by Sandra Brown
Erin raised her eyes to his. She could barely see the blue irises through the brush of thick eyelashes that screened them. His good looks made her uneasy. It was almost as if his handsomeness were a barrier to her getting to know him better. For some reason intimacy between them seemed dangerous.
“I… uh… my business organizes and stages fashion shows,” she answered.
“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s what makes us unique!” she piped and playfully tapped his hand with her own.
Exhibiting that same swiftness of action she had witnessed before, he captured her hand with his and held it tightly. For endless moments they stared across the table at each other. When he spoke, it was in a low, vibrating voice.
“You said a few minutes ago that you wanted to get to know me. I want to know you, too. I think we should start now, don’t you?”
She swallowed convulsively and wished he would release her hand. It would be useless to try to retrieve it. His fingers seemed to be made of steel. She could see herself reflected in the pupils of his eyes, and her own revealing expression frightened her. She whispered tremulously, “Start what?”
“Start getting to know each other.”
Before she could blink, he had stood up and come around the table. Before she could breathe, he had pulled her to her feet and encircled her with his arms. One hand embedded itself in her dark, rich curls as he tilted her head back and looked down into her face.
“What better way to get to know each other than with a kiss of reciprocal filial affection?”
The face that descended toward hers bespoke nothing of brotherly fondness. That was Erin’s last conscious thought before she felt his mouth invade hers. His fingers were wound so tightly through her hair that tears of pain joined those of mortification that had already flooded her eyes. His other arm was secure across the middle of her back, pinning her arms to her sides and pressing her against his unyielding body.
She squirmed against him, but her movements only strengthened his hold on her. Deep in her throat she screamed, screams that were swallowed by his mouth that covered and absorbed hers. Her lips throbbed under the bruising pressure of his, and they were powerless to prevent his relentless tongue from entering her mouth.
Never had she been kissed like this. It was disgusting. It was a heinous sin. Knowing their relationship, the way he explored her mouth was decadent and revolting.
It was also thrilling.
She struggled for control—not physical control. Her limbs had been rendered useless and, to her shame, she leaned into him for support. She was fighting a losing struggle of the will.
She fought the sensations that danced up and down her spine. They were responsible for the trembling, melting warmth in the pit of her stomach that she strove to ignore. Her eyes, which had been opened wide with surprise and indignation, now closed of their own volition, disobeying her cerebral commands to remain open and scorn this odious man.
The rattle of a key being inserted in the back door lock saved Erin from the absolute degradation of submission. She renewed her struggling until she managed to push away from him, when he raised his head and relaxed his arms. He faced the door, though he kept a firm grip on Erin’s upper arm.
The woman who came through the door was dainty, young, and blond. She was smiling in a childlike manner despite the sadness that clouded her brown eyes and attested to some deep worry.
The two people standing in the middle of the room were frozen in a caricature of an embrace. The woman’s expression was bleak and guilty, her features ravaged, her face pale.
The man’s mien was hard, cold, and fearsome. It was toward him that the blond woman turned quizzical eyes.
“Hello, Mrs. Lyman.”
“Mr. Barrett,” she answered shyly. “Wha—”
“Mrs. Lyman, do you know this woman?” he interrupted her. “Have you ever seen her before?”
The young woman addressed as Mrs. Lyman by a man who was supposed to be her husband looked at Erin and shook her head. “No, Mr. Barrett, I’ve never seen her before.”
Barrett! Barrett!
Erin raised incredulous eyes to the man who still retained a steel-band grip on her arm. The blue eyes that met hers were frigid and implacable.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Chapter Two
“That’s what I was about to ask you, lady,” he snarled as he cruelly ushered her across the kitchen. He called to the stunned Melanie Lyman over his shoulder, “Mrs. Lyman, please call across the street and ask Mike to come over here and monitor the telephone. Tell him to run a check on the car outside. I’ll be in the study, but I’d rather not be disturbed unless it’s urgent. And please don’t go out unless you take one of the boys with you.”
“No, I won’t,” Erin heard her say meekly. Apparently she was accustomed to taking orders from this brute, but Erin O’Shea was not. As soon as she could she was going to bring down such wrath on him that he wouldn’t know what had hit him.
He pushed her into a small paneled room and slammed the door behind them, latching it soundly. She whirled around to face him, ready to do battle. To her horror, he roughly pulled her jacket from her shoulders and down her arms. He tossed it across the room where it plopped onto a leather sofa. She was too astounded to protest when he yanked the bottom of her blouse out of the skirt’s waistband. He shoved her against the nearest wall, turned her around to face it, and raised her hands wide over her head.
She gasped in humiliation and repulsion when he clamped his hands under her arms and slid them down her sides. Inexorably, they moved around her rib cage, over her breasts, between them, and down to her waist. They insinuated themselves into the waistband of her skirt where they explored her abdomen and hips. When they had toured down the outside of her thighs, he swung her around to face him.
She never remembered being as furious as she was at that moment. Her blood boiled in her veins, making the pulse in her head pound. Erin blinked to clear her vision, which was impaired by rage.
“Aren’t you going to strip search me?” she sneered.
“Only if I think it’s necessary. Which at the present, I don’t. But don’t press your luck.”
His smug answer infuriated her further and she struggled to push him away from her and put more space between them. Surprisingly he obliged her and took a step backward.
“Who the hell do you think you are to treat me this way? I demand an explanation from you this instant!” She knew her words would carry little weight with this bully. They sounded trite and melodramatic and childish to her own ears, but her brain was whirling, and she didn’t seem capable of being more eloquent.
“Easy, lady. I’m about to identify myself to you and then we’ll cut all this temper tantrum crap and get down to finding out who you are—which is more to the point.”
He took a wallet out of his hip pocket and flipped it open. He held it inches in front of her eyes so that she could read: Lawrence James Barrett, United States Department of the Treasury.
Her wide eyes flew from the official badge to his eyes, which bored into her. She could actually feel herself melting under that hard gaze. Energy and anger seeped out of her.
God! What had she stumbled into?
“Pleased to meet you, Miss O’Shea,” he said sarcastically. Taking her arm no less firmly than he had before, he pushed her toward the leather couch. “Sit down and don’t move,” he commanded.
Erin was too stunned and bewildered to object, and instinctively she obeyed him and sank down onto the sofa. Mr. Barrett picked up her jacket and searched the pockets. Finding nothing, he dropped it back on the sofa. Absently Erin folded it and placed it beside her. She didn’t feel like putting it back on or tucking in her blouse. A fever seemed to have washed over her, and her skin was prickly with abnormal heat.
He went to the door and opened it. “Mike?” he shouted.
“Yeah, Lance.”
&nbs
p; “Bring me that purse on the sofa in the living room, please.”
“Sure thing,” the anonymous voice answered back.
“And see if you can locate my glasses.”
“They’re on the table next to the chair you sat in,” Erin answered automatically. He swiveled his head toward her in surprise. She could have bitten her tongue. Now he knew she had noticed him and his subconscious mannerisms.
“Check the end table,” he said through the door.
While he waited for his subordinate to carry out his request, Lance Barrett watched Erin. Uncomfortably, she shifted under his stare and again felt like a specimen that required careful observation. She tried to meet his stare boldly and knew that she failed miserably. In her life, she had never felt more nervous or astonished at a turn of events. To borrow an expression from her mother, she was flabbergasted.
Mike was a younger man than his superior, short, with black hair. His features were nondescript. He had been chosen well for this type of work, Erin thought to herself. No one would ever remember him. He would remain faceless in a crowd.
Mr. Barrett took his glasses and her purse from the younger man and asked, “The car?”
Mike glanced at Erin, but his face registered no expression. Another characteristic of his trade, she thought. “Clean, Lance. It was leased just after noon today at San Francisco International.”
“Okay, thanks.” Mike turned to go, but Mr. Barrett halted him. “Bring me everything in the car—bags, luggage, anything else you see that might be important. It’s still unlocked?”
Mike nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Barrett faced her and treated her again to one of his long, uncompromising stares. Putting the glasses on, he said, “All right, Miss O’Shea, start talking.” He sauntered over to a game table and unceremoniously dumped the contents of her purse onto its green felt surface.
“I’m not saying a thing until you tell me what this is about. By what license do you insult me and question me like this? What has happened? And, Mr. Barrett, I intend to complain to your superiors about your uncouth and unnecessarily rough treatment.”
He quirked one of the golden eyebrows at her and seemed faintly amused by her show of bravado. “Go ahead. Complain. We’re accused of much worse every day. It’s my word against yours. Anyway, lady, you aren’t exactly in a position to start issuing ultimatums. Any minute now, I may get mad as hell at you. Believe me, that’s something you’d be wise to avoid.” His eyes raked her insolently and she blushed when she remembered how he had kissed her. Why had he done that?
“Start talking,” he warned in a low, sinister voice.
All right, Mr. Government Agent, I’ll play your little game for a while and you’ll suffer later for humiliating me this way. “What do you want to know?” she asked tartly.
“Your name.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me again.”
She sighed. “Erin O’Shea.”
“Address.”
“4435 Meadowbrook Road, Houston, Texas.”
“That’s what it says on the driver’s license. Very good,” he said. All the while she was talking, he had been rifling through the items in her purse. He had studied her driver’s license, thumbed through the money in her wallet, looked through her checkbook, and scanned the list of stubbed checks. “Go on,” he said.
“What—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you that, too,” she said crossly. Her patience with this creep had just about played out. She was quickly tiring of his game of cops and robbers.
He looked up at her with dark, hooded eyes and said, “Tell me again.” His cold, steely voice brooked no argument.
“I was adopted when I was an infant. For several years I have been looking for my natural parents and a brother whom I discovered I had. We were separated when we were adopted by different families. Apparently the agencies weren’t sensitive about things like that then.”
He had unzipped her clear plastic makeup bag and was inspecting each lipstick, compact, and small container for its contents. He sniffed appreciatively at a cut glass travel atomizer of Lauren perfume. He opened a pillbox and took out a small white tablet.
“That’s aspirin,” she said defensively.
He nodded and recapped the box. “I haven’t made any accusations,” he countered. “Go on.”
“I learned that Kenneth Lyman is my brother. I came here today from Houston to introduce myself to him. That’s all there is. You know the rest. Please tell me what all of this is about.”
He rezipped the cosmetic bag and tossed it onto the table. After pushing the glasses to the top of his head, he hitched one hip over the corner of the table and folded his arms across his chest. Watching her closely, he said, “Kenneth Lyman embezzled seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the Yerba Buena National Bank ten days ago. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
The level, distinct words hit Erin like a cannonball in the chest. Their impact was forceful. For several moments, she couldn’t breathe, and when she did, it was in quick, insufficient pants.
Before she could form any response to this devastating piece of news, Mike opened the door and carried in her two pieces of luggage and her leather trench coat. He deposited the suitcases on the floor and draped the coat over a chair. Then he left as unobtrusively as he had come.
“Let’s try again, Miss O’Shea, if indeed that is your name,” Mr. Barrett said. “How long have you known Lyman?”
Erin turned wide, disbelieving eyes on him. “I… I’ve never met him,” she gasped. “I told you that I—”
“I know what you told me, Miss O’Shea. But you’ll have to admit it’s a pretty farfetched story. Come on and level with me. Were you in on this job with Lyman?”
“What!” She jumped off the couch. “You must be crazy!”
“Sit down,” he growled ominously. She retreated from that terrible, threatening face until the backs of her knees touched the sofa and she collapsed on it. “I have never met my brother,” she declared slowly.
He knelt on the floor beside her luggage and unsnapped the latch. Frilly underwear and nightgowns spilled over his hands as he spread the hinged halves apart. Lifting each garment, he gave it a thorough inspection.
One sheer blue nightgown with an ecru lace bodice caught his attention. Slowly, he drew it across his palm. Looking up at her he said, “Very nice.” Erin flushed hotly with embarrassment and anger. “I’m waiting,” he said, as he continued to examine the articles in her suitcase.
“For what? A confession?” she asked sweetly.
He was up off the floor and leaning over her before the last word was out of her mouth. “Dammit, I’m getting weary of your sly, glib answers. I want the truth from you and I want it now. Do you understand me?” He had placed his hands on either side of her hips, imprisoning her beneath him. She felt his breath, hot and insistent, on her face. His eyes were incredibly blue and struck her with sparks of anger.
“Yes,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Gradually he straightened up and backed away from her. Was he disappointed with himself for momentarily losing control? It seemed to take an effort to restore himself to the cool, impersonal government agent.
“What kind of business are you in?”
“I’ve already told…” She broke off immediately when she saw his beginning scowl. She swallowed her proud anger and answered. “The name of my company is Spotlight. We organize fashion shows for department stores, organizations, individuals, whoever needs our services. We do everything from hiring models and selecting the featured clothes to ordering the flowers and refreshments.”
“Forgive me, Miss O’Shea, but no average working girl rents a Mercedes, carries five hundred and sixty dollars in cash in her purse, and wears Oscar de la Renta suits.”
How had he been able to count those bills he had casually thumbed through? How had he known whose
label was in her suit? She glanced down at the jacket lying beside her on the sofa and saw that the label was readily apparent for someone who had the eyes of an eagle and the cunning of a fox.
He saw her puzzling this out and said, “I may be an ‘uncouth’ G-man, but I have heard of Oscar de la Renta, and I know that suit you’re wearing must have set you back what I make in a week. Where do you get money like that, Miss O’Shea?”
“I earn it,” she shouted. “I’m not an ‘average working girl,’ Mr. Barrett. I own my company and have an office staff of twelve talented people. My business is an extremely successful one.”
“Congratulations,” he sneered. “How did you get the capital to start a business like that?”
“From my husband.”
Her answer seemed to take him by surprise and his eyes narrowed on her menacingly. “You told me earlier that you weren’t married.”
“I’m not,” she said. When she saw him take a step toward her, she held up both hands, palms out. “I’m a widow.”
His reaction to that statement was totally unexpected. He threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. “Oh boy. You don’t miss a trick, do you? I can’t wait to hear this tale,” he said with a chuckle.
“It’s true!” she cried.
“Please continue. I’m breathless with anticipation.” He gave her a mocking bow.
“As soon as I graduated from college, I went to New York. I worked there for two years as a model. I wasn’t very successful as a glamour model, so I went to work in one of the apparel manufacturing firms as a house model.”
She could tell by his skeptical expression that she wasn’t explaining too well. “You see, each line, each fashion house, has a model by which to gauge their sizes. I had the measurements of a perfect size eight. They made all their patterns by adjusting them to my figure—as long as I maintained the correct measurements.”
