Regret tore at his insides like claws.
If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. That reflection brought no comfort. Perhaps she would have changed her mind with someone else. Had he hurried her into a transaction that she later regretted?
And how potent was her regret? Strong enough to prevent her from pursuing her nighttime career? He sure as hell hoped so. The thought of her selling herself sickened him.
He had to stop thinking about her. Just because he'd slept with her once didn't make her his concern. She'd refused to even tell him her full name. Their interlude together was over.
With his muscles tensed in painful knots, he finished his drink, took a long, hot shower and went to bed. But her image followed him into his dreams, where he transformed from her john into her pimp, selling her on a street corner, pushing her into a mob of leering, pawing men, while she struggled to contain her anguish.
He woke before dawn drenched in sweat. He couldn't stand to think of her selling herself, or the possibility that he had given her a push down this road.
The dream also had brought up another concern. Did she work for a pimp? Though he knew little about the subject, his perception of pimps centered around savage, ruthless men exploiting women as sex slaves. Could the fear he'd sensed in Jen have to do with a pimp?
I have no family, she'd said. Was she alone in the world, and at the mercy of someone evil?
By the time he had shaved and dressed, Trev realized one inescapable truth. He couldn't forget Jennifer Hannah. Even if it were possible, he couldn't turn his back on the anguish he'd sensed in her. He couldn't ignore the tears he'd seen brimming in her eyes.
He had to try to help her.
The phone call Jennifer had been waiting for all weekend came early Monday morning. Calling on a secured line from a U.S. Marshal's office, Dan Creighton, her security supervisory inspector, cut to the point. "Why do you want to move, Jennie? I thought you liked Sunrise."
"Oh, I do," Jennifer assured him, knowing that he took personal pride in the progress his charges made toward establishing reasonably happy lives with their new identities. "But I, uh…" She hesitated, wishing she didn't have to lie to this caring, fatherly man. "I saw a woman who went to high school with me back in New Orleans." She'd decided on this falsehood as the safest way to keep Trev's name out of the U.S. Marshals Service's paperwork. She'd gone to extreme lengths from the very start to keep his name out of their files, away from prying eyes and possible information leaks. "I don't remember the woman's name, but—"
"Did she recognize you?" Dan cut in, immediately concerned.
"No. I don't believe she even saw me. She was walking her dog past my apartment complex, though, which makes me believe she lives in the neighborhood. A few days later, I saw her again in the grocery store."
For the next half-hour, they discussed the likelihood of the woman seeing through the alterations in Jennifer's appearance and the need for another name change. They talked about her decision to move and her choice of destinations, which she'd been researching on the Internet all weekend. In the end, Jennifer convinced Dan that her cover had not been blown, which allowed her to keep the name Jennifer Hannah and the job references she valued so highly. She also gave her preference of destinations as St. Paul, Minnesota—far away from her hometown of New Orleans and her subsequent home of Southern California. She knew no one in Minnesota.
"Let me do a little research into the players involved in organized crime in the St. Paul area, Jennie," Dan said. "If your enemies aren't active there, I'll put the paperwork through and you can be on your way by the end of the week. Until then, lie low."
Lie low. Her life's motto.
She left for work in a grim frame of mind. She hated the prospect of leaving the town she now considered home, the job she thoroughly enjoyed and the volunteer work with the deaf children whom she'd come to care so much about. But she had no choice. Trev now lived in Sunrise. She couldn't stay.
And she couldn't allow herself to think about him. The pain of leaving him again had grown intolerable since Friday night. She'd made it through the weekend by focusing obsessively on her research for possible destinations.
She could, at least, be thankful that Trev hadn't realized her true identity as Diana. Otherwise, she'd have had to leave town immediately, choose a new name, wait for new identification papers and find a job in a new town—without the benefit of job references.
For all the help the U.S. Marshals Service provided to its protected witnesses—identification documents, job training, money, educational credits equal to those earned—it did not offer false job references. According to Dan, the government balked at supplying references without knowing that the individual would be a trustworthy employee, especially since many protected witnesses had been involved in crime themselves before they'd testified, or had profited from crimes committed by a spouse or parent. There was simply too much liability incurred, Dan had explained, to place people with false credentials into jobs within the private sector.
As a result, Jennifer had struggled with that lack of job references at the start of her life as Jennifer Hannah. To make matters even more difficult, the Program prescribed that she find work in a field other than her previous one. Overnight, she'd gone from being a hairstylist with a lucrative business to an unskilled job applicant without a college degree, or job references. She never wanted to face that uphill battle again. She'd labored too hard for the last seven years to throw away the fruits of her work experience.
Yet, if her cover were blown, she would have to do just that. She could leave no trail for anyone to follow, including previous employers or co-workers. Fervently she thanked God that Trev hadn't recognized her as Diana.
She'd been crazy to risk being with him.
Even so, she savored the memory. She'd savor it for the rest of her life.
Forcing her thoughts away from the topic that could tear her apart, she parked her old sedan outside the small brick building on a quiet corner and focused on the task ahead of her. She would turn in her resignation today. She could give only one week's notice. During that week, she would arrange to work as much as possible from home, via telephone and fax machine. She'd stock up on groceries and all necessities, and remain hidden in her apartment until the time came to move. She would take no chances of running into Trev again.
With her heart weighed down, Jennifer entered the carpeted front office of Helping Hand Staffing Services and forced a pleasant greeting for Marlene, the pretty redheaded receptionist seated behind a rosewood desk. "Jennifer, I'm glad you're here. Phyllis is waiting to see you."
Jennifer thanked her and headed toward the back, where Phyllis, the general manager, occupied a corner suite. Phyllis probably wanted to discuss strategies for attracting new temps, since most of their current workers had been placed in long-term assignments. Jennifer supposed this would be as good a time as any to hand in her resignation.
"Er, Jennifer," Marlene called, following her around the corner. "Just thought you should know…" An oddly curious expression flitted across her face. "A new client stopped by to talk to you. A Mr. Montero."
"Mr. Montero?" Jennifer lifted a brow. She knew no one by that name. "He's a new client?"
"Well, I'm assuming he will be a new client, since he came by to hire some help. I understand you've worked for him before. He's in Phyllis's office."
"I've worked for him before?" Questions, possibilities and fears pounced on her. "And he's here … now?"
Before she reached any conclusion, the door to the corner office opened and her stout, unadorned, perpetually business-minded boss appeared. "There you are, Jennifer. I thought I'd heard your voice. A prospective client has stopped by, and we've been talking about you." With an insistent gesture, Phyllis ushered her into the tastefully appointed executive suite. "I'm sure you remember Mr. Montero. He says you used to work for him…"
The rest of Phyllis's words faded into an incoherent rumble as Jennife
r laid eyes on "Mr. Montero." Trev.
She stared at him in speechless, breathless astonishment. So great was her surprise that her mind emptied of thought, and everything faded from view except him.
He slowly rose from an armchair until he towered before her—broad-shouldered, tanned and rugged looking. Even in his expensive business attire, he emitted the raw virility of a man who worked with his hands, his muscles and his strong back for a living. A white shirt and dark, open sport coat now clothed the powerful chest that had gleamed by lamplight. Gray trousers concealed his muscular legs and hips. His hair, brushed to a tawny shine, still sprawled with unruly nonchalance, reminding her of when she'd run her fingers through its plush thickness.
Most distracting, though, was his golden-brown gaze fixed on her with a dangerously purposeful gleam. "Hi, Jen." His smile was charmingly crooked and distinctly wry. "Good to see you again."
He extended his hand.
For the first time in her life, she felt as if she might faint. The blood had rushed to her head with such force that she gripped his hand and held on tight for a steadying moment. She couldn't, for the life of her, say a word.
What was he doing here? How had he found her? Had he realized her true identity? But, no. He had called her "Jen." And Phyllis had introduced him as "Mr. Montero"—not Montgomery. Had Phyllis and Marlene misunderstood his name?
The warm, hard strength of his grip helped keep Jennifer upright, but did nothing to clear her mind. Physical contact with Trev never failed to flood her with sensation rather than thought. The moment she regained her balance, she withdrew her hand from his and struggled to utter a greeting.
"I was just telling Phyllis," he said in the deep baritone that had warmed her memories for so many wretched years, "how pleased I was with you the last time you, uh, worked for me."
Worked for him. The implication of that concept finally hit her. He had to be referring to Friday night. Good God, what had he told Phyllis?
"I couldn't have been more satisfied." An utterly masculine groove curved beside his half smile.
Her embarrassment flaring, Jennifer shot Phyllis an anxious glance. She hadn't given a thought to the possibility that her staid, conventional boss might learn about Friday night—especially from Trev. Why had he come here? Was he trying to get her fired? If so, why?
"I can honestly say she was the best help I've ever … had." Though he addressed Phyllis, his gaze remained on Jennifer, galvanizing her pulse into wild action. "That's why I want her again. No one else will do."
His husky words warmed her blood, even as anxiety battered her. What did he mean by these lightly veiled innuendoes? Did he really intend to hire her as a temp through this agency in hopes that she'd sleep with him again?
"I must admit, I am surprised," Phyllis declared, turning to study her. "I hadn't realized that you'd actually worked in the field, Jennifer. As long as you've been here, you haven't mentioned it."
"Th-that was a long time ago," Jennifer stuttered.
"Seems like only days to me," put in Trev.
She shot him a warning glare. Please, Trev … just shut up!
"I know you've said you want to hire Jennifer, Mr. Montero, and that no one else will do, but…" Phyllis settled her generous frame into the chair behind her massive desk and flashed Trev an apologetic smile that softened her rather severe features. "Jennifer is our public relations representative. She solicits new accounts for the agency and acts as the liaison between our clients and our girls. She doesn't actually service the accounts herself."
He stared at Phyllis in clear surprise. After a moment, though, approval replaced the surprise. "I see." He actually looked relieved.
But why should he be relieved? And why didn't he correct the misunderstanding of his name?
"To be perfectly honest," Phyllis said with a laugh, "I wasn't even aware that Jennifer possessed the necessary computer skills, shorthand, or any of the other office applications used in the field."
Trev drew his brows together in a frown and studied Phyllis with a searching stare that brought an uncharacteristic pink to her cheeks. "Office applications?" he repeated blankly.
It was then that understanding dawned in Jennifer. He'd mistaken the agency as a front. He'd somehow discovered she worked here and, believing her to be a prostitute, had assumed that the agency sent her out on "calls."
And he'd come to request her services. Illegal services.
Thus, his use of a false name.
If that realization hadn't been so alarming, she might have burst into hysterical laughter. As it was, she had to stop him from saying another incriminating word. "You're right, Phyllis, I don't type very fast or take shorthand. When I worked for Mr. Montgom—er, Mr. Montero, I acted as his office manager." She prayed he wouldn't contradict her. "But only for a short time, while his permanent manager was on maternity leave."
"Ah." Phyllis nodded and smiled again at Trev. "Now I understand. Jennifer would make an excellent manager. She's great at problem solving. Our clients know they can turn to her with anything that comes up. She's always willing to go the extra mile to fill their needs."
Trev narrowed his gaze on Phyllis, as if trying to decide whether to apply an alternative meaning to her praise. He clearly wasn't sure what product they were selling here.
Jennifer surged forward and caught his arm. "Why don't you come with me, Mr. Montero, and we'll discuss your requirements." She felt her face redden at the offer, knowing how he'd take it, and quickly added, "I'll go through my files and find the perfect secretary for you. Or a word processing specialist, or file clerk…"
Looking pleased at the outcome, Trev smiled at Phyllis on his way past her desk. She fairly beamed back at him. Incredibly enough, it seemed that the stodgy, no-nonsense, middle-aged manager had fallen victim to his effortless charm. Not a good thing. She would believe every word the blasted man uttered.
Jennifer prayed to God he wouldn't utter many more within her hearing.
Gritting her teeth, she maintained her smile while escorting him down the hall and into her own smaller, more cluttered office. She'd barely avoided disaster. Phyllis would have been shocked had she realized the true meaning behind Trev's request for "services." No doubt she would have fired Jennifer. And Jennifer would then be back at square one—with no job references.
The moment she'd locked her office door, Jennifer angrily rounded on Trev. "How did you find me here?"
He settled into a casual, cocked-hipped stance, his hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze amiable. "Your business card. I took one from your purse."
Her purse. Of course. That was how the handbag had moved from the floor of the hotel room onto the bedside table. He'd found it and searched it. Why hadn't she been more careful? "How dare you search my purse, or steal anything from it. You had no right. And then, to come to my place of business, and … and—"
"Request your services?" The hint of amusement in his gorgeous honey-brown eyes only infuriated her more.
Clenching her fists, she seethed. "You could have gotten me fired."
"I realize that now, and I'm sorry. But, come on. Helping Hand Staffing Services? How was I to know it's legitimate?"
Though she wouldn't admit it, he had a point. The company's name suddenly sounded provocative. "But it is legitimate—unlike the phony name you gave."
"A man has to take precautions."
"Yes, well, you can take your precautions elsewhere, Mr. Montero or Montgomery or whoever you are."
He frowned, looking affronted, surprised and somewhat wounded. "The name's Montgomery. Trev Montgomery. I didn't lie to you about that, or anything else." After a tense moment, his expression cleared. Softly he asked, "Aren't you even a little glad to see me?"
She gaped at him. Surely he couldn't have expected a warm welcome. But as memories of Friday night's lovemaking rushed back to her, she realized that he very well might have expected warmth—this tender, passionate lover who had touched her very soul. Struggling
to remain aloof, she retorted, "If I'd wanted to see you again, you wouldn't have needed to steal my card. Friday night was business, just business. And that business is over. Now please leave."
He didn't budge. In fact, he dug his heels in for a pointedly longer stay. How well she recognized the determination in his expression! A mule could take "stubborn" lessons from Trev Montgomery. "I want you to have lunch with me, or dinner," he calmly insisted. "Today. So we can talk."
"Talk?" That sounded terribly dangerous. Did he suspect her of being Diana? No, she didn't believe he'd hide a suspicion about something as momentous as his wife's return from the dead. "I'm sorry, but I can't go anywhere with you."
"Why not?"
"I … I'm busy."
"With your second job?" Disapproval added an edge to his voice.
She lofted a brow. His disapproval seemed pretty hypocritical to her. After all, he had come to "hire her services" when he'd believed the agency to be only a front. He had bought sex from her on Friday night. She resisted the urge to throw both of those things in his face. "My activities are none of your business."
"Maybe not, but I want to understand." His quiet words and unwavering stare unnerved her. "If you're for sale, why can't I buy some of your time?"
Her heart tightened. If you're for sale. How had she ever trapped herself into such a demeaning role? "My schedule is booked."
"Like it was Friday night?"
"Yes."
"You didn't have another appointment, Jen. I saw you leave the hotel."
Damn. Just her luck. Caught in a lie. But why did he care? What point was he trying to make? "The appointment was at another hotel."
"That's not what you told me." He ambled closer. "And I don't believe it, anyway. I think you went straight home. I think you regretted sleeping with me, and it damn near killed you to take the money."
She bit her lip. She hadn't regretted sleeping with him, but she understood how he'd arrived at that conclusion. He'd clearly sensed her anguish when she'd left him. And it had almost killed her to take the money. Why should his uncanny perception of her emotions surprise her? He'd read them from the first time they'd met. Determined to stop him from reading her now, she forced an Arctic chilliness into her voice. "What's your point?"
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