LITMIR.BIZ

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you took off. The note you left only said that a family emergency had come up, so I waited to see if you’d be able to get back.”

      “You were the one who set the ground rules of no last names and ‘this week only.’”

      Because until I met you that sort of arrangement suited me fine. “I know.” But his brows furrowed slightly, for while her voice had been perfectly polite, there’d been something beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite identify. Accusation, maybe? Regret?

      Whatever it had been was gone when she inquired coolly, “So what made you think I would have come back even if I could?”

      “Wishful thinking, I suppose.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “I guess I just hoped you’d resolve whatever the problem was and come back, so I stayed on a couple of extra days, just in case.”

      “You can’t seriously have expected me to return, though. Not when we only had two days left and you’d never said a word to indicate you had any desire to change the status quo.”

      Before he could respond, she dismissed the subject with an abrupt wave of her hand. “That’s ancient history, however,” she said in the same reserved voice she’d used earlier. “So while it’s been very nice seeing you again, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m in the middle of yet another family crisis and I have an appointment with someone I’m expecting at any moment.”

      She was perfectly polite, but the message couldn’t be clearer, and this time he didn’t have the sun shining in her eyes to blame it on. What did you expect, Ace—that she’d offer to take up where the two of you left off? Get a clue. She hasn’t smiled once and if she were any stiffer beneath your hands, she’d be a surfboard. It didn’t say a hell of a lot for his detecting skills that he just now was getting around to noticing that little fact. His only excuse was that he’d been happy to see her.

      Clearly, she was not as pleased to see him. He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. The barefoot twenty-five-year-old of his memory now wore mango-colored linen and a long strand of knotted pearls, and her wild, streaky-brown, waist-length hair was subdued in a cut that curved sleekly just above her shoulders. This was plainly no new transformation, either. It was much more likely that the Tori of his memory, the woman with the sandy feet, frayed cutoffs and tropical-print bikini tops, had been the real aberration.

      For the first time since stepping through the door, he took his eyes off her and glanced around the foyer, taking in its sweeping staircase, black-and-white marble tiles and the opulent art on the walls. Then he turned back to give Tor—no, Victoria—a slow appraisal and his eyes narrowed at the sudden suspicion that popped into his head. “So, tell me. You and me that week—were you just slumming?”

      “Please. It was a long time ago and I truly don’t have time for this right now. My appointment—”

      “Is here.” Screw it. She was right; it was a long time ago and some things simply couldn’t and shouldn’t be resurrected. Not to mention that she had some heavy emotional shit going on in her life at the moment and he was here to do a job. Pushing every other consideration from his mind, telling himself she was simply another new client, he thrust out his hand. “John Miglionni, at your service.”

      “No.” Horrified, Victoria simply stared at the extended hand. No way was she touching those long, lean fingers again—the sensory impressions from the first time were still too fresh. “You can’t be.” Shooting a glance at the mostly red tattoo beneath the silky black hair on his forearm, she shoved down the memory of tracing it with her fingertips and instead studied it just long enough to assure herself that the words Swift, Silent and Deadly still surrounded the white skull and crossbones on three sides. Then she looked back up into his dark eyes and, even as she recalled the name of his agency, said insistently, “You’re a Marine.”

      “Former Marine. And as you said, ma’am, it’s been a long time. I mustered out of the service over five years ago.”

      Ma’am? Victoria watched him bend down and pick up a computer case off the floor. Sure, he was here in a professional capacity—and she most emphatically did not desire to start up anything with him again. But, please. Ma’am?

      He straightened again and regarded her without expression. “If you’ll lead me somewhere I can set up my laptop, we can get started.”

      She should have been glad that he was suddenly all business. She was glad. The only reason she hesitated at all, she told herself, was because she wanted the man she knew as Rocket gone.

      Unfortunately, she feared she had dire need of John Miglionni’s services if she wanted to locate Jared any time soon. Recalling that his was the name that had repeatedly popped up as their best chance of locating a missing teenager when Robert checked around, she blew out a long, resigned breath. “Please. Come into Father’s office.” It was better to get this over with. The sooner she did, the sooner Rocket-slash-John Miglionni would be on his way. Then any future dealings with him could be handled by Robert.

      They settled into facing leather chairs a few moments later, and as he booted up his computer and pulled up a file, Victoria subjected him to a covert inspection. The only obvious difference that jumped out at her was the length of his hair, which was completely opposite to the military buzz cut he’d worn when she’d known him. It was longer than her own now, which should have lent his face a feminine aspect. Instead it managed to do just the reverse and accentuated his high cheekbones, hawklike nose and the spare angularity of his face.

      A cell phone rang into the silence of the dark-paneled office. With a rumbled apology, he twisted with supple grace to paw through the leather laptop case he’d set on the small table next to his chair. Bringing the phone to his ear, he punched the talk button. “Miglionni.”

      Watching him from beneath her lashes as he asked an occasional question, said several uh-huhs and scribbled notes on a legal pad, she concluded he was still as long and lanky as ever. Except for his wide shoulders, he had the type of body that looked deceptively skinny in clothing. She knew for a fact, however, that beneath the black silk T-shirt and immaculately pressed black slacks, were muscles hard as tungsten.

      Her gaze skittered back to his slacks and lingered a moment on another long and lanky shape forming an impressive bulge to the right of his fly. She tore her eyes away. Damned if she’d let herself be dragged back into those memories.

      More insidious and harder to ignore, though, was the recollection of how he’d made her feel. Good about herself. Safe. Free to explore her sexuality. He might have had a butterfly’s commitment to relationships, but she’d sensed a rock-solid core to him, and he’d treated her so nice. After a lifetime spent dodging Father’s verbal slings and arrows, she’d found Rocket’s rough-edged sweetness even more seductive than his sexual expertise.

      Involuntarily, her lips curled up. Well, that might be stretching it a bit, since the two were so closely entwined in her memories. God knew she’d been a fool for his way of making her feel like the funniest, smartest, sexiest woman in the universe. Another female might have questioned how many other women he’d made feel the same way. Victoria hadn’t cared—at least at first. More accustomed to bracing herself for a caustic remark than fielding compliments, she’d discovered protectiveness and sweet-talking attentiveness to be her personal version of Spanish Fly.

      “ROCKET!” SURPRISED laughter exploded out of her when sun, surf and sand suddenly whirled in a kaleidoscope of colors as he snatched her up off her feet and swung her in a half circle. She was vaguely aware of something whizzing past, but paid it no heed as she stared, mesmerized, up at the man holding her in his arms. She was five-ten, and hardly a fragile flower, but he was forever handling her with an ease that made her feel daintier than Tinkerbell.

      “Sorry,” called out a voice and Victoria blinked when Rocket set her back on her feet as abruptly as he’d swept her off them. He bent to retrieve a volleyball off the sand. Her heart thudded in slow, thick beats as she watched the fluid slide of his muscles when he tossed the ball up and, with one powerful swing of his fist, sent it winging back toward

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