Authors: Penny McCall
His smile faded away, his brow knitting in consideration as he gestured to the curtain hanging at the back of the stage.
“Where are you going?” the emcee all but shrieked.
Vivi whipped around. She’d forgotten they had an audience. The audience, unfortunately, hadn’t forgotten about her. If it had been Texas, there’d have been a lynchin’ in the works. Boston debutantes had their manicures to worry about, and they probably couldn’t tie a decent knot between them, anyway. And since they didn’t want to frown and cause themselves wrinkles, the worst they could do was look down their rhinoplasties at her.
Daniel couldn’t have cared less about the mood in the room and what it might do to his market value. He wasn’t too concerned about the emcee’s hand-wringing, either. “We won’t be long,” he said to her, “auction off someone else.”
“There is no one else,” she wailed, but she stayed put at the podium, watching the two of them disappear behind the curtain.
“How do you know I’m considering a run for office?” Daniel asked, not wasting any more time on witty banter about her body parts. In fact, body parts seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind, except maybe her brain. He was definitely interested in what she was thinking.
Vivi would have found that a refreshing change from most of the men she met, if she’d had the time to waste convincing him she was serious. As things stood, she couldn’t afford to do anything else. “If you wanted to help the charity, you’d send them a check,” she said. “You’re here to ingratiate yourself with the right kind of people, and when I say
right
, I mean rich and influential, which,” she hooked a thumb in the general direction of the emcee in her vintage Chanel suit and tasteful but expensive pearls, “these women are.”
Daniel crossed his arms. “Fascinating. Go on.”
Vivi studied his face, but he looked so politely interested she decided she must have been mistaken about the undertone she thought she’d heard in his voice. “I wouldn’t have expected your aspirations to run to politics,” she continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I think you’d make a great politician. I mean, you have all the right credentials—law degree, camera-ready face, perfect body with what, ten percent body fat?”
“I can feel my ego inflating.”
She snorted softly. “You can’t help your face, and you exercise daily because you like good food and good wine once in a while. And because of your leg.”
“You don’t pull any punches.”
“Neither do you,” she said, ignoring the warning in his tone, the second warning he’d given, because he needed convincing, and she didn’t know any other way to do it except to make him believe in her. “You fight your battles in a courtroom, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting to go after justice more directly. Probably another reason you work out every day. Kind of like walking an aggressive dog— tire it out and it’s easier to control.”
“Sounds like you researched me.”
She shrugged, hoping he couldn’t see the nerves jumping around under her skin. Or hear them in her voice. “You sleep on the left side of the bed,” she said recklessly, “you don’t like cauliflower, or cats, and you wear boxer briefs.”
“Correction, you’re a stalker.”
The emcee poked her head through the opening in the curtain just in time to hear that. She stayed long enough to gasp, then her head disappeared.
Vivi’s voice hadn’t carried to the audience; the emcee made sure hers did, and if those at the back of the room had missed it, the front-row seats were happy to pass along Daniel’s assessment of her character. Either that or there was a hell of an echo in the place.
Even worse, the word “stalker” was a label the cop could understand. And act on. He stepped behind the curtain, caught her left wrist, and clapped a handcuff on it before she could deny the accusation. She twisted her other arm out of reach, looking at Daniel, although why she should have expected him to help her she had no idea.
All he did was watch, his eyes speculative, challenging. Get out of this, Houdini, he was saying.
But Vivi was done proving herself to him. Vivi was ticked off. He wanted to see what she was made of? Fine. She stopped struggling, sagged back against the cop too suddenly for him to stop her when she grabbed his gun and wrenched it out of his holster. She pulled her arm free, handcuff and all, whirling around to point the pistol at Daniel.
His eyes never left hers, one corner of his mouth quirking up in grim amusement.
Until she thumbed off the safety.
Chapter 2
THE WOMAN WAS A MENACE. SHE’D HIJACKED HIM
from the middle of a charity event, called him names— Okay, politician was hardly name-calling, and he was considering running for a public office of some sort. In his crazier moments. And he had accused her of being a stalker, but at least she fit the part. Take the way she cocked her head from time to time, like the voices in her brain were having a conversation she didn’t want to miss. If that didn’t shout “stalker” Daniel didn’t know what did. Unless it was the gun.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him, and by a hell of a lot more dangerous types than this woman appeared to be, with her shaking hands and the making-it-up-as-I-go panic on her face. As long as there wasn’t a serial killer among her other personalities, he figured he was safe. And not bored, which was probably the most confusing part of this whole thing. Since the day the High and Mighty at the FBI had sidelined him because of his injury, he’d been bored. And angry.
He’d spent months in rehab, trying to get his leg back to prime working condition. When he’d realized ambulatory was the best he could hope for, there’d been the years in college, upgrading to a law degree so he could still be a part of the justice system. He’d succeeded because failure had never been an option—until he became a federal prosecutor and his fate had been put into the hands of judges and juries.
The juries he could forgive; they were just regular people who were fooled by the lies and tap-dancing of slick defense lawyers. Judges were another story. Judges had to be re-elected, so they walked a fine line between the law and public perception, and that included their verdicts. More often than not, it hadn’t worked in Daniel’s favor, so his win/loss ratio wasn’t all it should have been, and unless it improved he likely wouldn’t be an assistant U.S. attorney for much longer.
All that left for him career-wise was politics, which sounded like the perfect job for a man who’d only ever wanted to make the world a better place. Politics, however, bore a striking resemblance to the world’s oldest profession, and since Daniel wouldn’t sell himself to the highest bidder in order to keep his job, he probably wouldn’t last long at that, either.
That added frustration to the bored/angry mix. His job was the only thing he’d ever really loved, and accepting that he’d never be a field agent again had been hell—and not just from a professional standpoint. Trust was something that would never come easy to a man who’d learned that suspicion was the only way to stay alive. There were a couple of people he’d consider friends, but he kept as much of himself to himself as humanly possible. And although he let an occasional woman into his bed, he rarely let one into his life. He liked it that way. Women were trouble—clingy and demanding and manipulative.
Including this one. She might be desperate or crazy enough to pull a gun on him when she didn’t get what she wanted. And he might find that interesting enough to play along until he found out what she was up to. But then he was kicking her out of his life, just like all the others.
Of course, there was a pretty good chance she’d be going to jail, especially if she shot someone—on purpose or by accident.
She moved to one side so she could keep both him and the policeman in sight, swinging the gun as she went. The emcee, standing between the two men, ducked for cover.
“You going to shoot me, or them?” Daniel asked her.
She looked down and swung the gun back to point at him. “You, unless you do what I tell you.”
Her hands were steady now, so were her eyes. She might be in over her head, but it was sink or swim. No turning back. And a cornered nutcase was always more dangerous.
“You have a name?” he asked her, keeping his voice calm and his expression pleasant.
“Vivi,” she said.
“You wanted to talk to me, Vivi, so why don’t you let the others go and we’ll talk.” It sounded lame even to him, so he wasn’t surprised when she rolled her eyes.
“I know you’re just humoring me until you can come up with a plan to catch me off guard. Unfortunately, we don’t have time for a standoff.” She shifted her eyes to the cop and held up her wrist with its chrome bangle. “Unlock this,” she ordered him.
He edged forward, his gaze on the pistol.
“You really don’t want to try it,” she said, probably because she saw the same thing in the cop’s eyes that Daniel did, an intention to act that might take the form of calling her bluff. “I know how to use this.” She cocked the gun to prove her point. “And I will.”
The cop decided she might be serious. He unlocked the cuff and stepped back.
“Not so fast, Officer . . . Cranston,” she read off his badge. “Lock one of the cuffs around your wrist.” She fielded his glare, waited while he did as she instructed. “Now you,” she said to the emcee.
The woman drew herself up. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Cassandra Shaw Scott Hanson Martindale Winston Hobbs.”
“Still not ringing any bells, but I can see why you’ve had all those husbands.”
“Every one of those husbands has been a leader in his field, and I spend my time doing charitable works, assisting the poor and downtrodden of this community. If you put down that weapon and surrender yourself to this nice, young officer, I will make sure you receive the best representation possible before you are found guilty and trundled off to jail.”
“You’d really help me?”
Cassandra folded her hands primly, gave a little sniff of distaste, and nodded.
“Great.” Vivi pointed to the floor. “Have a seat.”
“I will not!”
“Officer?”
The cop didn’t waste any time trying to play negotiator. He plucked the petite woman off her feet and deposited her on the floor, where she sat in shock, sputtering her indignation and making threats in well-modulated tones.
Vivi didn’t have any qualms about appearing undignified. She raised her voice and gave a few more terse instructions that resulted in the cop and the socialite being handcuffed together, around the underpinnings of the stage.
Daniel stood his ground and enjoyed the show. Not that he was getting a kick out of Cassandra’s plight, or the cop’s. Mostly he was running out the clock because it was only a matter of time before someone looked behind the curtain.
“We need to get moving before someone looks behind the curtain,” Vivi said. “And I’ll need your cell phone.”
Daniel slipped his hand in his pocket, cussing under his breath because he didn’t have anything but a wallet and phone. But he hadn’t routinely carried a gun since he’d become a lawyer. He really missed carrying a gun. Throwing the book at criminals just wasn’t as satisfying.
Not that he would have used a gun on Vivi, but it would have been nice to have options. He handed over his cell phone, and watched her slip it into her back pocket.
“Step down from the stage,” she said, “and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“You’re just going to leave us here?”
Daniel glanced down at Cassandra. “If she takes you with her, she’ll have to point the gun at you again.”
Cassandra looked at the gun, then at Vivi, and sighed heavily.
Daniel knew just what she was thinking, too. Vivi was holding a gun, and it was possible she’d use it. But it was hard to take seriously the threat of a woman who looked like she should be headlining at the nearest strip club. True, Cassandra’s imagination wouldn’t be running to G-strings and pole dancing, but any straight male this side of the grave would see—and feel—what he did.
Clouds of dark, curly hair surrounded a beautiful face, dusky skin, amber eyes just slanted enough to make them exotic, and what fantasies weren’t set off by her lush mouth were sparked by her stripper’s body. And when he thought
sparked
he meant it, since he felt like someone had lit him on fire.
In the tiny part of his mind that hadn’t fallen into his jockeys, he knew he should be concentrating on getting her out of the hotel before anyone got hurt. Including her. But he was too busy fighting off an attack of teenage-strength lust.