Reckless



  Dear Reader,

  The story you are about to read was the very first one I ever published. Now, some ninety titles later, this story and these characters remain as key players in one of the most memorable days of my life.

  Picture it: small-town U.S.A. in the summer of 1992. A harried young mother of five little girls with a dream—a dream she's been steadfastly pursuing for more than five years. I didn't work outside the home then—I had vowed that I'd get an outside job when my youngest daughter started kindergarten, and that time was drawing very near. As August wore on and September drew near, I began looking at the want ads.

  Then came August 24. I returned home from grocery shopping to find a message waiting. An editor, who said she would call me back later. I was almost afraid to hope, but she did call back and all the girls crowded around me, listening. They'd been with me on this journey for more than five years. They understood how hard I had tried, how many times I had been rejected and gone to bed crying, only to drag myself back to the typewriter to try again. Yes, typewriter. I didn’t have a computer. I had taken care of a neighbor’s horse farm for a long weekend to earn the money to go from a manual typewriter to an electric one, and even that was a big expense back then. I thought corrector ribbon was the greatest invention of all time. (I had not yet discovered the internet.)

  My girls knew what it meant when that editor told me that one of the stories I had written was going to be published. And when I put the phone down, you never heard so much shrieking, squealing, and laughter in your life.

  This book, this very story, was the turning point from struggling, aspiring author, writing stuff that was “close but not quite right,” to professional author living a lifelong dream. Reckless Angel was the key that unlocked the door to my future. It's as precious to me as a part of my family.

  I have gone back through this story and rewritten it extensively. I’m a better writer than I was back then, and times have changed. In the original, the heroine didn’t even have a cell phone.

  I think the story is worthy of standing beside my more recent works, and I truly hope you enjoy it!

  Best always,

  Maggie Shayne

  The Shattered Sisters Series

  Reckless

  Forgotten

  Broken

  Copyright 2016 by Margaret S. Lewis

  First Published 1993 as Reckless Angel

  https://www.MaggieShayne.com

  Cover art and formatting by Jessica Lewis

  https://authorslifesaver.com

  Editing by Jena O’Connor

  https://practicalproofing.com

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They arc not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Excerpt: Forgotten (Shattered Sisters, Book 2)

  Also Available

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  In the murky, rain-veiled light that spilled into a filthy alley, Nick watched the gruesome scene play out. The man who called himself Viper leaned over his victim’s body, his face alternately beige and bright orange in the flickering light of a broken neon sign. He grunted as he pulled his bloody blade from the dead man's chest. Nick turned up his collar when the rain came down colder and harder than before. He was glad of the rain. There would be less blood.

  Something moved and Nick gave a quick glance up the alley, simultaneously lifting his 9 mm semi-automatic. The gun's muzzle moved in perfect unison with his eyes until he found the source of the sound in an overflowing trash bin. Just a rat. Red eyes glowed in a shiny black coat for an instant before it scurried away, and Nick resumed watching the little man with the pinched face and the intimidating nickname. Truth was, the hitman looked more like a weasel than a snake.

  “Boss doesn’t want Vinnie ID'ed right away,” Nick reminded him.

  Viper shook his head, but his slicked-back hair didn't move. “I've done my part.” He wiped the blade over the dead man's lapel and started to stand.

  Nick worked the action of the gun, chambering a round to make his point, and Viper's head snapped toward him.

  “Lou sent me to witness the hit, not clean up after it. You don't want to do it, either—that's fine with me. Just let me come along when you tell Lou why Vinnie was ID'ed before he was stiff.” He knew his voice was like cold steel. He wanted it that way. He pretended great interest in the blue-black barrel of his gun while Viper, who’d been working for Lou a lot longer than Nick had, and resented being assigned a babysitter, made up his mind.

  After a long moment Viper knelt again to begin removing items from his victim's pockets. He took the ring from his finger, ripped the tags out of his clothes. He handed those items to Nick and bent once more, this time intent on rubbing the corpse’s fingertips back and forth over rough pavement until no trace of a print remained. Nick stuffed the victim's belongings into a plastic zipper bag and pushed it into the pocket of his raincoat.

  Then Viper pulled a small-caliber revolver from his own coat, held it two inches from the dead face and thumbed the hammer back.

  A sound like a gag made them both swing their heads toward the sidewalk where a woman stood, frozen, staring into the alley. Nick's gaze locked with hers. She stared right back at him, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was memorizing his every feature, better to describe him to the local cops she intended to call. Viper lifted his gun her way.

  Nick swung one arm downward, knocking Viper's muzzle off target before the other man had a chance to pull the trigger. “Finish this job, dammit. I'll take care of her.” She was already off and running, so Nick sprinted for the opposite end of the alley. She would head around the block—to the closest place with lights and people. He vaulted the mesh fence that blocked the alley at the back end and landed with a jarring thud on the pavement. Then he moved silently, keeping close to the buildings.

  He stopped when he heard her heels smacking rapidly over the wet sidewalk, waited to step into her path when she came around the corner at breakneck speed, cellphone in hand, looking down at its screen instead of up where she was going.

  She careened into his chest and the phone clattered to the ground. He felt the heat emanating from her, heard her ragged breathing. “Thank God,” she said on a noisy exhale. “I need––” She looked up into his eyes and she knew.

  Before she could pull back, he clamped his hands on her shoulders. When her full lips parted, Nick said, “Scream and you die, lady.” She didn't. She pressed her lips tight and swallowed hard. Nick saw her fear. He felt it. It surrounded her like a halo of light around a candle's flame. He watched her, ready to react to her slightest move.

  Wild black curls hung past her shoulders and glittered with clinging raindrops reflecting the city lights. Her eyes—they looked black, too, but he couldn't be sure in the darkness—were wide with fear, but alert and intelligent. She was small, so she wouldn't be hard to ha
ndle. The top of her head didn't quite reach his chin.

  He heard footsteps in the distance, half trot, half shuffle—Viper's unmistakable gait, coming around the block the same way the woman had. If Nick didn't think of something fast, the little bastard would probably put them both on ice. He held the gun under her nose, so she could get a good look. She refused to glance down. She stared up at him instead, her eyes still afraid but defiant. He could see the wheels turning behind those eyes. It surprised him to realize that he knew what she was thinking. She was weighing the odds, waiting for a chance. She'd knee him in the balls or try some half-assed move she’d learned in a self-defense class and run like hell if he gave her an opening. And then she'd end up dead.

  “Listen and listen good.” Nick used his best street voice and most intimidating tone. “The guy you hear coming is a killer—a pro. When he gets here, he's gonna make you his next job, then he's gonna do the same for me 'cause I didn't off you myself. You got one chance. You wanna see tomorrow, you do what I say, to the letter. You got it?”

  She didn't acknowledge the question in the slightest, but just kept watching him with those unbelievably huge, liquid eyes. He blinked and made himself continue. “When I let go of you, run past me, same way you were heading. I'm gonna fire one shot, and you're gonna hit the pavement and play dead for all you're worth.”

  Viper's footsteps drew nearer. The woman’s gaze flicked away from his to glance back over her shoulder. She looked up at him again, a little of the defiance gone. “What if I don't?” The words sounded as if they were forced through a space too small for them.

  “If you don't, lady, then the second shot will be for real. And I never miss.” He let the words fall heavily between them, saw her go a shade paler. She glanced down at her cell phone, lying on the sidewalk at her feet. He did too, and then he stomped on it. “It’s me or him, lady. Only difference is, he’ll kill you.” He looked up again, waited for her to meet his eyes, and added. “I won’t.”

  After a drawn-out second, she nodded.

  Nick drew a steadying breath, released her shoulders and stepped aside to let her go by him. “Go.”

  She ran. Nick picked up the cell phone, just in case, pocketed it, and waited for Viper to come around the corner so he’d have a good view, then raised the gun, aiming over the woman’s head and squeezed the trigger. He never realized he'd been holding his breath until she went down and he released it all at once. She lay still, facedown on the sidewalk some forty feet away. Viper reached him a second later.

  “You get her?”

  Lights came on in apartment windows. Nick had no doubt that someone was dialing 911. “You got eyes?”

  Viper looked toward the girl and started forward. “Damn, that broad looked familiar.”

  “What did you do with Vinnie?” Nick's barked question stopped the other man in his tracks.

  “In my trunk.”

  “Get him the hell outta here. Place’ll be crawling with cops any minute.”

  Viper looked toward her again, and Nick saw the doubt in his eyes. He needed more convincing. Nick dug into his pocket for his keys and tossed them to the smaller man. “My car's around the corner. Get it over here before you take off.”

  “What do I look like, a damn parking attendant?”

  A head poked out of a second story window, then ducked back inside. The window closed with a bang. Viper muttered a curse and dashed back around the corner, moving unevenly but quickly. Nick went to the fallen woman, leaning close, whispering near her ear, he said, “Good job. Now play along. He’s got to believe this is real. Our lives are on the line.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Nick's car came to a screeching halt at the curb. He rolled her onto her back, and she went like a wet rag. Perfectly limp. She was putting on one hell of a show. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her up and over his shoulder, and wrapping one arm firmly around her thighs to hold her there, took three steps to the car.

  Her hands dangled loosely against his back. Her legs felt cold beneath his hand. Stupid woman, he thought, walking around in a skirt on a night like this. “Pop the trunk, Viper.” His thumb inadvertently rubbed her bare thigh and his mouth went dry.

  He dumped her unceremoniously inside, hard enough so Viper could feel the car sink with her weight, then slammed the trunk hard and went to the driver’s door. Viper got out of the car, and Nick slid behind the wheel. “Where you dumpin' Vinnie?” he asked.

  “East River,” Viper answered quickly. He was nervous now, looking around. A faint siren came wailing from somewhere, and his eyes danced in their sockets.

  “I'll take her somewhere else then. We don't want any connections,” Nick said. “Let's go.”

  Viper nodded and hurried into the darkness like a cockroach when the lights come on. A second later, Nick spun his black Lincoln around and took off.

  He managed to avoid the police, taking side streets until he was sure he hadn't been followed. He managed to take the battery out of the phone and toss it out the window as he drove. Then he pulled to the curb on an empty street, between a crumbling, condemned heap and a weedy vacant lot. Most of the streetlights had been shot out or demolished with stones. Getting out, hunching against the rain, he went to the back of the car and thumbed the trunk release on his keyring.

  The rain fell harder. He tightened the belt of his raincoat and leaned inside. The only light was the tiny bulb that came on whenever the trunk was opened. “Come on out,” he said softly, glancing around once more to be sure he wasn't being watched. She didn't move. He leaned lower, frowning. “Lady, you can cut the act now.” He pushed at her shoulder with one hand, but she remained as she was, a small, wet, unmoving bundle. Nick's blood slowed to a stop in his veins. Could he possibly have—

  “Oh, hell, no.” He gripped her shoulders and shook her a little. When she still didn't respond, he pushed the damp, tangled masses of hair away from her face in search of an exit wound or a trace of blood. He’d aimed high. If he’d hit her it would be a headshot. Hell. He bent close to her, so close he could smell her perfume. It wrapped around his mind and tugged. He saw the tiny beads of rain clinging to her face.

  When her feet suddenly slammed into his solar plexus it was like an explosion. He stumbled backward, pain shooting in every direction, and doubled over, struggling to draw a breath and failing. When he finally blinked enough moisture from his eyes to see straight and managed to unbend himself and actually inhale, he glimpsed her running like hell in the direction they'd come from. Swearing under his breath, he dove back into the car, pulled it around in a noisy doughnut and slammed the accelerator to the floor, leaving rubber on the pavement before the tires caught and the car lurched ahead. He overtook her in seconds, but she veered into the vacant lot. Nick hit the brakes, skidding to a cockeyed stop, dove out of the car and sprinted after her.

  His legs were longer, more powerful, but God, she could run. Her feet flew and her hair billowed behind her. She'd kicked off her shoes along the way. He saw them fly from her feet, but didn’t stop to get them. The lot was thick with tall grasses and weeds, and Nick's legs were getting soaked to the skin. His shoes were so wet it was hard to keep from slipping. Still, he gained on her.

  With one final burst, he jumped on her, taking her to the ground in a tackle that was way more brutal than was decent, landing on top of her. Then he rose a little, rolled her over, clasped her wrists in one hand and held them to the ground over her head. She struggled, and he dropped his body weight down on top of hers, stilling her instantly. “Try that again an’ I'll tie you up so tight you'll be lucky if you can breathe. You reading me?”

  Her eyes flashed anger at him and her breath came in shuddering gasps. “I'm supposed to come along peacefully, is that it? You want me to load the gun for you, too, before you blow my head off?”

  It was the most she'd spoken more than a few words to him, and Nick was surprised that her voice was deep and sultry, not soft and high-pitched as he would h
ave expected from someone her size. She had a voice like Hepburn or Bacall. A voice that—a voice that distracted him from the matter at hand, dammit. “If I wanted you dead, you'd be playing a harp by now.” His grip on her wrists tightened when she tried to pull them free. Her breath was warm on his face in contrast to the chill breeze.

  She twisted beneath him, trying to wriggle out from under him—a futile attempt. He pressed himself harder against her, his chest jammed so firmly into hers that each shaky breath she drew lifted him. He knew he must be hurting her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to do a lot of the shit he was required to do at the moment.

  When she saw that her struggling was useless, she stopped. He eased the pressure of his body on hers. “What are you going to do with me?” she finally asked.

  “Keep you quiet about what you saw in that alley tonight. That's all.”

  “That's all,” she mocked. “You might as well shoot me and get it over with, then. You can't lie on top of me forever.” The venom in her voice was real, and he was shocked she could do more than cower in fear and swear she'd never utter a word if he'd only let her go.

  “You got a smart mouth on you, lady. I don't need to keep you quiet forever. Just for a few days.” His common sense whispered that it might be closer to a few weeks, but he ignored it. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her—or him.

  She seemed to absorb what he'd said and turn it over in her mind. A little more fear came into her eyes. “How do you plan to do that?”

  It hit him then that, tough as she came off, she was probably more afraid of him than she'd ever been of anyone in her life. He eased his grip on her wrists and moved off her to let her sit up. He never let go of her hands, though, and he kept her feet in sight at all times. Her question was one he'd been trying to answer since he'd first seen her near the alley. No matter how he figured it, there was only one solution. He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.” When he tugged on her, she resisted. Her bare feet braced in the wet grass, she refused to move a step. He turned to look at her.

  She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “No.”

  His brows shot up as she surprised him yet again. “What do you mean, 'no'?”

  “Do what you have to, mister, but don't ask me to make it any easier.”

  Nick shook his head, unable to understand her train of thought. He pulled the automatic from beneath his coat, intending to persuade her to be a little more cooperative. When he looked at her again she stood straighter and closed her huge dark eyes. Her lashes brushed her cheeks. She looked like a proud Mayan princess about to be sacrificed for the good of her people or something.

  Her voice trembling, she said, “Not in the face, okay?”

  “What?”

  ''It will be easier on my sister, when she has to identify what’s left of me.” She opened her eyes again. They shimmered, staring at a spot in the distance. “Just consider it a...last request.” When he said nothing in response, she looked him in the eyes. “Could we get this over with? I never thought I'd go out bawling, but if you drag it out much longer, I—”

  “Hell!” He thrust the gun back into the shoulder holster and grabbed her again. “Will you get this through your thick skull? I’m not gonna to kill you. You have trouble with English or something?”

  Eyes flashing wider, she exploded in a burst of Spanish, none of which he understood. He supposed he could probably guess at most of it, though. He hadn't meant his remark as a racial slur.

  Her stream of insults ended. She drew a breath and whispered, “I speak English better than you do, you overgrown thug. I was born ten miles from here. My father practiced at—” She bit her lips as if to stop herself. That aroused his curiosity.

  “Go on?” He wondered what her old man practiced and hoped it wasn’t law.

  She averted her gaze. “What are you going to do with me?”

  So she wasn't talking. All right. He could find out anything he wanted to know in less time than she would believe possible. “Got no choice. I'm taking you home with me.” He said it slowly, watching her face.

  She looked up fast, her shock in her eyes. “You're kidnapping me.”

  He said nothing, just held her arm and started tugging her back toward the big black car whose headlights and wipers fought a losing battle against the pouring rain.

  Toni shivered. She was soaked, she was barefoot and she was mad as hell. How dare this bastard make a remark like that when he was constantly sprinkling his speech with “gonna” and “wanna”? Her father may have been Puerto Rican, but he'd also been one of the finest surgeons at Saint Mary's. Her mother had taught English literature at NYU. Toni had grown up hearing both languages, and she spoke both fluently and flawlessly. Her English had no trace of an accent, nor did her Spanish. She was proud of her parents. Mostly. The past had taught her that nothing was more dangerous than an ignorant bigot.

  Unless it was being kidnapped in the middle of the night by a hit man. She shook her head slowly as she walked with him back toward the car, knowing there was not much point in fighting him physically. She was going to have to think her way out of this. Months of lurking around courtrooms and reputed mob hangouts had given her a lot to work with. Nothing, though, had prepared her for tonight. Tonight, she'd followed Vincent Pascorelli from the jail. He’d been arrested for conspiracy and had, briefly, agreed to testify against his boss, Lou Taranto in exchange for his freedom. But then he’d suddenly recanted. The D.A. had to let him go, as the charges against him wouldn’t hold water anyway. It had all been a bluff. And it had backfired.

  She'd expected to see Skinny-Vinnie meet with one of Taranto's thugs, maybe even Fat Lou himself. She hadn't expected to get a front-row seat at a hit.

  She glanced again at her captor. His long raincoat hung open and his tailored three-piece suit was soaked—ruined, she hoped. At least he still had his shoes on. If he hadn't been so damn big, she might have managed to get away from him. She supposed she'd have to make the best of it until she had another opportunity. She was beginning to believe he wasn't going to kill her. It made no sense, but he'd have done it by now if he were going to.

  Her foot came down on something sharp, and she winced, lifted her foot, jerked her arm from his grip and ran her fingers over the sore spot. No cut. She supposed she'd live. He watched her, his dark brows drawn together over his narrowed eyes, as she put her foot down again.

  The next thing she knew, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her, not over his shoulder this time, but like a hero carries a damsel in distress to safety. Ha! When she tried to fight him, his powerful arms tightened and she gave it up. The guy was just too big. She sat still and clenched her teeth. His jaw was set, she noticed as she watched his face in the rain. Maybe he found this as distasteful as she did. He carried her as if she weighed no more than that gun of his. She wished she was eighty pounds overweight. She wished carrying her would give him a hernia.

  This close he wasn't as frightening. Big, yes, but that hardness to his face was only in the expression. He'd lose the hardened-criminal look the minute he smiled, she thought. She could see the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw. He stopped, bending to pick up her shoe when they came to it, and then its partner. As they moved past the glow of the car's headlights, she saw his thick lips and the cleft in the center of the upper one, which gave it a sensual shape, when he wasn't snarling.

  He wasn't half as scary as he probably thought he was. He could've killed her. He hadn't. He could've roughed her up, slapped her around until she was ready to do whatever he said. He hadn't. Hell, he couldn't even make her walk barefoot over a lot of broken glass and litter.

  When he dropped her onto the passenger seat, slammed her door and started around to his side of the car, she thought about yanking the door open and running again. He must've seen it in her face, because he tapped her window with the gun barrel and shook his head. In another second, he was behind the wheel.

  He drove fast, but not reck
lessly, away from the city. The headlights barely cut a path through the pouring rain. She watched him often. He didn't look her way at all.

  He'd driven in silence for forty-five minutes before she drummed up the nerve to ask, “Where do you live? Tibet?”

  His brows went up, and he glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the highway. “It isn't much farther.”

  He took the next exit, and they spent ten minutes negotiating side roads before finally pulling up to a tall iron gate. Best she could figure, they were upstate somewhere. He thumbed a button on his keyring. The gate swung open and they drove through. It closed smoothly behind them. The house that loomed ahead was a fieldstone monstrosity. It towered, three stories tall and the color of mud.

  He thumbed another button when they pulled up to the attached garage, and an overhead door rose. His headlights pierced the black interior. He pulled the car in, shut it off, killed the headlights. The door closed behind them. They sat in total darkness.

  He sighed. She said, “Now what?”

  “Don't go nuts on me,” he said, his voice very low, as if he thought someone might be listening. “This is for your own good.”

  She stiffened in anticipation, but he had her wrists quickly imprisoned in one huge hand. His other hand smoothed something sticky over her mouth. Tape! She heard his door open. He pulled her across the seat to get out the same side he had. He kept hold of her wrists and managed to stay far enough ahead of her to avoid her attempts at kicking him. A lot of good it would've done, she thought miserably. She was barefoot

  He hauled her forward, flung open a door and pulled her through it.

  She was in a kitchen, she realized slowly. It was dim but not pitch dark. The impression she had was of copper and chrome. He pulled her through another door and along a hallway. She glimpsed a huge formal dining room to the left, and what might be a library to the right. He moved too quickly, his long legs eating up the distance as she jogged in his wake. Another doorway, and she would have gasped if she could, at the living room. A marble-topped bar with crystal glasses suspended upside-down from a rack above it. Brass-legged coffee tables and end tables with glass surfaces. White marble sculptures stood on every one of them: a rearing stallion, a Bengal tiger, Pan with his pipes. The ceilings were stucco, and there was a chandelier with crystal droplets turning slowly. Money, the place seemed to say, not in a whisper, but with a boastful shout.

  He pulled her along, over plush carpet that felt like heaven to her frozen, bruised feet. She saw a foyer beyond a mammoth archway and what she took to be the front entrance. It glowed with muted golden light, and she caught an unnatural glimmer from the left eye of the bear's head that was mounted on one wall. It caught her attention immediately, and when she looked at it, she realized that the two eyes didn't quite match. Because one of them concealed a camera lens. She'd been at this game too long not to spot surveillance devices as obvious as that one. The question was, who did the big lug want to watch? Or was someone watching him? Did he even know the thing was there?

  Her pondering was cut short when they came to a broad staircase and he pulled her up it behind him. At the top they veered down a hall and mounted still another staircase, this one steep and narrow. At the top of that, they traversed a nearly pitch dark corridor, and went through a doorway into what might have been a study. There was a desk silhouetted in the darkness. Other shapes loomed, but she didn't have time to identify them. He walked her right up to a bookcase at the far end of the room and he reached up and did something to one of its volumes.

  Suddenly the entire bookcase swung inward like a door. She felt her eyes widen in fear. Gangsters and hit men she could deal with. Not secret passages in creepy old houses, though. No way. She braced her feet and resisted, but he pulled her hard and she stumbled through into total blackness. The bookcase door closed.

  What the hell was this? Was she in some cobwebbed and rat-infested partition between the walls? Was he going to entomb her here and leave her to die where no one could hear her screams? God, this was like something Poe might have written.

  He dropped her hands and moved away from her, and she shot forward, simultaneously ripping the tape from her mouth, regardless of the sting. She grabbed for his arm, and when she touched it with her groping hand, she clung. “Don't leave me in here. You can't—”

  She stopped when she heard a soft click and the room was flooded with light. Releasing his arm, she looked around. This was a compact living room. A brown small camelback sofa and a couple of armchairs were arranged on plush carpet a shade lighter. A giant TV was mounted to one wall. Off to her right, there was a tiny kitchenette. To her left was an open door, beyond which she saw a king-size bed, neatly made.

  She heard his deep sigh when he crossed to the sofa, apparently no longer concerned about her getting away. He sat down as if exhausted and leaned his head back. His hair was no longer combed down gangster style. The rain, combined with wrestling her so many times in the past hour, had it curling over his forehead as crazily as her own. It was dark as sable and still damp.

  She studied him, her fear nearly drowned out by her boundless curiosity. It had always been her biggest flaw. So her father used to tell her.

  She looked at the man again. Her kidnapper. “What kind of a setup is this?”

  “What's your name?” he asked as if he hadn't heard her question.

  She hugged herself as a full-body shudder raced through her, hesitating over the question. If he knew who she was, he'd change his mind about keeping her alive in a hurry. Still, it wouldn't hurt to tell him her real name.

  “Antonia Veronica Rosa del Rio.” She pronounced it with a perfect accent. As far as recognition went, she knew there would be none. It was a far cry from her pseudonym, Toni Rio.

  His stern expression changed. He seemed amused. The hard lines in his face eased, and his lips curved upward at the corners. “I guess I don't need to ask if you're making it up.” He tipped his head back and regarded the ceiling. “Antonia Veronica Rosa del Rio,” he mused. “What do your friends call you?”

  “Irrelevant, since you're no friend of mine.”

  His head came down and he fixed her to the spot with deep brown eyes. In this light she could see the lighter stripes surrounding his pupils. “Glad you realize it, Antonia.” He watched her for a minute longer. “You're shivering,” he said at length, then nodded toward the bedroom door. “Bathroom's through there. I'd suggest a hot bath and some sleep. You can use one of my robes for now.”

  “¡Que cara!”

  His brows went up. “Problemo?” he asked.

  “I'd sooner stay wet.” She was shaking harder now, and it wasn't entirely from the cold. He was big. Not big like some guys were big; this guy was body builder big. When he started talking about baths and sleeping and her wearing his robe...well, maybe she was a little more afraid of him than she'd thought. After all, they were alone here. They were isolated, cut off from the world.

  He stood slowly and came closer until he towered over her, making her feel as small as a child. Her pride wouldn't let her back away. Her gaze stayed on the knot of his loosened tie. Her lungs slowly filled with his scent and that of the rain on his body.

  “Look at me, Antonia.”

  She did. She didn't like looking into those eyes so she tried focusing on his lips. The sensual curl of them made them more disturbing.

  “If you don't get out of those wet clothes,” he told her, “you are probably going to catch pneumonia. I'm not in any position to take you to a hospital right now, so I can't allow that to happen. Now, are you going to take them off, or am I?”

  She tried to swallow and couldn't. She wanted to move away from him, but her feet seemed to have rooted themselves through the floor. He took her inaction for defiance. She knew it when he shrugged as if it made no difference to him and reached up to release the top button of her blouse.

  Toni drew a steadying breath and told herself to move.

 
He freed the second button. At the third, his fingertips brushed over the mound of her breast, deliberately, she was certain. The way he slowed his movements, made them a caress, was a dead giveaway.

  The contact shocked her out of her momentary paralysis. She balled up one hand, drew back and punched him in the jaw. His head snapped sideways from the impact and she spun around and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door and leaning back against it. She was sure he'd come after her, and God only knew what he'd do then.