Fatal Heat

by Lisa Marie Rice

  As an enforcer?

  She’d been aware of his scrutiny as she entered and exited her office. He never overtly stared, but she could feel his attention on her like a spotlight.

  Now, however, God help her, he was definitely staring, arms crossed over that absurdly broad chest, unsmiling, gaze fierce and unwavering.

  “Need some help?” he asked again. His voice matched his physique. Low, so deep it set up vibrations in her diaphragm.

  Then again, maybe the vibrations were panic.

  No key.

  This definitely wasn’t happening. Not on top of the Ride from Hell in to work. Of all the days to lock herself out . . .

  “No, I’m on it.” Nicole bared her teeth in what she hoped he’d take as a smile, because she so wasn’t on it.

  What she didn’t have—and what she so very desperately needed—was her office key. The office key on her Hermès silver key fob that had been a birthday present from her father, back in the days when he could work and walk on his own. The set of keys that was always, always, in the front pocket of her purse, except . . . when it wasn’t.

  Like now.

  Nicole Pearce contemplated beating her head against the door to her office, but much as she’d like to, she couldn’t. Not under Lowlife’s dark, intense gaze. She’d save that for when he finally left.

  He watched as she once more checked her linen jacket pockets, first one, then the other, then her purse, over and over again, in a little trifecta routine from hell.

  Nothing.

  It was horrible having someone see her panic and distress. Life had taken so much from her lately. Oneer nt of the few things left to her was her dignity, and that was now circling the drain, fast.

  She tried to stop herself from shaking. This was the kind of building where you keep up appearances and you never lose your cool, ever. Otherwise they’d raise the rent.

  It was so awful, fumbling desperately in her purse, sweat beading her face though the building’s powerful air conditioners kept the temperature at a constant 62 degrees. She could feel sweat trickling down her back and had to stop, close her eyes for a second and regain control. Breathe deeply, in and out.

  Maybe Lowlife would disappear if she just kept her eyes closed long enough. Realize that she deeply, deeply wanted him gone. Do the gentlemanly thing and just go.

  No such luck.

  When she opened her eyes again, the man was still there. Dark and tough, a foot from the console she wanted to use.

  She looked at the slate floor and the transparent console and gritted her teeth.

  Of the two horrible choices, getting close to him to dump the contents of her purse on the console was marginally more dignified than simply squatting and dumping everything in her purse on the floor.

  Approaching him warily—she was pretty sure he wasn’t dangerous, and that he wouldn’t attack her in broad daylight in a public building, but he was so very big and looked so incredibly hard—she reached the pretty console, shifted the vase of lilies the super had changed just yesterday, opened her purse wide and simply upended it over the transparent surface.

  The clatter was deafening in the silent corridor.

  She had her home keys, car keys, a removable hard disk, a silver business card case, a cell phone, four pens, a flash drive—all of which made a clatter. And her leather bag of cosmetics, paperback book, checkbook, notepad, address book, credit-card holder, all of which made a mess.

  In a cold sweat of panic, Nicole pushed her way through the objects on the console, checking carefully, over and over again, reciting each object under her breath like a mantra. Everything that should be there was there.

  Except for her office key.

  What a disaster. Construction on Robinson had forced her into a long detour, which was why she was opening the office at 9:15 instead of 9. At 9:30, she had a vital videoconference with a very important potential client in New York and her two best Russian translators, to negotiate a big job. A huge job. A job that could represent more than 20 percent of her income next year. A job she desperately needed.

  Her father’s medical bills kept rising, with no end in sight. She’d just added a night nurse for weeknights and it was $2,000 a month. A new round of radiotherapy might be necessary, Dr. Harrison had said last week. Another $10,000. It was all money she didn’t have and had to earn. Fast.

  If the conference call went well, she might be able to keep ahead of her money problems, for a while at least.

  There was absolutely no time to cross all of downtown to go back home and get the keys. Not to mention the fact that she would upset her father, who was so ill. He’d be worried, be unsettled all day. Sleep badly that night. She absolutely didn’t want to upset him.

  Nicholas Pearce had a limited number of days to his life and Nicole was determined that they be as peaceful as possible.

  She simply couldn’t go back home. And she simply couldn’t afford to miss this meeting. Her translation business, Wordsmith, was too new to be able to risk passing up this client—manager of one of the largest hedge funds in New York, looking to invest in Siberian gas futures and the Russian bond market, and needing translations of the technical data sheets and market analyses.

  Sweat trickled down her back. She made a fist out of her trembling hand and beat it gently on the console, wanting to simply close her eyes in despair.

  This was not happening.

  “I can open your door for you.” She jolted again at the words spoken in that incredibly low, deep voice. Heavens, she’d forgotten about Lowlife in her misery. His dark eyes were watching her carefully. “But it’ll cost you.”

  This was not a good economic moment for her, but right now she’d be willing to pay anything to get into her office. Snatching up her checkbook from the clear surface of the console, she turned to him. He watched her with no expression on his face at all. She had no reason to think he was a decent sort of guy, but she could hope he wouldn’t use her obvious desperation to make a killing.

  <000t>Please, she prayed to the goddess of desperate women.

  “Okay, name your price,” she said, flipping back the cover, womanfully refraining from wincing when she saw her balance. God, please let him not ask the earth, because her checking account would go straight into the red. She steadied her hand. Don’t let him see you tremble.

  She looked up at him, pen hovering over her checkbook. “How much?”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  She’d actually started writing, then froze. “I—I beg your pardon?” She stared for a second at the blank check where she’d started writing dinner with Lowlife on the line with the amount.

  “Have dinner with me,” he repeated. Okay, so it hadn’t been an auditory hallucination.

  Her mouth opened and absolutely nothing came out.

  Have dinner with him? She didn’t know him, knew nothing about him except for the fact that he looked . . . rough. Instinctively, she stepped back.

  He was watching her carefully, and nodded sharply, as if she’d said something he agreed with. “You don’t know me and you’re right to be cautious. So let’s start with the basics.” He held out a huge, callused, suntanned and none-too-clean hand. “Sam Reston, at your service.”

  Sam Reston? Sam Reston?

  Nicole couldn’t help it. Her eyes flicked to the big shiny brass plaque, right next to the door across the hall, bearing the name of what she understood to be the most successful company in the building. RESTON SECURITY. He followed her gaze and waited until she looked back at him.

  Maybe he was the company’s owner’s black-sheep cousin. Or brother. Or something.

  It had to be asked. “Are you, um, a relative of Mr. Reston?”

  He shook his head slowly, dark eyes never leaving hers. “Company belongs to my bfy">

  Oh. Wow. How embarrassing.

  He was standing there, hand still out. Nicole’s parents had drummed manners into her. She’d shaken hands with tyrants and dictators and suspected terr
orists in embassies all over the world. It was literally impossible for her not to put her hand in his.

  She did it gingerly, and his hand just swallowed hers up. The skin of his palm was very warm, callused and tough. For a moment she was frightened that he might be one of those men who had to prove his manliness by the strength of his handshake. This man’s hand could crush hers without difficulty and she made her living at the keyboard.

  To her everlasting relief, he merely squeezed gently for three seconds then released her hand.

  “N-Nice to meet you,” she stammered, because really, what else could she say? “Um—” And she so desperately needed to get into her office. Now. “My name is Nicole Pearce.”

  “Yes, I know, Ms. Pearce.” He bent his head formally. His eyes were very dark and—she now realized—very intelligent. “So—as to my price, let’s see if I can convince you I’m not a security risk.”

  He pulled out a slim, hugely expensive cell phone. One Nicole had coveted madly, both for its function and style, but had decided against as being simply way out of her current financial league. He pressed two buttons—whoever he was calling was on speed dial—and waited. She could hear the phone ringing, then a deep male voice answering, “This better be good.”

  “I’ve got a lady here I want to ask out for dinner but she doesn’t know me and she’s not too sure of my good character, Hector, so I called you for an endorsement. Show your face and talk to the lady. Her name’s Nicole. Nicole Pearce.” He waited a beat. “And say good things.”

  Nicole accepted the cell phone gingerly. The video display showed the darkly handsome face of San Diego’s brand-new mayor, Hector Villarreal, dressed in a bright orange golf shirt, holding a golf club over his shoulder, out on the links, eyes crinkling against the bright sunlight. “Hello, Ms. Pearce.” The deep voice sounded cheerful.

  She cleared her voice and tried not to sound wary. “Mr. Mayor.”

  “So.” He was smiling, eyebrows high. “You want to go out to dinner with Sam Reston? You sure you want to?” There was humoTheg, r in the faintly-accented voice.

  “Well, actually, uh—”

  But it was no use talking to a politician, they talked right over you.

  “Don’t worry about it. Sam’s a great guy, he’ll treat you right, no question. But I really do need to warn you of something, Ms. Pearce, and it’s serious.”

  Her heart thudded and she looked up into Sam Reston’s hard, impassive face. He could hear perfectly, since Mayor Villarreal was talking at the top of his voice.

  “Yes, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Don’t ever play poker with him. Man’s a shark.” A loud guffaw and the connection was broken.

  Nicole slowly slid the phone closed and looked up at Sam Reston. He was standing utterly still; the only thing moving was that enormous chest as he breathed quietly. He had the extreme good taste not to look smug or self-satisfied. There was no expression at all on that hard, dark, bearded face. He simply watched her to see what she would do.

  She held out the phone by one end and he took it by the other. For a moment they were connected by five inches of warm plastic, then Nicole dropped her hand.

  They looked at each other, Nicole frozen to the spot, Lowlife—no, Sam Reston—as still as a dark marble statue. There was no sound, absolutely nothing. The building could have been deserted, there weren’t even the normal sounds of air-conditioning or the elevators swooshing up and down.

  Everything was still, in suspended animation.

  Nicole finally took a deep breath.

  Ooooo-kay.

  Well, it looked like Lowlife—Sam Reston—wasn’t a serial killer or a drug dealer. Actually, he, um, was the owner of a company she knew to be very successful. The success of Reston Security constituted a significant portion of the gossip machine that was alive and well in the Morrison Building. Reston Security was certainly much more successful than Wordsmith, which was clinging to life by the occasional IV line of new clients.

  If the 000t>

  A deal was a deal. If he could somehow open her door and allow her to make her videoconference call, she would owe him far more than could be repaid by a couple of hours spent consuming a meal.

  He was watching her quietly, and standing oh-so still.

  9:23. She took a deep breath. “Okay, you have a dinner date, for an evening of your choosing.” She gestured behind her. “But you’re going to have to open my door, Mr. Reston, right now. I have a very important business call coming in at 9:30 sharp, and if I don’t make that call, then our deal is off.”

  He dipped his head gravely. “Fair enough. And the name is Sam.”

  “Nicole.” Nicole gritted her teeth, glancing at the big clock at the end of the corridor and wincing. However Sam Reston was going to get her into her office, he’d have to do it in the next six minutes or she was toast. “I wonder . . . is there a building super with a master key?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “So—we have the deal?”

  “Um, yes. We do.” Nicole barely refrained from tapping her toe.

  “You’ll go out to dinner with me tonight?” he pressed. At her look, he shrugged broad shoulders. “Ever since I left the Navy and became a businessman, I’ve learned to nail agreements down.”

  Actually, he looked like the kind of man who would enforce deals at the end of a gun. But she’d promised.

  “As a new businesswoman myself, I’ve learned to keep my word. So, yes, I accept your invitation. Now, please open my door. And if you kick it open, I’ll expect you to pay damages.”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  Nicole shot a glance at her watch. Damn. It had taken her several days to set up this conference call. The client was a Wall Street “Master of the Universe,” almost impossible to pin down to an appointment.

  The “Master” in question was an anal retentive and when he saind agreed a 9:30 conference call, it would be 9:30 to the second, and she knew that he’d never call again if she wasn’t on the line. In a harsh, nasal New Yawk accent, the words spilling out almost more quickly than she could understand them, he’d told her he couldn’t have anyone wasting his time because his time was worth at least a thousand dollars a minute.

  The message couldn’t have been clearer. Be at the end of the line at 9:30 or else.

  Nicole worked with two retired professors of economics, one of whom had been born in Russia and had come to the States as a teenager, and another who had studied in Moscow for ten years. They would be perfect for the big, long-term translation job and she had every intention of asking the Master of the Universe top prices. Her commission off the deal would go a long way toward paying for the night nurse.

  Four minutes to go. She was going to lose this appointment, and probably the client. So much for . . .

  She looked up from her wrist and blinked.

  Her door was wide open, her tiny, pretty office beckoning beyond it.

  She turned her stunned gaze to Sam Reston, who was straightening and moving away from her door. “How did you do that? Did you just pick the lock?” Surely picking a lock required some kind of effort? Some time? In the movies, the thief jiggled at the lock forever.

  He wasn’t looking smug or even proud of himself. In fact, he was scowling. “You haven’t improved on the building security at all,” he said, his deep voice making it an accusation.

  “Um, no.” Nicole felt like she’d fallen into a rabbit hole. The real-estate agent had stressed the excellent building security and had dwelled lovingly on the quality of the office locks. “Was I supposed to?”

  “Well, sure. When it’s as crappy as this.” His scowl deepened as he pocketed something. Though she’d love to see if it was a lockpick, she didn’t have time to waste.

  Another glance at her watch and she hurried into her office. She was just barely going to make the videoconference.

  She had less than two minutes to spare.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reston. So I guess

  “Sam.”

>   “Sam.” She gritted her teeth. A minute and a half left. “Tell me where to meet you and when.”

  His scowl grew deeper. “Absolutely not. I’ll pick you up at your house.”

  There wasn’t time to argue, not even time to roll her eyes. “Okay. Shall we say seven? I live on Mulberry Street. Three forty-six Mulberry Street. Is that okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll be there at seven to pick you up.” A muscle in his jaw rippled, though the words were low and quiet.

  Did he live far away? Well, if he had to drive across town, he’d asked for it. She’d been willing to meet him at the restaurant.

  He turned away, she closed the door and the phone rang.

  Nicole leaped to pick it up, heard the Master’s nasal tones. She’d made it! The price had been high, but she’d made it.

  Hotter than Wildfire

  San Diego

  Ellen Palmer checked the address on the small brass plaque outside an elegant, super-modern building in downtown San Diego against the scrawled words torn off a napkin and verified that they were the same.

  She didn’t need to do that. She had a near-photographic memory, and if a number was involved, she never forgot it, ever.

  Morrison Building, 1147 Birch Street.

  Yes, that was it.

  Ellen recognized what she was doing. She was stalling, which was unlike her. Sast am" he was alive because she’d been able to take decisions fast and act on them immediately. She’d have been six feet under if she hadn’t acted fast. Stalling was unlike her.

  But she was so damned tired. Tired of running, tired of lying, tired of keeping her head down, in the most literal sense of the term. Security cameras were everywhere these days and her enemy had a powerful face recognition program. For the past year, she’d rarely presented her naked face in public in daylight.

  Even now, when she was betting her life on the fact that she was moving toward safety, she had on huge sunglasses and her now-long hair was drawn forward around her face. She needed to buy a big straw hat.