e was still angry, Karen thought. No, angry wasn't an adequate word; he was furious, his eyes glittering, his lips a thin grim line, pale around the eyes and nose. She was so glad to see him that she closed her eyes as a sigh of relief soughed out of her lungs. "Hi," she said, another inadequate word.

Then she was in his arms. He eased her there, as if afraid of hurting her. She felt his heart hammering under her cheek, his breath soft on her hair, the hard bulge of his gun in the holster at his waist, and it felt so wonderful to be where she was that the cessation of solitude was almost painful. She had never felt this connection with anyone else, this lightness as her body touched his, this pure, delicious sense of homecoming.

"You look like hell," he said, the blunt statement so far from his usual courtesy that she thought he must be rattled. She did look rather battered: limping, both hands bandaged, a bruise on her cheek, and that overall pinched, pale look that came from too little sleep and too much stress.

"Yesterday was an eventful day."

"Are there any injuries I can't see?" The words were tight.

"Ribs. Sore, but not cracked."

He muttered another curse under his breath. "Let's get out of here. Any bags?"

"One."

"Do you need a wheelchair?"

She leaned her head back and gave him an appalled look. "No! That would make me more conspicuous. My knee is stiff, but I can walk perfectly well. Let's just get my suitcase and get out of here."

The line of his mouth didn't relax, and the hard glitter in his eyes didn't soften, but he slowed his long stride to match her much more leisurely gait, his arm around her waist as if he felt she needed steadying. The more she walked, the more her knee loosened, and if she went slowly, she didn't limp.

She said, "If someone had the means, how long would it take him to find out I took a flight here?"

"If someone had the means, he could have someone here waiting for you or be here himself." He looked as if he wanted to do something violent.

She stopped, her heart jumping with panic. "Get away from me," she said fiercely. "If you're with me, then you're in danger, too."

He turned to face her. "You're going with me," he said between clenched teeth, "if I have to pick you up and carry you. Then you'll be conspicuous." He took her arm and steered her toward the escalator. "After your message, I took precautions. I'm not here alone."

She decided not to push him any further. From what she could tell, his temper hadn't subsided at all during the past two days. He looked dangerous, his gaze hard and restless as he surveyed the people around them, and she suspected he would welcome the chance to unleash that temper on someone.

Getting off the plane had taken so long that the luggage was already being unloaded. After a few minutes, the carousel chugged her suitcase around; she pointed it out, and Marc snagged it.

He was parked at the curb. Another car had pulled up close behind him, and a lean, good-looking young black man stood on the sidewalk beside them, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. "See anything?" Marc asked as he stowed the suitcase in the trunk. He had put on sunglasses, too, making him look hard and expressionless.

"Nothing out of place. Everything's calm as a convent."

"Good. Karen, this is Antonio Shannon. Antonio, Karen Whitlaw."

"Pleased to meet you," Karen said. "Are you a detective, too?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Shannon smiled at her. Like Marc, he wore a jacket despite the heat.

Marc opened the passenger door and ushered her into the car, his hand warm on the small of her back. The touch was so familiar, so possessive, that she shivered.

"I'll watch your six and make sure you aren't followed," Shannon said quietly to Marc.

"Thanks. I've put in a call to McPherson, but I'm routing everything through you so there won't be any direct connection to my house or my home phone."

Shannon nodded. "Got it. Go on, get her stashed. I'll handle things."

Marc clapped Shannon on the shoulder in appreciation and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, he watched in the rearview mirror as Shannon did the same, falling back far enough that he could see if anyone tried to follow Marc. Shannon had good instincts, maybe a result of his military training, maybe because he was naturally sharp.

Karen cleared her throat. "Is Detective Shannon your partner?"

"Detectives in New Orleans aren't teamed. But he worked with me on your father's case, and we get along. I trust him."

"Who's McPherson?"

"Someone who might be able to give us some information. Now—" His tone was measured, but she still heard that suppressed violence beneath the control. "Tell me what happened yesterday."

She did, as calmly and concisely as possible. She also told him about her previous home burning to the ground. He digested everything in silence for a minute. "Do you know the name of the bastard who entered your apartment?"

"Carl Clancy." Detective Suter had told her his name, to see if she recognized it.

He indicated the bruise on her face. "He did that?"

"Yes, but the hands and the knee are courtesy of the other bastard, the hit-and-run one. Actually, my hands are just scraped. Piper put these impressive bandages on them so people would help me with my suitcase. With my sore ribs, it was difficult for me to handle it."

He said something under his breath again, something vile and inventive. Karen stared straight ahead. If Marc was swearing like that, he was a volcano waiting to blow.

"I know it sounds far-fetched," she blurted. "Maybe I panicked. But twice in one day seemed a little too much for coincidence, and when I added it to my father being murdered and my old home burning, I—what's the legal term? A preponderance of evidence? That's what it felt like. Or am I being paranoid?"

"No, I don't think you're paranoid. Something else turned up on your father's case that makes me real uneasy." He checked his rearview again.

"What?" She turned around and checked behind them herself. "Is anyone following us?"

"Just Antonio."

"Tell me what turned up."

"Another body, in Mississippi. The other man and your father knew each other, and they were probably killed at the same time. The other man was in a car in the hot sun, so the coroner can't pin his time of death down as accurately as we could with your father, but it's close enough."

"What was the other man's name?"

"Rick Medina. Your father knew him in Vietnam. Did you ever hear of him?"

She shook her head.

"He worked for the CIA."

Startled, she said, "Dad wasn't CIA."

"I know, but they knew each other anyway. At first, when I found out about Medina, I thought maybe he had been the primary target and your father got in the way. But now…"

Now, with the attacks on her, it seemed likely the situation was reversed.

She rubbed her forehead. "Why come after me? I don't know anything about what he did."

"Someone evidently thinks otherwise."

"Do you think this has anything to do with the CIA?"

He shook his head. "They seem to be as much in the dark as we are. Medina did occasional work for them, but he wasn't in their employ at the time. No one knows why he was here."

"Another dead end."

"Or a lead. Whoever dumped Medina's body did it across the state line, probably thinking we wouldn't link the two murders. Medina's murder looked like a robbery, except they left the car, which was worth a lot of money if that was what they were after. It was as if they wanted him to be identified without any trouble."

"Why would they want him identified?"

"Because they wanted someone to know he was dead. Who and why?"

"We keep saying they."

"I don't think one person could have managed both murders so cleanly, with no witnesses."

So what were they dealing with? she wondered. An army of assassins? People she wouldn't recognize, who could walk up to her door at any time, perhaps wearing a police officer's uniform, and kill her when she opened the door? Would she ever feel free to cross a street again without wondering if one of the cars waiting at the traffic light was going to make an early start and run her down?

Now she was being paranoid, but where did it end?

She stirred, realizing they had been silent for some time and were almost in New Orleans. "If you don't mind, take me to a nice, quiet motel that's within walking distance of a supermarket. I'm paying for everything with cash, so if I check in under an assumed name, I should be safe enough."

His jaw tightened. "I'm taking you to my house," he said evenly.

His house. Her stomach clenched in a rush of mingled desire and terror. "I can't stay with you. If they find me, you'll be in danger, too."

"And if they find you, you'll be a hell of a lot safer with me than you would alone in some motel room."

It was blind instinct that had sent her back to New Orleans, a panicked need to be near Marc, but now that she was here, she knew she couldn't live with herself if anything happened to him because of her. "I can't take that chance. Once they trace me to New Orleans, wouldn't your house be the first place they would look?"

"Why would they? Contrary to what you seem to think, no one except the two of us knows we spent the last night you were here screwing all night long like a couple of minks."

He said it so smoothly, the rich, dark tones of his voice shaping the words almost into a caress. If he meant to shock her, he succeeded. If he meant to forcibly remind her of the intimacy they had shared, he succeeded in that, too. She felt her face get hot as a blush spread from her breasts upward.

She tried to ignore both her blush and his comment, doggedly sticking to her guns. "You're the one who investigated Dad's murder. Of course, they would watch you—"

"I would almost welcome them," he said, very gently. "I'm armed, and I'm pissed."

Yes, he was—royally pissed. Again. Or still. She stared blindly out the window.

He exited off I-10 and worked his way over to Canal Street, then down Chartres, then left on St. Louis. He hit the garage door opening, and Karen managed not to duck as he drove under the yawning door with inches to spare.

"How long are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" he asked, getting out and opening her door, then collecting her suitcase from the trunk.

She bit her lip as she preceded him up the stairs.

She felt herded, as if she had no choice but to go in the direction he had chosen. "I'm not pretending. I know very well what I did. You have a right to be angry, and I apologize. I acted like a fool, running away the way I did. I'm not used to—well, anyway, I'm sorry."

"You're not used to sleeping with a man," he finished, unlocking the door and stepping aside for her to enter. He followed, locking the door behind him and setting her suitcase down with a thud. "Now, tell me why you ran."

Uneasily, she moved away from him, embarrassed all over again. "The main reason was lack of nerve. I didn't know—I couldn't figure out why you'd done it."

For once, he looked totally flabbergasted. "What?" he asked blankly.

To give herself something to do, she began unwrapping the enormous bandages covering her hands, concentrating on making a neat roll of the gauze as she unwound it. "The least upsetting reason I could come up with was that you were just horny, and I was handy."

"You were right about the horny part." He reached for her hands and took over the job. "But I didn't use you as a substitute for my fist. I wanted you. If that was the least upsetting reason, I'm not sure I want to hear the other one."

"Other two."

"God. All right, what was the next one?"

"That you felt sorry for me."

His hands stilled at their task. Slowly, his head came up, disbelief written on his face. "You thought I kept a hard-on all night because I felt sorry for you?"

"You had been so kind," she tried to explain, feeling helplessly inadequate for the task. "I couldn't have managed without your help. But then I broke down at the funeral, and I thought you felt you couldn't leave me alone at the hotel—"

"Karen." He shook his head a little, as if trying to clear it. "That's carrying sympathy a little far, don't you think? My bed isn't a charity ward."

She bit her lip again and fell silent. He bared one of her hands, turning up her raw palm so he could inspect it. He got that grim look on his face again but took her other hand without comment and began the unwrapping process on it. "Okay, what's the third reason you thought of?"

This one was the tough one, but she owed him a full explanation. It was an effort to keep her voice even. "That first day—I knew you didn't like me. I wasn't imagining that, was I?" Despite her best try, she couldn't keep the pain from showing.

He kept his black head bent over her hand. "No," he finally said. "You didn't imagine it."

Karen swallowed, feeling her insides shred. "I didn't think so," she whispered, then said in a stronger voice, "So, anyway, the most likely reason I could think of was that you'd done it for… oh, not revenge, but as a sort of put-down."

"Use you, then kick you out?" He still wasn't looking at her, but she saw the muscle in the side of his jaw clench.

"Something like that. Because you didn't like me." She said it again, trying to impress it on herself, trying to face it head-on so she wouldn't crumple under the hurt of it.

"Not at first, no." He paused, and his big hands tenderly cradled her sore one. "Or rather, I was angry, but it didn't take me long to figure out you weren't what I'd first thought. Within an hour, actually. I began to get the idea when you almost passed out on me, but then when you watched that video and tried to act so calm, so untouched… you were falling apart, and I knew it."

"How?" she demanded, feeling a little truculent. She had tried hard to remain in control, a technique she had perfected over the years. She didn't like thinking she had been so transparent.

"You were clenching your fists so tight they were almost bloodless. You're a marshmallow, sweetie. Instead of not feeling enough, you feel too much. You try to take care of everything and everyone, and then beat yourself up when you can't do it." He slanted a glittering look at her from under his lashes. "By the way, did you get any of my messages?"

"Of course I did. 'God damn it, Karen,'" she quoted, and watched his olive skin darken as blood ran into his cheeks. She was almost glad he was embarrassed, because it balanced her own sense of vulnerability. He saw too much; she felt stripped naked, even more so than when he had actually removed her clothes. She was accustomed to shielding herself emotionally, and it knocked her off balance to realize how transparent she was to him.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I was so mad I—anyway, I left three messages yesterday."

"Oh. With everything that was happening, I didn't think to call the machine and check messages. What did you say?"

"To call me. Please. Then I got your message, and I was scared shitless until you got off that plane." He took a deep breath and shuddered as he let it out. "We need to talk."

"We're talking," she pointed out.

"Not like this." Abruptly, he leaned down and lifted her in his arms.

Startled, she grabbed his neck for balance. "What are you doing?" she half shrieked as he carried her into the bedroom and set her on the bed.

"Checking you out," he replied, going down on one knee beside her and taking her hand again to finish the unveiling. He inspected that hand, too, then folded her skirt back to look at her knees. Both were skinned and bruised, but he could see for himself none of her injuries was serious. Lifting each foot, he slipped off her sandals. "So, on the basis of a first impression, you ignored three days of intensive courting?" He flashed her another of those glittering looks. "Well, as intensive as I could make it, under the circumstances."

"When I thought about it, everything seemed so… orchestrated. Planned." She gave him an angry look of her own. "You were already wearing a condom while we were dancing!"

"And kept it on the whole time we were dancing, too, by God, which should tell you something about how turned on I was." He stood and removed his jacket, tossing it aside. Then he started unbuttoning his shirt, his movements jerky, his nostrils flaring with anger. "I was trying to be considerate. I didn't think you'd appreciate having to worry about a pregnancy or disease at the beginning of our relationship."

Karen watched him, her eyes big, her mouth dry. She didn't say, "What are you doing?" which would be stupid because it was obvious what he was doing. She didn't say, "What relationship?" because she didn't want to inquire too closely in case she had heard wrong. She wanted to say she did appreciate his consideration in wearing a condom, but she didn't say that, either.

She just watched him, her heart pounding, her nipples tightening. Greedily, she took in his sleek, strongly muscled shoulders and nice, broad, hairy chest. Clothed, he looked broad-shouldered and trim; naked, he was more muscular, with a flat, ridged stomach and a line of downy hair running down the center of it straight to his groin. She thought of following that line with her tongue and taking him in her mouth; his entire body would go rigid, and he would give that wonderful, deep, gut-wrenching groan. She wanted him. Oh, God, she wanted him now and forever.

He dropped his shirt to the floor and kicked out of his shoes, then peeled off his socks. "I can't believe you were mad about the rubber," he muttered, glancing up at her, and for a moment his gaze was so blazing hot she felt scorched.

She reached out and touched his stomach, feeling his hot, smooth skin and the hard pad of muscle underneath. "It wasn't the condom, it was that everything felt so deliberate, as if you were following a plan."

"I was," he said bluntly. "I'd been working for three days to get you in bed, and I was afraid stopping to put on a condom would give you a chance to think twice about what we were doing and back out. So I put the condom on first."

"And kept it on, too, by God," she teased him, smiling. Her fingers trailed down his belly to the waistband of his pants, following the line of silky hair.

His eyes were brilliant as he looked down at her. "Take off your clothes." The words were low and rough, almost a whisper.

Her heart pounded harder. She stood and began removing her clothes, her breath rushing in and out in excitement. She felt the clenching of desire deep inside, the twin yielding and demand of utter need. She dropped her blouse to the floor, then unfastened her skirt and stepped out of it. His gaze was locked on her breasts as she undipped the front clasp of her bra and let it fall, and she noticed his breath was coming faster, too.

Critically, he eyed her ribcage as he dropped his pants, trousers and underwear going down in one smooth movement. Her ribs were marked with bluish splotches, and his hands clenched into fists before he deliberately relaxed them, reaching out to touch the bruises. "Are you too sore for this?"

"No," she said softly, eyeing his thick erection and appreciating his concern even more because it was obvious he was urgently aroused. But then, so was she. She removed her panties and sat down on the bed.

Instantly he was there, a strong arm wrapped around her, supporting her as he eased her down and in the same fluid motion mounted her. Lying between her legs, he carefully propped his weight on one elbow and fondled her breasts with his free hand, lightly rubbing her nipples until they were throbbing. Her own hands were on his chest, stroking, delivering pleasure. His erection nudged between her folds, but he didn't enter her.

"I'm not wearing a condom now," he said, kissing her.

"I know." Karen wrapped her arms around his neck as ancient instincts surged to the fore. Their gazes locked, his fierce and bright, hers soft and darkly mysterious, yielding. She didn't make this decision lightly; she knew full well what she was doing. "I don't want you to," she murmured, arching her hips a little. She wanted all of him, now. She wanted his seed, the possibility of his child. She felt unbearably aroused, though he had scarcely touched her.

"We're taking a risk." His voice was thick. His mouth moved down her neck.

"Yes. Please." She arched again, desperate, hungry, aching.

He pushed into her, hard and urgent, as if he couldn't hold back a moment longer. The head of his penis was already slick and eased his penetration. She cried out as satisfaction replaced desperation, pleasure replaced pain.

He groaned, and sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his close-cropped black hair. "Have mercy," he whispered. "I haven't done this since I was a teenager."

She clung to his shoulders, her hips rising eagerly to meet his restrained thrusts, enveloping every inch and trying to hold him. "Making love? I know better." Speaking was an effort when everything in her was concentrating on the tightening spiral of desire. She was almost there, trembling on the edge, hanging on a point of pleasure so sharp it was exquisite, wonderful pain.

"Not wearing a rubber." He shuddered at the tight internal clasp of her. Suddenly, he gripped her shoulders and began thrusting hard, fast, deeper with every stroke. "I can't wait," he said tightly.

He didn't need to. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and she arched, crying out in the intense grip of orgasm. He made a rough, helpless sound and began coming, spurting into her, milked dry by the rhythmic pulse of her climax.

He hung over her for a few moments, his head down, his arms trembling as he supported himself rather than letting his weight down onto her. Karen managed to stroke his shoulder with one hand, but even that small effort exhausted her, and her arm fell to the bed. Finally, he eased out of her and collapsed on the bed beside her, breathing hard, his eyes closed.

Drowsily, she turned on her side and nestled against him, sighing at the pleasure that was quite apart from the sharp need of sex. Tears prickled her closed eyelids as she tried to contain a happiness so acute she ached with it.

He groaned. The sound was that of an unconscious man struggling toward awareness, and it startled her into laughing.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he rolled onto his side to face her, sliding his arm under her neck and draping his other arm over her hips to anchor her close. "You need to laugh more often." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Every time I see your solemn brown eyes, it's like being kicked in the gut."

"I laugh," she protested sleepily.

"Not enough. And before your fertile imagination comes up with any more off-base scenarios about what just happened here, we are deeply involved in a serious relationship. Is that clear?"

"Clear," she whispered, barely able to get the word out over the pressure in her chest. She felt shaky inside, as if she might crumble. She loved him so much it actually hurt, but it felt good at the same time.

"If you get pregnant, we get married. I refuse to let a child of mine grow up illegitimate. I don't care how many actresses do it or whether or not a woman really needs a man around now to help her raise their children."

"You're damn right we'll get married," she said with sharp force. "The odds are I didn't get pregnant this time, but if you don't plan to stay around, we'd better decide on a method of birth control and stick to it. I don't want a broken marriage." Knowing what being abandoned by her father had been like for both her mother and herself, she was determined her own children would never know that pain if she could possibly help it.

He caught her hand and carried it to his lips, being careful not to hurt her raw palms. She snuggled against him, unable to decide which she wanted to do most: turn cartwheels or sleep. She didn't do either, because she'd never been a head-in-the-sand type of person, and reality at present was a bit dicey.

"It all comes back to here," she murmured, unable to hold the thoughts at bay any longer. "To Dad. His murder is at the center of it, because otherwise why would I be targeted? But I don't know anything about what he was doing. I hadn't seen or talked to him in years."

"What about your mother? Did she have any contact with him?" Marc brushed her hair back from her face, kissed her forehead, and held her closer as if he couldn't get her quite close enough.

"More often than I did. After I grew up, I refused to see him when he blew in for a couple of days, usually when he was out of money, but I know he called her sometimes, though not very often. She didn't tell me much about his calls because she knew how angry I was at him."

"Had there been any calls from him since she died?"

"If he called, he didn't leave a message, but then he wouldn't." A memory surfaced, pulled out by his questions. Marc thought like a cop, looking at angles she hadn't considered. "Wait. She died at the end of January. A few weeks after that, I got a package he'd mailed to her. I was still in shock and hurting a lot, and getting that package made me so angry because she loved him all of her life and he didn't stay in close enough touch that he would know she was dead. I almost threw the package away."

A subtle tension had invaded the muscled arm under her neck. "Did you open it?"

"I opened it, but I didn't go through it. I remember the box had some papers in it. I closed it up and put it in with the rest of her things I had boxed up for storage."

"Where is it stored? Your apartment?"

"No, I don't have room there. I rented a storage unit. That's it, isn't it? The reason why he was murdered is in that box."

"Maybe. It's a lead, and God knows we've been short of those. I want to hear from McPherson first—"

"Who's McPherson?" she asked, as she had before. His earlier answer hadn't been very informative.

"CIA."

"Are you going to tell him about the package?"

He didn't hesitate. "Hell no."

"So you don't trust him, either?"

"I don't know him. He may be who and what he says he is. I'll give him a little information, see what he gives me in return, but I sure as hell won't tell him you're here with me or anything about the package until I've checked it out."

"So what do we do in the meantime?"

"What do you think?"