by Joyce Lamb
"Did you want something?" she asked, her voice husky.
Ryan forced himself to look down at the floor. He had to clear his throat of the tightness there before he could look at her without mentally ripping that towel away. What the hell had he come up here for? he asked himself, then remembered. She'd been using the phone. Suspicion replaced all thoughts of her naked. "Who did you just call?"
The disappointment she felt as his mood changed surprised her. Or perhaps she had just imagined the lust that had darkened his eyes.
When she didn't respond, he stepped into the bedroom. "The light was on on the phone downstairs. Tell me who you called."
She moistened her lips. "I made two calls. One to my boss to explain that it could be several weeks before I can return to work. And the other to Dayle's family to tell them—" She broke off, unable to finish as emotion swelled into her throat. Damn it, she was going to cry. Right in front of him.
As the first tears trickled down her cheeks, his suspicion abated. He thought of Dayle, and the guilt was crushing. "I'm sorry," he said, taking a step toward her. "I'm so sorry about Dayle. I was stupid." His voice cracked. "I wish I could take back what happened."
His words nearly shattered what was left of her control. He moved toward her again, and Meg edged back in alarm. Her hip bumped the bedside table before he caught her elbow and drew her to him gently. Putting his arms around her, he cupped the back of her neck and urged her to put her head on his shoulder.
Holding her breath, she closed her eyes, the heaviness in her chest close to bursting. No man had ever touched her like this. She couldn't recall ever allowing a man to touch her like this. She had had lovers, though not many, but she had always held her emotional self back from them, preferring a relationship that was physically, rather than personally, intimate. She had learned that no real personal investment equaled very little pain after the breakup. And the breakup had seemed inevitable somehow—perhaps because she had realized that no investment also meant no chance of a future.
"It's okay to cry," Ryan murmured.
She relaxed against him in slow degrees, telling herself her resources were so depleted that she had no strength to step back. Because she was so tired, she let him hold her, let the clean scent of him soak in. It was tempting to let the emotion go, but she didn't trust herself to keep it under control.
As the tension in her chest eased, she became aware of his fingers sliding under the damp curls resting against her neck. She felt the brush of his lips at her nape, felt the graze of his tongue as he sampled the flavor of her skin. His teeth followed, just a slight, teasing nibble that sent a shudder through her knees.
Ryan moved slowly, prepared to stop if she pushed him away. But even if she did, he'd felt the leap of her pulse when his lips had closed on her skin. "You're shaking," he whispered.
"I'm not."
He let his hands move over her back, up under her hair where the towel ended and damp skin warmed beneath his fingers.
Lifting her head from his shoulder, she met his dark gaze. "What are we doing?"
"I don't want to talk about it." He lowered/his head and kissed her, his mouth tentative at first, then growing more demanding.
The kiss tasted like whiskey and carried a hint of desperation. When he trailed damp kisses from her mouth to the hollow of her throat, she dropped her head back and let herself enjoy it.
He hooked his fingers in the top edge of the towel so that even a slight tug would loosen it. She grew still, held hostage by his fingers and his mouth and not caring. His lips burned a path to just below her ear lobe. God, he knew the right spots, the right amount of pressure. By the time his tongue found her ear, she was ready to strip the towel away herself.
Frustrated with his leisurely pace, and a little amazed at her own need to hurry, she dragged his T-shirt free of his jeans, ran her hands up the ridges of his—
The phone rang.
They sprang apart, and Meg grasped the towel to keep it from falling.
Ryan seized the phone next to the bed and spoke only two words—"Yeah" and "Fine"—before hanging up.
"Nick's on his way," he said, shoving a hand back through his hair. He watched her tuck the end of the towel back in place and wished he had time for a cold shower—or something hotter and steamier—to quell his desire. One time would be all it would take, he thought. Just to get her out of his system.
Meg put some distance between them. Her cheeks felt too warm, her pulse erratic. "Who's Nick?" she asked.
"Get dressed. You'll meet him soon enough."
Chapterl5
Meg sat on the bed long after he walked out of the room. What had just happened? What had she been thinking? But she hadn't been thinking. That was the problem.
She was feeling alone and cornered. Perhaps it was a given that she would respond to a human touch. She didn't know for sure because she had never been in such a situation. But then, she had never been drawn to a man the way she was drawn to Ryan Kama. She would have been lying to herself if she didn't admit that she was attracted to him. What red-blooded woman wouldn't be? He was a beautiful man.
But it was more than that. She had known beautiful men, had dated a few. But even as well as she had known some of them, she had never experienced such an overwhelming urge to rip their clothes off. Not like what she had felt moments before.
That was it, she thought. Lust. It made sense. Ryan had saved her from God knew what when he'd intervened in her kidnapping. He'd shown concern for her well-being. He'd comforted her when she'd been at her most vulnerable, her most needy. He hadn't bolted at the first sign of emotion. He had come right to her, had taken her into his arms. Because that was what she had needed.
She closed her eyes. So was her response to him lust or something else, something she'd never felt before? And did it matter? She was exhausted and scared and confused. Whatever she was feeling was no doubt a product of everything that had happened leading up to that moment.
Getting up from the bed, she shoved the questions aside. There were more important things to worry about right now.
After dressing in jeans and a white T-shirt from the bag of clothing that Kelsey had provided, Meg left the bedroom. In the hallway, she heard voices in the living room below and paused at the head of the steps.
"I don't know what the hell to think, Nick," she heard Ryan saying. "Maybe I'm just too damned close to it all. I've lost my objectivity. But, damn it, that slimy lawyer at the jail looked her right in the eye. So did those thugs on the beach that first night. All of them looked her right in the face and couldn't tell the difference. Even if the two women look that much alike, don't you think one of those guys would have noticed something different?"
"Maybe none of them know Margot that well," said a man Meg couldn't see. Nick, Ryan had called him. Nick went on, "You asked me to turn up what I could on Meg, and so far she's clean. I've got the details on the computer—"
"Meg Grant comes up clean, but Margot Rhinehart works for a very sophisticated, well-resourced operation that no doubt churns out new identities for people like Margot all the time."
"The feds cleared Meg," Nick said. "Her prints and Margot's don't match. I verified it during my last scouting trip through the FBI's computer network."
"How difficult would it be to go in there and change a set of fingerprints on record?"
"You're reaching, Ryan. Even I wouldn't be able to do that."
Ice clinked in a glass. "What about your FBI source?" Ryan asked. "Anything new there?"
"Afraid not," Nick said.
"She wouldn't lie to you, would she?"
"Jesus, don't you trust anyone?"
"I don't trust the FBI," Ryan said. "They shut me out of the investigation, and it pisses me off. Another drink?"
"Maybe you should slow down with the drinks," Nick said.
Meg decided now was a good time to interrupt. As she entered the living room, she noted the black leather sofa, large armchairs, matching ottomans,
and glass-topped, wrought iron tables. Framed, black-and-white photos adorned the walls. One in particular caught her eye—two toddlers playing on a beach. "Ryan Kama" was scrawled in the bottom corner. Before she had a chance to wonder at that, both men turned toward her.
Meg focused on the man Ryan had called Nick because it saved her from having to see Ryan's scowl. Nick wasn't as tall as Ryan, but he was as darkly handsome. His silver-streaked black hair stuck out around the ears where a teal Florida Marlins baseball cap had flattened it to his head. He had warm brown eyes and ruddy cheeks covered with a light growth of beard. The laugh lines in his face were numerous. As he took her in, his eyebrows arched.
"Nick Costello, Meg Grant," Ryan said. "Nick is the chief of security at KamaTech. He designed the camera that caught Margot helping herself to the emeralds in Beau's safe."
Nick crossed to her and looked her in the face, neither friendly nor combative. "Beau Kama was a good friend of mine," he said.
Recognizing his dare to look away, she held his gaze. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"He was a good man."
"So I've heard."
"Have a seat," he said, gesturing at an armchair.
She started to sit, but tensed at a movement outside the sliding glass doors beyond the office area she had seen earlier. A man in dark clothing, a gun strapped to his hip, stood on the other side of the glass.
"Relax. He works for me," Ryan said.
Not knowing whether to feel safer or more afraid, she settled into the leather chair as Nick leaned against the arm of the sofa facing her and withdrew a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he offered her the pack. "Want one?"
"No, thank you."
"What about a drink?"
She shook her head, impatient. "What do you know about Margot Rhinehart?"
"We'll get to that." He put the pack back in his pocket. "You're a reporter?"
She didn't look at Ryan, though she felt him watching her. The memory of his lips on her skin was distracting, and she was certain her face was still flushed from the experience. What had Nick asked her? Oh, yes, he was establishing control of the conversation. "Yes, I'm a reporter," she said, not having the energy to wrestle him for the upper hand.
"What's your beat?" he asked.
"I'm sure you already know that."
"Nothing wrong with playing along, is there?" Nick asked.
"Is it really necessary? I overheard the part about you researching me," she said. "Certainly, you've turned up more
than you'd ever need to know."
"Humor me."
She pressed her lips together. Showing her frustration would achieve nothing. "I cover courts."
"That must be interesting."
"Most of the time it's intensely dull."
"How long on the courts beat?"
"Including the time I was at the paper in Arlington Heights, a year and a half," she said.
"What'd you do before courts?"
"Cops."
"Cops," he repeated, nodding and smiling around the unlit cigarette flopping between his lips, which made him look ridiculous. "Bet you saw a lot of action on that beat."
"Not really."
He faked surprise. "No?"
"Reporters usually arrive on the scene after the crime has been committed." She wanted to tell him that he shouldn't act. He wasn't good at it. And she suspected he had no intention of smoking that cigarette.
"Lots of crime up there in Arlington Heights?" he asked.
"It's about average for a town its size."
"There was a case up there not too long ago. Didn't get national attention. Some guy was laid off from his job the same day he found out his wife was fooling around. Went home with an Uzi and shot up his entire family, including the dog. Remember that? Guy was a postal worker, I think."
Meg sensed that the two men watching her were holding their breath. "What is this? A test?" She glanced at Ryan, who gazed back at her without expression. She saw his fingers tighten around the half-full glass in his hand, saw him zero in, for just an instant, on her lips.
She turned her attention to Nick. "I wouldn't put too much stock in your source of information, Mr. Costello. The man was an engineer, and he used a hunting rifle."
"You covered the case when it got to court?"
"It never went to court," she said.
"Why not?"
"The man—his name was Jack Curtis—turned the rifle on himself before the police arrived."
"I see."
"Anything else, Mr. Costello?"
"One more thing," he said. "Is that your natural hair color?"
"What?"
"Is it?" Ryan asked.
She kept her gaze steady on Nick. "Yes."
"What about the curls?"
"Yes, they're natural," she said through clenched teeth. "The eyes also are mine, and so is the rest of the body."
Nick flashed a grin at Ryan before circling her. "We might have to lighten it."
Meg twisted in the chair to watch Nick. "Excuse me?"
Ryan drained the rest of the drink. "It seems like a perfect match to me."
"It's darker," Nick said. "Probably not as much sun exposure. It might not even be noticeable, but we won't want to take any chances."
"Hello? I'm right here. What are we talking about?"
"You're going to become Margot Rhinehart," Ryan said, as if he had just told her that the day would be mostly sunny with winds out of the southwest.
Nick thrust the pack of cigarettes at her. "Time to take up smoking."
Meg didn't know what to say. At first, she thought it was another test, perhaps a ploy to get her to say, "Please don't send me back there, they'll kill me." But then she thought of Jimmy Buffett and the two men who had abducted and most likely killed Dayle. They were all associates of Margot Rhinehart. Ruthless, brutal murderers. And she wore the per-fect disguise to walk into their midst and nail every one of them. For Dayle. For herself.
She accepted a cigarette from Nick's pack.
Ryan watched her as his friend held a lighter to the tip of her cigarette. He had seen the suspicion that first darkened her eyes, followed by panic, then fury, and finally, a surprising resolve. She didn't argue. She didn't fight it or whine about the danger. He didn't know whether he should be impressed by her courage or frightened for her life.
Meg was aware of Ryan's tension as he poured himself another drink, but she ignored him. Concentrating on drawing smoke into her lungs, she remembered Dayle standing in her living room with the ashtray in her hand. She'd thought Meg sitting on her balcony alone trying out a bad habit had been worrisome. What would she have thought of this?
Pushing away the memory, she asked Nick, "How do you know Margot smokes? Do you know her?"
His forehead creased as if with regret. "We never met. We found cigarette butts with lipstick on them in an ashtray on Beau's deck."
Meg squinted at him through the smoke. "Did you have a falling out with Beau, too?"
"No. I was working overseas for KamaTech when Beau was killed. I'd been there about a year. I moved back to do what I could to assist in the investigation."
She picked a tiny piece of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "If Beau and Margot were a couple, how come there were never any pictures of them together in the media? I mean, Beau was a mover and a shaker, wasn't he?"
"Beau hated the spotlight," Nick said. "He had a talent for avoiding it, and my guess is that that suited Margot's plans just fine." He pulled an object out of his pocket. "This is hers, too. We found it at Beau's."
Accepting the watch, Meg examined it. The face was encrusted with tiny diamonds, its band slim and silver, elegant. "It's beautiful. How do you know it's hers?"
"Leap of faith. You might want to get used to wearing it."
After removing her own watch, she slipped on Margot's. "How am I going to hook up with Slater Nielsen when you and the feds have no idea where he's based?"
<
br /> "His henchmen know where he's based," Ryan said. "And they're eager to get their hands on you."
Her pulse stuttered, and she thought she saw him smile. But then Nick blocked her view, saying, "We're going to have to adjust your makeup."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Ryan said. "She's not wearing any." Stalking to the glass door that led outside, he slid it open, stepped into the darkness beyond and slammed it shut so hard it was a wonder it didn't shatter.
Arching a questioning brow at Nick, she hoped her relief at Ryan's exit didn't show.
"Don't worry about him," Nick said. "He's a bit conflicted, which is something he's never handled well." Then he startled her by running his fingers through her hair, inspecting it as if for flaws. "We're going to have to cut your hair some. Do you mind?"
"Whatever gets the job done." Taking a drag on the ciga-rette, she thought about what she had just agreed to do—im-personate a woman she had never met. Had she lost her mind? But she reminded herself that she was doing it at least Partially for Dayle.
"Damn." Nick's ruddy cheeks paled as he eyed her throat.
"That psycho on the yacht really did a number on you."
"Yeah, he did." She shoved hair behind her ear and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby wrought iron table. "Are you a detective, Mr. Costello?"
"Please, it's Nick. And no, I'm not a detective. I'm a security expert."
"It apparently pays well," she said. "You have a beautiful home."
"I've managed to invent some handy security devices over the years."
"Such as the camera that caught Margot stealing the emeralds."
"Actually, that was one of my more simple devices," he said. "It's part of the hook you'd hang a painting on. When the painting is removed, the camera starts recording. Most thieves would expect a camera to be inside the safe or mounted on it in some way." He stopped, as if realizing that he'd gotten carried away. "Anyway, KamaTech's business is state-of-the-art security, and I happen to have some handy, uh, computer skills."
She remembered the comment he'd made to Ryan about his many trips through the FBI's computer network. "You're a hacker."
