As the elevator doors opened, Jazz stepped into a wide hallway lit by wall sconces casting indirect light that exuded wealth and exclusivity. She walked down the carpeted hall, slid the key into the door of apartment 3701, and opened into pitch blackness. Flattening her hand against the wall, she felt around for a light switch or the alarm pad.
Suddenly, the door was yanked from her hand and slammed closed with a rush of air. Terror punched her stomach and every muscle in her body tensed up for a fight. “What the—”
A hand slapped over her mouth so hard she choked on a gasp. She could feel the heat of a man against her back, a solid, sizable man who’d pinned her right arm with a paralyzing grip. Hot breath warmed her ear; the smell of raw masculinity filled her nostrils.
“That was stupid.” His voice was a low, lilting growl that vibrated from his chest through her body.
No, leaving her gun at home was stupid.
Her teeth snapped over his palm and she slammed her left elbow into his solar plexus with a resounding thwumpf.
Alex cursed his amateur mistake of leaving her left arm free; he’d intended to be gentle in his warning. Her fist flew up at his nose, barely giving him a millisecond to stop it. He grabbed her forearm and saved his face, but she managed to get a handful of hair and yank for all she was worth.
The newscaster could fight.
He tightened his hold, squeezing her body against his and wrapping one leg around her calves. “Let go,” he warned, shaking his head to loosen her grip on his long hair.
She pulled harder, then smashed a boot heel onto the top of his foot and crunched his toes.
Ignoring the pain, he swiped the foot she was balanced on and knocked her to her knees, going right to the floor with her. He used his right hand to break their fall, covering her whole body with his as they grappled to the carpet.
Her butt jutted into his stomach as she landed face-down. He finally managed to free his hair from her death grip and slid his hand back over her mouth to silence the inevitable scream. She obviously knew the basics of self-defense, which would make his job easier. As soon as she stopped practicing on him.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She kicked a leg and grunted furiously, and he cupped his hand to avoid another bite. He pinned her legs under his, but she kept shoving her rear end up against his crotch as though that could push him off. He’d have to train her not to dilute her excellent self-defense skills by offering her ass to an attacker.
His groin tightened as she slammed her round backside into him one more time, and testosterone replaced the adrenaline rushing through him. Carajo! She’d never stop fighting if she felt a boner in her back.
“Hold still,” he insisted, raising his body to lessen the contact that had suddenly become more arousing than aggressive. “I only wanted to show you how vulnerable you are.”
She froze. “Wh—what?” Though the word was muffled by his hand, her indignation came through loud and clear.
“Sometimes a good scare can help you take a threat more seriously.”
All the tension and steely defense dissolved as she went limp under him. Was that a trick? Could she be that good? It took years of training to learn how to stop the adrenaline dump and appear to drop your guard so your opponent did the same.
He didn’t fall for it, but eased his hold on her.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, surprised that his breath had quickened from that little bit of wrestling. “Someone who wants to hurt you could glide right by the boy downstairs, pick your lock, use the last four numbers of your social to disarm the alarm, and have a knife at your neck in a matter of minutes.”
He could feel her whole body pulse with a rapid heartbeat, and fast breaths warmed his hand. Sex demons teased him again as he imagined those same responses for a different reason.
He eased back, removing his hand from her mouth, but ready for her to flip and fight again. “It only took me six minutes to get in here,” he added, his tone completely unthreatening now. “Of course, I’m a professional. We don’t know if your stalker is.”
“What…are you talking about?” She turned her head toward him.
“I’m talking about your personal security liabilities.” He slowly inched to her right to try to make out her features in the darkness. “In your situation, you need to listen. And look. And get the doorman to escort you up here instead of sitting on his rear end reading El Nuevo Herald. And for God’s sake, get a little creative on your alarm code.”
Silver eyes flashed at him, giving him just enough warning to flatten his arm over her before she launched herself up. Instantly, all of the steel returned to her well-toned muscles, but he held her in place.
“Get off me,” she ground out.
“Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice strained with effort as she tightened under his arm.
“And you believe I won’t hurt you?”
“Yes,” she insisted. “Let me up, damn it.”
“Will you scream and attack me again?”
“Attack you?” She nearly choked at that.
“I’m demonstrating a point. You, on the other hand, are attempting to rip out my hair and break my foot.”
“Excuse me, but you jumped me, asshole!”
Good, she wasn’t afraid anymore, just mad. That made her a little safer. He eased off her and balanced on the balls of his feet before he stood to his full height. She stayed perfectly still on the ground, her head turned to watch him warily.
“I’ll get the light,” he said, sidestepping toward the living room without taking his eyes off her.
He knew exactly where the lamp was. He’d already scoured every inch of the apartment, searching for security flaws and learning that his principal was absurdly neat, had expensive taste in everything from clothes to art, and planned on marinated steak for dinner. He hoped he could change her opinion of him before she cooked it and refused to share.
As light bathed the room and she stood, he took his first long look at the newscaster.
The picture had not done her justice. It hadn’t captured her…energy. There was something so alive about her, she seemed to glisten with vitality. Her eyes were like polished platinum, sparking at him. Her slanted cheekbones flushed as much from anger as a graze with the carpet. He’d smeared her lipstick with his palm, leaving her full lips stained and parted as she stared back at him, a dangerous combination of threatened and pissed off.
She placed her hands on her hips in a classic confrontational pose that accentuated the feminine, defined shape of her arms, and the rise and fall of her chest.
His gaze dropped over her tight ribbed top just long enough to confirm Lucy’s assertion. They were real; he could tell by the softness of the flesh and the natural shape of her cleavage. He was, after all, an expert.
But something didn’t fit. He’d just searched her closets and drawers, and nowhere had he seen evidence that she’d slide into a cotton undershirt and camos. Where had she been, dressed like that? Certainly not in front of the cameras, trilling about a bank robbery in Liberty City.
More likely committing one.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
“Alex Romero. Mr. Parrish hired me.”
She opened her mouth, and then closed it again.
“You did meet with Kimball Parrish today?” he prompted.
She shrugged and nodded, a mixture of such non-commitment that he almost laughed. “Briefly,” she added.
It seemed a little silly after they’d had full horizontal body contact, but he extended his hand.
She took a step backward, her expression still dubious, refusing his handshake. “Alex Romero,” she said slowly, as though flipping through a memory bank.
“Your bodyguard.”
“My what?”
Son of a bitch. Parrish hadn’t told her. He dropped his hand. “Mr. Parrish has arranged for personal security for you. Evidently he believes
there is validity to the threats you’ve been receiving.”
“Threats?”
Jesus, was she so immersed in her job that she didn’t even consider the letters threatening? Doubtful, after that near pounding he just took. “Obviously you’ve bothered to learn a thing or two about self-defense already.”
“Who hired you again?”
“Mr. Parrish.”
She didn’t react to the name. No light of recognition, no response to the mention of her new boss—one of the most powerful men in her business.
“Which threats are you referring to, exactly?” she asked, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her pants. A move that did nothing to lessen the impact of the skintight tank top. Still she didn’t venture one step farther into the room.
“I’m referring to the letters you’ve received from a fan. Six, as far as I know. And several untraceable e-mails.”
Her frown deepened. “How do I know you’re not some kind of a stalker? And that’s why you know all this? Not to mention your rather bizarre idea of a welcome.”
“You don’t,” he conceded. “But Mr. Parrish was supposed to have told you his decision to hire security today.”
Still she didn’t move. He waited for her to take control of her environment, to waltz past him and wrap herself in the familiarity of her home. She remained…cautious.
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t tell me,” she said. “And until I have that conversation with him, you’ll have to leave.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
She managed a tight smile. “Yes, you can. And it will be much simpler than all the trouble you took merely to scare the shit out of me and make a point.”
She stepped to the door, but he stopped her with a look. “I’m not leaving, Miss Adams.”
“Excuse me?”
“Would you prefer I call you Jessica?”
She pointed to the door. “I’d prefer you get the hell out of here. Then I can call Kendall Parrish and discuss this with him.”
Kendall? Her error set off a loud warning bell in his head. He took a step closer and her shoulders tensed visibly.
“Why don’t you call him while I wait?” he suggested.
“No, I’ll call him later. Then we can discuss this tomorrow.”
“Please call him now, Miss Adams. This could be a matter of life and death.”
“Can the drama. I’m perfectly safe here…. “Her voice faded into uncertainty. “Okay. I’ll call him.” She bent to retrieve her purse, but as she lifted the shoulder strap, the top opened, spewing out papers, makeup, a mirror, and roll of mints.
He crouched down and flipped his cell phone open for her. “Use mine.”
She rose from the disarray and gave him another suspicious look, then studied the keypad as she punched in a number.
Why didn’t she just pick up her cordless phone from the table in the living room?
She pressed his cell phone to her ear and looked away. “Hi. This is…Jessica. I need to talk to you. It’s very important. Call me. On my cell.” She snapped the phone shut with finality and handed it back to him. “If you just leave me a number where I can reach you, I’ll call you after I’ve heard back from him. I’m sure you understand my reluctance to have a complete stranger in my home.”
Nothing added up right. There was no way this woman would have misremembered the name of the man who’d recently bought her TV station. And she hadn’t had a clue where to find the light switch or alarm pad when she’d walked in. Alex’s gaze dropped once more over the revealing top, down to the black boots surrounded by the chaos of her handbag. Something was definitely wrong with this picture.
“Let me try him myself,” he said as he flipped the phone open. “I have his private line.”
He faked thumbing of a phone number, but simply pressed redial. He held her gaze while he listened to the taped message.
Hi. This is Jessica Adams. Please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.
“Well, what do you know,” he said, dipping his head so close to hers he could almost kiss the smeared lipstick from her mouth. “I jumped the wrong Miss Adams.”
Chapter
Two
H e was so close that Jazz could see her reflection in his inky-colored pupils. Leave it to her to get assaulted by a guy who looked like Antonio Banderas, had the body of a personal trainer, and a mind like Sherlock Holmes.
“The wrong Miss Adams? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean.”
He pinned her with another black-eyed glare. “Where’s Jessica?”
Good goddamn question. “I am Jessica.”
“You are full of shit. You’re her twin sister.”
Jazz stifled a sigh of surrender. “What difference does it make who I am?”
“It makes a huge difference. Your sister isn’t safe.”
A sobering uneasiness spiraled through her. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been hired to protect her. And someone wouldn’t go to that expense and trouble if the threats to her security weren’t legitimate.”
Damn it, he was right. “She never mentioned any threats to me.”
He leaned against the back of a sofa that framed a magnificent living room, which Jazz hadn’t even noticed yet. Her focus had been riveted on Alex Romero, and for good reason. There was just so much of him, and all of it so…riveting.
“Let’s try this again,” he said, a smile softening the angles of his face as he reached his hand toward her. “My name is Alex Romero. And you are…Jasmine Adams?”
This time, she shook his hand. His fingers were as long and strong as the rest of him, his palm warm. “Jazz. Are you a stalker or a bodyguard?”
He laughed softly as he let her hand go, then ran his fingers through the straight black hair that fell over his eyebrow and hung well past the collar of his black shirt. She’d had a handful of that hair, and it had reminded her of a thick, silky mane on a thoroughbred stallion.
“I am her personal security professional.”
Only Jessica could win the Lottery of Bodyguards.
Jazz lifted her foot from the quagmire around her purse, and stepped past him. Time to check out the apartment instead of the man. “Do you always attack your client?”
“Principal,” he corrected.
She felt his gaze follow her as she took in the utter whiteness of the vast living room, uncluttered but for a few choice pieces of Jessica’s collection of precious antique glass bowls and decanters. The cranberry-colored Victorian candy basket that Jazz had sent for their last birthday enjoyed a place of honor at the middle of a coffee table.
“I told you,” he said, “I was trying to make a point.”
She walked toward the sliding doors to the breathtaking nightscape of downtown Miami and the lights winking on Biscayne Bay. “There are easier ways,” she said. “Like telling someone they are in danger. That really cuts down on the physical strain.”
“I wasn’t strained.”
She cut him with a menacing look. “You’re just lucky I left my weapon at home.”
He chuckled, and she bridled.
“I’m a licensed private investigator, qualified to carry and not afraid to use. The only reason I don’t have my gun on me is that my sister is terrified of them. So I agreed to leave it at home.”
He seemed more surprised than impressed. “A private investigator? I don’t remember reading that.”
Uneasiness rolled through her. How much did he know about both the Adams sisters? “Then maybe you don’t have all your facts, Mr. Romero.”
Of course, even a thorough background check might not reveal that she’d hung her own PI shingle six weeks ago. The year before that, she hadn’t technically been on anyone’s payroll, even though she’d helped Elliott on at least twenty cases.
“A PI, huh?” He moved into the room and dropped onto the sofa, creating a
contrast of long dark hair, ebony eyes, olive skin, and jet black clothing against the white silk. Six feet two of solid bad-guy black.
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To investigate? Or is it a social visit?”
“I’m here to visit my sister.” And pretend to be her for a week or so.
What if this guy was in cahoots with one of Jessica’s competitors, trying to beat her to whatever story she was working on? The secrecy of Jessica’s project was key to its success; that was why she had to disappear without anyone knowing, and the reason she needed Jazz as a secret stand-in.
“So where is she?”
“She said she’d be home after the six o’clock newscast. I expected her by seven thirty. It’s almost nine now.”
“Doesn’t she have to be back in the studio by ten?” He leaned forward and picked up the candy basket, its delicate scalloped edges looking out of place in his powerful hands. He gently set it back on the table as though he realized how fragile it was and wanted no part of handling it.
“She arranged to have someone cover the eleven o’clock newscast tonight, so she could be with me,” Jazz said. “How do you know so much about her schedule?”
“I have a complete dossier on my principal,” he said. She could have sworn she heard the softest lilt of an accent in his speech. Romero. In Miami, of course, the majority of the population was Latin. “That’s the way we do business,” he added.
“Who’s we?”
“My employer.”
“This Parrish guy?”
“Kimball Parrish.” He emphasized the first name, and she cringed at the obvious mistake she’d made. “Your sister has never mentioned him?” He sounded doubtful.
Sliding into a creamy club chair across from him, she closed her eyes and visualized the e-mails and messages. A photographic memory was a great asset for a person who spent 90 percent of her day tracking down obscure computer data. It saved on printer paper and ink.
“No, but I’ve heard the name.”
He leaned forward, a slight crease in his forehead. “She never mentioned that her television station had been recently acquired by Adroit Broadcasting Group?”
Kill Me Twice Page 2
