Forged in Desire

by Brenda Jackson

  “The reason I thought it was best to end things with Scott is because the relationship was going nowhere. He thought his work was more important than me.”

  There, she’d told him. Not the full story but enough. Now they could talk about something else. Like the weather. The championship game of football that would be played this weekend. The new president. But from the way he was looking at her, she had a feeling he wasn’t ready to move on to another topic.

  “He was a financial adviser, right?”

  She lifted a brow. She hadn’t told him that, so she could only conclude he’d done some digging on his own. “Yes. And I’m not going to waste my time asking how you knew.”

  He shrugged. “Part of my job to check out everyone in your life.”

  “Scott is not in my life. We should be concerned about an assassin, not Scott.”

  Instead of commenting on what she’d just said, he asked, “It’s typical for financial advisers to work long hours, isn’t it?”

  Now it was her time to shrug. “Apparently so. Scott and I spent a lot of time together in the beginning. But then he started hosting all these dinners with clients and potential clients. They spent more time with him than I did.”

  “Did the two of you not talk about it? Did you not tell him how you felt?”

  Margo scowled. Did Striker have a side gig as a relationship counselor or something? “Of course I told him how I felt, but he figured since I had a man making a six-figure salary that I should be smiling all over the place.”

  “The two of you were together for almost a year. Yet you never told him about your wealth. Why?”

  Margo released a long, dramatic sigh. “Our relationship was not based on money but on mutual respect for each other.” Or so she’d thought. “The issue never came up. He knew I had an uncle living in Virginia and that my parents were deceased. That was all he needed to know.”

  Striker disagreed. There was no way he would ever be seriously involved with a woman for almost a year without knowing everything there was about her. Both mentally and physically. Especially a woman like Margo Connelly. And she was not a woman a man could neglect. What was wrong with Dylan? What had he been smoking? “So he refused to change his ways and spend more time with you?”

  She frowned at him. “Look, Striker, I wasn’t this needy person who required a man’s attention 24/7. However, I felt that if you’re claiming to be my boyfriend, the least you can do is spend time with me on occasion. After a while he didn’t even do that. He was too busy, going out of town or going to important dinners.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him out of town or to these dinners?”

  He could tell from the tilt of her chin that his question had hit a nerve. “I was never asked.”

  He stared at her. A part of him knew it took a lot to make that type of admission. What woman would want to admit that the man in her life had neglected her? He felt the hand that was holding his cup of tea tighten. Scott Dylan was an asshole, just as he’d thought reading the tone of Dylan’s message on the card accompanying those flowers. What man in his right mind wouldn’t want a woman like Margo by his side, every chance he got? The answer to that question came easily. A man who had a chick on the side.

  Striker wondered if Margo had even thought of that possibility. He couldn’t see her not doing so. She certainly didn’t come across as being the kind of woman a man could easily fool. Although she wasn’t saying, he had a strong feeling she suspected such a thing, which was probably the real reason she’d dumped the bastard. Emotions swelled within him that he wasn’t used to feeling. The thought of any man treating her so shabbily pissed him off. “So why keep those flowers he sent?” he asked.

  “Why not? He paid for them out of that six-figure salary he liked boasting about. They were pretty and I saw no reason to take out my irritation about Scott on a beautiful arrangement of flowers.”

  “He’s trying to get you back,” Striker said, wanting to reach out and touch her hair, push a wayward strand away from her face, but knowing he couldn’t do so.

  “Yes. He got offended that I called it quits in the first place. He thought I should have been grateful for any amount of time I got to spend with him.”

  She paused a moment and then added, “Scott knows my position. Before I left New York, he made a nuisance of himself. I guess no woman had broken things off with him before. He didn’t take that well and his ego got bruised. I had to threaten to go to the authorities if he kept it up.”

  “Kept what up?”

  “Making an ass of himself.”

  “In what way?”

  She shook her head. “Not important.”

  He wondered why she wouldn’t say. Was it really not important as she claimed? What had the man done to make her threaten to go to the authorities? Had she ever confided in her uncle about it? For some reason, he doubted it.

  “I have another question,” he said, finishing off the last of his tea and squashing the cup to toss in the trash bag.

  “No more questions about Scott, Striker. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a closed subject.”

  For her sake, he hoped so. Not caring at the moment that his thoughts were too territorial, he knew Scott Dylan was the last man he would want to see her with again. “Okay, no more Scott Dylan questions. This one is about you. How did you develop an interest in designing wedding gowns?”

  Striker could tell from the smile that touched her lips that she had no qualms about answering that particular question.

  “After my parents’ deaths, Uncle Frazier sent me to a school in London. A man named Apollo Colter was my bodyguard, and I got to know his wife, Joan, and his son and daughter, Paul and Arian. Joan was a seamstress and I would sit and watch her work. I knew before leaving London to return to the States that I wanted to be a fashion designer. Deciding to concentrate exclusively on wedding gowns came later when I helped out a college roommate.”

  She smiled as if remembering the time. “Sharon was getting married the month after we graduated, and the woman she’d hired to design her gown became ill. So I stepped in. I had fun designing Sharon’s wedding gown, and it got rave reviews. Sharon’s father was a top executive on Wall Street and he bragged about my work. I got a job offer from a top clothing design firm in New York. I worked there for a couple years before deciding to go solo.”

  “Why not open a shop somewhere instead of working out of your home? It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

  She shrugged. “Uncle Frazier asked me the same thing,” she said quietly. “I often work odd hours when designing a wedding dress. Late nights and early mornings. I feel more comfortable working at my house than staying late anywhere else. When I’m through for the night, instead of getting in my car and driving home, all I have to do is go upstairs, shower and go to bed. I guess the ideal place would be a shop that also had living quarters attached.”

  Striker was about to ask Margo another question, one specifically about her uncle’s girlfriend, when his phone rang. From the ringtone he knew it was Stonewall. “What’s up?”

  Intense anger boiled up inside him. “Got it.” He didn’t even take the time to put his phone back in his pocket. Instead he tossed it on the console. Without looking over at her, he slid his car seat back up, started the ignition and said in a tense tone, “Buckle up, Margo.”

  “What’s wrong, Striker?” she asked, quickly snapping on her seat belt.

  He pulled out of the parking lot. “Just what I suspected. The real assassin is still out there and he’s struck again. Twice.”

  The color drained from her face. “Twice?”

  “Yes. He made a hit on another juror, as well as one of the prosecuting attorneys.”

  Striker pulled into traffic, and when he came to a light, he glanced over at her. “You know what that means?”

 
He saw the tragic look in her eyes before she shook her head.

  “That you’re going to be stuck with me until that bastard is caught.”

  * * *

  DR. RANDI FULLER watched the monitor. Her plane to South Carolina would take off in thirty minutes. She had returned home to Richmond from Charlottesville, staying just long enough to have a quick visit with her family, water her plants, gather up her mail and repack. Now she was on her way to Glendale Shores.

  This would be one vacation she needed. She should have known better than to get involved with the Erickson case, given that Special Agent Tommy Felton was in charge of the investigation. She had hoped his attitude toward her had changed, but it hadn’t.

  She was about to grab a candy bar when her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse. “Dr. Fuller.”

  “This is Chief Harkins, Dr. Fuller. You were right. We were holding the wrong man. The assassin struck again, less than an hour ago, killing two people. Both had been in the courtroom that day.”

  Randi pressed a finger to her temple. More senseless deaths. Anger spread through her. She’d tried warning the authorities, but they hadn’t listened. “And why are you calling me, Chief Harkins? I told you that you had the wrong man but you didn’t believe me. None of you even took my findings seriously.”

  There was a pause on the line and then the chief of police said, “I apologize for that, and we will now, Dr. Fuller. As for what we need you to do, I’d like for you to consider returning to Charlottesville and working with us to apprehend the real killer. The feds have their way of doing things, and the Charlottesville Police Department has theirs. My main concern is keeping the people in this city safe.”

  There was another pause and then he said, “Since news of those two killings hit the airwaves—after we had all but guaranteed the people we had the right guy in custody—this department and the feds are dealing with egg on our faces.”

  “Serves you right,” Randi snapped.

  “Yes, it does. So will you give us another chance and assist us?”

  Randi nibbled on her bottom lip. Why should she assist them? It wasn’t like she owed the Charlottesville Police Department or the FBI anything. But she did owe it to the people living in fear, who would continue living that way until the real assassin was caught.

  “Dr. Fuller?”

  She sighed. “The only way I’ll consider helping is if I’m given a private office at police headquarters where I can work. That way I can concentrate solely on the case and everyone around me. Your people, doubters or otherwise, will see how I operate and gain more confidence in my abilities. I refuse to work out of a hotel room like before.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Harkins said quickly.

  Randi didn’t tell him all the reasons she wanted to be located at police headquarters. She was convinced someone on the inside—probably more than one person—was working with Erickson and the only way she could expose those involved was to be in the thick of things.

  “And another thing I want is to interview Erickson. He holds the key to everything. I need a guarantee that I’ll get the chance to speak directly with Erickson. Alone. I need to get into his head. He might send off vibes that will tell me something about the person he hired to carry out these killings.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t know if I can guarantee that, Dr. Fuller.”

  She frowned. “Then call me when you can. I’m at the Richmond International Airport and my plane leaves in less than twenty minutes. I intend to be on it unless you can assure me that I’ll get everything I’ve asked for.”

  Harkins didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he said, “Okay. I give you my word that you’ll get everything you’ve asked for...including a chance to talk to Erickson. Alone.”

  “Then I’ll help.” She heard his sigh of relief.

  “Thanks. I’ll send an unmarked police car to Richmond to pick you up from the airport.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “HERE, DRINK THIS.”

  Striker watched as Margo accepted the glass from him with trembling hands. He wished he had something stronger to give her, but wine was the only alcoholic beverage she had in her house.

  He recognized that look in her eyes. It was the same one he saw in others, those he’d been hired to protect, when it finally hit them that their lives were in danger. Oh, they’d known it all along, but it was only when the shit got real did they finally get it. Margo was having one of those I got it moments. She took a sip. “Thank you,” she said shakily, handing back the glass.

  “No, keep it. You may want it later.”

  She lifted a troubled brow. “Why? Is there more than what you’ve told me?”

  As if that hadn’t been enough? “I haven’t heard anything. Those other calls were from your uncle Frazier and from Roland.”

  She nodded. “Did you assure Uncle Frazier that I’m okay?”

  Striker leaned back in the chair. “As best I could. He thinks you should move back home on his estate for a while.”

  She looked intently at him. “And what do you think?”

  “Not my decision to make,” he said, knowing how true that was. Her uncles, one known to her and the other unknown, would battle it out and decide. Striker knew from talking to Roland that he didn’t agree with Frazier’s suggestion. Striker agreed with Roland. Although Striker understood Frazier’s concerns, the man needed to let Roland and his men do their job.

  Striker tapped his fingers on the table a few times before asking her, “Do you want to go live on your uncle’s estate?” He’d asked her that same question before and she’d been adamant she did not. He wondered if the recent series of events had given her a reason to change her mind.

  “No. I’d rather stay here. I have work to do.”

  While he appreciated her efforts to keep as much normalcy in her life as possible, there was something she needed to understand. “If things get too risky for us to remain here, Margo, we will leave. And if that time comes, I hope you’ll agree to put your life ahead of some wedding gown you were hired to make.”

  When she didn’t say anything but merely took another sip of her wine, he felt the need to push the issue. When and if the time came, the last thing he’d put up with was any drama. “Margo,” he said in a tone that conveyed that he expected her response.

  “Alright, alright, enough already,” she said with lips he noticed were trembling with anger. But he knew that anger was directed not at him but at the situation. It was ludicrous. He would agree with that. It was insane that the authorities had led everyone to believe they were safe after making that arrest. Someone’s head was going to roll over such a monumental screwup.

  Margo stood and began pacing. Just like he understood her anger, he also understood her frustration. Of course she would have known the female juror since they’d been sequestered together for six weeks. From what he’d heard, she’d been shot down while leaving the grocery store. How had the assassin known where the woman was? Had he been watching her? Security cameras around the store had revealed nothing. The workers and other customers hadn’t noticed anything either, until they’d heard the shots fired. The assassin’s new weapon was a high-powered rifle. Would he use the same gun from here on out?

  Once Striker had gotten word of what had gone down, he had driven Margo home in record time. It was only when she was safe inside that he’d told her the identity of the female juror who’d been gunned down. Visibly shaken, Margo had crumbled in a heap on her sofa. It had taken everything within him not to go to her, pull her trembling body into his arms and hold her, comfort her and assure her that everything would be alright.

  He drew in a deep sigh, knowing he couldn’t go there and it wasn’t even wise to think it. The shit had just gotten real for both of them. Deep down, a part of him had hoped the auth
orities had arrested the right guy. If they had, his time with Margo would soon be over. As much as he’d dismissed the idea earlier, he had thought more than once of possibly continuing a relationship with her after this. But these two recent hits had been a mental wake-up call for him. They had to get away from the personal and back to the professional. In order to do his job effectively, he had to reinstate the client–protector relationship they’d had before.

  He watched as Margo continued to pace, and for a minute he considered telling her not to wear out the kitchen floor. But he figured she wouldn’t appreciate his brand of teasing right now. And, frankly, given the situation, he didn’t feel like giving it. He didn’t need to rattle her any more than she already was. Besides, he enjoyed seeing her pace. Definitely appreciated the sway of her hips, as well as the bounce of her breasts. He shouldn’t notice such things at a time like this, but what man wouldn’t? She was a beautiful woman with a great body that he craved more each and every day. But hadn’t he just decided to do away with the personal? Hell, some things couldn’t be helped, and a man’s ingrained ability to desire a woman was one of them. As long as he didn’t act on that desire, he was okay.

  Suddenly, she stopped pacing and turned to him. Striker froze when he saw something in her eyes that he hadn’t expected. “Talk to me, Margo. Get it out. Tell me what you’re feeling,” he encouraged, while fighting the urge to go to her and kiss those tears away.

  * * *

  STRIKER’S WORDS BROKE through Margo’s anguish and she drew in a deep breath. Maybe getting out what she was feeling wasn’t a bad idea. She could remember all too well the perky blue-eyed blonde, who’d been married less than a year.

  Nancy Snyder didn’t mind letting everyone know how much the separation from her husband bothered her. In fact, one of the last things Nancy had said to Margo was “I have a man waiting at home, who I haven’t seen in six weeks, and I can’t wait to get to him.” And now Nancy was gone. Shot down in cold blood.