factor, as he'd called it, was off the scale. She was making things difficult with her long list of needs and her dietary restrictions, and he was giving her the evil eye to make sure she knew it.
But she was done apologizing. That part of her life was over. She held his gaze pointedly, defensively, daring him to speak aloud any of his less-than-polite thoughts.
She realized too late that the something in his eyes wasn't hostility. It was more complicated than that.
He was beyond tired. He was bone weary. It was etched into his face in the lines around his mouth and his eyes. They had once been laughter lines, Alessandra realized. Once upon a time, his eyes had crinkled at the edges from smiles and laughter. Those same lines that made his face look tired and old had no doubt made him a vital, handsome man. Those same lines had helped bring him to life.
But not anymore.
Now he was too tired even to hide the attraction he felt for her. She could see a reflection of her own body in his eyes, naked in the flickering light from the burning house. She could see the unmistakable glint of his hunger as he remembered all that he'd seen and touched.
It was completely hypnotizing.
It was the way Little Red Riding Hood must've felt looking into the eyes of the big bad wolf.
But it was accompanied by contempt. He was attracted to her, and he despised both himself and Alessandra because of it.
"Harry," George said impatiently. "Tuna salad on rye?"
Harry pulled his gaze away from her, looking up at his partner as if surprised he was there. "Yeah," he said. "Sure." He glanced back at Alessandra and stood up. "I think I should probably be the one to go."
He didn't want to be here, alone with her.
"Why don't you find out what she wants," Harry said, "while I try to make that call again."
As Alessandra watched, he picked up the phone and dialed a series of numbers. Long distance.
"So what'll it be?" George asked. "What you said—plain grilled chicken and a salad?"
"That's fine," Alessandra said absently. Harry's shoulders were tense as he stood with the phone receiver to his ear, a living picture of intensity. "Is there a problem I should know about?"
George shook his head. "Harry's making a personal call. He's having some kind of hassle with his kids."
Kids. Harry had kids. Alessandra turned away, careful not to let her surprise show. If he had kids, he probably had a wife. She never would have guessed in a million years that Harry O'Dell was a family man. She tried to picture him at home, tried to picture his kids.
She tried to picture his wife.
No wonder he didn't want to be alone with Alessandra. He was married, and she—she was only a temptation. Forget about the possibility of forming a simple friendship. She was too beautiful for that. Men—even married men—either wanted to possess her or to keep their distance. There was no in-between.
It was too bad, because she could've really used a friend.
Even one like Harry O'Dell. Maybe especially one like Harry O'Dell.
Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror in the beach house, Shaun leaned closer to study his face.
Even with his blond hair dark from the shower, he didn't look much like Harry. Emily had their father's coloring, while Shaun looked like a masculine version of their mother.
Not masculine enough, though. He was nearly as pretty as she had been. He'd always been pretty—and been teased mercilessly about it by the kids at school. And after they'd moved to Colorado, Kevin hadn't been around to stand up for him.
The kids had called him "Leprechaun," and still did even though he was no longer as short as he'd been back in sixth grade.
Being called a leprechaun was better than his other nickname.
Fag.
He had blond hair, green eyes, and soft, pale skin that burned instead of tanned, while both Harry and Em turned a deep nut brown in the sun.
He was going to be taller than his father, too. At fourteen, it was clear he'd inherited his mother's Northern European stature. Over the past two years, he'd gone from being the smallest kid in his class to being one of the tallest. In fact, at five feet eleven, he looked old enough to pass for a high school student.
Apparently that's what that red-haired girl had thought when she'd stopped to talk to him.
Shaun put on his glasses and stepped back slightly. The muscles in his chest and legs were strong and well developed from two solid years of dance class. He'd played Little League baseball before he and Em had moved to Marge's house in Colorado. He'd been good at it; he was coordinated and a fast runner, but his heart hadn't been in it. He'd merely gone along with it because Kevin and Harry liked it so much. And he'd adored them.
He would have gone swimming in shark-infested waters just to be near them, if that's what they had wanted to do. Baseball hadn't been quite that bad, of course. Still, it didn't get him excited.
But dancing… Ballet, jazz, or tap—he didn't care which, he loved it all. And he was getting good. Good enough to have gotten the part of the Artful Dodger in the middle school musical. Dozens of kids had tried for the part, but he'd seen Mrs. Janson's face when he'd started to dance.
All of the teachers had been impressed with his performance.
All of the kids still called him "fag."
His aunt had urged him to call Harry, to tell him about getting the part in the show, but Shaun hadn't done it. He couldn't bear to leave another message on his father's answering machine.
He hadn't told his dad about the musical, so he hadn't been disappointed when Harry hadn't shown up.
And Harry wouldn't have come, even if Shaun had called.
He was certain of that.
"Can I pick my new name?" Alessandra asked.
"You can definitely have some input," George told her. "Do you have a name in mind?"
"I've always wanted to be called Friday," Alessandra said almost shyly.
Harry nearly choked on his tuna-salad sandwich.
"She was a character in a book I really liked," she continued.
Friday. He looked at George and rolled his eyes. "Perfect," he said sarcastically, after he swallowed. "You'll blend right in with the fifty-eight other Fridays in whatever small town in Ohio you end up being placed in."
"Ohio?" She sounded horrified.
Christ, she was clueless. He steeled himself as he looked back at her, refusing to acknowledge the zing of physical response he felt each time he forced himself to meet the pure blue of her gaze.
"Ohio," he repeated. "Or Indiana. Or maybe even Illinois. You have a better chance blending in in the Midwest than you would in the South. Unless you want to learn to speak with a southern accent."
"I can do that," she said, meeting his gaze in a way that was almost challenging.
Harry had to smile. Yeah, sure, she could. And his mother was the pope. "It's harder than you think, Mrs. Lamont."
"I know exactly how hard it is," she told him quietly. "I learned to speak without a New York accent. I grew up out
on the Island. Massapequa Park. I took elocution lessons for nearly half a year to lose my accent."
That surprised him. According to her file, she'd been born in Connecticut. He'd been so certain she'd lived in Fairfield County nearly all her life, attending private school and taking tennis lessons, and speaking with perfect, round, very wealthy-sounding vowels from birth.
Massapequa Park was pretty solidly middle class.
Why hadn't that been in her file? Harry made a mental note to find out who'd fucked up. Screwed up. Sheesh.
"We'll need to talk to the people at the Witness Protection Program before we know exactly where they'll end up sending you," George told Alessandra. "And as far as the name goes…" He shook his head with an apologetic smile. "Friday's not going to fly."
Harry was more blunt. "They'll choose something absolutely white-bread bland. Ordinary. Barbara Conway. There's a perfect name for you."
Her extremely nonordinary blue eyes were filled with dismay.
"They'll make you cut your hair," he continued ruthlessly. It was going to happen; she was going to have to get used to the idea. "And probably dye it a real average shade of brown. And they'll get you clothes more suitable for a Barbara Conway, too. Probably lots of knee-length skirts in olive drab and navy blue. Sturdy shoes. Cotton blouses that button to the neck. That sort of thing."
She was looking at him as if he were describing the horrors of Armageddon.
George delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Come on, Harry, make it sound worse than it is, why don't you?"
Alessandra looked to George hopefully. "I won't really have to do that, will I? Dye my hair?"
"You will if you want to be safe," Harry told her. "You'll say good-bye to Alessandra Lamont and become Barbara Conway."
"But what good is being safe if I have to turn into someone I don't want to be? I mean, what's the point?"
Harry shrugged. "Your choice. Although, it seems pretty clear to me that if it's a choice between short brown hair, ugly shoes, or a bullet in the head… Brown hair and ugly shoes win, hands down."
She didn't look convinced. But she didn't argue any further. They ate in silence for several minutes before she spoke again.
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