LITMIR.BIZ

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The darker haired man was tough looking and built like a boxer. The blonde had the long, rangy body of a swimmer.

      If she’d had to bet money, she still would have placed it on the blonde. But this was too important to trust in her luck. She had to be sure. Edging her way out from behind the palm tree, she aimed the camera and said, “Jared Slade?”

      The blond man turned first, and she had three quick shots of him before someone behind her said, “Stop right there.”

      Whirling, she saw the fantasy man—Mr. Danger—striding toward her. He looked every inch the bodyguard now. In fact, the combination of sunglasses, black leather jacket and black jeans had her thinking for one giddy moment of the Terminator. Rory froze.

      She wasn’t sure if it was the sheer size of the man that intimidated her for a moment, or perhaps that odd little punch to her system threw her off. The only thing she was certain of was that all of his attention was totally focused on her. She could feel his purpose, feel him in every pore of her body. He was the Terminator personified.

      When he was still a few yards away, he held out his hand. “I’ll take that camera.”

      She clutched it tight to her chest. She wanted to run. The old Rory would have chosen that option in a nanosecond. Did she dare to stay? Tucking her gum into the side of her cheek, she said, “I’ll trade. You can have the pictures, but I want an interview with Jared Slade.”

      He took one step closer. “Not a chance. Just give me the camera.”

      Time to rethink her options. He was a lot bigger up close than he was from a distance, and he’d probably be able to outrun her. But if she handed over the camera…

      Stay in the game. Even as the words slipped into her mind, she feinted to the right, then darted behind the palm tree. Once she’d cleared the branches, she raced for the lobby door.

      HUNTER SWORE under his breath. By the time he skirted the damn potted palm, the little pixie had pushed her way through the front door.

      “Stay here,” he called over his shoulder to the two men who’d been at the registration desk. Then he ran toward the hotel entrance and made it out to the street just in time to see her turn the corner. By the time he reached it, she was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t have reached the next corner, so she had to be in one of the shops.

      Deliberately, he slowed his pace, allowing the other pedestrians on the street to flow past him. The first shop he passed had designer chocolates in the window. A quick glance inside told him that his quarry wasn’t there, and there was no obvious place to hide. The second shop had lingerie displayed in the window, and he spotted her moving quickly toward the back of the store with an armful of lace and satin in tow.

      Hunter glanced up at the name over the shop door and smiled slowly. This was his lucky day. Silken Fantasies was the very shop he’d come to D.C. to buy. Its location in the same block as Les Printemps was one of the reasons why he’d decided to stay at the small hotel. A quick glance at the tall, strikingly attractive woman behind the counter confirmed that she was the owner. At fifty, Irene Malinowitz was looking to retire so that she could spend time with her grandchildren. And Slade Enterprises was looking to turn Silken Fantasies into a very profitable chain.

      Slowly Hunter backed out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. He had to hand it to Rory Gibbs. She had a good plan. All she had to do was hang out in one of the dressing rooms until whoever was chasing her gave up.

      Except he’d never given up in his life—even before he’d become Jared Slade. Added to that, she’d had the bad luck of running into a shop where he knew the owner. When Rory had disappeared into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, he moved closer to the window and considered his options. He wanted to talk to Rory Gibbs. He also wanted that camera, he reminded himself. The best way to fool her into thinking she’d taken a picture of the real Jared Slade would be to destroy the film.

      Then he would ask her how she’d known that Jared Slade was going to be checking into Les Printemps. Very few people in his organization had known that. Denise Martin, the chief administrative assistant in his Dallas office, and the two men he was traveling with—Michael Banks, his executive assistant, and Alex Santos, his accountant. Up until now, he’d trusted all three of them. But now, he was sure that one of them was a traitor. Even worse, one of them knew his past and wanted revenge.

      The problems at Slade Enterprises had started three months ago. There’d been an episode of stomach poisoning in his hotel in Atlanta and a fire that had caused some damage in a factory in upstate New York. He’d flown in to deal with each crisis personally. And both times he’d received notes with the same message: No matter what you do, soon the world will know who you are and what you did ten years ago.

      Hunter was sure that the person sending the notes had to be connected in some way to the scandal that had nearly destroyed not only his family’s business, but the town he’d grown up in. A scandal that he’d been blamed for. A scandal that had the power to destroy Slade Enterprises.

      Ms. Rory Gibbs might very well know who the writer of those notes was.

      Hunter took out his cell phone. Little did she know it, but Ms. Rory Gibbs had just walked into a trap.

      RORY LEANED BACK against the closed door of the dressing room and drew in a deep breath. She’d taken a risk when she’d chosen this store. Luckily, it had a place where she could hide. For the moment.

      Her last glimpse of the Terminator had been when she’d turned the corner. There’d been no sign of him when she’d ducked into the shop. When he couldn’t see her on the street, he’d have to give up.

      If her luck held. Crossing her fingers, she drew in another breath. The air was scented with lavender, and classical music poured out of a speaker that hung directly above her dressing room. In a minute, her heart rate would subside, she’d be able to breathe without panting, and her nerves would settle. And then she could figure out what to do next.

      “I don’t think you have the right sizes.”

      Rory jumped at the sound of the feminine, well-modulated voice behind her. “What?”

      She peered through the slats in the door and made out the red suit of the woman who’d welcomed her to the shop when she’d dashed in.

      “The sizes,” the voice said. “In your rush, you grabbed large, and I think you’ll find that petite will fit you better. I’ve brought you the same designs. Why don’t we switch?”

      As she opened the door, Rory glanced down at the bits of lace and satin she was clutching to her chest. She hadn’t paid any attention to what she’d scooped up when she’d dashed in. The Terminator had been on her tail.

      “Who recommended this shop to you?” the woman asked as they exchanged garments.

      “No one,” Rory replied. “I just came in—on impulse.”

      “Ah.” The woman smiled at her. “I get some of my best customers that way.”

      Rory took a moment to look at the items for the first time. Lingerie—tiny bras and what looked to be thongs—in various shades of the rainbow.

      “Wow,” she said as she spread petite sizes out on a nearby bench. “These don’t cover much.”

      “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

      “I’ve never been able to quite figure out the point.” Rory leaned down to finger the lace on one of the thongs. “I mean, no one sees this stuff.”

      The woman’s brows rose. “A lover would see it.”

      Rory shot her a look. “Not for long. Mostly, they’re just interested in getting me naked.”

      The woman’s laugh was low and infectious. “You need to look for a new lover. The first step would be to wear something like this.” She moved into the room, and lifted a cherry-red thong and matching bra from the bench, then handed them to Rory. “You’d be amazed

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