A Fare To Remember

CHAPTER ONE

ORDINARILY, RACHEL MARLOWE wouldn’t have minded a little vibrating action while naked in her bed, luxuriating beneath her silk sheets, sated from the second explosive orgasm of the night. Ordinarily, she would have snuggled deeper beneath her comforter and allowed sweet exhaustion to lure her into dreamless sleep.

Ordinarily.

But damn it, over the past four months, making love to Roman Brach had elevated her ordinary, everyday, work-for-a-living existence into an intriguing, captivating adventure. To achieve this level of excitement, she usually had to stuff her duffel with a week’s worth of whatever and catch the next cheap flight to another continent. Her whirlwind, spontaneous one-woman excursions had, not too long ago, been her only means of finding balance in her life-excitement to offset the boring; magnificence to alleviate the mundane.

Until Roman, who thanks to his vibrating pager, was now rolling out of bed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel silenced him with a soft palm over his generous lips.

“If you say ‘duty calls’ I might have to kill you,” she jokingly warned.

His grin, warm beneath her touch, pooled her insides into melted goo. She yanked her hand away. Despite her threat, the only lethal one in the room was Roman.

“If you kill me,” he warned, “I won’t be able to return to you tonight.”

She rolled her eyes, determined not to show her emotional hand. What fun would that be? “I’ll live.”

“Yes,” he agreed, running a strong, callused finger from her lips, down her neck, to the slightly moist crevice between her breasts. “But without me, what quality of life would you enjoy?”

Despite her ire, she laughed at his unstoppable ego and swatted his hand away. He chuckled and started rummaging through the clothes scattered about the room for his pants, shirt, tie and jacket. He’d find them all. And they’d be impeccably unwrinkled when he did. She wasn’t sure how he managed that feat, but it annoyed the hell out of her.

Lots of stuff about Roman annoyed the hell out of her, even while concurrently thrilling her right down to her curled toes. With his choice television-consulting job that took him to the four corners of the world on a regular rotation, Rachel never knew when he’d show up on her doorstep, his blue eyes rich with desire, the hard muscles in his arms and chest tense with need, his perfect Armani suit and custom-made Dege & Skinner shirts practically begging to be ripped free from his body. That’s how he’d shown up tonight just after midnight-and similarly every night this week. Such regularity was downright weird, but who was she to complain? The sex was great. The conversation witty and quick. Yet now, at nearly five o’clock on a Thursday morning, she found herself once again in the unenviable position of either pretending his inevitable departure didn’t bother her in the least…or confessing that she wished he’d stay and risk looking needy and clingy.

She frowned. She’d keep her mouth shut. As always. God forbid that she exhibit vulnerability. She’d learned long ago that putting her heart on the line might make her feel empowered in the short run, but in the long run, she’d end up just like all the women in her life-her mother, her sisters, her roommate, Jeannette…hell, all the chicks she knew from the gym and the various offices she worked in-lonely and bitching about all the men who’d broken their hearts.

Not Rachel. She’d come to New York City from Miami with one thing and one thing only on her mind. Her career. Okay, two things. She also wanted to travel. Come to think of it, math was not her strong suit. Her third most important goal revolved around having lots of hot sex with all the intriguing, international and successful men she’d inevitably meet in the famed Big Apple or wherever her passport took her in between freelance gigs as a graphic designer. And yet, for the past four months, she’d only been having sex with Roman. She wasn’t complaining, of course. Not, at least, until his annoying pager went off.

“Any idea when you’ll be back?”

She delivered the question with the right combination of vague interest and cool boredom. Or at least she hoped so. She practiced hard enough every time Roman prepared to disappear.

He turned, his ice-blue eyes warmed by a simmering desire that never seemed to cool when they were together. From the first moment her attention had flashed on his hypnotic gaze, she’d been snagged. Caught, like the tarpon her stepfather used to fish for off his yacht. And just like the mighty silver game fish, she’d fought and flailed against the hook.

Well, she’d struggled at least until she’d found a way to justify that flirting with a consultant was not the same as coming on to a boss. Technically, for the duration of his contract at the network-and hers, since she freelanced-he’d been her superior. He’d supervised her work, but he didn’t sign her paychecks. He didn’t even write her performance reviews. Armed with those facts, she’d thrown caution to the wind and succumbed to a potentially destructive affair with a colleague.

She’d been working for A &E at the time. Or maybe Bravo. Encore? She couldn’t remember the cable network exactly, but her project had reeked of highbrow entertainment-that much she remembered. As a specialist in opening credits and flashy promo pieces, she went where the jobs took her, and generally, she switched focus every six weeks at the most. She worked hard enough in a short period of time to save money, and then she took off for parts unknown. Indonesia. Pakistan. Brazil. She’d been on the verge of heading out on another unplanned, unrestricted trip to Costa Rica when Roman had strolled into her life and made leaving the last thing on her mind.

As he dressed, she thought back to the first time she’d seen him. She’d been in the studio, working on the final edits for a documentary promo. On mating. Of apes, of flamingos, of New York City drag queens? That detail blurred. Unforgettable, however, was the glance over her shoulder when she caught sight of Roman Brach conferring with some uppity-up in the company.

She’d stared. Brazenly. And after a few long moments, he’d looked up. Locking gazes with Roman, even for just a split second, filled her thoughts with enough sensual possibilities to script several rather lurid short films of her own.

He’d been wearing gray. Dusky coal gray. And a silver tie flecked with slate blue that matched his steely eyes. He’d tried to blend. To remain unnoticed. That in and of itself was enough to arrest her attention since her experience told her that here in New York, just like back home in Miami, men as handsome as Roman usually wanted nothing more than to catch the attention of every female within a ten-mile radius.

But not this guy. Oh, no. He’d wanted to move stealthlike in the television graphic arts room, glancing over shoulders and lingering at workstations just a few seconds too long to be an ordinary executive only interested in increasing ratings. When she’d asked around and discovered he was actually a consultant, she’d made the first move.

One well-timed quip later, and she’d received a charming invitation to dinner. One elevator ride down from the restaurant and she’d started a hot, lusty, unstoppable affair that she knew, soon, would be all too…over.

“Sorry, love.” He secured the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves. “Don’t have a clue when I’ll be back. But I know it will be soon.”

She loved how he didn’t sound like Hugh Grant when he called her love. She wouldn’t have minded Colin Firth, but Roman’s accent wasn’t as easy to peg as British or Aussie or South African or even Scottish. He’d claimed to be American by birth, but a resident of the world. It was one of the few things about him she believed.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Your loss.”

He quirked half a grin, bringing one devastating dimple into sharp relief against his stubble-roughened cheek. “You have no idea.”

She expected his kiss to be brief, yet he surprised her again by making it long and lingering. Rachel’s libido stirred just before he flashed out of the bedroom, and ten steps later, out of her small apartment in the SoHo section of Manhattan.

Her roommate, Jeannette, was in California on business and would be gone for at least another week. Rachel had the entire apartment to herself, and the loneliness suddenly echoed like shouts in a cave.

She relaxed against her pillows, closed her eyes and imagined how Roman would skip the elevator for the stairs, slip onto the lonely, nearly deserted sidewalk and hail a cab within moments, having some special magic when it came to summoning the often-impossible-to-find taxis that roamed the city.

She doused the light and for all of fifteen minutes, tried to sleep. The day before, she’d finished her assignment with the local news station, designing the new graphics for their eleven o’clock broadcast. She had a couple of new freelance projects to work on and a long-running assignment with an independent filmmaker to fiddle with, but otherwise, the next few days were hers to sleep late and explore the city since, because of Roman, she’d decided to stick around rather than head to the Costa Rican cloud forest. Her duffel bag had been calling to her for weeks, but she’d ignored her wanderlust. Somehow, trekking around Central America didn’t quite measure up to making love to Roman on a semi-regular basis.

After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, she roused herself out of bed and took a hot shower, hoping to wash the alluring smell of Roman’s cologne off her skin. If she didn’t, he’d haunt her all day. She was already obsessed enough.

Once dressed in her favorite sweats and Miami Hurricane T-shirt, Rachel grabbed her hip pack and keys. She wasn’t sure if she’d actually make it to the gym to do a round of circuit training and an hour on the tread-mill, but she’d at least make it as far as Iris’s coffee stand.

Rachel jogged down the steps of her building just in time to see Iris flick on the little rotating disco ball that told the neighborhood that her street-corner stand was open for business. The smell of fresh pastelitos and strong Cuban espresso assailed Rachel’s nostrils, making her stomach rumble. She was going to work out, right? One pastry wouldn’t kill her.

“You’re up early, mija,” Iris said, her thick Puerto Rican accent not hiding her surprise.

“I haven’t really gone to sleep.”

Iris arched a perfectly painted, black eyebrow. “Mr. Roman come to visit? Is that the third time this week?”

Rachel dug her hands into the pockets of her sweats and shrugged. “Fourth, but who’s counting? I’m sure I won’t see him again for a few days.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Iris handed Rachel a large foam cup steaming with frothy milk, espresso and the four sugars Rachel preferred.

She blew on the hot drink, then took a tentative sip. The sweetened warmth slid down her throat, then pooled in her belly, chasing away the last chill of Roman’s quick departure.

“The last two mornings, he left late, without the pager going off. But today, the pager summoned. He’s probably on his way to the airport as we speak.”

“Nah, just Uptown.”

Rachel nearly jumped with fright at the gravelly voice-how Mario Capelli could consistently walk up behind her with such stealth, never mind park his cab on the sidewalk only a few car lengths away, continued to amaze her-and Iris, who’d clearly seen him coming, now blushed a healthy pink on her cocoa skin.

“You dropped Roman off?”

Mario nodded, and then gave Iris his signature greeting with a touch to the brim of his battered Giants cap. “Had some meeting. Looked pretty happy for a guy on his way to work,” Mario said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Rachel slapped him playfully on the arm. She hadn’t been in the city very long when she’d been lured from the backseat of Mario’s cab to this street corner by the scent of authentic Cuban coffee. Rachel’s mother, a Cuban immigrant, had twice married men who didn’t share her Latin blood, but though her name no longer ended with a Z, Mireya Diaz Marlowe had refused to leave Miami and the rhythms of her roots. She’d never managed to teach her daughters to speak Spanish or get them interested in Castro’s politics, but they did all have a weakness for Caribbean food and music. Because of Iris’s stand, which now hummed with the music of Celia Cruz on a battered CD player Iris hung from the cart handle with a locked bicycle chain, Rachel had shelled out more than her budget allowed for the one bedroom walk-up just so she could get a little taste of home every day. Luckily, her roommate, when she was in town-which wasn’t often-didn’t mind the Murphy bed in the living room.

Rachel asked Iris for one of the pastelitos before turning back to Mario. “The man should look happy,” she said confidently. “He was with me.”

“I figured,” Mario said with a smirk, nodding his thanks when Iris handed him his single-shot espresso in a tiny porcelain cup that she kept just for him.

Rachel took a bite of the warm pastry, humming when the sweet, flaky crust opened to reveal the mildly spiced meat inside. She’d have to do two hours of tread-mill to make up for all these carbs, but she didn’t care.

“God, Iris. This is delicious. I swear, you need to teach me how to make them.”

“Then you won’t come down every morning and buy one.”

“If I promise to buy a dozen every Friday, will you teach me?”

The banter lasted until a few other customers showed up, leaving Mario and Rachel to shuffle over to a nearby mailbox, where they perched their coffees and enjoyed their familiar early-morning conversation as the city that never slept fully embraced being awake. Honking horns, blaring sirens and the rumble of a million commuters provided the background music Rachel dearly loved. Mario worked the night shift, but on his way home, he nearly always stopped by to see Iris as she was opening and would oftentimes pick up one last fare from in front of Rachel’s building on his way back to Brooklyn. More often than not lately, that fare was Roman. And chatty as Mario was, Rachel realized that he might have some elusive information about her mysterious lover.

Question was, would he share?

“So, Mario. Where did Roman go this morning?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Some meeting Uptown.”

She knew that already. “Where Uptown?”

“You want the specific address?”

She shrugged indecisively.

“He had me drop him off just north of Central Park.”

Mario’s voice dipped a bit. They weren’t best buddies or anything, but Rachel knew a dodge when she heard one. “Dropped him off? Not at a specific building?”

Mario pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed and he scrunched his bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows over his kind, but shrewd, brown eyes. “Why you asking so many questions all of a sudden?”

She expelled a breath, not realizing she was holding the air so tight in her chest. “Roman and I have been seeing each other for almost four months, Mario, but I don’t know a thing about him. He’s so secretive. Guarded.”

“This didn’t bother you before,” he said, grabbing his coffee cup again and downing the last of the potent brew.

Rachel took another ravenous bite of her breakfast. “It bothers me now,” she replied, her mouth overstuffed.

Mario grinned. “Things getting serious?”

Rachel nearly choked. “No!”

Liar. Liar, liar, liar! Truth was, Roman had been around too much lately. Before, he’d come and go with such irregularity, Rachel hadn’t invested much in him or their interactions. Naturally free-spirited, she hadn’t craved commitment and consistency from the men in her life. Not, at least, until Roman started showing up more often. Now she couldn’t seem to take her mind off him.

Mario’s doubtful gaze forced her to amend her denial. “How can things get serious if I don’t know anything about him?”

“Did you ask him?”

She rolled her eyes. Of course she’d asked. Roman simply had very persuasive means of turning her attention to other matters. Like sex.

“He’s elusive,” she replied.

“Elusive? The last thing you need is a guy with something to hide. Dump him,” Mario offered.

“Just like that?” Rachel couldn’t believe she was objecting. She’d kicked other guys out of her life for lesser crimes than keeping their personal information close to the vest. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing. I just think you should cut your losses before you get hurt if this Roman ain’t being straight. There are a lot of great guys out there, Rachel. Maybe you need a little help finding one.”

Rachel frowned. Mario had a reputation for matchmaking, but so far, he hadn’t attempted to work his magic on her.

“I’ve never had trouble finding men, Mario, but thanks for the offer.” She finished up her pastry, her mood dampened. “I can’t believe you think I should dump a perfectly amazing guy just because he won’t tell me details about where he grew up or where his parents live now or what company he’s currently working for as a media consultant.”

Mario shook his head. “Guys who are so secretive usually have something big to hide. Maybe he’s married.”

Rachel swallowed and the light and flaky meat pastelito thunked to the pit of her stomach. “He’s not.”

“You know that for sure?”

“It’s one of the few questions he’s given me a straight answer to. I don’t think Roman lies. I think he avoids telling me more than he thinks I need to know.”

“And that’s not good enough anymore?”

Rachel’s gaze drifted over her shoulder, back to her building, back to the stoop at the top of the stairs where she and Roman often groped and grabbed each other while she searched desperately for her keys so they could make love halfway up the stairwell inside or perhaps, if they were lucky, just after falling through her front door onto the living room carpet. Their lust had been a constant, insatiable part of her life for the past four months, but suddenly, this morning, she realized sexual desire simply wasn’t enough.

Or, more likely, the suspicion had been brewing for weeks.

“Tell me where you took him, Mario. Please.”

Mario’s gaze darted to Iris, who was now tending to a line four or five deep. The morning rush had started and both he and Rachel knew he wouldn’t be able to exchange a private word with his favorite coffee-stand owner for at least another two hours, maybe three. He flipped off his hat, ran his hand through his graying dark, curly hair, and then rubbed a bit at the rather thick stubble on his leathery cheeks.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said with a grin. “I’ll show you.”

CHAPTER TWO

“HE DIDN’T GO INSIDE?”

Rachel leaned forward on the dash, straining her neck to look up at the tall residential building where Mario had dropped Roman off. The place was swank. Two doormen. And a security guard. Did he live there?

“Nope. Got into a dark sedan parked at the curb,” Mario replied.

Rachel sat back, bouncing against the worn leather seat. “Did he talk to anyone? Wave at the doorman?”

Mario shook his head. “Paid his fare, left me a generous tip and got straight into the other car.”

“Does he always do that?”

Mario scrunched his nose as he thought deeply. “Nah, but sometimes. I kinda noticed this morning that I usually don’t see him go inside. So out of curiosity, mind you, I waited.”

Rachel turned and eyed Mario with new suspicion. “Did he know you were watching him?”

Mario glanced aside, and then pretended to adjust his side mirror through his open car window. “I wouldn’t know.”

Rachel eyed her friend suspiciously. Mario had a reputation for being a bit of a busybody. And he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

“After you dropped him off, did he wait for you to leave before heading toward the other car?”

Mario’s expression displayed exaggerated thought. “Guys like him don’t like to be watched, that much I can tell.”

“So you…”

Mario sighed and gave up trying to be cool about what he’d done. “I made a U-turn and double-parked at the corner while he crossed. There were cabs all over. He probably didn’t know it was me.”

Rachel swallowed a chuckle. She’d known Mario for nearly three years and she’d pegged him long ago as the curious sort. He’d caught more than one guy casing Iris’s corner with the intention of robbing her, and he’d averted several muggings of fares he’d dropped off in questionable parts of town.

“What made you stop and watch?”

Mario adjusted his cap. “Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

He eyed her boldly. “Can’t. It’s just gut instinct.”

Rachel grabbed the seat belt and strapped it across her body, which keyed Mario to put the car in gear and start the return ride back to her apartment. “We didn’t learn much.”

“No, but we could learn more,” Mario suggested. “I mean, if you want to.”

Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. “How?”

He arched a brow.

She knew how. Next time Roman left her apartment, she and Mario would follow him.

Did she really want to go behind Roman’s back? Spy on him? Part of her abhorred the inherent childishness of the prospect, but the other part-the part that didn’t like to be taken for a fool-was interested.

“What would I have to do?” she asked.

“A little detective work,” Mario said, as if the idea were as natural as breathing. “Nothing complicated or illegal.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Stalking someone isn’t illegal?”

“Hey, can you help it if he leaves and you just happen to be going in the same direction?”

“You’ll need more than one cab,” Rachel pointed out. “Our job would be easier if he gets into a car that knows we’re tailing him.”

Mario smiled broadly. Clearly, he liked the way she thought, which surprised her. Rachel really wasn’t one for cloak-and-dagger stuff. But she had been around the block, and well, if a good thriller was on television, she usually tuned in.

“I can call in a favor,” Mario said.

Rachel remained silent for the rest of the trip. After Mario pulled up in front of her building, he handed her a business card with his cell phone number inked at the bottom. “You call me next time he’s at your place.”

After an instant of hesitation, Rachel snatched the card. She offered Mario money for taking her Uptown, which he refused, then promised to call him unless her common sense got the better of her, which she didn’t figure had much chance of happening.

Determined not to waste the entire day thinking about Roman or what she might discover if she followed him on one of those mysterious mornings when he left her at the summons of his pager, she headed toward the gym. On the short walk over, she couldn’t help thinking about her mother, her sisters-the poster women for trust issues.

She supposed the fact that their father had left them high and dry when Rachel was only ten should have explained the plethora of neuroses shared by the Marlowe women, but Rachel hated to think that she was such a textbook case of deep-seated issues. Wasn’t like every relationship she’d ever had imploded because she didn’t trust her man. Okay, maybe a few. But not…oh, what was his name? Sean? Yeah, Sean. She’d dumped him because she didn’t like football. And the man had been entirely obsessed with the game. Of course, he had played right guard for the Hurricanes at the time they’d been dating-hence the shirt she was wearing today-but that was no excuse for him to spend from ESPN’s College Game Day on Saturday morning until the last whistle on Monday Night Football in front of the tube.

Yeah, that one hadn’t been about trust.

Unfortunately, she decided as she yanked on the door to her gym, he’d been the only one.

Rachel exchanged greetings with the receptionist in the too-tight sports bra, waved her ID card under the barcode reader, and, after scoring a bottled water from the vending machine, jumped on the first empty tread-mill she saw, the one with the broken distance meter. She groaned, but opted to use the clock on the opposite wall as her gauge. Not that she had anything pressing to do today. In fact, her life seemed incredibly up in the air-and she suspected it would remain that way until she figured out just what Roman was hiding from her.

And Lord knew when that would be.

A WEEK. ROMAN SNUGGLED closer to Rachel and lamented the fact that he’d only managed to stay away from her for a measly seven days. In his younger years, he would have cursed his lack of willpower. Now that he was older and wiser, he knew he was playing with fire, auburn-haired, green-eyed fire. Recklessness hadn’t gotten him to where he was in business. But taking chances with Rachel had invigorated his life to a level he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Was that your pager?”

Roman glanced at the bedside table. The annoying cube of technology was completely still and silent.

He rolled over and caught a momentary glimpse of panic in Rachel’s dark-green eyes.

Odd.

“Duty’s not calling just yet. Why?” he said, slipping his hands over her bare belly and inhaling the musky, sweaty scent of recent, delicious sex. “Anxious for me to go?”

She forced a smile. Forced. What was that about?

“Of course not. I guess you’ve been here a little longer than usual. Call me Pavlov’s dog, but the longer you’re here, the more I expect you to leave.”

He chuckled, but her instincts weren’t far off. He knew the pager would likely go off at any moment. His operation had been at a virtual standstill until last week, when new data had started to filter through. The Agency, the code name for the covert group of the highest level agents from various organizations under Homeland Security had sent word that a contact from a separate, even more secret division would soon provide needed information for his case. In all honesty, he’d had no business visiting Rachel on the eve of something so crucial to his mission. He should have been at the office, monitoring the situation firsthand rather than leaving the task to a subordinate or waiting for the contact to make himself known. But once this assignment was over, he knew the Agency would shuttle him out of New York at the speed of light.

His obligations to the mission kept him from revealing the true nature of his job to Rachel, so he couldn’t utter anything close to a goodbye. And for all he knew, this was their last night together-his last chance to imprint her silky skin, sweet scent and warm touch into his consciousness. He didn’t want to waste time anticipating the moment he’d have to leave-this time, perhaps, for good.

“You look nothing like anyone’s dog,” he said, his voice rough with renewed lust as his fingers inched over her breasts, eliciting a soft, seductive whimper from the back of her throat. God, the woman was like a drug.

“You always say the right things,” she whispered.

“And do the right things?”

He scooted the sheet out of his way and encircled one taut, brown nipple with his tongue. The heady saltiness of her flesh danced in his mouth like the bite of fine caviar.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, massaging his temples as he plied his mouth against her oh-so-sensitive breasts. He could make her come like this. He’d done it before, stirring her to madness when his own body wasn’t quite ready yet for another orgasm, but hers was primed and pliant.

Her breath came in shallow pants and he could hear her accelerated heartbeat in her chest. She writhed on the bed and he knew if he dipped a hand lower, he’d find her sex wet with readiness. If he timed his ministrations just right, one flick of her clit would send her over the edge. Then he could kiss her hard and swallow the sounds of her release.

With Rachel, he was no less than a hungry carnivore and no more than a man ensnared by an attraction more powerful than any other he’d ever encountered.

Unfortunately, just before he could slide his hand to that precise spot that would drive her wild, the bedside table buzzed with the sound of his pager. He should finish what he started, ignore the device and his responsibilities and obligations and give this woman what she so richly deserved, but on the second, longer vibration, Rachel stiffened.

The moment was lost.

Damn.

He curled away from her, grabbed the pager and pressed the button that lit the LCD.

The number he expected flashed across the screen, along with the code that told him he had no time to lose.

Rachel sat up, the sheet yanked tight across her chest.

“Looks like our fun is over,” she said.

He nodded. If she only knew.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU’RE OUT EARLY.”

Mario looked up guiltily, his mind grasping for an explanation for Iris, who’d caught him in the act of working out the pain in his sacroiliac. Rachel had called him just after midnight and for whatever insane reason, he’d decided to forgo his comfortable bed and instead spent his night off in the backseat of his cab, parked around the corner from his usual spot near Iris’s coffee stand. He’d paid a night’s wages to his pal Sam to meet him before sunrise and wait outside Rachel’s building. This Roman Brach person had piqued his curiosity. He didn’t want to see Rachel hurt.

Unfortunately, pulling all-nighters in the backseat of a cramped vehicle wasn’t as kind to his old body as it used to be when he was on the force. Stakeouts had been his specialty back then. Now, they were literally a pain in the ass. And the back. And the neck.

“Morning,” he said by way of greeting, trying to look as nonchalant as any man who was hanging out on the sidewalk long before the sun came up over Manhattan. “How you doing?”

“I’ve been up since three baking, that’s how I’m doing.”

Even when she was grousing, Iris’s melodious, accented voice caused a thrill in the center of Mario’s belly. Suddenly, sleeping in his cramped backseat didn’t seem so bad.

“You smell great,” he said, inhaling the sugary scent of the fresh baked goods clinging to her worn pink sweater, the one she wore every morning until the sun came up, when she’d toss it over the back of the stool she kept near the cash register.

“I smell like lard.” She smoothed a hand over her thick, bunned black hair as she moved in the direction of her stand.

“More like fresh-baked dough sizzling with creamy butter and a dusting of cinnamon.”

She stopped, the rolling cooler she tugged behind her knocking against her heels.

“That was almost…poético.”

He knew little Spanish, but he got her point. Besides, he was fluent in Italian and the languages weren’t so different. Just like the cultures. Just like the people.

“I can wax with the best of them when it comes to food. Can I help you set up?”

She resumed her walk, and like the dog he was, he followed. The minute they reached the front of Rachel’s building, she immediately started unlocking the door with the impressive collection of keys she extracted from inside her blouse.

Oh, to be those keys.

Stop it, Mario! Have you lost all your respect for women?

He cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly feeling more like sixteen than sixty. He glanced up at what he thought was Rachel’s window. The lights were off. Or perhaps, on in the adjacent room only.

“Where’s your cab?” she asked, once she had the coffee brewing and had tossed him a roll of paper towels and some Windex to clean the front of her display case.

“Around the corner. I didn’t want any fares this morning.”

“You still on the clock?”

“Nah, it was my night off.”

She eyed him suspiciously but didn’t ask any more questions until she had her stand nearly ready for operation. He’d helped her set up once before, about three months ago when she’d sprained her wrist. She hadn’t accepted assistance easily, but Mario could be fairly stubborn when he wanted to be.

He could remember the first day he saw Iris again, the fateful morning three years ago when he’d picked Rachel Marlowe up outside a real estate agent’s office. She’d promised him a big tip if he drove her around so she could find a new place, but the twenty she’d slipped him that day in addition to her fare had been nothing compared to what she’d really started. The first question out of her mouth had been, “Where can a girl get a decent cup of real Cuban coffee around here?”

The answer had brought him to Iris, a woman he hadn’t seen in years.

The whole scenario-his attraction to Iris, his friendship with Rachel, his inability to keep his half-crooked Italian nose out of other people’s business-had led him right here after getting little sleep the night before, his adrenaline buzz spawned by an attraction he didn’t know if he could ignore much longer. And then there was his cockamamie plan to find out if Roman Brach was who he said he was.

Which Mario doubted. His cop instincts wailed that Brach wasn’t just some liar leading on his latest squeeze, or a married dude who wanted Rachel on the side. He’d had a friend at the precinct run the plates on the car that had picked Roman up yesterday and got nothing but one of the million car services available throughout town. And a quick search of the guy’s name scored nothing by way of priors. What little he’d told Rachel checked out.

Still, Mario had a strong feeling that this guy wasn’t on the up-and-up. And if the man turned out to be the worst kind of con, Mario would be there. He owed Rachel, since she’d been entirely responsible for Iris coming back into his life.

“If you’re off duty, why are you here?” Iris finally asked.

He put on his best, most appealing grin. “My morning’s shot if I don’t see your smiling face first thing.”

She rolled her eyes, but her tiny grin revealed the effectiveness of his compliment. “You’re full of it, Mario Capelli.”

“Full of what? Infatuation for you? Full of an irresistible need to maybe-” he took a deep breath “-sometime soon, see you somewhere other than on this street corner?”

He waited a full minute, watching Iris’s dark eyes narrow as she considered what he’d said. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone coming out of Rachel’s building. On instinct, he grabbed Iris’s elbow and tugged her down so they were both concealed by the cart.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced around the side of the cart. Roman quickly surveyed the street, probably looking for Mario’s perennially parked-at-the-end-of-the-block cab, then took off toward Avenue of the Americas, right to the corner where he’d positioned his co-conspirator, Sam.

Mario leaned forward and without giving himself a moment to think, kissed Iris soundly. Knowing he had only a few moments before Rachel came down looking for him, he forced himself to break the lip-lock and ignore the fire surging through his veins. “I’m asking you to dinner.”

She stuttered. “W-when?”

“Tonight. Five o’clock?”

Good enough time as any, especially since he knew that Iris went to bed early so she could open her stand before dawn.

“Where?”

Mario stood and, as gentlemanly as he could, helped Iris back to her feet. “You pick!”

He started down the block to his cab. With traffic light, he’d be able to spin around the nearby side street and reach Rachel before they lost sight of Roman’s ride.

RACHEL SLID INTO MARIO’S waiting cab, out of breath and unable to speak. Luckily, she didn’t have to say “follow that car.” Mario had torn away from the curb before she could grab the door handle and yank it shut.

“You’re flushed,” Mario said.

She gulped in air, forcing the oxygen into her lungs. “I ran down the backstairs and out through the alley. I didn’t want to run into him in the lobby.”

Closing her eyes, Rachel counted backward from one hundred, her heartbeat slowly calming to as close to normal as she was going to get until this was over. For a split second, she wondered why she had come up with such a sneaky plan. Why couldn’t she just ask the man what, if anything, he was hiding? Because he won’t answer. She could always give him an ultimatum. Yeah, right. Somehow, she couldn’t see a man like Roman reacting well to her laying down the law. He’d walk out. And damn it, if anyone ended things, it was going to be her.

“There!” Mario shouted, his finger jabbing his windshield. “There’s Sam.”

“Wasn’t it dark when Roman went out? Are you sure he got in with your friend?”

Mario glanced at her sideways. He picked up his radio and, after contacting the dispatcher, was patched in to Sam’s car. He asked some questions in Italian. Rachel understood, and she’d bet big bucks Roman would, too. But the conversation was innocuous enough that unless he was suspicious of his driver, he’d never realize he’d been scammed.

“Satisfied?”

Rachel smirked. “You’re awfully good at all this covert stuff. Why is that?”

Mario turned his attention back on driving. “Natural talent.”

They headed toward the Upper East Side, where Mario had dropped Roman off before. Did he have a home there? A wife or lover or family she knew nothing about? His nomadic lifestyle appealed to her own sense of wanderlust so much at the beginning, she’d never questioned how a man could go from place to place with no real home. In fact, she’d envied him. He seemed to feed on the spontaneity of his job, just the way he seemed to revel in the unpredictability of their so-called relationship.

Hadn’t she been attracted to the same life? Her spontaneous trips fulfilled her desire to travel and her career as a freelance artist paid the bills. In Roman, she’d seen a kindred spirit-a career-focused professional at one moment; a free-wheeling vagabond at another. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t just let him go. He was too perfect for her. He understood her like no other man ever could.

And yet, she was practicing the ultimate deception to find out more about him. Would he forgive her if he found out?

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she suggested as Mario followed the other yellow cab onto a quiet street with tall, thick elms in decorative iron planters embedded in the sidewalk.

Mario kept his expression blank. “Tell me now, Rachel. You don’t want to know what the man is hiding, we go home.”

She pressed her eyelids shut. She was so close. Would it really hurt to finish what she’d started? “I need to know,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. What if he was married? What if everything between them had been a lie? Okay, she had to admit that in the trust department, she and Roman had a huge deficit. But until one of them broke the casual pattern of their relationship, things would never change, right?

“Here’s your chance,” Mario said.

The yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of a clearly upscale condo building, only this one had no doormen-at least, none out at the early hour of the morning. After a moment where Rachel assumed he was paying the driver, Roman got out. Almost instantaneously, a tall, slim brunette emerged from the shadows.

And made a beeline for Roman.

Rachel sat forward, watching out of the corner of her eye as the cab Roman had ridden in pulled away. He didn’t seem to notice. His attention was one hundred and ten percent on the leggy brunette.

“Now, who is she?” Mario asked.

Rachel opened her mouth to ask the same question, but before she could, the brunette with the waist-length, glossy black hair grabbed Roman by the lapels and tugged him into a hot, hard kiss.

“Holy shit.”

They’d cursed in unison.

Rachel reached for the door handle. Mario grabbed her by the elbow.

“You have your answer. Rachel, let it be,” he said, his dark eyes glossy with warning.

Rachel looked at his hand with disdain, but then quickly realized he just wanted to protect her. She appreciated the sentiment, but she could slay her own dragons. She’d sliced a few open in her lifetime. She could again.

“Yes, I do. Mario, trust me on this.” Her gaze flicked to Roman, who was still swapping spit with the Cheron-a-stick look-alike in skintight leather jeans. “I will not let that man, or any man, walk all over me. Never have, never will.”

Mario released her arm, and before she lost one ounce of indignation, Rachel pushed out of the cab. Sure, she and Roman had never pretended to be exclusive. Hell, they’d never even talked the matter over. But while Rachel Marlowe may have grown up with three sisters, she’d never learned to share. Especially not her lovers.

As soon as she was close enough, she tapped the chick in the boob-hugging turtleneck on the shoulder and said a polite excuse me. Once. Twice.

The exotic brunette turned slowly, her eyes a dreamy onyx mix of shadows and mystery. “May I help you?”

Rachel grinned. “Actually, yes. Could you step aside?”

The woman complied, giving Rachel a perfect shot with her fist on Roman’s jaw. “You son of a bitch!”

Roman barely flinched, but his eyes widened and his face, so healthy and tanned less than half an hour ago, lost all color. He grabbed Rachel by the arm and yanked her behind him so quickly, she lost her footing on the dew-slippery sidewalk.

He turned and shot a finger out at her. “Stay there.”

With a spin, he faced the woman in black, who’d gone into an odd fighting pose. He raised his hands in front of him, as if she was going to attack. “Dom, don’t get crazy.”

The woman’s stare was ice. “I don’t get crazy, Brach. But if you don’t keep that-”

Her threat was cut off by the squeal of tires. Rachel half expected Mario to come riding to her rescue, but instead she saw a dark sports car approaching, headlights off. She narrowed her gaze, and at the same moment that she noticed something protruding from the passenger-side window, Roman dove over her, shielding her body as gunfire rent the air.

Rachel screamed. Bullets shot from the car and pinged nearby. Then return fire exploded near her ears.

From the barrel of Roman’s own gun.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE INCIDENT LASTED LESS than three seconds, but Roman could have sworn a painful, torturous hour had passed before the bullets stopped piercing the sidewalk. The attacker in the sports car sped away, tires screeching. Domino darted into the street, firing her weapon until the distance made her shots wasteful. The agent dashed back to him just as he was rolling off of Rachel. Leave it to his superiors to send his former lover, Domino Black, as his contact.

“Rachel, are you hit?” he asked, desperately searching her for signs of blood.

Except for a scrape on her cheek, she was clean. Her amazing jade-green eyes were glossy from shock. He leaned forward to check her breathing when tires squealed again.

Roman turned and aimed, concurrently with Domino, who still had her weapon at the ready. But this time, the offending car was a taxi and Mario Capelli swung open his driver-side door. He remained behind the door, a large, unfriendly-looking.357 Magnum clutched confidently in his hands.

“Let her up,” he ordered, jerking his head toward Rachel.

Domino made a slight move to the right. Through clenched teeth, Roman ordered her to stand down. The woman was the most accomplished marksman in the Agency-and a trained assassin. She could take Mario out without batting an eyelash.

“He’s a friend,” Roman explained.

Domino lowered her weapon. She was deadly but not cruel.

Beneath him, Rachel groaned. The sound tore through him with the same velocity as a jacketed hollow-point bullet fired at close range. She’d almost died. On account of his job, his enemies. His lies.

“She’s fine, Mario,” Roman called out. “Just a little groggy.”

The wily taxi driver stepped around to the front of his car with strong, bold steps that belied his advanced age. He kept his weapon out, but he’d lowered the barrel. “Who are you?”

Roman checked Rachel for signs of any other injury. He found nothing, but her eyes were dilated. Unprepared for his jumping on top of her, she’d likely banged her head hard against the ground. “I’m not one of the bad guys, Mario.”

“And why should I believe you?”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Damn. The police would descend any minute. He didn’t have to look up to know that Domino had blended back into the shadows, disappearing into the morning as if she’d never been there. He should have shot her in the back for the trouble she’d caused, kissing him like that. He’d only allowed the kiss to linger because he’d figured Domino had a good reason for creating a scene where they were lovers once again. Now he knew she’d only entrapped him because she knew Rachel had been watching.

Typical.

Rachel pulled herself up onto shaky knees.

“Who was that?”

He didn’t know if she was talking about Domino or the shooters in the car, but he decided going with the latter as a safer topic.

“I’ve never seen that car before,” Roman said, not lying, but of course not telling her the truth, either.

Unfortunately for him, Rachel wasn’t stupid, but she was angry. She pushed up on to her feet, and when she wobbled, Mario buoyed her by the elbows. Roman reached forward to help, but both of their poisonous stares made him retract his hands.

“Rachel, I can explain.”

“Of course you can,” she said, her tone venomous. “Lies spill easily from your lips, don’t they?”

“You have no idea,” he replied, regretfully.

The sirens grew louder.

“Mario, get her out of here.”

She grabbed his arm, but the move cost her as she wavered and nearly toppled.

“Tell me who you are,” she begged.

In that moment, Roman’s heart cracked. God knew, he wanted to tell her everything, but there was no time. And if he let her in on his secrets, what dangers would she face?

“Rachel, go, now. I’ll find you. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Tell me now.”

All around them, faces peered from the windows and doors nearby. A few people in the park across the street pointed and stared. He had to get Rachel out. He’d already involved her more than he had a right to.

“Rachel, you have to understand-”

She pulled herself up to her full height, this tiny auburn-haired sprite of a woman he’d come to care deeply for. “Never mind. I understand completely,” she said, her voice shaky but curt. Her eyes darkened with his betrayal, and as she looked at him one last time, Roman’s chest felt as if someone had just riveted a steel plate between his ribs.

Mario whisked Rachel away. Roman pressed his lips tightly together, for the first time wanting to shout his secrets to the world. He’d broken nearly every other regulation set down by his superiors. Why get all obedient now?

Because lives were at stake. Millions of lives. Not just his and Rachel’s. Not anymore.

The curious had spilled from nearby buildings. Witnesses. He’d have to call in big favors to keep this drive-by contained. Domino he didn’t worry about. She operated on a security level far above his own. But Mario and Rachel? They’d driven into this mess simply because Roman hadn’t been able to tell Rachel goodbye after his investigation of her had been complete.

He knew everything about her now. Every friend she’d ever had. Every country she’d ever visited. Every political view she’d ever possessed. Every erogenous zone that could cause her to cry out in unabashed pleasure if he applied just the right combination of moisture, pressure and suction. He knew everything the Agency had sent him to find out-and more.

The only thing he didn’t know was how to let her go.

IRIS EMERGED FROM RACHEL’S bedroom and quietly shut the door. She padded over and sat beside Mario on the couch, eyeing his Scotch and water, on the rocks, with trepidation.

“I know it’s early,” Mario said, lifting the drink with shaking hands and taking a welcome sip. “But these are unusual circumstances.”

“I have an ex-husband who thinks every moment he’s awake is an unusual circumstance.”

Mario put the drink down. He’d figured a woman Iris’s age, somewhere in her fifties, had been married before, but he knew little about her personal life except that she’d accepted his date for tonight-an event that might not go off after what happened less than an hour ago.

“I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I am asking. Pero, would you admit it if you were?”

Mario grinned. “Yeah, to you, I would.”

She matched his smile with a shy curve of lips. The expression melted away the worry that had creased her brow since he’d skidded to a stop just behind her stand with a shaken Rachel curled into a fetal ball in his backseat. Iris had quickly and unceremoniously shut down her coffee stand and helped him lead Rachel upstairs.

The poor kid had hardly said a word except for mumbled phrases that sounded a lot like “How could I be so stupid?” and “What kind of man is he?”

Mario and Iris had soothed Rachel with a combination of mild recriminations on Roman Brach and a Xanax from the stash Iris kept in her purse for her anxiety disorder-another new thing Mario had learned about the object of his affection. Soon, they’d washed the grit from Rachel’s hands, feet and face and had tucked her into her bed for a well-deserved nap. Maybe sleep would give her more perspective. More calm. She’d gone through a hell of a shock in the past hour-first, witnessing the man who’d sworn up and down that he wasn’t involved with anyone other than her sucking face with an exotic, black-haired beauty, then rushing to confront him in order to regain an ounce of her self-respect only to be shot at in a drive-by and, lastly, watching her lover, a self-proclaimed television consultant, brandish a handgun and return fire with confidence and ease.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Iris asked.

Mario recounted the situation point by point. With each revelation, Iris reacted with increased shock.

“Dios mio! She could have been killed. You both-”

“I was okay. By the time I realized what was happening, it was over. I got a description of the car. Called it in to my dispatcher. I need to make sure he called the cops.”

Iris tilted her head, her eyes questioning.

“I’m retired NYPD,” he explained. “Thirty-five years.”

Her dark eyes widened. “I didn’t know.”

“You thought I drove a hack all my life?”

She shrugged shyly. “I guess we don’t talk as much as we think we do, in between customers, I mean.”

He nodded. “That’s why I wanted to do the dinner thing tonight. You know, find out about each other.”

Iris glanced regretfully at Rachel’s bedroom door. “I don’t think we should leave, you know?”

Yeah, Mario knew. He didn’t want to leave Rachel, either. Funny how the kid had grown on him. Like Iris, Mario had been married before, but he’d never had kids. His wife, God rest her soul, hadn’t been able to conceive. Yet, he’d always looked at the circumstance as a blessing. He’d walked beats in everywhere from Flatbush to Harlem. By the time he’d made detective, he’d seen more than his fair share of cruelty and crime and death. Bringing kids into the world had seemed a bad decision. After his wife died, he hadn’t been so sure.

But with his job driving cabs, he met lots of young adults who seemed to fill the void. He liked getting to know them, meddling in their lives a bit, using his personal experiences with life and love to push them in the right direction.

With Rachel, however, he’d screwed up, big time. He would have bet his best night’s tips that Roman Brach hadn’t been up to anything sinister, that her fears about his secretive nature had been nothing more than imagination and supposition-and maybe, he was getting a little on the side. Yeah, he’d pegged Brach for the quiet, untrustworthy type, but he’d never, even with all his old cop’s instincts primed, have imagined the guy had been wrapped up in the criminal world.

Despite Brach’s claims, Mario had no idea which side Brach was on, but he was going to stick around Rachel’s place long enough to find out.

“You gonna reopen the stand?”

Iris pressed her lips tightly together. “I didn’t lock up properly in the rush. I should go back downstairs and make sure I haven’t been robbed blind. But I’ll close for the rest of the day and help watch after our mijita.”

Mario shifted in his seat. “We could take turns running the register, if you want to stay open.” That way, he could watch the street for any sign of Roman Brach, or the car and drivers that had tried to gun him down.

“You’d do that?” she asked.

He knew Iris struggled financially. Most working-class people in New York did. He had a fairly nice nest egg and pension, so he worked more as a way to keep out of trouble, stay active. If he didn’t drive the cab for a few days, no one but his dispatcher would give a damn.

“We’ll do what we have to,” he replied. “Rachel shouldn’t be alone. I have a strong feeling that the scene on the sidewalk won’t be the last between Rachel and Roman, and one of us should be here to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”

RACHEL BACKED AWAY from her bedroom door.

Too late, Mario.

Despite the drugs, she’d been too wound up to really sleep, though the medication had soothed her racing heart to a nice, even beat. She was now calm enough to realize that everything Roman Brach had told her, shown her, implied to her, had likely been a lie. From his profession to his interest in her…hell, probably even to his name.

And worst of all, his deceptions tore at the very core of who she was. She’d always considered herself smart, savvy, brave. She’d traveled the world with little more than a backpack and passport, even venturing into countries where government rule was as insubstantial as feathers on the wind. She’d studied graphic arts at the best school in Florida, interned with the hottest graphic arts company in Miami, and then hopped on the next plane to New York City to work with the best in the business, bar none. She had no unfulfilled dreams. No unreachable goals. No regrets.

Until now.

A broken heart was nothing new. Hers had been cracked and had healed many times. But this time, when she’d least expected the trauma, when she’d told herself over and over that her dalliance with Roman was just an exciting, once-in-a-lifetime affair, she’d been ripped apart at the seams.

Roman had lied to her in so many ways, her mind was still spinning. She staggered to her bed and clambered back beneath the sheets. Yes, he’d hurt her. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t survive. She just had to figure out how.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE no report of a shooting at Seventy-eighth and Madison? It happened this morning! I was there. I saw it. I heard sirens.”

“Ma’am, if you were a witness, why didn’t you call earlier?”

Rachel pressed her lips together tightly. This certainly was a question she’d rather not answer. “I was terrified, okay? Bullets were flying.”

“Was anyone shot?”

“Not that I know of. Look, I just want to find out what happened.”

“So far as my computer shows, ma’am, nothing. Not even a record of a call.”

Rachel half listened to the desk sergeant as he ran through a list of possibilities for the glitch, her body still numb from the medication Iris had given her, her mind still trapped in the violence she’d witnessed on the street just twelve hours ago-a shooting the NYPD now declared had never happened.

“You’re sure?” she asked again. “There is no official record? Maybe the investigating officers are still looking into the matter? Haven’t filed the right paperwork yet?”

Mario had schooled her on the process, but he’d also guessed that by six o’clock in the evening, the computers at the police department would have some reference to the shooting on the sidewalk. When he returned from helping Iris pack up and move the last of her wares back to her apartment, he was going to be shocked by what Rachel had learned.

Which was, essentially, nothing.

She thanked the officer and mindlessly hung up the phone.

The soft knock on the door drew her attention away from the mess with the cops. She’d expected Mario and Iris back any moment and hadn’t thought to give them a key.

“Just a minute,” she shouted automatically, but recoiled when she touched the dead bolt. What if it wasn’t Mario or Iris?

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Rachel, it’s me.”

Roman.

“Go away,” she ordered.

“Are you okay?”

“If I wasn’t, I’d be at the hospital. Or at the morgue.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel. Please, let me in so I can explain.”

She laughed. Okay, the situation really wasn’t funny, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the absurdity. Explain? Roman? The king of secrets and lies?

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You’re a liar and maybe even a criminal. Forget you ever met me, Roman. Forget you know where I live. Forget that I’m alive. We’ll both be better off.”

Though her chest felt as if a heavyweight wrestler had wrapped his arms around her to begin a slow and eventually fatal squeeze, Rachel propelled herself away from the door and waited. She paced the living room, watching the trifecta of locks-a dead bolt, a chain and the key-for any motion. She listened for footsteps in the hallway to announce the arrival of Mario and Iris. She shouldn’t have let them go-but then, she’d encouraged them, hadn’t she? She was a big girl and didn’t need chaperones. What she needed was space-away from Roman, away from the city, away from the memories.

Infuriated with herself, Rachel slammed into her bedroom. He’d leave. He’d have no choice. God! Why couldn’t Roman’s secret have been just about the sexy woman in the skintight leather pants? Why couldn’t he have been just a liar and a cheat? Why did he have to be the kind of man people shot at?

This wasn’t the life she’d designed for herself. She didn’t have enemies. The most controversial thing she’d ever done was work on the opening credits for a documentary on birth control. Sure, she’d gotten a few nasty e-mails, but so had everyone else whose name had been listed in the credits. No one had targeted her for death.

But what of the other woman? Maybe Ms. Sleek-and-Sensual was an international drug dealer. Maybe she seduced big government officials and then sold their secrets to the highest bidder? Maybe she had been the target. Not Roman.

“Who was she?” she muttered.

“I can answer that.”

She spun around, her heart slamming up into her throat at the combined surprise and anger at seeing Roman standing in her bedroom doorway.

“How did you get in?”

“I had to see you.”

“You didn’t answer my question! But then, you never do, do you? You just turn the focus on to something else. Get out!”

She stepped forward, questioning whether or not the ire swimming through her veins was hot enough yet for her to throw him out. No matter what she’d witnessed this morning on the sidewalk, even considering the gun he’d pulled out of nowhere and fired into the street, she wasn’t afraid of him. Her judgment was clearly off, though, so she kept her distance.

He must have read the fear in her eyes. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Rachel. Ever. I swear.”

“I have no reason to believe anything you say, Roman.”

He released a pent-up breath. “I know.”

“Then why come? Why bother?”

“I had to see for myself that you weren’t hurt.”

She spun around in a circle, her arms spread wide. She even managed to cover up the tiny half stumble her dizziness caused when she came to a halt. “I’m perfect. Now, get out.”

“I wasn’t just worried about you physically, Rachel.”

She raised her eyebrows high, wanting to make sure he understood his audacity.

“You’re worried about my feelings? If maybe my heart was broken after seeing you snogging with some sexy chick with no color palette in her fashion decisions? I don’t give a rat’s ass who you screw around with, Roman.”

“You cared yesterday.”

“That’s because I was the one you were screwing. So not the case anymore.”

Emboldened by the fact that she’d sparred with him for a good ten minutes without either dissolving into tears or falling victim to his practiced charm, Rachel took a step closer. Yeah, it hurt like hell to have him here, right in front of her, forcing her to confront the stupidity of her choices over the past four months, but she could take it.

“Tell me something, Roman.”

“Anything.”

She laughed, even as her heart wept, knowing he couldn’t answer the question she was about to pose, even though she was still compelled to ask. “Is anything I know about you true?”

“What do you know?”

She cursed. He never could answer a straight question. She’d start simple.

“Your name?”

His mouth tightened.

“Are you a television consultant?”

Again, nothing.

“Is that woman your lover?”

“No.”

“Never? She’s never been your lover?”

He glanced aside.

“An ex. Nice.”

“I didn’t expect to ever see her again. She only kissed me because she knew you were watching.”

Rachel staggered a step backward, her knees folding until she sat on the bed. “You knew I followed you?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know. She knew.”

“How?”

“Apparently, she’s been following me for the past week.”

“Hopeful of a romantic reunion?”

“She and I slept together, Rachel. Nothing more.”

She leaned back on her hands. “That’s your modus operandi, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“She’s involved in my business.”

“Which isn’t television consultation.”

“No.”

She sat up straighter. “Holy shit. I think you just answered a question.”

“That’s all I can say, Rachel. I’m not really a television consultant. Everything I’ve told you about myself from the first moment we met has been a lie, first as a way to get to know you, then as a way to protect you.”

“From what?”

He stared at her and she could see the conflict in his eyes. Truth? Lie? So many choices for a clearly complicated man.

“From people like the shooter in the car. People who don’t care about collateral damage. That’s only one reason why I should have stopped seeing you months ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” she challenged.

He stepped forward and his voice, for the briefest moment, sounded strangled from the tightness in his throat. “How could I?”

She glanced aside. “It was just sex.”

“Now who’s the liar?”

For a moment, she sat there, chastised, knowing that if she could stop pretending for just a second, she’d realize she’d come to care about the man. But how could that caring mean anything when the man she’d thought she was getting to know was nothing more than an illusion? A cover?

“Look, Roman, or whatever your name is, the sex was great and the affair was fun, all full of spontaneity and mystery and all the things that are biting us in the ass right now. Fact is, you’re probably on your way out of town-you and that gun of yours-so why are we wasting our breaths talking about nothing?”

Silence reigned. God, she wanted him to reply with “It’s not nothing. We connected, Rachel. We were something to each other. You matter to me.” But his mouth remained closed. She supposed she should have celebrated when he turned and started to exit the room, but instead, a sob caught in her throat.

Luckily, Mario and Iris swept in before Roman could change direction.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Mario asked.

Iris muttered in Spanish, something Rachel was pretty damned sure was a curse. Not the cussword type, either. The “may your penis turn purple and fall off” type.

“He was just leaving,” she replied.

Roman cast a glance over his shoulder. The regret and self-recrimination in his steel-blue eyes nearly caused her insides to buckle, but she pressed her hand against her belly and silently ordered herself to remain still.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she narrowed her eyes and speared him with a glare that told him any excuse, beyond the honest-to-God truth, would be too little, too late.

With a polite “excuse me,” he moved out of the apartment and consequently, out of her life.

Forever. For good.

Iris rushed past Mario and caught Rachel by the arms before she could sink onto the bed and dissolve. Into tears. Into a puddle. Into a pathetic mess.

“Mija, you’re better off.”

Rachel forced strength into her legs, willed herself to remain standing. “I know that, Iris. I swear, I know that with every fiber of my being. But why, then, why do I feel like I’m about to fall apart?”

CHAPTER SIX

“JUST HOLD ON THERE, SON.”

Roman turned, not entirely surprised to see Mario Capelli stalking after him in the hallway outside Rachel’s apartment. The wizened cabdriver shut the door behind him firmly, then marched down the hall. Roman waited. He supposed he shouldn’t deny the man his opportunity to ream him out.

“Mario,” he said by way of greeting.

The old man arched an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“I can’t explain to you any more than I could explain to Rachel.”

“She has a lot of questions.”

“None that I can answer.”

He’d wanted to answer them. He’d fully intended to come here and offer complete disclosure. But on the way over, using all his skills as a covert agent to make sure that the enemies who had fired on him this morning didn’t get a second chance to fill him full of holes, he’d realized that the truth would be too selfish and dangerous. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Right?

Mario shifted his hands into the pockets of his baggy khakis. “Maybe she doesn’t know the right questions to ask, her heart being broken and all.”

“We were never serious that way,” Roman insisted, knowing the statement was only true from her perspective, not his.

“Maybe not in words, but when you jump into a woman’s bed, you jump into her heart, too, whether she likes it or not.”

Roman blew out a frustrated breath. “That’s a fairly old-fashioned viewpoint.”

Mario shrugged. “I’m a fairly old-fashioned guy. But unlike Rachel, I do know what questions to ask. You a crook?”

Roman chuckled. He was a lot of dastardly and despicable things, but a thief wasn’t one of them. “No, sir.”

“Drug dealer?”

He shook his head.

“Assassin? Gunrunner? Bank robber?”

“None of the above.”

“So you’re legit?”

“Not exactly.”

“That can mean only one thing-you’re government issue.”

Roman arched a brow. He supposed he’d led the man to his conclusion by replying with honesty to his questions, but the cabbie had had the forethought to ask. “You in the biz?”

“Just a cop. Detective. Thirty-five years for the NYPD.”

“And now you drive a cab.”

“Beats withering away. I know the city. And I know people. And you’re one who can turn a conversation on a dime so he doesn’t have to talk about himself.”

Roman grinned, not wanting to take the compliment, but what choice did he have? His talent for lying and twisting conversations had brought him to this very place-on the brink of losing a woman he’d risked everything for, simply because he couldn’t tell the truth.

“Rachel is better off without me,” he said, accepting that if he said the mantra often enough, he might, eventually, start to believe it.

Mario clucked his tongue. “That’s obvious. But I’ve got to know that what happened this morning isn’t going to come back to haunt her. You haven’t marked her for a hit, have you?”

Roman opened his mouth to protest, but stopped and thought he’d better think long and hard about his answer first. Clearly, his mission had been compromised, which was probably why the Agency had sent Domino to intercept him this morning. Not to kill him-if that had been her mission, he’d be dead by now. To warn him. He’d yet to be debriefed, but instead he’d spent his day backtracking and thinking about Rachel, ensuring that he could pay her one last visit without endangering her life. But while he had strong suspicions about who the shooters were and that their attack had simply been a way to send the Agency a message, he couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t try to use Rachel against him if given the chance.

“Can you stay with her tonight?” he asked.

Mario nodded. “But I can’t stay every night.”

For an instant, Roman thought Mario might be implying that he should be the one to make sure Rachel was safe, but both men knew that his hanging around one minute longer wasn’t good for either Rachel or him. He’d screwed up large.

He never should have dallied with her in the first place, but the attraction had been so powerful, so tempting. Once he’d cleared her of suspicion of providing information through her graphic designs to the terrorist group he’d been tracking, he’d justified their affair by promising himself it would be brief. One night, maybe two. Enough to sate both of them. But the more he tasted, the more he craved. Everything about her entranced him. She was so fresh, so bright-eyed and in love with the city, with her job, with her friends, with the world. Rachel Marlowe was completely and totally unlike the women he dealt with at the Agency, who were all slightly jaded by what they’d been trained to recognize and prevent. Or like Domino, jaded to her core so deeply, she could kill without regret.

He’d been weak. He knew that now. And his inability to fight his desires had resulted in Rachel getting hurt. Under different circumstances, he might have fallen in love with her. He had to make things right-in the only way he knew how.

“I’m checking in with my superiors next. They don’t want any collateral damage, so I’m sure they’ll take care of Rachel until the heat is off. I’ll contact you, let you know when Rachel is safe. She’s probably not in any danger, but-”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Roman turned to the stairwell, but Mario stopped him with a halting hand. “Hold on, cowboy.”

The older man ambled back to Rachel’s apartment, knocked on the door, then whispered through the chain to Iris that he’d be back in less than an hour. He gave her strict instructions not to open the door for anyone but him.

Mario then gestured gallantly toward the exit.

Roman frowned. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Mario smiled, smug and confident that whatever he had planned, Roman would comply. Which he would, since the man had promised to take care of Rachel-a task Roman should have been able to do for himself, but couldn’t.

“I’m going to give you a lift.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Mario caught him by the elbow. “Sorry, but it is.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LET HIM drive you here.”

Domino Black, or so she was called by their superiors, emerged from the shadows of the stairwell in the Agency safe house, her keen almond-shaped eyes gleaming with disgust. Fortunately, Roman had seen her eyes gleam with other basic, elemental emotions before-lust, mostly-so the effect, while disconcerting, didn’t penetrate his already guilt-ridden body.

“We’ll be out of here in an hour,” he said, sliding his hand along the doorjamb to find the hidden-key compartment. “Once we’re gone, there will be no trace of either one of us. What’s he going to do? Call the cops? Clearly, the Agency has them under control.”

“I don’t buy it,” she snapped, perennially suspicious.

“The guy just wanted to read me the riot act about hurting Rachel. She’s like a daughter to him. You can’t blame him.”

“I could kill him.”

Roman clucked his disbelief. “Even you aren’t that cold.”

He checked the doorjamb on the opposite side, then cursed. He was just about to ask Domino if she knew where the key was when the metal piece materialized in her black-leather-gloved hands. When he moved to take the key, she snatched it away with a childlike grin.

Well, with what she wanted him to think was a childlike grin. So far as he knew, Domino Black had never been a child.

The second time she brandished the key, he took it quickly into his possession. “I’ve had enough games today.”

He opened the door and let them inside. The room in the boardinghouse was sparse, but relatively clean. The furniture, consisting of a couch, a twin bed, a coffee table, a small refrigerator and safe, would provide all he’d need for the next hour or so until he made contact with the Agency again. First, he’d need some time to gather his thoughts.

Roman locked the door securely behind him and pressed a button on the wall, activating a mechanism that rendered all listening devises useless. Anyone trying to eavesdrop on their conversation electronically would hear nothing but a buzz.

“Isn’t pulling contact duty a step down for you?” he asked.

She sneered. “I was in the city. They called me in. We caught the shooters. They’re in custody. Well, one of them is in the morgue.”

He caught the sly grin on her face. She had returned fire that morning. That the driver hadn’t been taken out, too, remained a miracle of sorts.

“How did you catch the driver so fast?”

Domino removed her gloves but was careful to touch nothing. “The cabbie provided a dead-on description of the car to his dispatcher before he rescued that girlfriend of yours. We intercepted the car just four blocks away.”

“You had agents in the area?”

“We had credible information that the sleeper cell had identified you as the one trying to stop them from intercepting the final message, which was probably why the Agency sent me since I knew you on sight. You may not be any closer to figuring out who the cell members are, but you’re clearly pissing them off.”

“So I suppose I have a price on my head now?”

Domino clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Oh, and I’m supposed to give you this,” she said, handing him a small silver disk. “These are communication intercepts from the cell in Madrid. We think you’ll see a similarity in the rhetoric.”

“We have a solid connection to the larger network?”

“Looks like. If you can stay alive long enough, we might be able to save the world.”

Roman smirked, running his hand through his hair as Domino chuckled at her dark joke. The situation couldn’t get any worse. Not that he gave two shits about a death warrant from a bunch of terrorists-the Agency would ensure his safety. But during the ride over, he’d assured Mario that Rachel wouldn’t be in any danger. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Did the shooters make Rachel?”

Domino waved her hand dismissively. “Can’t be sure.”

“I want agents watching her.”

“Already done. The Agency wants to avoid any messy civilian interference.”

Roman couldn’t believe how a mission that had started out so relatively simple could have spun so wildly out of control. The technical side had been rather complex, but he’d never dreamed Rachel’s life would be endangered.

Intercepted cell phone conversations between a Middle Eastern terrorist organization and a sleeper cell in New York tipped off the U.S. government that the opening credits of various documentaries were being used to deliver messages between terrorists in Europe and their American counterparts. The Agency, an off-shoot organization comprised of operatives from the CIA, the FBI and a task force from Homeland Security, had identified two such messages-and one had been designed by Rachel.

Naturally, she’d been the first focus of the investigation. She’d traveled around the world extensively and could have easily had contact with terrorists outside of the United States. Roman had been brought in because of his ability to make everyone believe he was a television consultant, when in truth, he knew very little about the industry before he’d been briefed. But he had a natural, chameleon-like quality and a photographic memory. His mission had been to find out if Rachel had terrorist sympathies or if she might have been coerced into planting the images in the graphics she’d designed.

She hadn’t. They’d found no proof whatsoever. Neither he nor the Agency suspected her any longer. Intelligence sources suggested that a third party was inserting the images after the designers turned their work over for post-design production. The minute Rachel had been cleared, Roman should have dropped all contact with her. But he hadn’t.

Sleeping with her, knowing her, caring about her, had simply been too wonderful to stop.

He’d made mistakes in judgment before. All agents did. But none of his had ever put a civilian in danger. And he had nothing to blame but his own selfishness and insatiable libido.

If Rachel got hurt now-physically, permanently-because he hadn’t had the strength and self-discipline to stay out of her life, he’d never forgive himself.

“What are my orders?”

Domino gestured to the safe.

Roman crossed the room, knelt down, then keyed in a series of universal Agency codes. Once the door popped open, he extracted a digital recorder and pressed a second series of numbers. Only then did the device play and let him know what the Agency expected him to do next.

The orders, essentially, came down to one word.

Disappear.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE disappeared?” Rachel asked, incredulous.

She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Mario after he’d taken off the night before. By the time he’d come back to her apartment, Iris had forced a second Xanax down her throat and she’d been out for the count. She’d woken up alone but downstairs, had found both Mario and Iris running the coffee stand. Since it was nearly nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, there were few people around.

Mario pulled a note out of his pocket and handed it to Rachel. There, in black and white, in Roman’s even handwriting, was a message that made her clutch at her throat.

The shooters have been apprehended. Rachel is safe. Tell her I’m sorry. Roman

“What about his safety? Are they hunting him?”

Mario didn’t reply.

Rachel stormed away from her friends and wondered how the hell she’d gotten to this point in her life. She’d been in New York a few years, but her circle of friends wasn’t very big. Jeannette was still on the West Coast. Her workout friends and poker buddies weren’t the type you trusted with such outlandish tales. She was grateful to both Iris and Mario, but they were older. She couldn’t keep putting them in the middle of a dangerous situation.

But she needed them. Mario had proved more than capable of holding his own. And Iris was probably the strongest woman Rachel had ever met. They’d want to help her, just as she’d want to help them if they were in trouble.

She swung back, trusting she could rely on them one more time. They already knew the story. Besides, her needs focused more on Roman the man than Roman the criminal or cop or whatever the hell he was.

“He can’t just be gone,” she insisted.

Mario looked at her with eyes that bespoke a lifetime of experience and just as much caring. “You’re better off, Rachel. You said it yourself. You don’t know what the man is mixed up in-and you don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t yesterday. But I was scared and angry and dizzy as hell from being tossed to the ground while bullets whizzed by. Now I’m thinking more clearly and I want to know. I want to know the truth about Roman. He would have told me the truth yesterday, I think. But I was too angry to listen.”

Mario and Iris exchanged glances that told her they didn’t want her to pursue this further. Rachel sighed and for the first time since she moved to the city, felt lost and unsure.

She’d walked down this street a million times. She was home, in the part of New York City she knew best of all-and yet, this afternoon, nothing looked familiar. Not the coffee stand, not the nearby falafel booth, not the facade of her building. In all her travels, Rachel rarely took more than a few hours to acclimate to her surroundings and feel as if she’d lived in Jakarta or Tokyo or Sydney all her life.

But losing Roman had left her more damaged than she expected. The hurt ran deep-too deep for her to simply let go.

“I’m going to find him,” Rachel decided.

“¿Qué?” Iris asked, her eyes wide.

Mario stepped around to her. “Why do you want to put yourself through that?”

Rachel shoved her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. “I want the whole story.”

Mario’s mouth curved down hard. “He’s mixed up in something bigger than you want to get involved in.”

“I don’t want to get involved!” she insisted. “I just want to know why he picked me. If he couldn’t be with me, if he couldn’t stay, then why come into my life at all?”

Iris wiped her hands on her apron. “Why wouldn’t he pick you, mijita? You’re beautiful and smart and everything a man could want.”

Rachel grinned at Iris’s compliment, and honestly, she couldn’t argue. She was an attractive woman and she was, except for situations that required picking out the spies from the television consultants, pretty darned smart. She was sexy, interesting and kindhearted to boot. All those good qualities may have inspired Roman to stay with her longer than he’d planned, but she doubted they were the reasons he was drawn to her in the first place.

She’d seen his ex. Rachel couldn’t think of any woman she was less like. Rachel was adventurous and fun, but the woman who’d kissed Roman on the sidewalk exuded a combination of lethal danger and exotic sensuality. Rachel usually didn’t wonder why a man was attracted to her, but she’d had all morning to recap her interactions with Roman, and something about that first meeting suddenly seemed staged. Arranged. Planned.

She wanted-no, she deserved-all the details.

“I was part of something, I can feel it. Something dangerous. What if his leaving doesn’t take away the risk?”

“He said you’d be safe,” Mario said.

“He also said he was a television consultant. His word hasn’t been entirely reliable. You said he was some sort of agent. Maybe he plans to have me watched for the rest of my life. I can’t live that way.”

At this, Mario made excuses to Iris and shuttled Rachel up the stoop of her apartment, his gaze darting from side to side to make sure they weren’t overheard. “He wouldn’t verify anything, but yeah, I think maybe he’s FBI or CIA. Something covert. Either way, you’ve got to let this go.”

Certain Mario knew more than he was letting on, Rachel decided to push. “I can’t, Mario. I won’t. I need answers. I deserve them, especially if my life is in danger.”

Mario’s lips pressed tightly together, a thin but pronounced line, not too different from the kind kids drew in the sand in the schoolyard.

“You’ll never find him,” he concluded.

“I could go back to the network where we first met, start asking questions. A lot of questions.”

“That’s an invitation to unwanted attention.”

She bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet. “If someone comes looking who can lead me to Roman, then I win.”

“What if the people who tried to kill him get to you first?”

She hadn’t really thought the plan through, but Mario definitely had a point. Still, he didn’t have to know that she shared his concern. Not yet.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she claimed.

Mario cursed, first in good, old Brooklyn English, then threw in a few Italian words for good measure. “You’re pigheaded.”

“I like to think of myself as single-minded.”

“You’re reckless,” he added.

“That point has already been proved.”

He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up to the entrance to her apartment complex. “Then you’ll need someone with a better plan.”

RACHEL NEVER IMAGINED that tracking down an undercover secret agent on the lam would prove her particular talent. Luckily, Mario was an ex-cop and an excellent partner in crime. He knew how to work the system, and despite his long and decorated devotion to the law, he’d been willing to bend a few New York statutes in order to get her to where she was now-in a dark, dingy apartment where just forty-eight hours ago, Roman had made his last known appearance in the city.

The process hadn’t been easy. First, Rachel had had to return to the network where she’d first met Roman to do some snooping. She’d kissed up to the top executive’s secretary and, as a result, now had Roman’s pager number in her possession. She wasn’t sure the number was still valid or even if it was the pager that Roman had used to receive the messages that had sent him running out on her every morning after lovemaking, but it was her best shot. She’d dialed the number-with a prophetic 911 at the end-and in the coded message, she’d left the address of the last place Mario had seen Roman.

Well, Mario had remembered the building. She’d had to guess on the rest. Luckily for her, all the other apartments were occupied and this one, from the looks of it, had government stash house written all over it. She was also quite fortunate that a fifty-dollar bill slipped to the super had gotten her inside. Clearly, if the secret agency that Roman was working for used this place, they weren’t anymore.

Comfort hadn’t been a consideration in the decor, but Rachel made do on the faded, dusty couch sitting dead center in the room. She waited just over two hours, finally dozing off with her cheek pressed against the arm and her legs folded safely beneath her. She woke to a light knock, but she didn’t rise. She waited. Seconds later, the locks surrendered to keys.

She should have been shocked to see him, surprised that he’d followed her breadcrumbs, but instead, relief washed over her the minute her eyes connected with Roman’s steely-blue gaze. The possibility that she’d be greeted by an austere government agent ordering her to keep her nose out of serious spy business had definitely occurred to her-and to Mario, who insisted on waiting at the curb. If he hadn’t heard from Rachel by sundown, he was coming up to get her.

But now she concerned herself only with Roman as he slid inside and locked the door behind him. His face held no emotion, except, perhaps, a tiny glimmer of sadness.

“You came,” she said, her voice deep and raspy after her unplanned nap. She sat up, stretched, cleared her throat.

“I shouldn’t have,” Roman replied.

“Then why did you?”

“Because you asked.”

Volume wasn’t needed in the enclosed space of the apartment. His words echoed off the bare walls. Roman then turned and revealed a panel near the door, then cursed when he found the compartment empty.

“What’s missing?”

“Jamming device. In case anyone is listening. This safe house isn’t used anymore. They released it yesterday.”

Rachel nodded. “That’s why I had no trouble getting in.”

“We can’t talk here.”

He held his hand out to her and Rachel’s fingers itched to touch his. But what price would she pay for feeling his warmth against her skin, even for an instant? She’d come here only to hear his explanation, to understand why he’d chosen her and what pawn’s part she played in this intriguing chess game. Because perhaps she’d played no role at all. Maybe she’d just been a woman he couldn’t resist. Maybe she’d just been a decoy. Or worse, a distraction.

She stood on her own and ignored his proffered hand.

“Where can we go?”

Without warning, he snatched her hand, which she immediately tried to yank away.

“Let go of me.”

“We need to get out of here quickly.”

She tugged harder as he turned to undo the locks. “Mario is waiting for me. He’ll call the police if he thinks for one minute that I’m in danger.”

“Mario knows I’m here.”

For a long, intense moment, he stared into her eyes.

“He trusts you?”

“I had him move his car to the alley around back, just in case. I’m sure he’ll take us somewhere we can talk, unheard.”

She stopped struggling. No way would Mario succumb to Roman’s charm. She seemed to be the only one who had trouble resisting that particular weapon. If Mario trusted Roman, she could, too. For the moment, at least.

They exited through a back door, cutting through a stinking alley, and after Roman picked the padlock on an iron gate, he directed her onto a side street lined with old, sagging oaks. Mario had pulled up to the curb only a few steps away, so soon they were inside and speeding down the street. Roman leaned forward and murmured instructions into Mario’s ear. The older man nodded, then headed downtown.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Somewhere busy. Somewhere we can blend in and not draw attention to ourselves.”

She nearly growled in frustration. “Who are you?”

“I’ll explain everything once we arrive.”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She’d come looking for him to hear what he had to say for himself. Doubts about his veracity niggled at her, but when Roman turned to her, his gaze intense, his mouth moist, as if he’d just softened his lips with his tongue, as if he wanted nothing more than to kiss away the tension she knew emanated in fractious waves off her body, she knew he’d tell her the truth.

And that frightened her most of all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“NICE PLACE,” MARIO SAID, his tone tight and uncomfortable as he slowed his cab in front of the famed Sherry-Netherland hotel.

Roman nodded but didn’t speak. He handed Mario a few bills, making some sort of gesture of male-to-male understanding and exited the cab.

On her way out, Rachel placed her hand on the back of Mario’s seat. He stopped her.

“You’re all right with this?” he asked.

Rachel watched Roman just outside the taxi, scanning the street methodically as he waited.

“He won’t let anything happen to me,” she said, completely convinced of that truth, if nothing else.

Mario harrumphed. “Damn straight he won’t. Before I agreed to play a part in this, I told him there was no place on God’s green earth he could hide if you got even a scratch on your pinkie.”

Rachel wiggled her littlest finger at him. “Me and my pinkie will be fine. I have your cell phone number in my pocket. I’ll call you if I need anything, I promise.”

Mario didn’t seem happy about letting her go, but he didn’t interfere. Rachel knew she needed to do this and she couldn’t deny the way her heart lightened at knowing that Roman wanted to talk, too. Hadn’t he come when she called? Hadn’t he taken the care to move them to a location where they could speak freely? Clearly, he wanted to explain. Or at the very least, he believed she deserved his time.

She hadn’t forced him to come back for her, and from what she could tell by the hurried way they dashed through a side entrance to the hotel’s back stairwell, Roman was still concerned that he might be recognized. After they’d climbed several flights of stairs, he immediately slid a card key into the nearest guest-room door on the sixth floor, and in seconds they were inside.

Safe.

Alone.

He reached into the closet, pulled out a mechanical device she didn’t recognize, attached it to the door and flicked a switch that activated a blinking red light.

“What’s that?”

“Combination alarm and jamming device. No one will come in without us hearing and no one will be able to listen from the other side to what we say.”

Or do.

Rachel cursed at herself for allowing such a libidinous thought into her brain. This wasn’t going to be about sex. She’d arranged to meet Roman so that she could understand why and how they’d ended up together-and if anything beyond the lust had been real.

Or especially if lust had been all they shared.

Luxury hotel rooms weren’t exactly an everyday occurrence to Rachel, so she couldn’t help but be swept away by the plush carpets, antique furniture and glistening chandeliers. Except for a stack of barely touched magazines on the coffee table-Vogue, Cosmo and Elle among them-the room looked unoccupied. Even the bathroom seemed bereft of a toothbrush or a discarded towel.

“Whose suite is this?”

“A friend’s,” Roman replied. “We have until morning.”

Spying a flash of material under the bed, she leaned down and gingerly retrieved a tiny pair of black thong underwear.

“A female friend? Good God, not the woman who kissed you.”

“She only kissed me to piss you off,” Roman explained.

Rachel dropped the panties as if they were a dead bug and rushed into the bathroom to wash her hands, tossing a spiteful, “She succeeded” over her shoulder as she flew by him.

Roman was close on her heels. “She’d had me under surveillance and knew you’d followed me from your apartment. She was trying to discourage you.”

Rachel wiped her hands on a clean towel. “She could have just told me to back off if she wanted you so bad.”

The burst of laughter erupted from Roman’s gut before he could call it back. He certainly didn’t want to go into the dynamics of his interactions-couldn’t call it a relationship by any stretch of the imagination-with Domino, but the thought of the woman playing possessive with him was hilariously funny.

“She’s been through with me for a long time, Rachel. And vice versa.”

“But you were lovers once.”

“Yes, we were. So were we. And it wasn’t so long ago, either.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snapped.

“I’m not. I’m actually getting to the subject. I came here to talk about you and me, not about my past.”

Rachel took a step closer to him, her gaze darting between the walls on either side of her, as if they might close in at any moment. He sidestepped and she squeezed past him with such haste, he felt a cold wave of wind.

“Do you have a past?” she asked rapidly.

“A varied one,” he replied, knowing he’d be breaking contracts, agreements and regulations up to his ears if he told her one single detail. And yet, he was willing to share some of what led him here-what led him to Rachel.

“Can you tell me about any of it?”

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest and her lips were frozen in a lethal line.

“Does it matter?” He winced. His reply had been automatic, practiced, grilled and ingrained into him. Could he ever revert to the man he used to be? Honest? Forthright? Real?

“Stop it!” she said, stamping her foot in such a way that she didn’t look the least like a petulant child, but a woman on the edge of losing control. “Answer the question! Stop hiding behind the persona some phantom agency cooked up for you. They’re not here now. It’s just me. Me and, please, for the love of God, the truth. I want to know who you are, Roman. But if you can’t tell me that, I at least deserve to know who you were, once, before you turned your life over to people who probably don’t give a damn if you live or die. I made love to you, Roman. Not once, not twice, but more times than I can count. So many times that my body still reacts to the air you breathe.”

He could hear her voice shaking, could see the force of need in her eyes, and he wondered how he’d gotten in so deep, so fast. And yet, his own passions matched Rachel’s point for point. What had started as sex, somehow, despite all the lies and omissions, had turned into something more.

He gestured toward the love seat in the center of the room. She sat, her hands tense on her knees, her shoulders tight. He dug into his pockets and decided not to sit beside her. He couldn’t possibly be that close and not take her into his arms.

“I work for a division of Homeland Security.”

Her eyes widened. “The terrorist people?”

With a nod, he started to pace. “Smoking out terrorist threats is our main directive. I was recruited to a joint FBI and CIA task force specifically investigating reports that a certain, deadly terrorist network has been using televised images in order to send messages to sleeper cells here in the States.”

Rachel sat back in the love seat, her stare disengaged from his. He knew this was a lot for her to process, but he’d decided to go for broke. Since he’d been shot at, he knew his position on the task force had been severely compromised. His cover had been blown. He suspected that the next time he reported to headquarters, he’d be taken off the case he’d worked since the first report came to his desk. But right now, there was no real harm in him letting an average citizen know that the government was actively pursuing potential killers.

Too bad Rachel wasn’t the least bit average or he wouldn’t be in this mess.

“What kind of messages?”

He stepped forward. This part, she’d understand. “Messages imbedded in the graphics.”

The whites of her eyes suddenly contrasted starkly with the dark, hypnotic green. “Graphics…where?”

“In the opening credits of certain productions.”

“Like documentaries? Like the one I was working on when we met?”

He nodded.

She took a few moments to process what he’d said, then skewered him with a quizzical glare. “But there are hundreds if not thousands of graphic designers working in television in this city. Why’d you pick me?”

“I didn’t pick you, the Agency did.”

She drew a quivering hand to her stomach. “Why? How did I come to the attention of the government?”

He closed his eyes, then rattled off the name of the documentary that had aired on Animal Planet, the one the task force had intercepted.

“I designed the opening and closing credits.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Tell me there wasn’t a hidden message in there.”

He pressed his lips together tightly.

She jumped to her feet. “Oh, God! Roman, please, I swear, I didn’t put any message for anyone in my graphics. I would never-”

With no reason not to, Roman reached out and took her by the elbows of her outstretched arms. “We know, Rachel. Someone else imbedded the message after you turned in your work. We found your original files, untouched. But those that aired were a different story. We’re still checking into who had access to your work, but first we had to investigate you. It was the first logical step.”

Despite how soft her skin felt against his palms, when she tugged to be free, he let her go.

“So that’s why you were at the network. Ours wasn’t a chance meeting.”

“No.”

“Were you sent to seduce me? To find out the truth over pillow talk?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. The scenario sounded like something out of a spy flick or romantic suspense novel, but the truth wasn’t anything so dark and glamorous. He and all the other male operatives at the Agency only dreamed of such choice assignments.

“We don’t work that way, Rachel. I was only supposed to get to know you, check out your apartment, your friends, your computer. How I accomplished that task was entirely up to me.”

She jammed her fists on her hips. “You could have pretended to be anyone. A friend. A gay friend,” she offered, her voice lilting upward as if the idea sounded promising. “You didn’t have to sneak into my bed.”

Roman’s lips quirked into a grin. “Our first time wasn’t in a bed and, Rachel, I didn’t have to sneak.”

Yes, he’d been dishonest with her about who he was and why he’d sought her out-but he’d never uttered one mistruth about wanting her so much that his skin seared with need when she so much as glanced in his direction. The desire he’d felt for her had been instantaneous, incendiary and instinctive. The choices he’d made had been based on the primal part of him that had never been awakened-not to that degree-before Rachel.

He figured at first it was intense chemistry. Pheromones gone wild. But the more time he spent with her, the more times he heard her laughter pealing through her apartment or watched her chew her bottom lip as she furiously manipulated the graphic images on her computer screen, the deeper he fell. Every word out of his mouth had been a lie-except when he told her how much he wanted her-just as powerfully then as he wanted her right now.

And the sheepishly sexy grin on her face didn’t deter him one bit. “I guess I was pretty hot for you.”

He allowed a smile to lighten the mood even further, and he couldn’t help but tug at the insides of his pockets to lessen the tightening of material across his groin. “The feeling was mutual.”

“Is that why you stuck around, kept in touch with me, even after I left that job?”

He nodded. “I’ve been at two networks since then, investigating various design departments and independent contractors. My attention should have been one hundred percent on the case, but I couldn’t seem to get you out of my head.”

She stepped aside, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in their conversation.

“You checked out my friends?”

“Mario, Iris, your ever-absent roommate, your mother, your sisters and all the men they’ve dated, which is a rather impressive list.”

She smirked. “They’ll be thrilled to know you approve.”

“They can’t know anything, Rachel. Everything I’ve told you has to be in complete confidence. My job is already on the line because my cover has been blown. That shooting the other morning was the work of the terrorist group who wants to make sure the cell they’ve implanted in the U.S. gets the messages they’re sending.”

A chill of icy fear must have sliced through her bloodstream from the way she visibly shivered. Good. She needed to be afraid. Fear would keep her safe-and away from him.

“What will happen if you don’t stop this cell?”

He looked away, unwilling to impart on Rachel just how dire the circumstances were. The information he possessed could cause a national panic, or even worse, national paralysis. He wanted her safe, but he didn’t want her holing up in some desert bunker, afraid to walk outside. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to live.

“You don’t want to know. The bottom line is that the Agency has known for months that your work is legit. You’re free and clear of this whole mess. I can’t make the same mistake twice and keep you involved. After tonight, we can’t see each other again.”

She barely blinked. “Any idea yet who tampered with my graphics?”

The way her eyes narrowed, Roman knew she was ignoring the emotional fallout of what he’d said by focusing on the threat at hand. His respect for her rose a notch. Even if he had been at liberty to share a suspect’s name with her, which he didn’t even have, he would not have answered her question. He’d learned over the last seventy-two hours that Rachel Marlowe was not only beautiful, creative, interesting and sexy, but she was also determined, clever and stubborn as hell. He could imagine her taking serious umbrage to the fact that some terrorist sympathizer had used her work to spread a potentially lethal message-and judging by how she’d contacted him, he imagined she might do something reckless like pursuing the matter on her own.

“The investigation hasn’t turned up that information yet.”

Her chin dipped in a lost, little nod. She was processing what he was saying, but the brutal truth wasn’t going down easily.

“And the fact that you continued to be with me, intimately, all this time, that had nothing to do with your orders from this Agency of yours?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I caught all kinds of shit when they found out,” he confessed. “And you know what? It was worth it. You were worth it.”

Their gazes locked, and he hoped like hell she could read the truth in his eyes, because as unaccustomed as he was to spilling information to an unauthorized source, he wasn’t sure he could say out loud what he felt so strongly in his body-and possibly, even his heart.

She slammed to her feet, her hands slapping decisively against her thighs. “All right, then!” she announced before she rounded the coffee table, looked him straight in the eye and reached out with her hand.

He didn’t touch her, but flicking his gaze between her hand and her eyes did the job of telling her he didn’t know what she intended for him to do with that hand if he took it. Give her a platonic shake, thank her for cooperating with the United States government and then send her on her merry way?

Her hand dropped a little. “Thank you for telling me the whole truth.”

He arched a brow. “You didn’t get the whole truth.”

She stared at him quizzically. “What part did you leave out?”

At this point, he knew what to do with her hand. He grabbed it and used her arm to reel her in as close as two people possibly could be with their clothes still on-a detail he hoped to rectify momentarily. With his chest flush against hers and her suddenly accelerated heartbeat egging him on, he pressed his lips just beside hers and whispered, “The part where I tell you I can’t live without you.”

CHAPTER NINE

HE KISSED HER WITH SUCH a rough, desperate intensity that all questions, protests and logical reasons why she should deny herself another taste of him disappeared. He’d confessed all to her, including the fact that although he’d initiated his pursuit of her for his case, he’d actually jeopardized his investigation by staying with her. He’d admitted how he’d been drawn to her with the same force that had kept her enthralled, a man she’d known so little about-and most of what she had known had been a lie.

But clearly, she no longer cared. She wanted him. Here. Now. Because possibly, this was all they’d ever have.

Clothes melted away with the fire burning between them. The dimming sunlight against the sheer curtained window marked the dwindling time that they had to say goodbye, spurring him to lift her fully and completely against him, pressing her skin as tightly against his as he possibly could. She needed his heat to brand her, mark her, imprint her with the indelible passion that belonged to them alone. After tonight, she’d likely never see him again. There would be no more sneaking, no more bucking the rules. His job injected inescapable danger into his life, risk that had spilled into hers that morning on the sidewalk. She knew the thought of her paying the price for his choices sickened him. He was that kind of man.

So he’d say goodbye. But he’d make it count.

Roman lured her to the bedroom, her hand cupped softly in his, and watched her eyes turn glossy with the kind of anticipation and fear and need that he’d never seen in her before. Then again, he’d never much stopped to look, had he? They’d been too enraptured, too enslaved to lust and sexual pleasure to truly know each other.

Of course, there was the matter that if she’d known who he was then, she would have kicked him to the curb. Or at least, out her door.

But now she knew. And she’d stayed.

Roman couldn’t waste another moment. His first taste, taken with his lips across her neck, jacked his adrenaline to dangerous levels. His heart pounded, his blood surged, his muscles tightened, all from a simple kiss. She kissed him back, hard, lacing her tongue with his, spearing her hands into his hair and tugging gently, oh-so-subtly urging him to their usual frenetic and ravenous pace.

He smiled as he trailed his kisses higher-behind her ear, along her chin, to the tip of her nose, his hands solid on the sides of her cheeks.

With a frustrated sigh, she pushed him away, her eyes blazing.

“You act as if we have forever,” she complained.

“No,” he corrected her, “but we do have all night.”

She glanced toward the door, as if someone might rush in at any moment and interrupt. “You don’t know that for sure,” she said, her voice cracking with uncertainty.

There wasn’t a lot Roman seemed to know anymore, but he did know they would not be interrupted. Domino had not only agreed to lend him her suite, but she’d promised to keep an eye out until morning when she had to leave on another assignment. He wasn’t sure he trusted the covert operative, but oddly, his ex-lover hadn’t objected to his proposal that they buck the system and raise a finger at the rules so he could have one more night with Rachel. He’d even caught a glimmer of rebellion in her blue eyes-the source unknown. But he’d had no trouble using her newfound defiance to his advantage. She owed him.

“Trust me, Rachel.”

She licked her lips. Her tiny movement caused a painful tightening in his groin. His sex, thick and straining for her touch, ached as blood rushed downward. Her fingers danced across the bare skin of his hips, taunting him, zapping his brain so that he wondered, momentarily, why he wasn’t inside her yet.

“You’ve never asked me to trust you before, Roman.”

He skimmed his hands across her shoulders and down her back, yearning to clutch her buttocks and press her tight to him, but knowing he had to wait, draw this out, make this last.

“How could I?”

“Because you weren’t who you were pretending to be.”

He succumbed to temptation and laid his hands possessively over her backside. “I was when we made love.”

Her eyes turned pleading. “Prove it.”

He dropped to his knees. She gasped and her balance wavered at his unexpected attack, but he held her steady as he delved between her feminine lips with his tongue, easily finding the tiny tip of her sex. A sweet cream slipped onto his lips, amplifying his hunger, electrifying his need. He tugged her forward and she boldly wrapped one leg over his shoulder, increasing his access, surrendering completely to him in ways he knew she never had before.

A quivering announced how close to the precipice she was, so he eased back, kissing her thighs, her knee, before sweeping her into his arms and onto the bed. With only the tiniest grasp left of his self-control, he grabbed her hands and held them tight above her head while he kissed her until her passion ebbed to a manageable rhythm.

Her eyes flashed open. She’d regained a semblance of control and, in a quick move, flipped him over onto his back. He couldn’t help but laugh in surprise.

“Where did you learn that?”

She grinned down at him, her eyes alight with naughty intentions. He could feel her warm heat hovering just above him and the sensation nearly stole his breath.

“From you,” she admitted. “Don’t you remember?”

She arched a brow, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall ever employing such a move on her. Of course, in the acrobatics of their usual lusty sex, instincts often took over. What he could remember of their lovemaking from before wasn’t details, just general impressions. Immediate, hot, animalistic impressions.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Her grin was pure sin. “Not like I’m going to hurt you. Torture you is more like it. I mean, I suppose I should have tortured you weeks ago in order to make you talk, but now that you’ve spilled all-”

He relaxed completely against the cool cotton sheets, forcing his muscles to surrender to her wicked intentions. “Feel free to have your way with me. I’ll try not to complain.”

The smile that bloomed on Rachel’s face came from deep within in, from a center that had never felt so balanced until tonight. Despite the lies, mistruths and danger, she and Roman still possessed an easy banter and intimate trust she’d never shared with any other man. Nor could she deny the intimate need she had to join with him, be one with him, as many times tonight as they could physically manage. She reached between his legs and, after stroking him with her palm and fingers, guided him inside her-partway. Enough to drive them both mad with wanting, but not far enough to topple them over the edge.

Balanced on her knees, she leaned forward and suckled his taut male nipples. She speared her tongue through the light smattering of hair on his chest, reveling in the flavors of his skin, in the sensations of his heartbeat against his chest. He upped the ante when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs dancing over her nipples until she could barely think or breathe.

She sat up, bringing them together completely. The sensation of his sex sliding deeply into her filled her with a warmth that spread like wildfire, growing hotter and hotter with each second. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched sheer wonder play over his features as he plucked and pinched her breasts with the exact amount of pressure that drove her wild, his hips shifting beneath her with subtle, powerful results. She grabbed his hands, desperate to stop his pleasurable assault, but lacing her fingers with his ignited a new kind of heat. The held on to each other with desperate tightness as passion and need commandeered their bodies, pushing them in a menagerie of sensation from which neither could escape.

And why, Rachel wondered just before she collapsed onto his chest, would she want to?

RACHEL WAITED, CONCENTRATED, regulating her breathing to a steady pace. The ability to fake sleep had come in handy many times in her life, from childhood antics to avoiding morning sex with her ex. To him, she’d been the soundest sleeper in the world. Not that she had anything against morning sex, but morning breath was another thing entirely. She’d already gotten up an hour ago, but Roman didn’t know that. While he’d showered, she’d dressed from the waist down, shoes included. She had a strong suspicion he was going to sneak out on her and, well, it simply wasn’t going to happen.

Lie for lie, she was still way behind-and still unsatisfied with letting him go. Now that she knew the depth of what he’d done to stay with her before, she realized that traditional strategies for keeping tabs on him were not going to work. He had her personal safety at the forefront of his mind, not to mention his job, which he clearly loved. When he left the hotel room this time, she’d never see him again. Unless she acted.

The shower had stopped minutes ago and now the bathroom door opened. She heard his light footsteps approaching and braced herself, willing her muscles to remain relaxed, which wasn’t all that hard after a night of delicious, bone-melting sex. He kissed her softly on the forehead, gently combed her hair away from her face, murmured something, and then left the hotel room.

The soft click was like a starter’s pistol. Rachel bolted out of the bed, flipped her arms into her bra and threw on a shirt. She leaned against the door for a moment and, hearing nothing, exited the room.

She didn’t know everything about him, but she did know he hated elevators. Six flights of stairs would take him a few minutes. If she hurried, she could beat him to the lobby.

She dashed down the hall and jabbed the elevator button, squelching a triumphant squeal when the mechanism dinged almost immediately. Luck was on her side this time.

She was going to follow Roman. She didn’t know what she was going to do once he reached his destination, but maybe if she knew more about his life, more about how to contact him if the need arose, she wouldn’t have such a hard time letting go. At least, that was the logic that had driven her this far. She’d always been spontaneous in her travels, so applying that instinct now wasn’t such a stretch.

The elevator swallowed up the space between the sixth floor and the lobby in seconds. Gingerly, Rachel leaned out of the doors, watching for any sign of Roman. Seeing no one except a housekeeper running a vacuum cleaner and a pair of uniformed clerks behind the desk, she walked out briskly, making her way toward the staircase exit. If she could just get behind the potted ficus before Roman emerged, she’d have a clear shot at following him.

She dashed behind the thick, glossy green leaves-right into Roman’s chest.

CHAPTER TEN

“ROMAN!”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Rachel.” His tone held a lilt of amusement. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She stamped her foot in frustration. Okay, maybe watching episodes of Alias and Veronica Mars did not qualify her to be either a spy or a private investigator, but she’d given it the college try. She just hadn’t expected to get caught so easily.

“Duh, I’m following you,” she said.

“Why?”

She skewed her face, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. She hadn’t really had much time to think. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

He slipped his hands around her waist. “I didn’t want to leave.”

“But you did.”

“Rachel, I have a job to do. Maybe once…”

His voice trailed away. Just like him not to make any promises he couldn’t keep. She opened her mouth to assure him that he didn’t have to placate her when he clamped his hand over her lips and pulled her flush against the wall.

Her heart slammed against her chest when she saw fear skitter across his face. Not fear for himself. Fear for her.

Seconds later, a man in dark clothing with the collar of his jacket pulled up high against cold that didn’t exist in New York in June disappeared into the stairwell.

After a long, torturous moment, Roman released her, but he ensured her continued quiet with a barely audible shush.

He pressed her tight against the wall, told her with his intense eyes to stay put, then stepped out from their cover to see if the coast was clear. The move ended up unwise. A shout from the other end of the lobby spurred Roman to grab her by the wrist and yank her out of hiding as they made a mad dash for the back exit.

They stumbled into the alley, dark and rank and glossy with the kind of dew that only steamed up from the dank New York City streets. Rachel felt her boots slip beneath her, but Roman counterbalanced her and kept her from falling.

“Run!”

She complied, wishing as her lungs began to burn that she’d been a little more regular with the workouts. As they approached the end of the alley, a bullet pinged on the building just to their right. Roman gave her another push, propelling her out onto the sidewalk.

Which wasn’t any safer. A dark sedan peeled away from the curb in front of the hotel, revving up to intercept. Roman grabbed Rachel by the elbow, and just as the car cut off their escape, he dragged her behind a parked delivery van. Shots rent the air and Roman pulled his gun.

“We’re sitting ducks here,” he said.

“The park,” Rachel said, panting.

Roman nodded. He headed around the back of the van and upon emerging, picked off the gunman.

Rachel didn’t have time to scream. She ignored the splash and splatter of the gunman’s blood against the white, dirt-encrusted van and instead concentrated on dashing into Central Park, where they would have the thick cover of trees to shield them. They ran past the gilded bronze statue of Sherman on his horse, past the manicured and sculpted shrubbery, into the winding paths that might give them the edge to escape the second gunman and his possible accomplices.

They stopped just inside the darkness so Roman could get his bearings.

“This way,” he directed.

They’d taken a few steps out from their cover when shots pricked at the concrete, sending shards chasing after their ankles. Roman spun and fired, ordering Rachel to dive into the trees. Just as she landed with a thud, she heard the distinctive grunt of a slug to the chest. Behind them.

Roman joined her in the trees.

“Who’s trying to kill you this time?” she asked.

With a grunt, Roman led Rachel to an opening on the other side of the foliage. They rounded a large planter blooming with fragrant flowers and stopped long enough to catch their breaths. There were no footsteps behind them. No shouts in what Rachel suddenly processed had been a foreign language. For now, they were safe.

“Domino warned me that a second sleeper group had been ordered to eliminate me,” he explained.

“To stop you from figuring out how they are getting their messages into my graphics?”

“Yours and that of other artists. I don’t think they believe we’ll ever figure out their pattern, but they want to kill me for trying. Send a message to the Agency not to fuck with them.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like that’s going to deter the U.S. government.”

“Exactly.”

Once they’d regained their ability to breathe, they doubled back. Roman estimated they’d have better luck escaping if they caught a cab near the plaza across from the hotel, since authorities would already have been alerted to the shooting. They approached with caution and stayed in the square. They saw no one lingering, no one in pursuit. Chances were high, Roman explained, that the gunmen had given up quickly rather than risk detection.

But they’d strike again at another time and place.

Remaining cautious, he ducked with her behind a semipermanent structure at the far corner of the plaza. Clearly erected for some upcoming event, the booth looked like it wouldn’t do much to keep bullets from slicing through them, but maybe if they could hold out a few minutes until the police arrived, they’d be free and clear.

“Now what?” Rachel asked.

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“Like I’m going to leave you to fend for yourself?”

Roman stared down at her, his eyebrows nearly touching, thanks to his vexed expression. “What exactly are you going to do to help me, Rachel?”

She smirked. “I don’t know, slowing you down and screaming like a girl every time a bullet whizzes past my ear can be helpful in some situations, right?”

Despite the direness of their situation, Roman chuckled as he checked his weapon. “That’s why I have to let you go, Rachel. I can’t drag you into my lifestyle.”

“More like death-style if you ask me,” she muttered.

“Exactly.”

She glanced over her shoulder and, certain they were still alone, whispered at him harshly. “These guys with the guns, they’ve seen me with you twice now, yes?”

Roman squeezed his eyes shut for a split second.

That’s all he needed to change his mind, apparently. “You win. You’re coming with me to headquarters.”

AS ROMAN PREDICTED, the attackers had flown the coop soon after Roman and Rachel had disappeared into the park. Sirens wailed shortly after the shooting had begun and roadblocks nearly kept them from making their escape. Luckily, Roman used his cell phone to dial in help from the Agency, and moments before a police dragnet searching the park for the shooter of the man near the delivery van stumbled upon them, a trio of dark-suited agents shuttled them into a waiting car.

Rachel rested her cheek against Roman’s chest during the silent drive. She didn’t bother looking outside or trying to gauge where they were or where they were going. She didn’t care. She was with Roman, safe and warm, and after ten minutes or so, the chill of nearly being killed surrendered to the residual heat of their lovemaking. Roman cared about her. She knew that now. He may have sought her out because of his case, but he’d stayed longer than he should have because they’d connected in ways neither one of them had experienced before-in ways neither of them wanted to give up.

The car pitched downward as the driver pulled into an underground parking garage. Rachel held tight to Roman’s hand as they got out of the backseat and went straight into a dark, mirrored elevator. Sensing a gentle vibration in his touch, she squeezed harder. He didn’t like elevators. She’d known that fact for a while. She’d never thought to ask why, figuring he just preferred the exercise of jaunting up and down the stairs. There was so much about this man she didn’t know-could he tell her? Was his fear born of some innocuous childhood mishap or was this phobia rooted in international secrets?

She had no time to ask since the moment the doors swooshed open, they were led into an office with clear glass walls that darkened to an opaque blue the moment the door closed. Flat plasma screens dominated the room, each playing opening credits from a half-dozen documentaries in a successive loop. Rachel recognized the two that were hers and was drawn to the images. They were so familiar and yet…

Roman cleared his throat, trying to divert Rachel’s attention to the smartly dressed woman at the other end of the conference table.

“Agent Brach, report.”

To an outsider his boss, Amelie Tremayne, likely appeared less than intimidating. Physically, she was average height and weight. Her hair was shock white but softly styled, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing her without dangling pearl earrings. She dressed conservatively, but usually wore a brooch or scarf to lend a dash of color to her somber navy or charcoal-gray suits. He wasn’t good at guessing ages, so he’d never try with Tremayne, who had earned the respect of her minions with a cool, ageless wisdom. She didn’t amuse easily, so Rachel’s curious presence didn’t so much as inspire a crack of a smile.

Roman ran down the facts of what had occurred at the hotel, leaving out the most interesting parts, naturally. Tremayne didn’t need to know-and clearly wasn’t interested-in the sexual and emotional precipices that he and Rachel had climbed tonight. She wanted only the details that mattered regarding the terrorists.

“We identified the man in the street,” Tremayne said. “He’s confirmed as a member of the second cell. We know now that their orders are simply to provide support to the first cell, the one receiving their instruction from the graphics.”

Roman’s eyes widened. He didn’t anticipate his boss speaking so freely in front of Rachel. She was, after all, a civilian. Though in all honesty, she didn’t appear to be listening to a word they said. From the moment they stepped inside the conference room, Rachel hadn’t stopped watching the looping opening images and credits to the documentaries. He knew she’d found the message, because she’d also found the remote control. She’d stopped each screen at the precise moment the message flashed on the screen.

“Find anything interesting, Ms. Marlowe?” Tremayne asked, her tone barely interested. She clearly gave little credence to Rachel’s presence, which made Roman tense with worry. Tremayne had the power to make Rachel disappear. She’d come to no harm, but if Tremayne made a case that Rachel’s presence in New York could jeopardize an ongoing investigation, she could be shipped off and tucked away where even Roman might not ever find her.

Roman stepped forward and, despite Rachel’s narrow, concentrated stare, removed the remote control from her hands.

“She didn’t see anything she hasn’t seen before.”

Rachel started to shake her head, but Roman stopped her by clutching her arm tighter.

She responded by punching him hard in the shoulder. Twice. Three times. She’d keep pounding until he released her, so he did.

“Manhandling me in the park was acceptable since you were trying to save my life. But back off here, Roman. I’m perfectly safe.”

Tremayne sat forward, her manicured nails tapping lightly together.

Not a good sign.

“No,” he said, through tightly clenched teeth, “you’re not.”

“Mr. Brach is quite correct, Ms. Marlowe. Your presence here is ill advised. But since Mr. Brach’s judgment has proved questionable so far where you are concerned, I’m afraid I’ll have to take your future under advisement myself.”

No one but him heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, but she quickly covered it with a sly grin. “Then take this under advisement, Ms. Spy Boss. I know who designed those graphics. And with a little negotiation, I may let you in on the secret.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“MS. SPY BOSS MAY BE accurate and mildly clever, but silly nonetheless.” The elegant woman stood and extended her hand. “Amelie Tremayne.”

Rachel arched a brow. “Is that your real name?”

“For the moment.”

With a nod, Rachel accepted her hand. “Fair enough.”

“Roman,” Ms. Tremayne said, her eyes barely flicking toward her operative as she gestured for Rachel to sit. “Would you excuse us? I think Ms. Marlowe and I have a few things to discuss.”

Ice rippled over Rachel’s spine at the sound of her lover’s cool dismissal. She could only imagine how he bristled. Well, she didn’t have to imagine for long. Roman stood his ground.

“I don’t see the logic in that, Amelie. This is my project. I’m still the lead field operative, unless something has changed?”

A miniscule degree of regret glazed Tremayne’s sharp blue eyes. “Quite a bit has changed. You jeopardized the mission by your continued involvement with Ms. Marlowe. Your status on this case is pending at best.”

Rachel didn’t turn and look at Roman. She didn’t have to. She figured humiliation looked the same on proud men as it did on women, and right now, her entire expression radiated beet-red with anger.

She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands tightly under her armpits to keep from jumping up and slapping this rude, vindictive woman. So what if she held the safety of innocents in her hands? She didn’t have to be so holier than thou about it.

“His status better change quickly or what I do know will remain just that-what I know and you don’t.”

Tremayne arched a pencil-drawn brow. “You’re feisty.”

Rachel grinned, pushing away the creepiness of having another woman call her that. “Must be what Roman loves about me.”

She swallowed her wince and forced her expression to remain confident. Love. She’d used the word love. Well, that was presumptuous.

“How do you know he loves anything about you at all? You have too much faith in men, Ms. Marlowe.”

“Actually, until I met Roman, I had none whatsoever.”

Amelie Tremayne took her seat, sliding closer to the table with casual grace. “So you’ve changed your views based on a man who has done nothing but lie to you from the beginning?”

“Ultimately, what he lied to me about was unimportant. When push came to shove, I got the truth. I’m here, aren’t I? And I have information you need. So unless you’re going to try to beat it out of me, I suggest you drop your attitude toward Roman and let’s get down to business.”

A long moment thickened in the air. Rachel had to admit she had no idea if Tremayne would order the information beaten out of her, but she had to trust that she could bluff her way just a little further.

Tremayne’s gaze flicked to Roman and then, after a brief clash with Rachel’s unwavering glare, to the chair beside hers. He sat, a handsomely smug grin on his face. He’d probably pay for it later, but Rachel guessed he didn’t care much. Like her, Roman was a live-for-the-moment kind of guy.

“You win, Ms. Marlowe. So tell me, what do you know about the images you saw?”

“Graphic art is just that-art. There are styles, signatures, sometimes very subtle since the images go by so quickly.”

“We’ve broken down each image frame by frame,” Roman insisted.

“I’m sure you did. Even if you’ve studied every aspect of graphic design, you might not pick up something so insignificant. In fact, I might not have seen it myself if I wasn’t such a geek. I love studying the work of other designers. That’s how I learn and improve. Most working artists don’t really bother.”

“What can you tell us about this person?”

Rachel took a deep breath. “He’s not in New York.”

“It’s a man?”

Rachel nodded.

“Where’s he located?”

She shrugged. “I can give you his name, that’s it. His work is fairly popular. He’s in high demand. Though come to think of it, he’s dropped off the circuit a bit lately. Being really choosy about what he does, from what I hear from production people who wanted to hire him and then got me instead. Our styles are fairly similar.”

Amelie Tremayne’s stare narrowed. “This is a rather convenient coincidence, don’t you think?”

Rachel had considered that, but the truth was the truth. “Perhaps. Or maybe just one hell of a lucky break.”

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT HELD no resemblance whatsoever to what Rachel expected. Even before she’d stopped talking, Roman had dashed out of the room, stopping only to kiss her thoroughly and deeply so that her knees nearly buckled from the overload of pleasure.

Then he was gone.

Tremayne remained for a few minutes more, extending the interrogation until another operative came in and took over. Rachel was given a computer with secure Internet access, and through a portal she was sure wasn’t legal, she was able to tap into her home computer. She pulled up as much information as she could about those old studies, but she didn’t have much more than what she’d told Tremayne and Roman initially. She admired the man’s work.

Then she’d waited. The Agency had put her up in a fairly comfortable room within the same building, provided her with hearty meals and endless entertainment in terms of television, satellite radio and video games. But she hadn’t been interested in anything but the computers.

Surprisingly, she was allowed to continue to study the images she’d seen in the conference room, and after nearly twenty-four hours of trying, she’d perfectly mimicked the messages she’d seen-just to prove she could. Only moments after she’d popped open a can of Diet Dr Pepper to celebrate her success, Director Tremayne knocked on her door.

“You’ve been a busy bee,” she said, walking inside the apartment with a dark-haired, dark-skinned male lackey behind her.

“I’m not good at relaxing,” Rachel said.

“Clearly not. You’ve succeeded at copying the style of the graphic in question. Very clever. We should have asked you initially instead of wasting our own team’s time.”

Rachel took a sip from the soda. “Yes, you should have.”

“Do you think you can replicate the graphic again?”

With a snort, Rachel set the cola can beside the laptop. Every move she’d made had been watched. She wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t creeped out.

“With my eyes closed.”

Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, her expression serious to the point that Rachel felt her stomach roil with dread.

“We’ve intercepted the artist you directed us to. According to the agents on the scene, he was preparing to send a final message to the sleeper cell.”

“But you stopped him?”

Tremayne shook her head slightly, but enough for Rachel to understand that this was not a victory. “If the cell expects a message and receives none, they may take that as an order to attack.”

“What kind of attack?”

Tremayne frowned. “We’re not sure. We haven’t been able to locate the cell, Ms. Marlowe. And at this point, the only way we can find them is by sending another message in the style of their initial contact. They’ve likely been trained to recognize the signature-a signature you’ve succeeded in re-creating.”

Rachel shivered. It was one thing to mess around on the computer, something else to have the safety of the free world on her shoulders. She expected the weight of what Tremayne was asking her to do to stop her dead in her tracks. Instead, a rush of adrenaline shot through her body like a precise line of newly lit gunpowder.

“I’m a civilian,” she said.

“That can be changed,” Tremayne replied. “The communication between terrorist cells through various media forms is becoming more and more common. You’re a freelancer, yes? We’re simply asking you to work for us now.”

Rachel knew Tremayne was one of the good guys-technically. But something in Tremayne’s tone, an underlying sharpness along the edge of her voice, caused Rachel’s skin to prickle in warning.

“Where’s Roman?” she asked.

Poised to help his investigation, the least Rachel could demand was a one-on-one with the lead field operative, or whatever he’d called himself. Besides, she missed him. Deeply. Even now, with a prospect of being able to help avert a tragedy sizzling in her blood, she wanted to share this with him. He’d understand, right? He’d appreciate the importance of what she was about to attempt in order to fight the terrorists.

“Roman Brach is no longer your concern. Concentrate on your new assignment. Once you are done, we’ve arranged for you to leave the country.”

Rachel’s heart slammed against her chest. “What?”

Tremayne laughed lightly, as if she enjoyed toying with Rachel. The woman had a sick streak, nearly making Rachel refuse her offer.

“We’re talking a brief vacation from the city-just until we round up all the men who might have recognized you from your association with Roman.”

Rachel frowned but remained silent. She didn’t want to be sent away, separated from her apartment and friends. She loved to travel-but on her terms and under her own direction. But there was world safety to think of-and the fact that the whole idea of using her skills to help stop terrorists from communicating worked for her in ways she never imagined they would. Even as a dreamy teen, she’d never fantasized about being a spy. She always thought James Bond was sexy, yeah, but the idea of joining up with any suave super-agent gave her hives. She loved to travel and set off for distant lands, but avoided guns and thieves and con artists at all costs. Now she was thinking about becoming all of the above?

Unless, of course, the suave, sexy agent was Roman Brach. That might change her mind a bit.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Tremayne instructed. “I’m simply suggesting a nice vacation once your work is complete, and you can consider then whether you’d like to remain on our payroll. We understand that two friends of yours, Mario Capelli and Iris Rivera, are planning a trip to Puerto Rico. It’s reportedly a romantic getaway, but we thought, perhaps, you’d like to tag along. I doubt they’d mind.”

“You’ve spoken to them?”

Tremayne shrugged one shoulder. No, she wouldn’t have any way to speak to them. Mario wouldn’t trust this woman if she paid her full fare with a fifty-percent tip, cash up front. But Roman, he’d trust. With a hard swallow, she tamped down her hopes for a rendezvous with Roman. For now, she had a job to do.

“How much time do I have?”

“From the notes we retrieved, the scheduled broadcast is only a few days away.”

“What language will the message be in?”

Rachel had copied the signature but not the images. She had never seen them before.

“That’s where this agent comes in,” she said, gesturing to the man who’d entered behind her. “He’s an expert linguist and has studied the text of all the previous messages for nuance and syntax. He’ll tell you what to write.”

“How do the terrorists know when to look for the graphics?”

The pattern, Tremayne explained, hadn’t been so difficult for them to figure out, once they realized exactly what they were looking for. Rachel had a little over three days to work with Tremayne’s Arabic-speaking assistant and create the graphic that could possibly stop some unnamed and unexplained attack.

For now, Rachel would concentrate only on that goal. Only once she was successful would she allow herself to contemplate if she’d ever see Roman again-and if she did, what then?

YOU WOULD THINK AFTER saving the world, the CIA or the FBI or whatever agency she’d really been working for could have sprung for tickets on a plane that actually departed on time.

Realizing in her exhaustion that her wrist had slipped from holding up her head and ended her nap, Rachel shook consciousness into her body and reached for the caffeine-laden diet soda she’d balanced on her backpack. The warm, fizzy bubbles scraped down her throat, and once her vision cleared, she glanced down at her watch. The plane was now more than two hours late. A quick look around told her that Mario and Iris had once again left her for a stroll around the terminal. She couldn’t blame them. She wasn’t exactly delightful company, especially since the two of them had stars in their eyes only for each other.

In spite of her own foul mood, she grinned a little at the way Iris and Mario’s romance had developed. Mario had a reputation as a matchmaker. This time, however, her ill-fated affair with Roman had actually spurred Mario to make a move on Iris. About time, too, since he’d been sniffing after her for as long as Rachel could remember. She was happy for them.

And miserable for herself.

After yawning unattractively-something she realized only when a blond guy in a baseball cap leaning against a nearby wall chuckled and made brief eye contact-Rachel shifted in her seat. She rubbed her makeup-free face, combed her fingers through her hair and hoped she didn’t look as exhausted and cranky as she felt.

Once she’d turned over the new graphics to the Agency, she’d expected to hear from Roman. Perhaps even see him. How hard would it be to run into him in the Agency’s headquarters? But he’d not only made himself scarce, she’d also had no further dealings with Amelie Tremayne. None of the other agents seemed to know how to contact Roman, and this time Rachel didn’t feel like chasing him.

She’d done her bit as the hunter. Might be nice to be the prey again. Maybe she’d find someone new in Puerto Rico. Someone whose career didn’t interfere with pursuing a real life with real lovers and real relationships. Someone who would tell her his real name the first time they met. Someone who would be honest that their affair would last only a few hours or a few days, instead of playing her by her heartstrings. Not that Roman was guilty of all that, but the longer they remained separated, the worse his crimes and misdemeanors would become. It was the law of ex-lovers.

“Ms. Marlowe?”

Rachel looked up into the serious gaze of a rather official-looking airline employee. A woman. At least, Rachel was almost sure she was female. The gruff tone and boxy suit made it hard to tell.

“Yes?”

“Could you come with me, please?”

The please, while tacked on, definitely held no graciousness.

“Why?”

The employee curled a strand of her short hair around her ear, revealing a small earpiece like the ones worn by the agents Rachel had been working for all week.

“The delay will be minimal, I assure you. Please.” The woman gestured toward the hallway, and from the wide-eyed stares of her fellow passengers, Rachel was fairly certain her travel mates had pegged her as some sort of terrorist moll. Did terrorists even have molls?

She grabbed her backpack and laptop, glancing around for Mario and Iris, who were nowhere to be found. She hadn’t been around these Agency types much, but she figured the disappearance of her friends had been no accident. She had no idea why the Agency wanted her again-their business had been concluded. But this imposing woman’s attitude unnerved her and she had to fight the instinct to flee.

The people around her murmured and stared, but no one said anything. The blond guy in the baseball cap made a motion toward her, but then stopped before she could make eye contact again. Even as she walked away, she spun around to glance back at him, experiencing a vibe that denoted more than idle curiosity. But he had his back to her, with his cell phone glued to his ear.

False rescue alarm, she supposed. Probably best for both of them.

After a short walk down the terminal, the so-called airline official led her to an unmarked door. She slid a card key through the lock and pushed it open. Rachel walked through and the door was shut soundly behind her. The hallway was narrow and dark, with only weak fluorescent lighting lining the path to another door at the end. That revealed a staircase that conveniently only went down. Rachel ventured into what she imagined were the bowels of the airport. When she emerged, she saw only one door to the left. She took a deep breath and walked through, not entirely surprised to see Amelie Tremayne sitting comfortably in a well-appointed luxury suite sporting a full bar, several plush couches, a small conference table and fine art on the walls.

Rachel always wondered where celebrities hung out when they flew commercial. She figured this was it.

“Please, come in, Ms. Marlowe.”

Rachel paused with her hand on the doorknob.

“Do I have a choice?”

Tremayne smiled, and the effect was as sharp as steel. “Not if you plan on leaving the country in half an hour, no.”

“Technically,” Rachel said, closing the door behind her, “Puerto Rico is part of the United States. You’d think someone in your high-ranking position would know that.”

Tremayne toasted her with a highball glass filled with an amber liquid Rachel would bet big bucks was ginger ale. “I should be more specific. If you wish to leave the mainland, then I’ll need a few moments of your time.”

Rachel tossed her backpack on the nearest table. She really didn’t have much choice. But she’d already told the Agency where to shove their long-term job offer. She just wanted to get away.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Rachel said.

“What makes you think I’ll let you go in five minutes?”

Rachel sighed wearily. “Oh, you can keep me here as long you want. But any offer you make me after five minutes won’t be listened to with an open mind, so I suggest you start talking.”

“You’ve gotten much bolder than when Roman first reported on you.”

She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, hating the idea that he’d reported back to this woman about their interactions, but knowing that until very recently, their personal relationship had been a well-kept secret, even from this super-spy. Besides, the bitch was probably just jealous, anyway.

“You’re wasting my time and yours.”

“As you know, your graphics did the trick,” Tremayne said. “We were able to direct the leader of the sleeper cell to a rendezvous point. We identified him, and we’re in the midst of an operation that we’re certain will result in not only his arrest, but the capture of his cohorts.”

Rachel yawned. It had been a long day. “Good for you.”

“Good for you, as well. The higher-ups in the Agency believe that your expertise is needed to continue the success of this mission.”

“I taught your tech how to do what I do.”

“Yes, but for whatever reason that completely eludes me, they want you.”

Rachel grabbed the strap on her backpack. “Not interested.”

“We’re willing to increase your level of both compensation and security clearance.”

Rachel glanced at her watch. “You know what I want.”

“Agent Brach is currently on assignment elsewhere. And besides, we can’t negotiate with the love lives of our operatives.”

Rachel laughed. Loudly.

Tremayne placed her iced drink on a coaster, then stood, straightening her slim, tailored slacks. “Perhaps you’ll be more amenable after your vacation.”

Rachel leaned her weight on one hip. “Unless you plan on making Roman Brach materialize on a sun-drenched Puerto Rican beach, I doubt it.”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Roman doesn’t want you?”

Did it ever occur to her? Who was this woman kidding?

She snapped up her backpack and swung it jauntily over her shoulder. “Nope, never crossed my mind.”

She was inches from the door when it swung open, a somber operative attached to the knob. Rachel sashayed past him and made her way back through the maze until she emerged in the terminal again. Her flight, not surprisingly, had already begun to board. She had to sprint to make it to the gate, just in time for the attendant to glare at her. After waving her boarding pass beneath the scanner, the guy forced a smile and waved her through. The doors were pulled shut behind her before she’d even taken ten steps inside.

By the time she made it to the aircraft, nearly everyone was seated. She spotted Mario and Iris canoodling in the bulkhead row. She expected a seat beside them, but glancing down at her boarding pass, she realized she wasn’t seated in Coach, but First Class.

Let the Agency suck up. She wouldn’t change her mind.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a handsome flight attendant said from behind her. “You need to find your seat.”

She turned, ready to aim a sharpened barb at the guy for stating the obvious, but decided he wasn’t worth her ire. He was just doing his job. Instead, she smiled, apologized for her tardy arrival and headed into the front of the plane. There was an empty window seat beside, of course, the blond guy in the baseball cap. An empty seat that corresponded with the number and letter on her boarding pass.

He stood up, allowing her to pass, though the spacious seats made his gesture unnecessary. As she skimmed by him, his cologne caught her attention. Warmed by his skin, the subtle citrus scent teased her with a hint of mint. Completely unlike the haunting, smoky musk tinged with patchouli and sandalwood that Roman wore, the aroma aroused her curiosity. She fought the urge to glance at his face, explore the depths of his eyes, assess whether or not the man fate had deemed worthy of sitting beside her might not make an interesting way to wash the missing Roman out of her hair.

Not that she really wanted him washed out, but what choice did she have? She’d denied Tremayne’s suggestion that Roman hadn’t returned from his assignment because he was avoiding reconciling with her, but most of that had been bravado and good, old-fashioned pride. Didn’t mean the heart-crushing thought hadn’t occurred to her more than once.

She busied herself with stuffing her backpack under her seat, fastening her seat belt and accepting a hot, wet hand towel from the flight attendant to wipe the grime of the long wait off her hands, arms and neckline, dipping deep into her V-necked blouse to remove the collected sweat.

“You’re killing me, you know that, right?”

The voice was unmistakable. A chill breezed over her freshly moistened skin, and in a daze, she dropped the towel on the flight attendant’s proffered tray and turned slowly to the man beside her.

His hair was blond. His eyes were…green? She leaned in closer, determined to see the telltale rim of colored contacts. The scar dipping into his top lip threw her off for a moment, and the new, thinner shape and lighter color of his eyebrows nearly changed her mind, but the rugged shape of his chin, the texture of his skin, the curve of his smile finally gave him away.

“You son of a bitch,” she whispered.

She moved, but Roman caught her hand and held it fast to the armrest. Smart man. She had the incredible need to slap the smug smile off his face.

“Not exactly the greeting I expected,” he said.

She tugged her hand away, gluing her gaze to the seat in front of her as the plane roared down the runway. “I don’t know why you expected anything more. Or less. You left.”

“I was deployed to complete the mission. I couldn’t have succeeded without you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Clearly. My life would have been a hell of a lot easier over the past few days if you just would have been honest with me and asked for my help rather than playing all these games, including the ones that nearly got me shot.”

His fingers tap-danced on the armrest, and she couldn’t help but give them a cursory glance. If he touched her, she’d kill him. Then she’d kiss him. But killing definitely came first.

“That sounds very fair and self-righteous, but you know as well as I do that things couldn’t work that way. As romantic and grand a gesture it would have been if I’d stayed behind to hold your hand at the Agency, that’s not who I am. And it’s not who you need me to be.”

Had he spoken those words a few weeks ago, Rachel wouldn’t have been so sure of the honest truth in his assessment. Wrapped up in her own life and career, Rachel hadn’t given two thoughts to how much she might need a man until Roman’s continual abandonment drove her to secretly follow him and enlist her friends in carefully planned schemes to trap him and force him to tell her…what? That he loved her? That he couldn’t live without her?

But now she’d gotten her life back, her strength. She’d wanted him back, yes, but she hadn’t been willing to pay any price. She’d helped her country, that was a perk, but most important, she’d returned to her original groove of an independent woman open to the possibility of love, but not bound to it.

She turned in her spacious seat, giving a little yawn she covered daintily with her hand. Her ears popped as the plane ascended to cruising altitude. “So why are you here?”

He looked down into his lap, his expression sheepish. “What can I say? I can’t resist you.”

“You’ll lose your job,” she pointed out. “I don’t think Tremayne likes the idea of you and me together, especially if I keep turning down her job offers.”

“Tremayne likes to think of herself as all-powerful, but now that I’ve completed this mission, my clout within the Agency is assured. With the right spin, which I’ve already set in motion, I may just have her job by the end of our vacation.”

Rachel sat back, trying to hide the thrill that sparked through her body. “Our vacation? You sure you didn’t just stowaway aboard in order to seduce me and leave when your pager goes off?”

He leaned forward and dug into the duffel he’d shoved under the seat. He retrieved a small gift-wrapped box and placed it softly in her hands.

“Open it,” he instructed when she seemed more interested in the shiny bronze box rather than the contents of his offering.

She pulled off the top. Inside was his old pager…or at least, what was left of it.

“Anger issues?” she asked, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

He shook his head and extended his palm. She placed the box in the middle of his hand and grinned at the mess inside. “I had to show my credentials just to get it through Security. I like to think of this more like frustration. And determination. How long do you plan to stay in Puerto Rico?”

“Well,” she said, retrieving the box and capping it with the bowed top, “I was going to decide after I found out who I met poolside. What’s your schedule like?”

He leaned in, twisting so they faced each other, then took off his hat and stuffed it in the pocket in front of him so he could close in even more. Rachel couldn’t help but run her fingers through his newly dyed hair, which also seemed longer, thanks to what she suspected were extensions. The picture of Roman sitting still for the procedure in some frou-frou salon made her giggle, but when his newly green gaze glittered with curiosity, she tamped down her mirth and instead concentrated on the sudden, overwhelming awareness sparking between them. He obviously would do whatever it took to be an effective agent. And by boarding this plane, he’d proved that he was also willing to do whatever it took to bring her back into his life.

“I’m completely in vacation mode for the foreseeable future. Things are going to shake up at the Agency, and until then, I’m all yours.”

“And what if they call you back?”

“First they have to find me.”

She licked her lips, trying to sate her incredible need to lick his instead. “They are Homeland Security.”

“Are they?”

She arched a brow. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Roman Brach, if that really is your name?”

He leaned sideways so that his smooth, recently shaven cheek brushed lightly against hers. “It is really my name,” he whispered.

Her flesh rippled with goose bumps. “Really? And what other secrets are you willing to share with me?”

“Whatever you need to know to love me again, I’ll tell you.”

“How do you know I ever loved you to begin with?”

“Because you did. No more games, Rachel. No more distractions. Being away from you made me realize I’d lost a shot at something amazing. I love you. I probably have since the moment I spotted you in that television studio, but more than likely since the first time we made love. And I loved you even more when you put up with Tremayne in order to save my project.”

“You love me because I saved your ass?”

“It’s not the only reason, no, but it damned well doesn’t hurt. In this business, saving someone’s ass is serious business.”

“Like us?”

“Like us.”

Rachel closed her eyes in anticipation of Roman’s lips descending on hers to detonate all other thoughts from her brain. They had a lot to talk about, a lot to explore, a lot to admit and a lot to learn. But so long as Roman was willing to lay his heart on the line, so was she. The payoff could be more than she ever imagined that fateful morning when she’d stepped into Mario’s cab and followed Roman into a life she never thought she’d have the fortitude to deal with-until she had.

Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long for the feel of his mouth on hers and the mind-exploding sensation of the kiss she’d longed for. With his hands around her waist and his tongue coaxing her into sweet delirium, Rachel cherished his ability to drive her to distraction, en route to delivering her to love.