Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  All because of Zara’s lapse in judgment. She and her sister had never been close, but still.

  She was her twin. Her clone. The other half of herself.

  Suddenly she couldn’t swallow around a throat clogged with tears. She set down the sandwich and reiterated the questions he’d refused to answer during the drive from the airport. “You said he tried to kill her. What did he do? Was she hurt?”

  He ignored her. “Didn’t Mac’s demands raise any alarms in your head? Didn’t it occur to you, when he. insisted on dealing only with you, that he might have something nasty planned?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “I just figured he was…eccentric. Like his clients. Like half the people I do business with in the New York publishing world and Hollywood. I figured I’d just meet him at his office in SoHo, like he asked, and exchange the ray gun for a certified check.”

  “For two million bucks.”

  The way he said it made her cringe at her own naiveté. Had she been so eager—no, desperate—for the cash that she’d ignored the signs of danger, relinquished her usual business savvy? Hell, her common sense?

  For some reason, she wanted Logan to understand her motivations. “My mother has been living with me for the last two months, ever since her latest boyfriend dumped her and she had to move out of his houseboat. My divorce left me broke, Logan. I couldn’t afford to buy or rent her anyplace decent.”

  “Broke?” His sneer of incredulity said it all as he treated her to an insolent once-over, his gaze lingering on her Movado watch.

  She felt her face flame. “All my clothes and everything, that’s all from before the divorce. I haven’t bought anything new in a year and a half.” Why did she feel compelled to explain herself to this arrogant, overbearing son of a bitch? “I sold all my jewelry. This is the only piece I kept.” She indicated the watch.

  “I’m ready to weep.”

  “All I wanted was to set Mom up in a nice place of her own. You can’t imagine what it’s been like. She’s turned my beautiful apartment into a showcase for that disgusting collection of props from her horror flicks.”

  The only halfway cool thing was the futuristic bride’s dress on a mannequin—white satin, real short and ultra low-cut, with a big winglike collar and matching thigh-high boots. It was used in The Atomic Bride.

  “I like those posters.” He gestured dramatically. “House of Blood, in Bloodcolor! That one’s my favorite. Though I gotta admit, that decapitated head under the glass dome—with all those electrodes?—that’s pretty damn impressive.”

  Zara stared dumbly as her exhausted mind assimilated this latest development “My God. You’ve been in my apartment. My home.” Her precious sanctum. She felt violated. First her luggage, and now this. Her voice rose in pitch. “When? How did you get in? Did you paw through all my—my private things?”

  “Relax. I’m one of the good guys, remember?”

  Are you? She snapped her mouth shut, on the brink of verbalizing the question.

  He smiled slowly. Reading her mind. “You know, I’d have thought you’d be more worried about your mother’s welfare than whether I’ve been ‘pawing’ through your naughties. But since you brought it up. All that stuff—the lacy little bras and string panties, the garter belts and nighties and teddies, and those corset things.?” He jiggled his cupped hands under his ‘pecs in illustration.

  “Bustiers.” She forced the word through clenched teeth.

  “All that stuff is from before the. divorce?” He chuckled. “Good old Tony. Guy must be a wild man.”

  She’d never thought of her ex in just that way, though she had to admit the description fit—utilizing a more literal definition of wild. Barbaric. Cruel. Malicious.

  With Tony, she could never be certain where constructive criticism ended and pure spitefulness began. Some of it had to be true. After all, his recitation of her faults only echoed what she’d heard from her father’s lips for so many years.

  You’re self-centered, Zara. Shallow. No moral fiber.

  I’m ashamed to call you my daughter. Why can’t you be more like Emma?

  As for the “naughties,” she wasn’t surprised by Logan’s testosterone-induced assumption that her husband had bought them for her. As if it were unheard-of for a woman to treat herself to pretty underthings for her own sake. As if the only function of such clothing were the sexual titillation of men.

  He reached for a piece of carrot cake. She watched him unwrap it. Watched, transfixed, as his long, supple fingers slowly peeled back layers of cellophane. Finally he lifted the plastic wrap free and licked off the cream cheese frosting that adhered to it.

  Zara swallowed, vaguely surprised when she didn’t taste cream cheese frosting.

  “So there you were,” he said, wadding up the cellophane and lobbing it into a battered metal trash can, “all set to hand over the ray gun to your friendly neighborhood psycho, when things started falling apart down under on the set of some movie.”

  She nodded, grateful to occupy her mind with something besides Logan’s tongue and her galloping imagination. “Thunder in the Outback. Maxine Moore is one of my clients.” At his quizzical expression she said, “Maxine Moore, the novelistscreenwriter? High and Mighty? Lake Forever?”

  “Never saw ‘em.”

  “Well, anyway, Maxine’s a tad temperamental when it comes to rewrites. Threw one of her patented hissy fits, and the next thing I know, everyone’s suing everyone else. Two years of cutthroat negotiations to engineer this deal, and in two minutes she’s got the whole thing going down the tubes. I had no choice. Had to fly out there right away and put out the brush fires, get the project back on track.”

  “So you made Emma pretend she was you to keep the appointment with Mac.”

  “I asked her to take my place. To borrow my clothes, impersonate me—a necessary subterfuge since Mac insisted—”

  “I know. Insisted on dealing only with you.”

  Suddenly she felt deflated. Defeated. “There never was a certified check for two million dollars, was there?”

  Logan shook his head.

  Her eyes burned and she blinked to clear her vision. “He tried to kill Emma. He thought she was me and he tried to kill her.”

  He stared into the murky expanse of the warehouse. Those amber eyes lost their hard edge and appeared unfocused, troubled. “I think in the beginning he had every intention of going through with the sale,” he said quietly. “A legitimate transaction.”

  She was catching on. “When he thought he could get the ray gun for a few grand.”

  “I figure his client’s paying him a flat two mil, rather than a commission. The less money he has to pay you for the gun—”

  “The more he gets to keep.”

  “Right. He wasn’t prepared for you to jack up the price like that. In Mac Byrne’s mind, shrewd business tactics and beautiful women occupy completely separate niches. He figured you’d jump at his initial offer—”

  “And he’d be richer by nearly two million bucks.” She hugged herself as a chill gripped her, though the room was warm. “Why did he try to kill me? I mean, why did he try to kill Emma when he thought she was me?”

  “You can identify him by name. When he agreed to your price, it was a ruse. He planned to steal the ray gun and do you in so you couldn’t finger him.”

  “Did he get away with the gun?”

  “Not then, but eventually he got ahold of it. He doesn’t give up easily.”

  “You’re so sure of the guy. His motives, his plans, how his mind works. How can you be that sure, Logan?”

  The terrain of his face shifted subtly, hardened. Zara hugged herself tighter.

  “I know all about Mac Byrne,” he said, at last. “I’ve been after him for months.”

  She knew the FBI had a Behavioral Science Unit that did criminal profiling. Was that the source of these insights?

  She said, “So you met my plane and brought me here just for my protection, to keep Mac away f
rom me?”

  Something flashed in his unguarded expression before he briefly turned away. Something that prickled the hairs on her nape.

  But his voice was cool, with just a tinge of sarcasm. “I believe that’s the point of a safe house.”

  “But you’re also trying to apprehend Mac Byrne. And rescue my mother. Are the police involved?”

  “No. Believe me, they’d only get in the way of an operation like this.”

  “So who’s this Lou you were talking to? Another agent?”

  He didn’t answer. She felt invisible.

  “What are you doing to locate my mother?”

  “You know all you need to know, Zara.”

  She pounded the mattress in frustration. “Why are you keeping information from me? I have a right to know what happened while I was gone, what’s being done to rescue Mom.”

  He rose and started stuffing the empty food wrappers in the paper sack.

  She rose, too. “I will not be dismissed like some pesky child!” She grabbed his arm and got in his face. “Where’s my sister?”

  “I told you—she’s safe.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “It’ll have to be. The less you know, the better.”

  “For who?”

  Silence. She became aware of her nails gouging his arm where she gripped him. She uncurled her fingers and saw a row of red half-moons on his skin. He paid no notice.

  “So that’s it?” she asked, her voice tight. “I’m to be kept in the dark unless and until you decide there’s something I need to know?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  She could have laughed if the circumstances weren’t so dreadful. Here was renowned literary agent Zara Sutcliffe, a figure of immense power in New York and Hollywood, confined to a filthy, dilapidated warehouse, at the mercy of a man who might or might not be one of the good guys.

  THE MAN WHO CALLED himself Logan Pierce watched Zara sleep. She lay curled up in one of his sleeping bags near the edge of the mattress, her rolled-up silk robe pillowing her head.

  Around midnight he’d ordered her to hit the hay. She’d resisted, and he knew why. It wasn’t easy to succumb to the vulnerability of sleep in the presence of someone you didn’t trust. She was afraid of him. He knew that. He could have told her she had every reason to be.

  In the end her acute exhaustion settled the matter. She’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Running on empty.

  Rising, he unhooked his shoulder holster and dropped it on the battered steel desk. She flinched at the sound and he froze for a few seconds, until he heard her slow, rhythmic breathing once more. He extracted the Glock nine-millimeter and laid it on the floor at the head of his sleeping bag, next to the mattress. Slipped his T-shirt over his head and unbuckled his belt.

  When she’d emerged from the bathroom after getting ready for bed, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or jump her bones. He’d been all prepared to see her in some silky nothing of a nightie like the ones he’d found in her dresser drawers. Not this skimpy white tank-style undershirt that clung to every curve. The ribbed material stretched, and stretched some more, to accommodate high, full breasts, whose dusky tips he could just make out. If he tried hard enough.

  And he certainly hadn’t expected the black silk boxer shorts. Men’s shorts. “Tony’s?” he’d asked her. When he could find his voice.

  “No,” she’d answered, running coral-tipped fingers over the gleaming satin. “Women wear these now—they’re comfortable.”

  Uh-huh. Maybe for her, but what they were doing to him was decidedly uncomfortable, he mused, standing behind her as she knelt to lay out her sleeping bag.

  She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Where are you going to sleep?” A quivering hint of trepidation underscored the dry, don’t-even-think-about-it tone.

  She might be a big shot in business, all glitz and tough talk, but to him she was transparent as glass. His ability to size up people in a flash was a lifesaving skill he’d honed over the last fifteen years.

  In his line of work, you needed every edge.

  “I’m sleeping on the floor,” he answered. “And I’m not that kind of boy, so don’t get any ideas.”

  Her bug-eyed, slack-jawed response was entertaining for the second or two it lasted. Then one dark eyebrow rose and her mouth twisted into a devastating smirk—contemptuous, haughty, practiced—a smirk that had probably caused scores of hapless aspiring authors to wet themselves.

  That article in People never mentioned that wide, provocative mouth. That piece on “Extra” didn’t show her wriggling and moaning in orgasmic bliss as she devoured a Sicilian hero with everything on it. He’d done his homework, but it clearly wasn’t enough.

  Why did he have the feeling Zara Sutcliffe had a few more surprises in store for him?

  He stripped off his jeans and turned off the light, then slid into his cold sleeping bag in nothing but his white briefs. He shifted onto his side and shoved the wadded-up jeans under his head, then slipped the Glock under the jeans for instant access. He didn’t expect guests, but he knew that the day he let his guard down would probably be his last.

  Zara’s face was inches from his, slightly elevated because of the mattress. Little light reached them from the streetlamps five stories below; he could just make out her features. He wondered if she knew how innocent she appeared in sleep.

  Her warm breath teased his eyelashes. Her scent wrapped around him, a lush, sensual blend of someexpensive perfume and her own womanly essence. She smelled like night-blooming flowers, like illicit encounters in moonlit gazebos.

  He reached up to brush wisps of dark hair off her cheek. Her skin felt like satin, bringing to mind thoseblack boxer shorts. He remembered how the sleek fabric had hugged her bottom as she spread out her sleeping bag. How it had slid up a little, revealing the enticing underswells of a world-class butt.

  He rolled onto his back and contemplated the painful arousal prodding his sleeping bag. At times like these he envied the fairer sex, whose libido, according to popular doctrine, was linked to emotional factors—issues of love, of trust and respect.

  Whereas guys…well, guys were less complex.

  He didn’t trust or respect Zara Sutcliffe, and God knew he didn’t love her. But she sure as hell turned him on. Which wasn’t going to make what he had to do any easier.

  He had to be careful. So far, she’d been fairly easy to control. But that would change in a heartbeat if she discovered who he really was—and that his plans for her had nothing to do with keeping her safe.

  Chapter Three

  Zara’s eyes sprang open. Her heart slammed painfully, keeping time with the seesaw wail of a police siren outside, the sound at once far away and impossibly close.

  She blinked into her dark surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. Where am I?

  Don’t panic.

  She tried to sit but found herself immobilized, her body snared in a sacklike cocoon.

  She panicked.

  Disorientation magnified her terror as she twisted and clawed at the pillowy fabric encasing her, suffocating her. Her own breathless whimpers echoed off the walls of the huge empty room.

  Fingers closed on her shoulder and she screamed. She fought the big, hot hand pushing her down, the solid pressure of a heavy arm across her chest, over what she now recognized as a sleeping bag.

  “Shh, Zara…it’s all right.” A low voice, sleepraspy.

  She knew that voice. That voice meant…safety. Her terror and confusion gradually ebbed as fragments of the past day began to filter through, snapping together like pieces of a puzzle, forming a pattern her mind recognized.

  Logan. Safe house. Mac Byrne.

  The crushing sense of shame at her own culpability.

  “Hang on a minute.” He shifted off her and fumbled with the side of her bag nearest him. She heard the zipper open, felt the vibration down the side of her body, the cool air rushing in.

  “That be
tter?” His hand slipped inside her bag, over her midriff, still heaving as she struggled to calm her breathing. It felt weighty and substantial and immensely reassuring.

  She nodded and offered a shaky “Yes.” She could just make out his features in the semidark, his expression surprisingly intimate, almost compassionate.

  Another side of this enigmatic man, or a dangerous illusion, a trick of the shadows and her own dark fears?

  His long hair was loose now, falling around his face past his bare shoulders, making him appear barbarous, untamed. A few dark strands brushed her face. She’d forgotten how good a man could smell, the intoxicating essence of pure male animal underlying the civilized scents of soap and aftershave.

  They stared at each other for a full minute, until her initial fear gave way to a different kind of turmoil. An uncomfortable awareness that played havoc with her slowing pulse, kicking up the tempo once more.

  She knew he felt it, too, knew it by the subtle change in his breathing, the alertness of his gaze, the sudden tension radiating from his body into the hand-still draped on her waist. His fingers moved, ever so slightly, and she stopped breathing.

  He pulled back abruptly. Sat on his heels and dragged those long fingers through his hair, staring into the dark recesses of the warehouse.

  She shivered, missing his heat, berating herself for her foolishness. She tucked the sleeping bag up under her chin. “Logan…?”

  He looked at her.

  “Do you think she’s still alive? My mother?” Don’t shut me out, she silently begged. Please give me this one morsel of hope, something to hang on to.

  After a few moments he said carefully, “I have reason to believe Mac might not want to kill her.”

  She bit back a sob of relief. It wasn’t a guarantee, but it was more than she’d had a minute ago. She knew not to ask for specifics. “Thank you,” she rasped.

  He frowned, studying her intently. Finally he said, “Get some sleep, Zara.” He slid into his sleeping bag, his back to her.

  WILLIAM KEPT his expression neutral, his tone of voice bland, as he addressed his associate across the wide expanse of his black marble desk. “You’ve been very enterprising.”