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The Sex Files
Jule McBride
From The Sex Files…"52% of men and women have indulged in a one-night stand." For fun, FBI profiler Oliver Vargo cross-referenced his case files with The Sex Files - in order to create a "picture" of the world's sexiest woman. When a real-life version - gorgeous Peggy Fox - suddenly begins tailing him, he's highly intrigued and very aroused. Who is this mysterious woman who's determined to seduce him and spend the night?Peggy badly needs Oliver's expertise, but his sexy voice and virile body have taken her by surprise. Their sizzling night together is one she'll never regret. And one she'd love to repeat. But she can't let him know all her secrets.As suddenly as Peggy came into his life - she's gone, like Cinderella. And now Oliver must track her down…. Because with Christmas fast approaching, foxy Peggy is definitely on Oliver's Most Wanted list.



“It’s been a great Christmas,” Oliver murmured
He rolled over in bed, his heated naked body pressing against Peggy’s back, allowing him to enter her from behind.
“You feel so good,” she whispered shakily, sighing as he drove inside.
She was wearing a Santa hat he’d picked up at the store earlier. “You’ve been naughty,” he said hoarsely, reading the message scrawled in red on the white brim.
“Maybe I need a spanking,” she teased.
Oliver eased away from her, loving how she gasped over each inch of his withdrawal. Slipping his palm downward, he gave her a love tap that drew a cry—not of pain, but of pleasure.
“Nice,” she corrected cheekily, reaching up and turning the brim to the side that said, “I’ve been nice.”
“If you’ve been nice,” he teased, “then maybe Santa will give you something special for Christmas. What do you want?”
Her breath caught and she shifted her body. “This.”
With a groan, Oliver rolled her over and entered her again with a long, deep satisfying thrust.
Merry Christmas…


Dear Reader,
Merry Christmas!
Manhattan at Christmastime has always been special. During the holidays, the city that never sleeps is charged with a giving spirit and the legendary heart for which New Yorkers have always been known.
I hope you’ll join me this month in celebrating, and that you’ll enjoy The Sex Files, where two strangers come together in the city both to solve a little mystery and fall in love while spending the holiday in some of the most pleasurable ways imaginable….
I do hope this story makes you smile. And don’t forget to check out tryblaze.com!
Wishing the happiest holiday to you and yours,
Jule McBride

The Sex Files
Jule McBride


For Eileen Keator—
New Yorker, photographer, friend.
And best of all, a woman who dares
to be herself and enjoy life.
You go, girl!

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue

1
“WELL, KATE,” Oliver Vargo was saying conversationally as he leaned forward in a white-upholstered sectional chair. “I can hardly take personal credit for bringing psychological talents to law enforcement. It’s really nothing new.”
“Please don’t be modest, Mr. Vargo,” replied Kate Olsen, the redheaded interviewer for NBC’s Rise and Shine show and talking head for the evening news. She chuckled knowingly. “The psychological profiles you’ve produced for the FBI have led to the arrest of countless felons, including many who committed crimes previously deemed unsolvable.”
“Psyching out the other guy is as old as crime itself,” Oliver returned agreeably.
“Yet some experts devalue criminal profiling, saying it’s not an exact science.” Before he could respond, Kate turned toward the camera, beginning a slow segue toward the commercial break. “For anyone tuning in, our guest today is FBI agent Oliver Vargo, whose first book How Evil Thinks was one of the longest-running nonfiction bestsellers ever on the New York Times list.” Leaning, Kate lifted a hardcover from a glass-topped coffee table and held it up, her manicured fingers bracketing Oliver’s photograph. “His latest book, Catching Crooks the Old-Fashioned Way, promises to be every bit as successful.
“In a moment, we’ll need to pause for a commercial break,” she continued, returning her gaze to Oliver, “but before we do, what can you tell us about your fascinating book?”
As a wry smile curled the corners of his mouth, his dark eyes twinkled in a way that wasn’t lost on the camera. “In ten words or less?” he joked, playing the audience like a natural while clearly noticing a cue from someone off-camera, probably a producer.
“Don’t worry,” said Kate with an encouraging laugh. “We’ll have time after our break, too!”
“My book defends criminal profiling,” Oliver said, turning serious. “Something that—as you’ve pointed out, Kate—has been debunked by many as mumbo jumbo.”
“Even though the methods are successful?”
“Yes.” He continued in a deep voice that quickened with passion for his subject. “Detractors argue that profiling is a new method for solving crimes, but it’s really more tried-and-true than scientific evidence we readily accept, such as fingerprinting, or analyzing hair and fiber samples.”
“Fascinating,” Kate murmured, her eyes intent. “For those who are just tuning in, what exactly is profiling?”
“Profiling is the old-fashioned way to solve crimes,” explained Oliver.
“And what does it take to become a profiler?”
“Too much schooling,” he joked. “Profilers have dual college degrees in law enforcement and psychology. Some, like me, go on to get post-graduate degrees. Technically, I’m a licensed psychologist.”
“Wow,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, “it is exciting. When we profile, we’re playing armchair detective, much as Sherlock Holmes did. We’ll slowly walk through a crime scene, pretending we’re the criminal, to get into his or her mind—”
With every word, Oliver became more intense; dark eyebrows met, accentuating a high forehead from which black, wavy hair was slicked back. “We try to think as the criminal thinks. See as the criminal sees. Feel as the criminal feels.”
For once in Rise and Shine’s three-year run, Kate looked as if she hadn’t heard a word her interview subject was saying. She looked mesmerized by Oliver’s face. “There’s something else our audience—and particularly women—want to know,” she murmured when he was finished.
He blinked, as if talking about work had transported him to an alien planet and he was only now returning. “Yes?”
“We know you deal with the darker side of human nature, Mr. Vargo, but how about the lighter side?”
Now he looked uncertain. “Lighter side?”
Kate smiled indulgently. “Yes, lighter side. What do you do for fun?” When he still seemed mildly stupefied, she plunged on. “According to your biography, you’re unmarried and based in Quantico, Virginia, near the FBI’s profiling headquarters where you usually work.”
“True, but I’ve been traveling this year, Kate, and for the next six weeks, I’m assigned right here in New York City. I’ll be here during Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“As hard as you’re working, and with so much travel, do you plan to take time off for the holidays?”
“Sure. Although my folks are leaving the country for Christmas, and my sister’s going on vacation with a friend. I guess I’ll…” He looked stumped.
“You mean there’s no special someone?”

DURING THE PAUSE that followed, the tall blonde who was watching the show resituated herself. Tucking a black nightie beneath her behind, she squirmed, grimacing at the discomfort of the thong she wore. Nestling against the satin headboard of a king-size bed at the Plaza Hotel, she groaned when the movements caused her breasts to spill from the scooped neckline, then she felt tears sting her eyes. She wished she could cry, but she hadn’t since….
She pushed the thought away. One manicured thumb was on the remote control; the other tapped the cover of Oliver Vargo’s new book. “Well, c’mon,” she whispered, tossing her head to dislodge a lock of honey-streaked hair that fell over a brown eye, obscuring her vision. “Is there someone special?” If Oliver had a lover it could interfere with her plans to contact him.
Kate Olsen turned to the camera again. “Sorry, but we’ll have to wait until after the commercial break for the answer. So don’t go away. When we come back, agent and author Oliver Vargo, tells us if his personal life’s as adventurous as his professional one!”
Glancing down, the viewer surveyed his picture. “I would recognize him from a million miles away,” she murmured, sucking in a shaky breath. After all, she’d long been a fan of his work, and she’d been tailing him around Manhattan all afternoon, wondering how she should approach him.
She continued blinking, hoping her tears might start to fall but she was still in shock. Yesterday a bullet had almost claimed her life, and now she desperately needed Oliver Vargo’s help. Already, she’d been having a rough day when, last night, she’d gone to the home of her fiancé—only to find him in bed with another woman, a woman she’d recognized from a wanted poster as a bank robber. As unbelievable as the events seemed, they’d really happened. The woman’s name was Susan Jones. Even worse, the man in question, Miles McLaughlin, her fiancé, was an FBI agent.
“Incredible,” she whispered now, perspiration beading on her upper lip.
As soon as she’d entered the bedroom, Susan Jones had rolled away from Miles—they’d been making love—grabbed his revolver from a bedside table and aimed at her heart. She’d frozen, standing there like a deer caught in headlights, wondering what her fiancé was doing in bed with this woman. Shock, betrayal and terror were rippling through her when she heard the distinctive sound of Susan’s voice as she turned to Miles and said, “What’s she doing here?”
Then the bullet had exploded, splintering the wood of the door frame near her head. She’d whirled in terror, hitting a hallway first, then a staircase. She was at the downstairs door when she heard the pa-choo of a second shot. She hadn’t looked back. Her heart hammering, she’d kept running. And she’d been running ever since.
She’d been so shocked, so scared, that an hour had passed before she completely registered what she’d seen. It was astonishing enough that she’d seen an FBI agent in bed with a bank robber. Devastating, since she’d been engaged to him. But when she’d calmed down, she’d registered the open suitcase she’d seen shoved under the bed. Money had been stuffed into the case, no doubt from the bank heist for which Susan Jones was wanted. Was her fiancé—ex-fiancé—she mentally corrected—involved in the woman’s crimes? And why hadn’t she seen through him?
She hated men, she thought now, shivering. Yes, this betrayal was the last straw. A woman had nearly killed her, true. But ultimately, a man was responsible for what had happened—and she was going to make him pay. Oliver Vargo was the perfect man to cast in the role of Avenging Angel, too. Now she was glad to feel her eyes stinging again. She’d felt so stunned, she hadn’t yet been able to have a real cry, and it was yesterday that the shots had been fired. Right now, yesterday felt like a century ago.
Despite her terror, every time she looked at Oliver Vargo, something inside her melted and she wanted to reconsider her vendetta against men. She shivered again. If not for her profession, none of this would have happened. Hadn’t her mother been devastated, saying what she did for a living was too dangerous? But who could have foreseen that she’d meet a crooked FBI agent while she was working?
“I’ve got to find someplace safe to go when I check out,” she murmured.
But where? It would be hours until Oliver Vargo got off work and she could approach him for help. She didn’t have time to dress and try to catch him leaving the TV studio. She wasn’t sure she trusted him, but she did need help from a smart FBI insider who knew how to use a gun and who wouldn’t mind protecting a woman. And Oliver looked honest, though appearances could lie. Still, because she knew his work, and because Miles was an agent, she felt safer going to Oliver Vargo than to the police…
Opening the cover of his book, she skimmed the bio, noting his degrees in law enforcement and psychology, an explosive ten-year career and the long list of criminals he’d caught. He was unmarried and lived alone, just as Kate Olsen had said, but the picture showed him lying in a hammock in front of a family-size home. He was reading a book.
“The New York Public library,” she whispered, feeling a jolt of relief at the idea. When she left the Plaza, she’d lose herself in the crowds at the library, read Oliver’s book, and then go to Grand Central Station. The Forty-second Street entrance was across from the midtown FBI office where Oliver worked, and she could leave the duffel in one of the train station’s lockers. She’d have to be careful, of course. But at five o’clock, when Oliver left work, she’d find out where he was staying and approach him.
“And we’re back from commercial break!” Kate Olsen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We’re here with FBI agent, Oliver Vargo, the bestselling author of How Evil Thinks and Catching Crooks the Old-Fashioned Way. “Well, Oliver,” continued Kate. “We know you’ve been touring the country, training other FBI agents to profile criminals as well as promoting your new book. But why are you in New York?”
“To help work out kinks in the bureau’s new, state-of-the-art computer software,” he explained.
“Could you tell us more?”
“Sure. Our new computer software is called Quick Composite. As I mentioned, profilers assemble facts about possible suspects, imagining how the criminal thinks and feels. Now, with Quick Composite, the FBI will be able to input that information into computers and generate pictures of suspects.”
“Pictures?”
He nodded. “Very similar to photographs. We’ll know what the criminal might look like when we find him. Or her. As we work, we deduce facts about the suspect—such as gender and race. Height and weight. Hair and eye color. Now, as we input those facts into Quick Composite, a computer will produce a picture.”
“Like a police artist’s sketch?”
“Exactly, Kate. Except this is more sophisticated. The image is more accurate and of photographic quality.”
“Amazing,” said Kate dreamily, as if captivated. “Do you really think a picture of a suspect—one generated by inputting facts about a crime—might be identical to that of a real criminal when you catch him?”
“Or her,” Oliver added. “And yes. Absolutely. Our computer-generated pictures should resemble the mug shots when we arrest criminals. It sounds amazing, but new technology is emerging all the time.”
Kate’s eyebrows knitted. “But how does using new technology fit with your desire to solve crimes the old-fashioned way?”
He chuckled, as if to say she had a point. “It doesn’t, Kate. I’m of the old school. And I’m here in New York to play devil’s advocate with the team creating the Quick Composite software. My job’s to point out whatever the new technology misses.”
“And then?”
He sounded relieved. “I’m going home to Quantico.”
“Where your personal life is as intriguing as your professional one?”
Oliver shook his head. “Believe me,” he joked, “I get enough excitement at the office. It’s my younger sister, Anna, whose personal life sizzles. She lives here in New York City, and she’s a statistician for…” He paused to build anticipation. “The Sex Files.”
“The Sex Files?” the viewer whispered.
The annual report of fun statistics about North Americans’ erotic behavior was being advertised all over Manhattan—on the sides of city buses and in the subway. Scheduled for its usual Christmas release, the magazine-style booklet was fashioned to look like a red-and-green file folder and was the perfect stocking stuffer.
“Can you give our audience a sneak preview?” urged Kate.
“It’s top secret. I can only say that this is the best Sex Files yet, and you should plan to race out and get your copy.”
As she watched him plug his little sister’s work instead of his own, the viewer’s heart missed a beat. “Family values,” she whispered. “A good sign.” He might be work obsessed, but he seemed to possess integrity.
“Well,” said Kate, wrapping up, “next time you join us on Rise and Shine, I want you to do us a big favor.”
“Anything for you, Kate.”
Kate grinned. “I want you to take the statistics from the Sex Files—all the facts about the most erotic behaviors in North America—and run the information through the FBI’s new Quick Composite software.”
Catching her drift, Oliver chuckled. “I see. You want me to generate photographs, showing what the sexiest man and woman would look like—if they existed?” Before Kate could respond, he continued. “I’ll be glad to, Kate, but before saying goodbye to our audience, I’d like to add that I usually find women the way I solve crimes.”
When Oliver Vargo looked into the camera, the blond woman shivered again, and for the first time since last night, it wasn’t from fear, but from the man’s dark, penetrating gaze. Her belly clenched and her body tingled. “I’d love to see the effect you have on women in real life,” she whispered. Even though he was on TV, her erogenous zones ached. If only her reaction to him could be as simple as raw lust…
For a second, she indulged the feeling, forgetting her troubles. No one had tried to kill her. She could go home and to work and use her bank and credit cards. She was wearing clothes that fit, too. Clothes she now imagined Oliver Vargo removing….
“I find women the way I solve crimes,” he repeated, then added, “the old-fashioned way.”
Did he mean he enjoyed missionary-style sex? Or taking a woman from behind? Or just cuddling, holding hands and kissing?
She shook her head to clear the thoughts. No doubt anything sexual with the man would be great, but at the moment, she had other needs. Even if she didn’t totally trust him, she was going to have to ask for his help.

“OH, C’MON, Big Brother,” Anna Vargo begged the next day at noon, seating herself on Oliver’s desk and digging a hand into an Au Bon Pain bag, pulling out two sandwiches. “Kate Olsen’s idea was inspired! All I want you to do is run the Sex Files statistics through your Quick Composite software.”
Oliver groaned, staring at the computer screen, which was running a list of the country’s most wanted criminals. “I’m working.”
“Be a sport,” she coaxed, unperturbed by his lack of immediate compliance. “I brought ham and Gouda on rye with hot mustard.” She waggled the sandwich in front of him. “Your favorite. And a double mochaccino. Besides, if you don’t help me, I’ll call Mom and Dad and tattle.”
“They’re in Utah. Besides, bribery’s illegal,” he retorted, taking the sandwich and unwrapping it. “You seem to forget you’re talking to an FBI agent.”
“Yeah, right. One I’ve seen in house slippers.”
As he bit into the sandwich, she flashed a smile, her teeth as straight and white as her brother’s. She had his black, wavy hair, too, although she dressed more stylishly, wearing trendy, thick-framed, black glasses and a tailored, front-zippered black leather jacket with black jeans. Oliver was wearing wide-waled corduroys and a white shirt.
He said, “I don’t own house slippers, Anna.”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” she quipped, taking a healthy bite of her own sandwich and washing it down with a gulp of latte. “That’s the problem with law enforcers, you know,” she chided. “You have no imagination. You’re too literal.”
“We have imaginations,” Oliver countered, pretending to be wounded even though his dark eyes were sparkling.
“Oh, really?” Anna didn’t look convinced as she glanced through a glassed-in window of her brother’s office at a sea of open-concept cubicles. “Gray was an inspired choice. All you G-men are regular Martha Stewarts.”
“My office in Quantico is colorful,” Oliver defended. “This space is only temporary, Anna.”
“Okay,” she conceded. “But everybody else, besides you, has a gray cubicle. Which only goes to show that you don’t fit in, Big Brother. Face it, you’re a renegade. A rebel.” Her voice was rising. “A man who’ll—”
“Run your Sex Files through my Quick Composite software?”
“It’ll only take a minute, Ollie,” she urged, polishing off the first half of her sandwich and reaching for the rest. “Everybody at the office wants to know what North America’s most erotic guy looks like. And you’re the only one who can show us.”
Grinning, he opened his arms wide.
She rolled her eyes. “You? Oh, please.” Reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket, she pulled out a CD. “Here. Just stick this in your ROM.”
As if he could deny Anna anything. She was the only woman on earth who could get away with calling him Ollie. “That’s the new Sex Files?” Oliver queried, pretending to hedge as he continued eating, but only because he loved teasing her. “You’re going to get me fired, you know.”
“Never.” She smirked. “You’re too good at your job.”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
“Oh, don’t get puritanical.” She groaned. “From the way those sparks were flying on Rise and Shine, I—and everybody else—was imagining how you and Kate Olsen must have gone at it after you finished taping that show yesterday.”
“Did not,” he said.
Not that Kate Olsen hadn’t tried. Practically salivating, she’d come into the dressing room without knocking, and when she’d found he was only changing shirts, not pants, she’d looked seriously disappointed. She’d propositioned him, too. Reaching over and cupping his privates was about as direct as it could get.
Why he hadn’t gone for it, Oliver couldn’t say. But ever since he’d finished building his dream home near Quantico, women hadn’t held the same appeal. He figured it was because he was starting to look for something more than just sex. For somebody who intrigued him enough to share a life with. Or maybe, perish the thought, he’d just been too damn tired.
Between giving workshops on profiling, traveling to scenes of unsolved crimes around the country and promoting the new book, he’d been in fifty cities in the past twenty-five days. He’d lived in a string of hotels he didn’t even want to contemplate, and now he was having trouble sleeping in New York because of the noise.
At least Anna was leaving tomorrow. He loved his sister, and was sorry they wouldn’t be able to visit during most of his stay, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t visit Quantico on weekends. His New York assignment had unfortunately coincided with a vacation she’d planned with her boyfriend, Vic, a photographer for the Sex Files. Since this year’s Sex Files had been put to bed, the two had angled for—and gotten—a six-week unpaid leave. After they left for the Virgin Islands, Oliver could move from his hotel into their tiny—but quiet—West Village apartment.
And then he could finally sleep, providing their wily black cat, Midnight, let him. At least there’d be no more wake-up calls, intrusive maids and newspapers shoved under his door. Glancing around the office, Oliver decided the only thing worse than hotels was the new paperless FBI.
Like every large company, the FBI was deciding that hard-copy records took up too much space. Data was being transferred to computers, then destroyed. Trouble was, there was a huge margin for error in relying on electronic information. When Oliver’s e-ticket from L.A. to New York wasn’t at the airport, for example, Oliver had to buy another ticket that cost the agency—and ultimately the taxpayer—twice the price of the initial ticket.
The flight was a nightmare, too. Every time Oliver boarded an airplane, the seats got smaller and the food tasted more like plastic. How flight attendants survived, he’d never know. He sighed, thinking of the wanted posters usually displayed in airports and post offices. This week they were being recalled, soon to be replaced by an easier-to-read format. If you asked Oliver, it was all busywork, generated by people who weren’t good enough agents to actually solve crimes.
“You still here, Oliver?” Before he could respond, Anna added, “You know that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, right?”
“Good thing my name’s not Jack.”
She nodded at a blond man in an expensive suit wending his way through the cubicles. A distinctive birthmark stained his left cheek. “That’s Miles McLaughlin, right? He looks like Don Johnson on the Miami Vice reruns.” She paused. “And you’re right. He also looks like a jerk.”
Oliver eyed the head of the Information Systems Department, brainchild for the paperless FBI and co-creator of the new Quick Composite software. “What tipped you off? That he’s wearing sunglasses inside the building?”
Anna laughed, contemplating a tall, massively built black man with a shaved head who was as nattily dressed as Miles. “Yep. His sidekick looks like an African-American Bruce Willis.”
“Kevin Hall.” He was the other half of the Quick Composite team. “In their honor, I’m calling my next book Disappearing Evidence. Or maybe the Virtual FBI…”
“What about FBI Dot-Com?”
“Clever. They’re referring to this place as the E-Bureau.”
Anna giggled. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You sound cynical. I thought you backed the bureau all the way.”
Oliver had done so publicly, but for every criminal caught by new methods, others roamed free and, as far as he was concerned, the agency’s E-Bureau was siphoning manpower. Destroying hard-copy records was crazy. “You should see what’s happening downstairs.”
“That bad, huh?”
The basement was in pandemonium. On the first floor, files from open cardboard boxes were being scanned into a central database. Upstairs, Miles and Kevin were holding meetings, announcing that in the new global economy, evidence was going to become superfluous. “J. Edgar Hoover’s probably rolling over in his grave,” Oliver muttered. He slugged back a last gulp of mochaccino just as lightning flashed, illuminating the entrance to Grand Central Station.
“Big Brother,” Anna said, shaking her head, “you look grim. I think Kate Olsen hit the nail on the head.” Laughing, her eyes twinkling, Anna reiterated Kate’s words. “‘We know you deal with the darker side of life, Mr. Vargo, but what about the lighter side?’” Pausing, Anna offered her best dumb-doofus expression, then lightly mocked her brother, saying, “Duh? Lighter side? Fun? What’s that?”
Oliver couldn’t help but smile.
“Which brings me to something else,” she plunged on. “While I’m in the Virgin Islands, promise me you’ll meet some people. I’m leaving phone numbers for all my girlfriends who developed crushes on you when they saw you on TV. They all want you in the worst way.”
“So, it was you who put all those condoms in my wallet.”
“Who did you think it was? The condom fairy?” He chuckled as she continued. “You seem stressed and overtired, and you look like you need a vacation. Since it’s been so long that you’ve obviously forgotten, sex is the closest thing to a vacation when you don’t have time to go out of town.”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
She leveled him with a stare. “Did you do it with Kate Olsen?”
“None of your business.”
“I didn’t think so,” Anna returned.
Damn. His little sister had been playing matchmaker ever since his arrival. When it came to fixing him up, he was beginning to think there was nothing she wouldn’t try. While he considered calling one of her friends for a date, he looked down at the entrance to Grand Central and a sidewalk teeming with open umbrellas. People without them crowded under awnings, craning their necks to stare at the downpour as if they expected the rain to stop sometime soon. Others lifted coats over their heads and ran through the deluge.
“Have fun while I’m gone,” Anna was saying. “You work all the time, Ollie.”
So did she, and the way Oliver figured it, they were lucky to love their work. Anna’s boyfriend, Vic, was just as passionate and could talk for hours about the various ways photographers manipulated images. Kate Olsen also enjoyed working, so it was too bad she hadn’t rung his chimes. The truth was, lately he’d been rejecting most women. It was as if, deep down, he’d decided on an image of what he was really looking for and now he was waiting for that dream woman to materialize.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Anna announced, drawing Oliver from his reverie as she put the Sex Files CD into his ROM drive. “We’ll get a picture of the sexiest woman first. That’ll get your juices flowing, so you’ll be ready to call all my friends who are dying to meet you.”
This was definitely more intriguing than getting a printout of the sexiest man. “I’m working on the Most Wanted List.”
Anna leaned and jiggled the mouse, moving the cursor. “We can keep that program open,” she assured. “We’ll minimize it and work in another window.” He watched as she hit RUN.
They waited.
And then text filled the screen. Anna groaned in disappointment. “I thought you said we’d get a picture.”
“We will when you scroll down.”
“Oh, but this is good,” she whispered, reading the words. “America’s Sexiest Woman would be named Cameron,” she announced breathlessly.
“And according to this, she’d be tall,” he added. “Five-eleven.”
“Her measurements are thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six,” continued Anna. “And she loves wearing sexy clothes.”
“She sounds like a walking cliché.” Still, as he continued reading, there was no denying the pull of arousal. Barely suppressing a shiver, he tried to ignore the tightening below his belt, but it only increased when he read that Cameron never wore panties under her Lycra slacks, body-hugging knit dresses and silk teddies.
When she has to get dressed at all, the text read, Cameron likes to get out and have spicy, erotic adventures. She especially loves the excitement of world travel and meeting new male playmates. She likes a hint of danger, too. Exploring kinky aphrodisiacs is her favorite pastime, and she dabbles in everything from body paints to edible undies. Cameron will do absolutely anything—and everything—to please her man.
Oliver was surprised by how easily he was getting sucked into the fantasy. He prided himself on not being sexist and for liking a woman for her mind, though he thoroughly enjoyed the rest. “If I was a woman,” he commented, dragging a hand through his hair, “I’d hate this kind of thing.”
Anna laughed. “But you’re a man.”
As such, he had to admit that he found this fantasy woman appealing. “Point taken.”
Anna merely shrugged. “Ah. You don’t scroll. There’s a link.” She clicked on the mouse. In the instant before the image of America’s Sexiest Woman filled the screen, she said, “So, this is what Cameron would look like if she were real.”
Oliver felt as if somebody had punched him. Her hair was dark blond, a shade most would call honey, but it was shot through with everything from pale straw to bumblebee yellow to strands of brilliant white. Looking as soft as silk, it hung in loose waves past her shoulders, tightening into curls where the ends rested on a tan cashmere sweater.
His eyes dropped to her breasts. Slightly aroused nipples pebbled under the shirt. In contrast to what he’d felt with Kate Olsen, he found himself imagining cupping those mounds, then slowly stroking their creamy sides and swirling his tongue around their excited, satiny tips. When his eyes traveled toward her face, he couldn’t tear them away. Her neck was so nice. Very round, very creamy. And her face… “She reminds me of film stars from the forties.”
“Veronica Lake, maybe,” Anna agreed.
Parted in a jagged line, her hair framed her face, waving over one of her unusually wide-set dark eyes, lending an air of mystery. Miles McLaughlin hadn’t been kidding about the photographic quality of the pictures generated by Quick Composite, either. Cameron definitely looked real.
And familiar.
He could swear he’d seen her somewhere, but that was probably because she was such a cliché-woman, blond and dark-eyed with a perfect body. Because the picture looked so real, he had to remind himself that she didn’t really exist as he continued surveying her.
Her face was closer to round than oval; her cheekbones high and slanted. Light-brown eyebrows arched on poreless, pink-toned skin. Her mouth was decidedly kissable, the red, glistening lips parted slightly. The velvet tip of a tongue was exposed, touching a very slight, sexy gap between her two front teeth.
“Before you get carried away, Oliver,” murmured Anna, studying his expression, “please remember she’s not real.”
He barely heard.
“I’ll come back when you’re not so bedazzled,” she continued on a sigh, planting a kiss on her brother’s cheek. “I still want to see the sexiest guy. But now I’m late. I’ve got to run to Bloomie’s for another bathing suit to take to the islands. See you for dinner? After work, Vic and I want to take you to Little Italy. We want you to meet a friend of ours. If you hit it off, you can spend time together on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Her family—”
“Is going out of town, just like you and Vic, and Mom and Dad. C’mon, quit worrying about me. I’ll be fine over the holidays. And I’ll get my own dates.”
“When?”
He merely shrugged, his gaze returning to the computer screen. When he looked up again, Anna was gone. Because he turned instinctively toward the window to catch a glimpse of her, he was staring down at Forty-second Street when lightning jagged across the sky, illuminating the entrance to Grand Central Station.
The flash lasted only a heartbeat, just long enough for his jaw to slacken and for his heart to miss a beat as the angry sky turned dark again. He felt sure he was going crazy. But she’d been standing there, hadn’t she? He shook his head in disbelief, but he could swear he’d seen the same woman whose image still filled his computer screen.
“Cameron,” he murmured. But it was impossible. It wasn’t really her. It couldn’t be.
No. The lightning had come as fast as a camera flash. Oliver was far away, too. And besides, Cameron wasn’t even real. She was just a computer-generated image they’d gotten by crossing the Sex Files with Quick Composite.
And yet he could swear he’d seen her standing under an awning, staring up at him. She was exactly the same as the picture in every detail, tall and curvy with blond hair that fell over one eye. She’d been wearing a green raincoat. His mouth went dry as he edged closer to the window. Not a man usually given to flights of fancy, he set his mouth in a grim line as he stared down, his eyes piercing the rain and darkness.
When the lightning flashed again, the woman was gone.

2
“WHY, YOU KNOW I’ll do absolutely anything—and everything—to please a man, Oliver,” Cameron was murmuring huskily a few nights later. As Oliver dreamily splayed his hands on the warm mattress and buried his face in a down pillow, she continued. “I live to make a man happy! Exploring kinky aphrodisiacs is my favorite pastime. I’m the kind of woman who lives only to titillate, and tonight I’ve decided you’re the special man who’s going to be my bed partner. Hmm…isn’t this exciting? Doesn’t this feel good, Oliver?”
Clad in only a black silk teddy, Cameron was purring into his ear as she ran a rose-red nail down his chest, tickling the unruly black hairs that bisected his muscular pectorals before slowly tracing each nipple. As she brought him ever closer to the brink, his eyes roved hungrily over her. Her breasts were creamy and spilling from the low-cut garment, but unfortunately not enough that he could catch more than a glimpse of her tight, straining nipples, something that made him groan. Heat pooled in his belly when he took in the teddy’s hem, which hit where her shapely thighs met. And when she moved, he could see matching panties that covered just enough to hint at the hidden temptations she had in store for him.
“Are you enjoying this, Oliver?” she coaxed, dampening a finger with her tongue before continuing her exploration of his chest in a way that made him shiver. “What about this, Oliver?” she queried, using both hands to massage his pectorals. Inching down, her thumbs dipped into crevices as she explored his rib cage. “Or this?”
“It all feels great,” he managed hoarsely. “Just great, Cameron.” He’d had sex with a lot of women, and he’d fallen in love with some, but he’d never experienced anything like this. Cameron was wrapping him around her little finger.
Pulling in her scent, he awaited more maddening teasing as Cameron’s hands traveled farther southward, her usually soulful brown eyes turning wicked with sensual intent as she paused to swirl mind-shattering patterns on his lower belly, leaving his skin awash with ripples of tingling warmth.
Tensing expectantly, his backside tightened; as pressure built in his loins, he let her do whatever she wanted, silently begging for mercy when she used the backs of her hands to stroke his upper thighs. Every inch of him felt prickly as her now-splayed fingers came closer to the wild tangle of his pubic hair. He arched as she twined her fingers in it, but she still wasn’t touching where he most wanted…
Suddenly, she stopped and merely traced lazy circles around his navel as if she was bored out of her mind. “Cameron,” Oliver warned, his eyes raking down her body, his distracted mind becoming hazier with need as she tortured him.
“What?” she asked innocently.
Shutting his eyes in frustration, he dragged a hand into her hair and closed his fist, lightly tugging. “C’mon, Cameron. Quit fooling around. Touch me.”
“I am touching you, silly.”
“You know what I mean.”
He was throbbing, wanting her so much it hurt, and if she didn’t caress him more intimately, he’d die from the need. Why wasn’t the woman doing something more? Hadn’t she said pleasing men was her sole reason for living? She’d said it in that encouraging voice he couldn’t resist, too. “I thought you were America’s sexiest woman,” he challenged.
“I am,” she purred. “That’s why you’re feeling so…” She whisked a finger around his navel again.
“Frustrated?” he supplied. Yes, he definitely preferred more cerebral women. Of course he did. And yet every time Cameron insisted their relationship be focused on pure pleasure, she left him no choice but to respond. Sex was all this woman wanted….
Cameron was smiling at him mysteriously, looking just like the Mona Lisa as she continued drawing mindless designs on his sensitized skin. He uttered a strangled sound as she reached between her own legs, cupping herself. “Say pretty please, Oliver,” she whispered, a wavy lock of hair falling over her left eye.
“Pretty please,” Oliver murmured, his voice gruff, his pulse quickening as he played along, knowing he’d be happy to indulge in any game this woman initiated… “Tease,” he accused.
“You love it.”
He smiled, looking down into the gaping neckline of the teddy, able to see perky nipples. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“Is this all a big boy like you wants, Oliver?” she taunted. “Wouldn’t you rather feel something more substantial on all your hot, quivering skin? Wouldn’t you rather feel my mouth?”
As he twisted on the heated water bed his sister usually shared with her boyfriend, Oliver’s eyes remained shut in sleep although his body was radiating with damp, feverish desire. Every time he tossed and turned, hoping to end the frustration of this dream, his movements displaced water. Warm waves rolled back, further exciting him by massaging his pelvis, and as he got even hotter, he thought of wet, cool things such as Cameron’s mouth.
“Oh, Oliver—” Cameron was chuckling naughtily. “Maybe you’d like to model a pair of edible briefs for me. I know you read about how much I like them in the Sex Files. I bet you wish you could feel the languishing lap of my tongue as I lick off all your clothes…?”
He wasn’t wearing any clothes in his dream, but Oliver didn’t bother to correct her, not when she was whispering to him in that sweet voice, her breath fanning his ear in a way that made his lower body surge.
“Edible briefs?” he whispered, hoping she’d say more. He’d heard of the novelty item, of course. Who hadn’t? But he’d never felt the need to bring props into a bedroom. He loved women, and he enjoyed binding them to him using only his body, just the way he planned to do with Cameron.
“Oh.” She panted, her hand dropping another fraction. “Ah,” she added as she scooted downward, settling between his legs, her eager eyes fixing where he’d gotten so hard. Reaching, she grasped the hem of the nightie and, as she lifted it over her head, he ceased to breathe. Lightly licking his lips, he took in her breasts…then the inward curve of her waist…then hips that flared down to…
After he eyed her panties—a scrap of black held together by two tiny red side bows—his hands reached up, brushing the erect tips of her breasts. “You have no idea what I’m going to do to you, Cameron,” he warned, imagining tugging those bows with his teeth…
“Why don’t you tell me? We’ve got all night.” Before he could, she raggedly whispered, “Yes,” her hands bracing against his thighs, her breasts thrusting for his caresses. She threw back her head, her pleasure building, her fingers squeezing into his thighs, the sight of her red fingernails against his skin sending another rush of heat through his veins.
His chest was tight now. Strong bands were wrapping around his ribs. Her hands had turned gentler, and they were rising on his legs like a river about to flood, moving higher…and higher…and higher…
When they bracketed his erection, his eyes settled on her inviting mouth. “Kiss me, Cameron,” he commanded hoarsely, threading his hands deep into hair that felt like corn silk. Strands spilled through his fingers and curled against his wrist, most the color of whiskey in candlelight, the others shot through with different shades of blond. Dragging his nails across her scalp seemed to drive her wild. Good, he thought. Because he wanted her wild and abandoning herself to pleasure.
Her breath caught. “Where exactly do you want me to kiss you, Oliver?”
His voice lowered. “You know where.”
“I have something else in mind.”
She was making him writhe with annoyance! “What?”
Instead of doing him the courtesy of answering, she hopped from the bed, and as she reached for the bedside table, Oliver’s whole world seemed to stop. A thong left her backside bare. Before he could react, she whirled, a bottle of mint-scented oil in her hand, and he watched, fascinated, as she squirted some into her hand. His mouth slackened as she set aside the bottle and massaged her own breasts, pressing them together, deepening the cleavage, and then slathering on the oil until the tips glistened and she was begging for relief that only he could give.
“Oh, yeah,” he whispered as she lowered her chest toward his thighs, her lips only inches from his aroused flesh, her breath warm on his erection, her slender fingers feeling like heaven as they circled where he’d gone so taut. When she squeezed, his head reared back, the pressure more than he could stand, and when he felt her blond hair sweeping his thighs, the sensation added to his delight—and torture. The water bed churned as she kneeled astride, urging him between her luscious, waiting breasts.
Thrusting into the slippery cleavage, he gasped. The oil was mentholated, and with every mind-bending movement, it warmed him and made him tingle. Now he was so unbelievably hot…the oil was frothing…the essence of mint was mixing with Cameron’s heady musk. He was going to come. The cool autumn-night air was bursting with scents, just as Oliver was about to burst…
Vaguely, he realized a siren had sounded.
It came from far off, edging into his consciousness at first, then becoming deafening as an ambulance or police car passed beneath the window overlooking Barrow Street. Blinking, he opened his eyes and sat up in bed, his head pounding from the sudden movement. Whatever he’d been dreaming must have taken him to the outer reaches of REM-phase sleep, because he felt completely groggy.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he realized the strands were damp with perspiration. And that he wasn’t in his own bed in Quantico. Nor was he in a hotel.
“Anna’s,” he whispered, feeling mildly disoriented and surprised to find that his mouth was bone dry. He’d kicked away most of the covers, and the remaining sheet was twisted around his legs.
He was as hard as steel, too.
A groan rumbled in his chest as the dream came back to him: Cameron’s red nails tracing patterns on his skin…the soft stir of her warm, panting breath…the searing feeling as he’d slipped inside her cleavage. Realizing he was still hovering on the brink of release, he drew a sharp breath, his eyes adjusting to the room’s darkness. “Some dream,” he murmured.
It wasn’t the first time the nonexistent woman had entered his nocturnal world, teasing him to distraction. As he’d awakened, he was actually feeling that he couldn’t live without her. Heaven help the woman if he ever really met her…
But of course that was crazy. She wasn’t even real. She didn’t even exist. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Oliver whispered.
It had all started when Anna insisted on running the Sex Files statistics through the Quick Composite software, generating the picture of “Cameron.” Ever since, the fantasy woman had been wreaking havoc in Oliver’s life. On two occasions, he’d been convinced he’d actually seen her.
It was impossible, of course. Computer-generated women didn’t materialize. But after Anna left his office, a woman who looked exactly like Cameron had been standing in the street outside Grand Central Station. He could swear to it. She’d been looking at him wistfully, as if she’d desperately wanted to approach him.
And then yesterday at five o’clock, when Oliver left his office, he’d been sure someone was following him. That, of course, was possible. He was a well-known FBI agent and author, and he’d been approached by fans often. Criminals, too.
As he’d been swept along by the rush-hour crowd on Forty-second Street, he’d glanced around, but it was raining hard and he didn’t see anyone suspicious. After he’d ducked into a subway entrance, then transferred at Times Square to another train, he figured he’d lost the person.
But then, at the West Fourth Street station near Anna’s apartment, he’d seen Cameron across the platform. Two train tracks separated them—one going uptown, one downtown—and a train was passing on Oliver’s side; through the windows, he could see her in bits and snatches.
Astonished, he’d felt as if someone had breathed life into Cameron’s computer-screen image again. But how? What was going on?
He’d taken in her tall figure, the wavy blond hair falling over her left eye and the green raincoat she wore over a black knit dress. Before he’d been aware he’d moved, he’d given chase. He’d grown up in Manhattan, and even after he’d moved to the D.C. area and his parents retired in Utah, he’d continued visiting because Anna was here, so he knew the subways like the back of his hand.
He’d jogged upstairs, passing turnstiles as he headed for the uptown platform, but just as he’d reached it, another train pulled in. The electronic doors opened, and he’d cursed inwardly as people spilled out of cars, then back inside. He’d reached the doors just as they glided shut. Cameron had been right on the other side of the glass! Her brown eyes had widened, and she’d swung her head, so hair fell across her face as if to disguise herself. She’d tried to back away, but she’d been hemmed in by other passengers. Futilely, Oliver had lifted a hand as the train pulled away, as if to wave goodbye.
Now he shook his head to clear it of confusion. None of this made sense. He was haunted by a woman who didn’t even exist. As a psychologist, he knew the mind could play tricks, so his best guess was that Anna was right. He was overworked and lonely, a state that had made him ripe for suggestion when he’d seen the image of “Cameron.”
Besides, what man wouldn’t fantasize about America’s most erotic woman? Yeah, this was definitely a case of wishful thinking. That, or his subconscious was trying to tell him something. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, his body still aching with need. “That you need a woman.” A real woman.
Memories of the X-rated dream came back, and he couldn’t believe what lurked in his subconscious. He wasn’t really sexist, and he dated smart, levelheaded professional women, not stacked blondes who painted their nails come-love-me red and whispered to him as if he’d just called a 1-900 number. “Edible briefs,” he whispered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Wow.
“Why don’t you settle down, Midnight?” he added as Anna’s black cat scampered along the windowsill, drawing back the curtain. As light shined into the bedroom, another siren sounded, and Oliver glanced at the digital bedside clock: 2:00 a.m. So much for peace and quiet. During the day, when he’d visited Anna, this neighborhood had been deserted, but sometimes at night it was a different story.
Rising, he moved to the third-floor window, but instead of closing the curtain, Oliver stared through the rain into Nite-Lite, a club across the street. Usually the club’s curtains were closed, but tonight, black-light strobes illuminated a packed dance floor. Everybody was gearing up for the holidays. It was depressing. Despite what he’d been saying to the contrary, Oliver wasn’t thrilled about spending Christmas alone.
Usually he and Anna went to his folks’ place in Utah. He felt a sudden, uncharacteristic tug at his heart when an image of the white farmhouse flashed in his mind. He could see the candles his mother put along the front walkway, as well as the wreath on the front door that Anna had made years ago in a crafts class. The tree, always cut by him and his father, was visible through the windows. This year, he’d miss taking long walks with Anna through the snow-dusted streets of the rural countryside….
Suddenly, Oliver leaned forward. “No,” he muttered. “This is crazy!” He’d seen her again! Cameron had been at the window, wearing that same green raincoat. When the lights strobed off, she vanished. “A trick of the night,” he whispered without any real conviction. He was a logical man. Computer-generated images didn’t come to life. But it had looked so much like the woman on his computer….
Rain was mixing with exhaust fumes and smoke rising from subway grates. Everything looked eerie. Smoky. Besides, it was the time of year for phantoms—Halloween had just passed. Winter was almost here. Nevertheless, he considered getting dressed and going to the club to hunt for her. She didn’t exist, though. Right? Between being on the road for a year and doing the promotion for his book, he was simply stressed, and he had every reason to be. With his upcoming time off during the holidays, he’d do himself a favor and take it easy.
Closing the curtain, he climbed into bed again, uttering a frustrated grunt when the water surged beneath him. Who had he seen in the window? he wondered as he drifted.
“Here…let me help you, Oliver.” Her breath was closer now, so near that he caught whiffs of peppermint. At first, he thought it was toothpaste, then a breath mint—and then Oliver remembered the mentholated massage oil. Burying his face in a pillow, he realized the soft cushions were really Cameron’s breasts…
“You don’t mind if I lie beside you, do you, Oliver?” she was whispering.
“Be my guest, Cameron.”
Naked, she glided a thigh over his hip. He was throbbing as he slid a hand between their bodies, gently guiding himself inside her slick, wet heat. Moments ago, he’d been ready to explode, and now, once more, with her hands reaching between them to stroke him, he was teetering on the brink.
He gasped as her hips rocked. She whispered, “Take me deeper, Oliver. Deeper. All the way.” He lost control then. Suddenly, his mouth was everywhere. It closed possessively over her lips, and after he’d plundered her mouth, he dripped liquid kisses down the length of her neck until he went low enough to lather her breasts, lightly scraping his teeth against the puckered tips—gently biting, urgently coaxing. She arched and panted, begging him, “Love me, Oliver. Oh, please love me. You’re so hot. I can’t get enough of you.”
He couldn’t get enough of Cameron, either. Flames seemed to lick inside his limbs, and the wild need for her was spinning inside him like a dancer. He danced along with her, his mind turning somersaults, then fading to black as he thrust harder, quicker, deeper. He was so close, almost there…
He was fast sleep when he came.

3
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Peggy Fox whispered, hugging her green raincoat to her waist to stay warm and nervously pushing away the strands of blond hair falling over her eye. How could she have lost Oliver in the crowd? Just a second ago, he’d been standing across Sixth Avenue, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.
Now he was gone. She shuddered, either because of the chill air and fog, or because she couldn’t decide whether or not to approach him. As soon as she’d left the Plaza Hotel, things had taken a turn for the worse. She’d found where Oliver was staying, all right—a downtown apartment on Barrow Street that belonged to the sister he’d mentioned on TV—but before she could solicit his help, one of the men he worked with had chased her through the subway. He was a tall, bald, massively built black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis.
“Halt!” he’d yelled. “I’m Kevin Hall. FBI. You’re wanted for questioning.”
She’d bolted, somehow losing him. But why was an agent chasing her? And why would she be wanted for questioning? She hadn’t done anything wrong. If Kevin Hall thought she was guilty of something, did Oliver Vargo think the same?
He, too, had spotted her in the subway, in the West Fourth Street station, and he’d given chase, although unlike Agent Hall, he hadn’t looked as if he wanted to arrest her. She’d had the distinct impression Oliver had realized she was following him, but until she knew for certain what was going on, she meant to play her cards close to the vest. Which was why she’d been spying on Oliver from Grand Central; unfortunately, from what she’d seen so far, he was chummy with Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall. Maybe that didn’t mean anything, though. The men were co-workers, after all.
Still, all this had thrown a wrench into her plans to contact Oliver, and now she felt even more ambivalent about going to the police. Why was an FBI agent chasing her? Her eyes darting, she searched the street as people surged around her. Oliver couldn’t have gone far. Moments ago, she’d tried to get closer to him by crossing the street, but both sides of Sixth Avenue were barricaded by police officers and saw-horses. Oliver had to be as trapped by the crowds as she.
The parade was a sight to behold, nothing like the well-known Macy’s parade. Here, in Greenwich Village, the atmosphere was more akin to Mardi Gras. Downtown revelers were costumed, dressed as turkeys, pilgrims and Native Americans. Irreverently ignoring the usual solemnity of the family holiday, the merrymakers scattered firecrackers in the street while a jazz band played the Wizard of Oz theme song.
She glanced around nervously. Oliver had seemed to recognize her in the subway, but maybe he’d just been running late and trying to catch a train. Now, even though she was wearing a simple, black Lone Ranger’s mask she’d bought from a street vendor, she feared the disguise would never fool Oliver Vargo, much less Susan Jones. Was the woman looking for her? If Peggy was found, would Susan try taking another shot?
Stress was taking its toll. Shivering, Peggy wished she’d eaten dinner. She was hungry and cold, even though the temperature was hovering in the forties. The wind had picked up, turning brisk, and the rain had tapered to an icy drizzle. The skimpy white dress beneath her coat had gotten damp.
She hugged her arms around herself. “Where are you?” she whispered again. How, in all this madness, was she supposed to find Oliver? She could only pray he wasn’t really as friendly with Miles as he’d looked when she’d spied on them. If it was Peggy’s word against Miles’s, who would Oliver be most inclined to believe? Peggy Fox, whom he’d never even met—or one of his own colleagues, a man he lunched with every day?
Shoving ungloved hands deep into the raincoat’s pockets, Peggy shivered again. Despite the body heat enveloping her, the gutters were gushing and her feet were soaked. She wanted to return to the hotel, take a shower and dry her wet clothes on the steam-heat registers. Just as she turned, preparing to fight her way through the crowd and back to the hotel, a hand curled around her upper arm.
Susan Jones! Fear bubbled in her throat as the fingers tightened purposefully. The woman had found her! Peggy was about to die! Her body tensed, and her throat closed in panic. She waited to feel a gun prodding her ribs. Cocking her head, she strained her ears. She didn’t know what command she expected. Don’t say a word, Ms. Fox. Just do exactly as I say, maybe. Or, One wrong move and you’re history. Or even worse, If you tell anyone what you know, your mom and Aunt Jill will pay.
She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t caught Miles in bed with Susan Jones—and that she hadn’t seen the money in the suitcase. Pain sliced through her. Her mom and Aunt Jill would be devastated if something bad happened to her. She’d do anything she could to protect them. When no one spoke, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench around, realizing in the process that the tall, hard body pressed against her back was decidedly male, which meant it wasn’t Susan Jones.
Was it Miles? Had she spoken his name aloud? She was so scared, Peggy wasn’t sure. Or was this his sidekick, the black man, Kevin Hall? Trapped by the crowd, she couldn’t turn. Or run. Or hide.
She squirmed, but every inch of the man’s muscular body moved with her. It was definitely the wrong time to notice how well suited she and this stranger were, at least from a physical perspective. His thighs molded to hers, his lap curved over her behind, his solar plexus fit into the groove of her spine, and finally, the steady thud of his heart seemed to take up residence inside her own chest, in the space just below her left shoulder.
Her pulse was racing, and when she sucked in another breath, hoping to calm herself, she knew it was useless. The man leaned closer, angled his head down, and she felt his breath against her neck; in the cold night, it was as warm as a fire. Suddenly, her heart ached. A wave of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. Blinking, she whispered, “Stop.”
He didn’t move or say a word. His breath kept teasing her, though—stirring strands of hair that traced her neck and the curve of her ear. What was going on? Was some crazy stranger about to try to steal a kiss? Was some psycho behind her? Half expecting his tongue to trace the shell of her ear, she felt her pulse catapult, jolting over the top.
“Gotcha,” he whispered simply.
Oliver Vargo.
She’d never felt the man’s touch before, but she’d recognize his voice anywhere. The distinctive bass was exactly as it had sounded during his televised interviews—and it sent a shiver of longing down her spine. He must have caught her watching him and doubled back to confront her.
“What are you doing?” she managed to say, ignoring traitorous sensations as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he returned, his low voice dropping a seductive notch as his fingers flexed around her arm. “That might be a better place to start.”
Jerking her head in his direction, she struggled to keep her voice noncommittal. “I’m watching the parade.”
“Following me,” he countered.
Silently, she berated herself. Of course he’d noticed. He was an FBI agent—and one of the best. Oh, that day in the subway, she’d worried that he’d seen her, but she’d told herself that throwing her hair in front of her face had worked as a disguise. Guess not.
Oblivious of how his physical proximity was affecting her, he inched closer, and her heart missed a beat as heat flooded her. Yes, this was definitely the wrong time to contemplate how many fantasies she’d had about him rescuing her….
But she’d had plenty. Which was why, when the crowd behind him swelled, pushing him against her, she knew the man wasn’t really aroused. Oh, no. She was the one who’d been fantasizing about him—not the other way around. What Peggy felt was the result of her overactive imagination. Nevertheless, hadn’t she felt…something? And before she could stop herself, hadn’t that hard, powerful something brought a soft sigh to her lips? Well, no matter how sexy Oliver was, she had to stay in control. She had to keep her wits about her, in case whatever had prompted Kevin Hall to chase her might also prompt Oliver to…
On a surge of fear, she pivoted. Struggling as a second arm circled her, she continued fighting. She was sorry she did, too, because all the maneuvering brought the front of her body flush with his—and while Oliver wasn’t exactly aroused, he wasn’t not-aroused, either. Even more unsettling, she found herself gazing into his heart-stopping eyes. Darker than on television, they looked the color of liquid ink in the night, and they were scrutinizing her without apology.
“Let me go,” she said, trying to tell herself that the male awareness she saw was only her own wishful thinking.
When he didn’t release her, she swallowed hard. Was he helping Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall find her? Moving on instinct, she tried to run again, but there was nowhere to go. Oliver reflexively drew her nearer, and her cheek wound up pressed against a white shirt he wore beneath his trench coat. Heady scents assaulted her. He smelled just the way a man should.
Veering back, she slammed a fist to his chest, using the wall of muscle to steady herself, vaguely aware that her own coat was opening in the process. When she registered his skin quivering under her fingertips, she snatched back her hand. Inhaling audibly, she said, “Could you give me some breathing room?”
“Don’t worry,” he retorted dryly, his gaze flicking over the low-cut white dress she’d exposed. “I won’t burn you.”
“I doubt that,” she grumbled. Fighting embarrassment, she drew together the sides of the coat, knowing the lace of her bra had been visible through the dress’s tight fabric. No doubt, he’d noticed the effects of the chill air, too. She considered telling him that the dress didn’t even belong to her, but that would only call attention to the outfit and make matters worse.
“You doubt that? What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
But no TV image could have prepared her for how Oliver Vargo would affect her in real life. She’d already noted that his eyes seemed darker, as liquid as the November night, and yet they were full of glinting fire. Feeling completely unsettled, she tried to ignore how those eyes were roving over her face, as if memorizing each contour. “Why don’t you take off the mask?”
“Why?”
“I want to see your eyes.”
At the thought of Oliver Vargo scrutinizing her further, a shiver went down her spine, and she was glad for the mask. “I’d take it off, but everybody here’s in costume if you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed.”
“Then where’s your mask?”
“Must have left it at home.”
It would be a pity to cover those eyes. No, interviews hadn’t prepared Peggy for how the drizzle would look in his hair; glistening droplets caught in the thick, black waves, refracting light. How he towered over her was a surprise, too, since she was nearly six feet tall, herself, and men never did. The power coiling in his body wasn’t anticipated, either. Heat seeped from beneath his clothes, and as it warmed her, she wanted nothing more than to cup her hands over his broad shoulders and let him carry her away….
She came to her senses. “C’mon,” she repeated. “Let me go.”
His hand curled more tightly around her arm. “Go where?”
She said the first thing that came to mind. It was what she most wanted, after all. To be back in Ohio, watching her mother knit while Aunt Jill made one of the apple pies she was so well known for. “Home.”
“And where exactly is that?”
She should have known he wasn’t the kind of guy who liked one-word answers. Still startled by his sudden appearance, she said the next thing that popped into her head. “How did you get over here, anyway? You were across the street.”
“So, you’re definitely following me.”
“I thought you knew that.”
“I’m still waiting to hear why.”
“I’m not really following you,” she protested. “I mean, I…uh…”
His hand flexed in warning, and her mind hazed. Something black seemed to seep in at the edges of her consciousness. What was she about to say? With Oliver so close, she really couldn’t remember. She tried to focus, but only found herself concentrating on the warm hand curled around the sleeve of her coat. His fingers were long, slender and tapered. That was something else she hadn’t anticipated. Oliver Vargo had the hands of an artist.
“How did you get over here?” She managed to begin speaking again even though her throat was tight. “Sixth Avenue was blocked off on both sides.” The instant she said it, she realized he’d probably flashed his badge, but he surprised her again.
“I bought a token and went underground.”
He’d crossed beneath the street, using the subway concourse. “Smart move.”
“I’m full of them.”
“And modest.”
“So they say.”
“What’s your name?” she retorted. Maybe that would throw him off the track. Maybe it was best if she pretended not to know anything about him.
“I think you already know,” he said calmly. “But it’s Oliver. Oliver Vargo.”
The way he said it reminded her of how James Bond always introduced himself. The name’s Bond, James Bond. His fleeting smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, although it did show off rows of straight, white, gleaming teeth. Days ago, she’d decided he was more interesting-looking than handsome, but now that he was inches away, she was changing her mind. He was mouthwatering. Too bad he wasn’t acting nearly as charming as when he was on television, chatting with Kate Olsen.
“And since we’re exchanging names…” he said.
Despite his annoyance, his voice rippled through her, sending heat into her bloodstream, shooting quill after quivering quill into her belly.
“You were outside Grand Central,” he continued. “And outside the apartment where I’m staying, watching me from a club across the street, Nite-Lite.”
Yes, indeed, Oliver was more observant than she’d realized. He had a very commanding presence, too, and she was beginning to understand that denying all the accusations might not be in her best interest. Still, days ago, she’d been ready to turn to him for help, but now, after spying on him from Grand Central, she needed to be more certain she could trust him. “I can explain everything,” she said cautiously.
“I’m waiting.” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added dryly, “No rush. We’ve got all night.”
“We won’t have to spend all night,” she said quickly.
“We won’t be spending the night,” he murmured in soft echo, seemingly liking how the innuendo made her eyes widen.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Now that she was getting over her shock, Peggy noticed Oliver was looking at her with an oddly curious expression, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. “I don’t know where to start,” she said.
“You said you could explain everything,” he retorted, his gaze still assessing. “So, why don’t you start with that?” he suggested. “Everything.”
Surely she was misinterpreting the strange look in his eyes, but he clearly recognized her. There was no mistaking it now. Had Miles McLaughlin told him about her? And why had Kevin Hall chased her? she wondered again, panic making her insides tighten. “Before I do,” she said, “I need to know why you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Like you know me. And like you want to kiss me. The thought came unbidden, but she could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to her mouth. In fact, his eyes seemed to devour her, as if he’d long had fantasies about her. That was crazy, of course, and she tried to tell herself it was only wishful thinking, since she’d dreamed of him. What woman wouldn’t? Peggy was healthy. And sexually active before she’d sworn off love.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“Have we?” she managed.
“I’ve seen you,” he murmured. “The same dark eyes. The same blond hair…”
Something in his voice—a thread of steel weaving through softness—made her heart pound again. As it beat a tattoo against her ribs, she wished with all her strength that he’d let her go. If anything convinced her she’d made a huge mistake by following him, it was the weakness hitting the backs of her knees. Yes, with his hard, aroused body pressed against hers, she suddenly felt sorry, truly sorry, they’d met. As things stood, she’d been in enough trouble.
“Let me go,” she said again, with more conviction.
“I don’t think so,” he answered in an easy tone that belied his commanding words. “You’re coming with me, Cameron.”
Things were getting stranger by the minute. She swallowed nervously. “Cameron?”
“Yeah…” Lightly licking his lips, he repeated the name as if he liked the taste of it in his mouth. “Cameron.”
“What are you talking a—”
He interrupted, saying the strangest thing yet. “Whoever you are—” He squeezed his hand around her arm again as if to test the truth of it. “You’re every bit as real as me.”
“Of course I am.” She squinted at him.
“Why are you following me?” he asked again.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean you any harm—”
“You,” he emphasized with a chuckle. “Harm me?”
Of course the idea was ludicrous. Oliver Vargo was tall, broad-shouldered and packed with solid muscle that made her shudder. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t defend yourself.” The question was, could he defend her?
The longer she looked at him, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to. The second their bodies connected, she’d realized this man could be dangerous, if only to her heart. How many times could a woman trust, after all? How many times could she heal and then open herself up to let in feelings of love—only to find out she’d been used again?
She bit down hard on her lower lip. Everything around her seemed to tilt off-kilter. Admit it, she thought. She was already half in love with him. She was a crime-story junkie, which was what had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place, and when she’d read Oliver’s books she’d been smitten…
Her eyes darted from left to right, seeking escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned quietly.
She wanted to look anywhere but into his eyes, and yet she forced herself to stare him down, not about to be intimidated. “Why did you call me Cameron?”
“What is your name?”
“I see you’re going to answer questions with questions.”
“Until you start talking.”
She considered a long moment. Feeling sure nothing good was going to come of all this, she said, “I guess Cameron will do. For now.” Maybe this way, she could buy time, find out what was happening at the FBI office. Whatever was going through Oliver Vargo’s mind at the moment, he wasn’t saying he was going to take her in for questioning, the way Kevin Hall had….
“Who are you, really?”
She had a thousand answers for that, beginning with Peggy Fox, a woman in trouble. But he was getting impatient. He said, “Are you a fan?”
“Uh…yeah.” That, too.
His gaze flicked down, making her realize her coat had fallen open again. He was slowly perusing the tight white dress beneath, his gaze lingering on the scoop neckline, as if he was thoroughly intrigued by the space where fabric ended and skin began.
The crowd surged, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped. Her hands dropped the coat collar and grabbed the sawhorse behind her. Trapped against the barricade, she felt completely helpless when their hips locked. When his chest brushed hers, there was no help for the way her nipples beaded. Heat flooded her cheeks, staining them a crimson red that even the night’s darkness couldn’t hide. He seemed to be aware of every nuance. She was sure of it when she registered his quickening breath.
“Look,” she managed to say. “We can’t talk here.” In this cold rain, her white dress might as well be made of cellophane.
His intrigued expression didn’t bring much comfort. “You have a better idea?”
The seconds seemed to drag on—as if this whole exchange had lasted an eternity, not a scant few minutes. Apparently, Oliver Vargo thought she was a crazed fan.
Dammit, she was a fan.
But not the one he assumed. Had he had some difficulty with a woman named Cameron? Whatever the case, he didn’t know her real name, which meant Miles McLaughlin hadn’t mentioned her to him. Regarding his and Miles’s relationship, there was only one way to find out the truth—question him. “I…I have a hotel.”
He stared at her. “Did you say hotel?”
She nodded toward McDougal Street. “I’m in the Washington Square Hotel.” It was only two blocks away. She’d been so intent on gauging the distance that she’d barely noticed the genuine smile claiming Oliver’s lips. When she saw it, she felt thoroughly unsettled. All at once, the man’s countenance had cleared. He offered a slight nod, as if a knotty misunderstanding had been resolved and everything now made perfect sense to him.
Good for you, Peggy thought dryly, since she still didn’t have a clue what was going on.
His hand slid slowly downward, gliding from her upper arm to her elbow, creating a wake of electrical current. A brass band began to play, and over the music, Oliver softly repeated the word hotel. And then, under his breath, he added, “Cameron, this is a dream come true.”

4
CAMERON WAS SEDUCING him, Oliver thought moments later, loosening his grasp on her elbow as they went through a brass revolving door that spit them into a hotel lobby. At first, he’d thought the woman might be a fan, but that didn’t explain how her picture had wound up on his PC screen. Which meant she must be a friend of his sister’s. Anna had been doing everything she could to fix him up with one of her friends, and this was obviously part of a scheme cooked up by the two women. Anna must have fed the picture of her friend into his computer, convincing him that the woman was America’s Sexiest Woman, all so that he’d be excited when the woman actually appeared.
“Home sweet home,” she said.
The idea that she was trying to get him into bed had calmed Oliver considerably. He glanced around. Long past its glory days, the red-carpeted lobby was decorated with marble-top tables and chandeliers. Outside, the streets surrounding the parade had sounded like Bourbon Street in New Orleans on a Saturday night, so only when Oliver squeezed into a rickety, dimly lit elevator with Cameron did he fully register the comparative deafening silence. “Quiet in here,” he offered.
As she pushed the seventh-floor button, he noted her nails were painted opal, not love-me red as they had been in both her picture and his fantasies. He tried not to feel too disappointed, but it was difficult when she’d appeared so often in his dreams, raking those fingertips over his body. At nothing more than the thought, his breath turned shallow with anticipation.
“Dark, too,” she supplied.
He heard the faintest quiver in her voice, and the answering flutter of his heart took him by surprise. Whoever this woman was, she probably didn’t make a habit of seducing men, judging by her nervousness. And yet she’d chosen him.
He sent her an encouraging smile. “The elevator could use a new lightbulb,” he conceded.
She didn’t answer.
But he wasn’t put off by her lack of response. In fact, he was feeling uncharacteristically anxious himself. Who wouldn’t? He was about to have sex with a stranger, after all. Why else would the woman ask him to her hotel room? And she wasn’t quite a stranger, he mentally corrected. She was a friend of Anna’s.
Suppressing a shudder, he remembered how she’d felt pressed against him in the street—how the curves of her backside had risen, cushioning his groin, and how the harder ridges of her hips had collided with his when she’d whirled around. Their lower bodies had clicked, and now the memory sent heat prancing across his skin.
Yeah, while they’d been on Sixth Avenue, he’d realized she had to be a friend of his sister’s—there was simply no other reasonable explanation—and now, with her standing so close, and her scent driving him wild in the cramped elevator, he wished he’d been nicer. Could he help it if he’d been worried, though? She’d been tailing him…
Oliver broadened his smile as he tucked down the collar of his coat, allowing the rainwater to roll off. “And wet,” he added. Another uncomfortable moment passed before the smile twitched his lips and he continued. “The elevator’s slow, too.”
His comical efforts to make conversation solicited a low, barely audible laugh from her. “At this rate,” she murmured, lifting a hand to reposition the eye mask, a fashion accessory that had been heightening his excitement immeasurably, “we won’t reach the seventh floor until tomorrow.”
“Midnight,” he countered. His eyes said he could think of countless things he and his masked date might do to amuse themselves during the wait.
“Midnight,” she echoed.
He flicked his gaze down her body. “I’m an optimist,” he assured.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Yeah, this strange little encounter was definitely going to end with them in bed together, he thought, his pulse quickening. If he was lucky, maybe the affair would even develop into something more. With an unexpected twinge of emotion, he thought of the house he’d built near his office in Quantico, then he pushed away the image. He’d be satisfied if this love game just lasted through Christmas so he wouldn’t wind up spending the holiday alone.
She’d fixed her gaze studiously on the elevator buttons, but the black mask couldn’t hide how her eyes drifted again to choice parts of his anatomy. He shook his head in bemusement, recalling how Anna had come to his office, slyly bribing him with lunch while running the Sex Files through his Quick Composite software, just so she could pull up a picture of her friend, this woman. No doubt, Vic, who was a whiz with cameras and optical illusions, had helped her with this.
Along with producing “Cameron’s” picture, Anna had stuffed condoms into his wallet, too. Cameron—maybe that was even her real name—was showing herself to be every bit as adventurous. Even as he admired the woman’s face, he was giving her points for ingenuity. She’d almost made him—a completely rational law enforcement agent—believe that an image of America’s sexiest woman had come to life.
It wasn’t every day that such a gorgeous, intelligent woman went to so much trouble for his benefit. Sexually, she must want him badly. Not only had she followed him all over Manhattan, wearing slinky clothes, but she’d rented a hotel room. Silently, he cursed the elevator for going so slow. He couldn’t wait to see her lying on her back in bed. Her gaze locked with his, and before she glanced away, he saw desire flare in her eyes, naked and bright.
He parted his lips to speak. Then they both started talking at once with him saying, “Look, I’m sorry I scared you—”
“Out there,” she quickly clarified. “You just caught me off guard. Like I said, I can explain—”
“I didn’t mean to, but—”
“None of this is what it seems—”
Just as he thought she’d tell him she was Anna’s friend, she stopped talking. Uncertain, her smile remained fixed on her lips. It wasn’t exactly a come-hither expression, but his mouth turned cottony, anyway. His palms itched. Her picture didn’t do her justice.
Wind and drizzle had tightened the loose waves of her hair, curling the ends like ribbons. The strands looked even darker than they had outside, the color of things that didn’t belong in New York City—wheat in a farm field at night, syrupy honey drenching a warm honeycomb, wet straw scattered on the floor of a hayloft. Much of her face was covered by the mask, but the skin Oliver could see was alight with a healthy, ruddy glow. He didn’t bother to hide his appreciative gaze. Why should he? She was seducing him, right?
Even the closed raincoat couldn’t conceal her full figure. She’d belted the coat tightly as they’d run for the hotel, accentuating the nip of her waist. The hem hit shapely calves, and smooth legs shimmered through sheer stockings she wore with black pumps. Oliver could almost see himself, just moments from now, wiggling each shoe from a slender foot before tugging those stockings down legs he knew would be as smooth as satin. Heat swirling in his lower belly, he pictured her upper thighs, imagining how black garters would look on her water-smooth skin. Was she wearing panties? What color?
Once more, his dreams came flooding back, and unbidden, he was remembering the blush of her breasts, lathered in mentholated oil. The elevator seemed to explode with the scent of mint, and his body tensed. He was about to act on impulse, step closer and haul her into his arms, when she suddenly said, “You had every right to confront me.”
The elevator had paused, its doors laboriously opening onto a vacant hallway, then shutting again. Pulleys groaned as the car heaved, lurching upward once more. “Believe me,” she continued, “I know how unnerving it can be when someone’s following you—”
Now that he was sure she was Anna’s friend, he’d rather progress the relationship, not dwell on apologies. Hearing her teeth chatter, he murmured, “Don’t worry about it. You must be freezing. Let’s get upstairs and get you warm.”
“You don’t have to be so nice about this,” she said guiltily. “I have been following you.”
“Yeah.” He sent her another smile. “And I caught you.”
“As I said, I can explain—”
“No need. I understand now. The question is, what are we going to do next?”
Before she could respond, the doors opened. Gliding a hand beneath her elbow, he steered her into the hallway. “Which room?”
Her voice sounded shaky. “Uh…712.”
When they reached the door, she inserted a key card, then pushed open the door and entered. She was halfway across the room when she turned to face him. “Here we are.”
Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, Oliver felt he could barely move. Only the bathroom light was on. Deeper in the room, where she now stood, everything looked as dark and soft as chocolate. She looked as tasty, too.
Beautiful. That was another word for her. Quick Composite had only given him a picture with which to fantasize, but now they were off the busy streets and out of the rain, and he could take a better look at her. Or at least he could once they turned on the light.
“Sit down if you’d like,” she said.
The words skated along his nerves, rippling all the way to their endings. “Thanks,” he murmured without moving.

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