LITMIR.BIZ

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Rowland was. The ID and the woman waiting at the hostess station in Cyrano’s, or the femme fatale in a little black dress and four-inch designer stilettos. Tonight, she wore tight jeans tucked into blinged-out Western boots and a body-hugging sweater belted with leather and silver.

      “Keep your eyes open for any of the suspects,” Cash ordered the security supervisor.

      “Yes, sir. Monitor three is the camera for her table.”

      Cash’s breath came quick and sharp as he watched the hostess escort Roxanne to the table. Concentrating, he leveled out his nerves. This was business. Nothing more. He needed to stay focused. Moments later, a waitress arrived, took her order, then delivered what looked like plain iced tea.

      Over the next hour, Roxanne nursed the tea, declined several offers from men and fended off increasingly impatient attentions from the waitress. She became jumpy, staring at the entrance and coming to attention every time someone entered, and constantly checked her watch. Interesting. She looked at her watch a final time, finished the tea and left a tip far larger than the cost of the drink.

      Cash smiled, feeling predatory. Showtime.

      Roxanne was looking over her shoulder when she plowed into him just outside Cyrano’s entrance. Reflex made him grab her arms to steady her, but something far more perverse had him hauling her up against his chest. She held still for a long moment, then pushed her arms between them and attempted to shove him away. He allowed only enough room between them that he could look down into her face.

      Those amber eyes of hers widened and she wet her bottom lip with her tongue. He corralled his libido and pasted a disinterested expression on his face. Snagging her hand, he tugged her along as he returned to the security area. Two uniformed guards waited at the secured door and escorted them to a small interview room. Roxanne’s hand tightened convulsively on his as he led her inside. Interesting.

      “Have a seat, Ms. Rowland.” He held out a chair for her and waited until she sat down before asking, “Why are you here?”

      * * *

      Roxie did her best to curb her panic. She hid her hands under the table, gripping her thighs to control their trembling. Swallowing around the lump clogging her throat, she prayed her voice remained steady. “Why am I here?”

      “Easy question, Roxanne.”

      “No, not really.”

      “So enlighten me.”

      Enlighten him? Easy for him to say. She needed to understand what was happening—why it was happening to explain her reasons for contacting him. “Do you have a couple of hours?”

      He arched one brow, and darn if that didn’t set hummingbirds loose in her stomach. He was just as dark and sexy and...no, not debonair. He was too intense for debonair, too cynical. Cash didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His piercing gaze and that oh-so-eloquent eyebrow spoke volumes.

      “You probably don’t remember me.” Why would he? She’d been a gangly teenager, just turned sixteen, with wild red hair and more than her share of freckles. Mortified, she’d sat in that interview room for almost twenty hours until a fast-talking lawyer in a cheap suit had shown up with the headmistress. Sometimes, Cash had sat across from her, never speaking, just watching. Other times, he’d stood in a corner, shoulder braced against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle and arms either crossed over a very muscular chest or shoved into the front pockets of tailored slacks. Her teenage self had totally fallen for him. Her grown-up self was torn between that remembered hormonal hero worship and total terror.

      She huffed out a breath, placing her fisted hands on the table. “My father is a thief.” She didn’t expect the sharp burst of laughter her statement evoked.

      “There’s no need to be rude, Mr. Barron.” Heat suffused her cheeks but she ignored it. “I didn’t have to call you.”

      “We would have tracked you down eventually.”

      “I’m not that hard to find.”

      He slid a hip onto the corner of the table and stared at her. “Last time we sat in a room like this, your name was Anne Landerson.”

      Her lips pursed at that and she quickly smoothed them out to a hard line as his eyes focused on her mouth. “That’s the name I was enrolled with at that school. My father told me it was for security reasons.”

      Cash laughed again, but this time, the sound was dark and derisive. “Oh, this ought to be good. Spell it out for me, Red.”

      “Don’t call me that.”

      And there went his eyebrow again. “I...didn’t spend much time with my father or brothers growing up. I was left with a family called the Millers until I was old enough for boarding school. I had...” She wondered how to phrase this part. “I was told not use my real name and had a false birth certificate. I had no clue what my father did. I only knew that he traveled, was very dashing and mysterious, and on more than one occasion, I imagined he was an international spy.”

      His other eyebrow rose, accompanied by a twist at the corner of his mouth. Cash’s expression caused her to feel dumb about those childish fantasies. What little girl wanted to believe her father was a criminal?

      “On my sixteenth birthday, a box arrived. As I’d never received a gift from my father before, this was a momentous occasion.”

      “Yeah, I bet.”

      Ooh. The sarcasm fairly dripped from those three words. “For a girl who had little contact with her family, who had never celebrated birthdays or Christmas, it was.”

      He shifted off the table, moved to the corner and assumed a posture she’d grown familiar with. Something jiggled his jacket pocket. He reached in and withdrew his cell phone, presumably to send and receive texts. She couldn’t keep herself from admiring his long, nimble fingers, even though her blush deepened as her thoughts wandered down completely inappropriate paths.

      Cash Barron was fantasy-inducing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long legs, a slim waist. She could attest to the muscularity of his chest from her stolen moment of weakness earlier that evening. She couldn’t help but be struck by the black hair, brown eyes the color of dark-roast coffee and a sculpted face that would make a fashion model jealous. When she’d looked up his bio before calling, Roxie had been shocked to learn he wasn’t all that much older than her. At sixteen, she’d been a starry-eyed girl and he’d been very much a man. Confident, handsome, strong. She’d sat there in that room, dreaming about kissing his full lips, about falling into his arms, about... Jerking back from the sexy images, she deep-breathed through a slight panic attack when she discovered him watching her intently. The glint in his eyes was...unsettling.

      “So, you received a gift from your mysterious father.”

      Right back to business. This was good. She should concentrate on business, not...other things. She centered her thoughts. “Yes. I was excited when I opened it. I found what looked like costume jewelry, which I thought odd, given my age and the fact that we’d had little interaction over the years. And then I found the little picture. I thought it was a print—ballerinas in tutus, and I was thrilled. I wanted to be a ballerina at the time, despite the school’s dance master rolling his eyes whenever I attempted to dance in toe shoes.”

      Cash snorted and she glared at him. “I was a lonely girl with no particular talent, Mr. Barron. I was touched because I believed the picture was my father’s way of acknowledging my dreams. I didn’t read the note attached to the package until later, when it was too late.”

      “Okay. I’ll bite. What did it say?”

      And why did her thoughts go right back down that dark road to sexy city? Biting was a big no-no. She cleared her throat. “My father told me to stash the box and keep it safe. I was never meant to open it. It never even occurred to him that I might mistake it for a gift. He didn’t remember it was my birthday.”

      Roxie lifted her head, her gaze colliding with his. “I discovered on my sixteenth

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