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Reluctant Hero
Debra Regan

Webb Black


The news they're after isn't fake—it's deadly For top security expert Parker Lawton, the anonymous threat is explosive. Return the gold stolen during his intelligence unit's last Iraq mission—or they'll each be hunted down. And when one of his men is killed just before meeting investigative reporter Rebecca Wallace, he must take her under his "protection." But her persistence in getting the real story is even more dangerous—and irresistible.For a dashing war hero, Parker is the most guilty-acting innocent man Becca has ever seen. Still, working with him is the only way to stay ahead of a ruthless enemy. And as her instincts and Parker's skills hone in on the truth, trusting the desire simmering between them could be their only chance—or the last move they'll ever make.







The news they’re after isn’t fake—it’s deadly

For top security expert Parker Lawton, the anonymous threat is explosive. Return the gold stolen during his intelligence unit’s last Iraq mission—or they’ll each be hunted down. And when one of his men is killed just before meeting investigative reporter Rebecca Wallace, he must take her under his “protection.” But her persistence in getting the real story is even more dangerous—and irresistible.

For a dashing war hero, Parker is the most guilty-acting innocent man Becca has ever seen. Still, working with him is the only way to stay ahead of a ruthless enemy. And as her instincts and Parker’s skills hone in on the truth, trusting the desire simmering between them could be their only chance—or the last move they’ll ever make.


It was an argument they could have later, assuming they survived the next few minutes…

“Ready, Becca?”

“One second.” She fisted her hands in his jacket panels and pulled Parker close. Her lips met his with an urgency that shot through his veins like a bolt of lightning.

He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her flush against his body. At last, he indulged the fantasy of claiming her mouth. Becca’s lips parted and his tongue stroked across hers. The pleasure and heat wove a spell around him. Parker ran his hands up over her ribs, his thumbs following the soft curve of her breasts.

The soundtrack of heavy boots thundering on the stairs brought him slamming back to reality. Breaking the kiss, Becca’s taste lingering on his tongue, he pushed open the door and they ran…


Reluctant Hero

Debra Webb & Regan Black






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


DEBRA WEBB, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until after she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. Since then the USA TODAY bestselling author has penned more than one hundred novels, including her internationally bestselling Colby Agency series.

REGAN BLACK, a USA TODAY bestselling author, writes award-winning, action-packed novels featuring kick-butt heroines and the sexy heroes who fall in love with them. Raised in the Midwest and California, she and her family, along with their adopted greyhound, two arrogant cats and a quirky finch, reside in the South Carolina Low Country, where the rich blend of legend, romance and history fuels her imagination.


For my dad, the first hero in my life, who nurtured my

independence and taught me to believe without limits.

—Regan


Contents

Cover (#u42c24c55-71ac-53b5-8893-642af84a120c)

Back Cover Text (#ud80dc182-ff3a-5b47-bf69-2cfbe36f5625)

Introduction (#ua43c48bd-a8e4-5eb8-a63d-a362fb7eb908)

Title Page (#u33e8aae2-ee3c-589d-a444-0d122481f05e)

About the Authors (#u39f329f3-8ed0-538e-a61a-4424d77e456f)

Dedication (#u1b7ec970-eee6-5944-b841-358541dceb33)

Chapter One (#ud030686e-ed09-5ec6-9d9d-b7ae8c554aa9)

Chapter Two (#ud758fc3e-277b-5dd5-9222-28cf60a13c68)

Chapter Three (#u80459d05-f626-5d95-8ab2-188da6fa3092)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u04b5a70d-2142-5337-8918-0057d38dded8)

San Francisco

Thursday, October 14, 6:20 p.m.

Rebecca Wallace had an itch between her shoulder blades, warning her it was well past time to get out of the office. She’d turned off the three monitors on the wall, all of them muted, that were tuned to the television network she worked for and their top two competitors. She scrolled her mouse over to power down her computer when a new email icon popped up on her monitor.

She should ignore it. Needed to ignore it. She had a date tonight—the first in months—and she already knew she was going to be late. Late wasn’t a behavior she tolerated in others, so she did her best to be prompt as often as possible. Her career as a producer for an acclaimed investigative journalism show frequently put her at odds with her aim to be on time. While the weekly show was scheduled down to the second, when important stories broke, she felt an obligation to be available to support the stable of reporters the network had in the field.

Knowing the news cycle had wound down for the day, she exercised self-discipline and shut down the computer. She would read the email on her phone during the commute home and then delegate any response if necessary. With a longing glance at her laptop, she left it behind as well. Carving out a personal life had been one of her primary intentions for this year. Considering this was only her tenth date for the year and it was October, she scolded herself for letting an important goal slide.

Deciding the email would wait until the morning, she set her phone to vibrate and dropped it into her purse. Her team had the next big story in the works already. Last week, she and her lead journalist, Bill Gatlin, had started digging into an anonymous tip that alleged an elite team of US Army soldiers serving in Iraq had stolen a fortune in gold.

She would have blown off the mysterious lead if not for the list of six names and the date of the purported theft. Having been in that same area of Iraq at the time on a humanitarian story, she and Bill were each making discreet inquiries about the men implicated and she had tech support looking for a lead on the sender. Although she didn’t care for anonymous tips, no matter how often they panned out, she knew people enjoyed the drama and adventure of being a faceless, nameless source blowing the whistle on some unpleasant situation.

What she’d die for about now was a tip for a juicy exposé on local spas. Surely she could find a way to pitch that idea. She’d happily volunteer as the guinea pig for any “undercover” research too. She could already hear the laughter from her team if she made such a suggestion. Her entire MO was leaving the fluff pieces and the half-baked ratings bait to the other guys. The guys who weren’t winning awards the way her team did year after year.

She reminded herself that she had left Hollywood for many reasons, not the least of which was to find a place where substance mattered more than the smoke and innuendo of the next dramatic scandal.

By the time she slid into the backseat of the commuter car waiting for her at the curb, her phone had vibrated with another three alerts. Her determination to remain accessible to her team often conflicted with her goal of developing a worthwhile personal life. With a sigh, she retrieved her phone from her purse and checked the various alerts of email and two voice mail messages forwarded from the office.

In the first voice mail, she was pleasantly surprised to hear her father’s voice. She’d called him days ago hoping he had a name or some insight on getting around the army bureaucracy she’d slammed up against as she tried to find confirmation on the names listed. Her dad, a legend in Hollywood, had produced and directed movies ranging from highbrow documentaries to summer blockbusters and seemed to have friends and contacts around the world in all branches of business. According to his brief message, he wasn’t ready to call in a favor for her. His best advice was to work the story from the ground up.

As if she hadn’t been doing that. Well, calling him had been a long shot.

The next voice message was from Parker Lawton, making yet another terse request to meet. She deleted it and shoved the phone back in her purse. Lawton was the last name on the list, and she wanted some solid facts and a better overall picture of the situation and the men involved before they had a conversation. She didn’t want a possible thief skewing the perspective on the story.

It infuriated her when the subjects of budding stories learned her team was poking around. Most likely the anonymous tipster had let something slip, unable to keep from making a not-so-veiled threat or suggestion. As a producer, she had to assess the value and impact of a story before they had the facts. After several years on the job, her instincts were spot-on, and the repeated messages from Lawton confirmed her hunch that he had either something to confess or something to hide.

She and Bill had divided the list of names and created a cover story about soldiers returning to civilian life to explain their interest in the six men named by the source. Cautiously checking into Lawton’s current situation had been Bill’s job. So why was Lawton fixating on her? Her mind stirred it around and around, refusing to let go of work, even as she paid the car service and entered her apartment building in the heart of Russian Hill.

Inside, she locked the door behind her. She kicked off her work heels and dropped her purse on the nearest chair, fishing out her phone and taking it with her to the bedroom. Using the voice commands, she called Bill while she changed clothes for the evening. Her date was taking her to some elite awards gala. He’d been dropping the names of San Francisco’s wealthiest and brightest innovators all week, to make sure she didn’t back out. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d already met the business rock stars on his list at one event or another.

“What are you doing calling me? You’re supposed to be off the clock,” Bill said in lieu of anything as mundane as hello. “You told me you were going on the date.”

Reporters, she’d learned from day one, were a habitually nosy lot. “I’m dressing while we speak.”

A low wolf whistle carried through the room. “Now, that’s an image.”

She laughed. He’d seen her at her best, her average and even her worst more than once when they traveled to remote locations in search of the story. Through it all, Bill had become a hybrid of friend and mentor with a side of big brother tossed in for good measure.

“You don’t scare me.” She laughed, knowing Bill was far more likely to be picturing her date. “What kind of dirt are you finding on Parker Lawton?”

“Why?” Bill asked, in a whisper. “What did he say?”

Interesting. Bill was a legend in the industry for maintaining his cool in every circumstance. Why was he nervous? “Nothing. The man has left messages for me all day that don’t say anything other than he wants to meet in person. His emails are the same. Shouldn’t he be calling you instead of me?”

Bill’s sigh filtered through the speaker.

“His assistant was a brick wall when I reached out as myself,” he said. “So I tried Lawton’s personal number. I left him a message as your assistant, saying we wanted to interview him for his perspective on the sudden rise of homegrown terrorism.”

Her hand stilled on the hanger supporting the little black dress she’d been pulling out of her closet. “That wasn’t the story we agreed to.”

“I know.” He sounded miserable. “Since he’s in the security business, it seemed more likely to get a response.”

Though she might not care for the changeup, she couldn’t fault his logic. “What else is going wrong with this story, Bill?” Warning bells were ringing in her mind, and that twitch between her shoulder blades was back. “I’m thinking we need to back off and reassess.”

“Not yet. I know we’re onto something important.”

“Where are you right now?” She swiveled around and checked the clock by her bed. Maybe they could meet and tweak the plan before her date arrived.

“Some hole-in-the-wall diner off Pier 80 waiting on Theo Manning.”

Pier 80 meant there was no chance she could get there and back, or convince her date to go by the area before the gala. “We confirmed he was the commanding officer of the team at the time, right?”

“Yes,” Bill answered.

“And he’s late?” Her intuition was humming. “That doesn’t fit my image of a CO.”

“He’s a civilian now,” Bill pointed out. “A crane operator. Late doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind about talking with me. A thousand things could have happened on the job.”

“True.” Propping her phone on the bathroom counter, she wriggled into the dress. “Tell me what you’ve found on Lawton while we wait.” Bill might be a capable grown man, but she wasn’t going to leave him sitting alone in a diner in a rough part of town until she absolutely had to end the call.

“Lawton’s finances and net worth were a big surprise.”

She unzipped her makeup bag and started adding shadow and eyeliner to go from office to gala-ready. “Is he destitute or filthy rich?”

“The latter,” Bill said. “If your definition includes newly minted billionaires,” he added in a low murmur.

Becca bobbled her mascara tube and it fell to the floor. “What?” Scrambling, she fished it out from under the counter with her toe as she kept talking. “Why did you hold on to that detail? Is private security that lucrative? Are the others rich too?”

“I didn’t lead with that tidbit because I hadn’t finished my due diligence. Security might be that lucrative. His client list is privileged.”

She snorted. “Not legally.”

“Possibly legally. At any rate, I’m still trying to find out where and when he made his fortune.”

Selling or hoarding Iraqi gold would certainly boost anyone’s bottom line, though a net worth of billions seemed unlikely when the gold had been split between six thieves. Or so the source said. Huh. Maybe the source wasn’t the victim as they’d inferred from the tip. Maybe their source was bitter about being cut out or shorted of his part of the fortune. “Send me what you have on Lawton right now and I’ll help you sort it out.”

“Your date won’t appreciate you canceling at the last minute,” he said.

“I’m not canceling,” she promised.

“Oh?” Bill chuckled. “Even better. He’ll love watching you google another man between bites of hors d’oeuvres.”

She laughed with him. Better that than letting him know how close to the mark his teasing struck. “A personal life is essential to true happiness,” she said. She’d written the reminder on a sticky note and kept it on her mirror where she could see it every morning. “Send it. I’ll sort it out after my date. We can go over everything in the morning.”

“Fine. I’ll give Mr. Former CO another fifteen minutes and then I’m bailing. I’d rather give the Lawton tree another shake anyway. Maybe money will fall on my head.”

“If he tries to bribe you, you’d better share.”

Bill laughed again. “Not a chance,” he said, and ended the call.

Bill was as effective and persistent as a bloodhound when he caught the scent of a story. Producing for him had taught her a great deal about how to piece together clues, unravel a background and identify the essential nature of what wasn’t said in an interview. She liked to believe he’d benefitted from working with her as well. She enjoyed making sure her reporters came across with compassion as well as reliable authority for the audience. Unlike many of their competitors, they never broadcast a story until they knew they had the facts, and she used her specific skills to create a show that kept viewers coming back week after week.

They were definitely onto something with this gold theft story. She added highlighter strategically around her eyes and swept a shimmery powder just above her neckline while her mind sifted through the public records and recent articles on Lawton and his business.

They’d started the research file with the obvious and easily accessible details on each of the names listed by the source. Last known addresses, employers, positive or negative publicity, etc. Returning to civilian life as a security expert wasn’t a big stretch for Lawton, who’d served in the army for twelve years. A stash of stolen gold in his pocket would have made it easier to set up shop in the Bay Area, to be sure.

She poked through her makeup bag, seeking the perfect lipstick for the evening. Finding a tube of her favorite soft peach color, she slowly dragged it over her lips. Her mind drifted to Parker Lawton’s publicity shot. His thick brown hair had plenty of waves, despite the short cut. The photographer had captured a savvy glint in those serious dark brown eyes. Considering his chiseled jawline, she figured if the man hadn’t stolen any gold, he’d definitely stolen more than one heart along the way in his thirty-two years.

Her front door buzzer sounded and she capped the tube of lipstick, dropping it into her evening clutch. Time to make another attempt at refining the rather abstract concept of her personal life. Whether or not the evening went well, it was a plus to have a hot date to an A-list party. She’d even convinced herself she wasn’t offended that her date had probably only asked her out in hopes that he’d get an inside track to her well-known father.

She opened the door without looking through the peephole and found herself face-to-face with the man she’d been daydreaming about—Parker Lawton, accused thief. For a moment she gawked at him. She decided the photographer had been a hack to only catch the glint in his eyes. The man’s allure drew her in despite his casual khaki work pants, faded blue zippered sweatshirt and black ivy cap. In her heels, she was nearly eye level with him, and the intensity in his dark chocolate gaze muddled her thoughts.

“Pardon me—”

She pushed the door closed on his greeting and he stopped her, wedging his booted foot into the space. “You’re not welcome here.” She gritted her teeth and put all her weight into the effort of squishing his foot.

“Steel-toed,” he said calmly. “Can’t even feel it. I just want to talk.”

“Not tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Pardon my skepticism. You haven’t returned any of my calls or emails. Can I have five minutes?”

“No.” She shoved at the door again. “I’m on my way out.”

“With this guy?”

He stuck a cell phone through the space and showed her a picture of her date at the elevator downstairs.

“What did you do?”

“Bought myself five minutes.”

The stunt only confirmed that he was willing to fight dirty. “You have no right to be here.” She leaned into the door again, despite the lack of progress. “How did you find me?” She had an unlisted number and the apartment was rented under the network’s corporate account.

“It’s what I do,” he replied. “Look, I’ve heard someone is trying to cause trouble for me and some friends. Can you just confirm if you’re working up a story on me and the men I served with in Iraq?”

Working up a story? Her temper caught like a match to paper. They dealt with facts, not fiction. “I’m a producer, not a reporter,” she replied with the last thread of professionalism.

“Not buying the obtuse routine, red.”

Red, ha. As if he was the first to try and get away with that nickname. She was far more than the hair and freckles, and many a man had learned that the hard way. “I’ll be smarter tomorrow. At the office,” she added, clipping each syllable.

He leaned into the door, making it clear he could force his way in at any moment. “Tell me who told you to look into my team.”

“Never,” she vowed. “That’s Journalism 101, Mr. Lawton. I will not reveal a source.”

“You’re a producer, not a reporter.”

“Still applies.”

The elevator at the end of the hall chimed an arrival on her floor. “Guess your time’s up, Mr. Lawton.”

His boot was gone and without it the door snapped shut before she finished the sentence. She opened it again to find the hallway empty except for her date, striding forward with an eager smile.

Clutching her evening bag, Becca did her best to match his pleasant expression while she willed the heat of temper to fade from her cheeks. Her date chattered aimlessly as she locked her door and they walked down the hall. She slid her hand into his at the elevator, knowing Lawton had to be close. Telling herself it wasn’t misplaced paranoia didn’t change the sensation that the man was watching her. He knew where she lived and she didn’t trust him not to try something else.

She clung to the fact that soon she’d be out of his view and his reach. No sane man would dare make a move while she was with her date and surrounded by people at the awards gala. And afterward? The idea of coming home alone sent a little shiver of trepidation down her spine.

Well, she’d cross that bridge when she reached it. For now, she would focus on her personal life. Beaming a high-wattage smile at her date, she set out to enjoy the evening.

* * *

OH, THAT SMILE on her face irked Parker. He hadn’t found anything during his recon of Rebecca Wallace, award-winning producer, that indicated a romantic attachment worthy of that heart-stopping dress and killer heels.

He waited until they were gone to move out of the alcove near the stairwell. He was an idiot for confronting her at her door. But he was getting desperate. The bizarre blackmail note had arrived yesterday, claiming media outlets had been notified last week, and granting him five days to make restitution for the gold he and his team stole from an Iraqi family or the men listed at the bottom of the single page would be killed one by one.

Theo Manning, Jeff Bruce, Franklin Toomey, Matt Donaldson and Ray Peters were more than soldiers. They were friends. The six of them shared a bond forged on several challenging assignments during Parker’s last deployment. Together they’d handled a sensitive intel-gathering mission near the Iranian border. While it might have been easy to learn they’d all served in Iraq, it shouldn’t have been as easy to connect them as part of the same team on that operation.

While they’d been deployed nearby and, through the course of the mission, had contact with the family listed as the victim, Parker and his team were innocent. None of them were thieves and he in particular had no cause to steal anything, not even back then.

He’d been ready to write off the note as a sick joke until a reporter called the office, asking for his opinion on soldiers successfully returning to civilian life. His assistant handled those comments on his behalf, as she usually did. While he was debating how to investigate the origin of the blackmail note, he’d received a call on his personal line about his opinion on locally grown terrorists. The timing was too close to be a coincidence. Someone had started snooping, and Parker needed to know who’d set them on this wild-goose chase.

Working the situation as he might do for a client, Parker scrambled to carefully reconnect with the men named in the blackmail note. He’d debated the wisdom of warning them about the note and the possibility of reporters and instead had suggested a guys’ weekend. He hadn’t seen the point in dredging up uncomfortable memories or causing worry over something that probably wouldn’t amount to anything.

Then Theo had called back, saying he’d agreed to meet with Bill Gatlin, anchor reporter for one of the top special report shows. It was the red flag Parker couldn’t ignore. He’d spent the day hustling up information on Gatlin, Wallace and the network. If other shows had the blackmailer’s tip, it seemed Wallace’s team had been the first to bite. And Theo’s name had been the first on the list.

Parker had been given five days—four now—to return gold valued at over a million dollars. No exchange details or contact information had been provided, only an assurance that Parker would know where to bring either the gold or the equivalent in US currency when it was time. Logic and history said making the payoff was a tactical error, yet Parker planned to do whatever was necessary to keep those men alive.

Having been stonewalled by Wallace’s gatekeepers at the network, he’d given up trying the polite approach. While he appreciated that they hadn’t run the story on speculation and zero evidence, he didn’t have time to play ethics games. He needed the name of the source or some clue he could follow so he could peel back the layers of anonymity and handle the jerk tossing around these outrageous, damaging allegations.

Parker lingered in the hallway, recalling his cursory searches of Rebecca Wallace and her reporter Bill Gatlin. At first glance, they were both workaholics and married to their jobs. He didn’t know where the reporter was tonight, but he knew where Wallace was not.

He’d had his boot in her doorway long enough to learn her apartment security amounted to two dead bolts and a chain. Far easier for him to bypass the locks here than get past the systems protecting her office at the network building. He strolled up to her door, pulled his lock-picking kit from the thigh pocket of his work pants and was inside in less than a minute.

A quick survey of the space told him she was tidy, she spent little time here or she had an excellent cleaning service. He roamed around, appreciating the decor and furnishings. She went for classy and practical, not overdone or overpriced. As a business owner and a building owner, he knew the going rate for a two-bedroom apartment in this area and decided producing for a popular network show must pay well.

The master bedroom felt more lived-in. Though the bed was neatly made and the closet well organized, the various notes she’d left for herself here and there, along with the overflowing laundry hamper, gave him a sense of her as a more accessible person. He couldn’t blame her for coming off as a prim snob during their tussle at the door.

The second bedroom she clearly used as a home office and guest room. He searched the desk, found an invitation to a gala that explained the little black dress, but no sign of the lead he needed. If she’d ever brought information on the bogus theft home, it wasn’t here now. Leaving the room as he’d found it, he checked the more common and uncommon places people stashed important information. Nothing. She didn’t even have a briefcase or a laptop here tonight.

On a sigh, he mentally adjusted his evening plans, knowing the next stop would need to be her office at the network. With his hands fisted in his jacket pockets, he was aimed for the front door when another idea struck. Returning to her bedroom, he found a tablet as well as an e-reader. “Yes!” he cheered softly when he opened the tablet and found her email applications were still open.

He searched through her inbox and the main folders, grumbling when he found all of his email messages moved to the trash folder. Were the days of professional courtesy gone? At least his assistant had handled the initial inquiry professionally while he was still waiting for Wallace to return his calls.

Continuing his search, he learned how she organized her files. He couldn’t find a way to access any progress they were making on the story about him and his team, but he could tell it had nothing to do with soldiers returning to civilian life.

Sitting on the blue suede bench at the end of her bed, he searched through her email folders until he found an email from the previous week with Soldiers Steal Gold in the subject line. Bingo. The email was written in a similar tone to the blackmail note Parker received. While the author of the email didn’t threaten anyone on the show, the names of those involved were the same, and listed in the same order as the note he had tucked into his wallet.

The allegations in the email were ghastly, making Parker’s skin crawl. His team had worked their mission and followed orders. The implications—with no evidence to back them up—that he and the others were corrupt, brutal thieves infuriated him. The last few lines and the unique closing really caught his attention. The writer, pleading to maintain anonymity, thanked Rebecca and Bill for their kindness and integrity during their visit to the Iraqi village where the theft allegedly occurred. He—Parker was certain the writer was a man—gave the producer’s ego another stroke by claiming Rebecca was the only person who could be trusted to handle this the right way.

The original email was bad enough, but the instructions she added when she forwarded the email to her reporter hit him like a sucker punch.

Bill, reach out to the family. Verify their safety and if/when the gold was stolen. If this is from Fadi, why would he insist on anonymity?

Parker swore. Fadi was a common name. In context with the other details laid out in the email, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she was referring to the same young man they’d employed as a translator when they were in that area.

Did Rebecca know who’d sent the tip raising questions and spreading rumors about his team? The way he read and reread the email, she sure suspected the tip on the theft had come from the oldest son of the victimized family. No wonder she’d avoided Parker and refused to give up her source. Hell. He wouldn’t get anywhere with her if she felt some misplaced obligation to cooperate with the person trying to discredit his team.

Well, he wasn’t leaving empty-handed. He had a better idea of where the tip originated from, which gave him a better starting point than he’d had an hour ago. After his service in Iraq, he had people he could reach out to as well. He set her tablet back to the home screen and wiped off his fingerprints before slipping it back into the bedside drawer.

After locking her front door, he let himself out of her apartment through the fire escape and headed home to work the new lead. He needed to find the show with their report from that trip to Iraq and start fitting the pieces together. When he went to her office in the morning, he would insist on hearing everything about her trip to Iraq and why she was so eager to believe the worst of him and his team.

He stalked down the street, needing to walk off the anger simmering in his system. It wouldn’t be smart to call for a car or catch a bus so close to her apartment. From his pocket, his phone rang. Seeing Theo’s name and face on the screen, he picked up immediately.

“How did things go?” he asked. There was a long pause on the other end of the line and he heard several voices in the background. “Theo?”

“Mr. Lawton?”

Parker froze. This wasn’t Theo. “Yes?”

“My apologies, sir. This is Detective Calvin Baird of the SFPD. I’m calling from Theo Manning’s phone, as we’ve just opened an investigation.”

A detective’s involvement could mean any number of new problems and most likely the work of a busy blackmailer. “What kind of investigation?” He put his back to the wall of the nearest building and studied the action around him on the street.

The detective ignored the question. “According to his phone log, you spoke with him recently.”

“That’s true.” Parker’s stomach clutched and his pulse kicked into fight mode. “Where is Theo? Can I talk to him?”

“I’m sorry to say it, but he’s dead,” Baird replied.

No. Parker couldn’t catch his breath. His hand gripped the phone hard and he slid down to land on his backside as the grief stunned him. He was on the phone with a homicide detective. What had happened to the five days the blackmailer had given him?

“Mr. Lawton?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed the emotion choking him. “I’m here. What do you know? Where is he?” Was. Theo was gone. Parker cleared his throat. “How did it happen?”

“Nine-one-one received a call about shots fired about forty minutes ago. By the time the responding officers and paramedics arrived, it was too late. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Was I the last to call him?”

“According to his phone log, you were one of two people trying to reach him.”

“Who was the other?”

“I’m not ready to comment on that yet,” Baird said. “I just arrived on the scene and we have very little to go on right now. Do you have time to come by the Bayview Police Station tomorrow morning? I should have more details for you by then.”

Bayview? That hardly narrowed it down. The large district covered the port where Theo worked along with the southeastern part of the city. “Yes, of course.” Parker knew the drill. If he wasn’t a suspect, he was a person of interest. Unfortunately, his alibi was best not confirmed, since it involved his harassing a woman followed by breaking and entering.

“Thank you—”

“Hang on a second,” Parker interrupted. “You mentioned gunshots. How did Theo die?”

“It’s too soon for the coroner’s report,” the detective hedged.

Parker stood up, pulled himself together and applied the tone he’d once used to lead others in and out of harrowing conflicts. “He was my CO and a friend. What appears to be the cause of death, in your opinion?”

“Unofficially, sir, I’d blame the two bullets in the back of his head.”

Parker’s vision hazed red. Assassination less than twenty-four hours after he’d reached out to Theo. If the blackmailer thought this would motivate him to cooperate, to pay a debt he didn’t owe, he was mistaken.

“Officers are canvassing the area for witnesses,” Baird continued. “I’m hoping for a better picture of what happened by morning.”

“No signs of a struggle?”

“Not at first glance, but we are in an alley.”

Parker cringed at the image. “Thank you, Detective. I’ll come by your office first thing in the morning.” Tonight he had more work to do. He took another minute after the call ended to say a prayer for Theo. Real grieving required time he didn’t have right now.

The blackmail note taunted him. Why ransom his team for gold they’d never stolen and then ignore the timeline? Something was off, and he intended to figure it out before anyone else on that list got hurt.


Chapter Two (#u04b5a70d-2142-5337-8918-0057d38dded8)

The gala wasn’t living up to Becca’s hopes for the evening. Oh, the glitz and glamour made a visual impact, although her date clearly had an agenda. His conversation revolved around her father’s work, and he hoped one day to work with him on a project. The scenario was familiar territory for Becca, who listened with only half an ear as he droned on. If he could pitch his big idea to her father and add a side trip under her skirt, his life would be complete. He didn’t say that last part in so many words, of course. He let his wandering hands make his point clear.

She admired the timing and efficiency of the dinner and award presentations, but now, with only dancing, celebrating and mingling on the schedule, her mind kept circling back to Parker Lawton’s shocking appearance at her door.

Did he often slum around dressed like a normal person rather than a new-money billionaire? She glanced across the room, trying to picture Rush Grayson, local billionaire and one of tonight’s award winners, dressed as a typical workingman. Could happen, she supposed, squinting a little. She shook off the distraction. How Lawton dressed wasn’t the point. He’d bullied his way into her personal space. She should report him, except the police would laugh her out of the station. Everyone presumed reporters resorted to similar tactics and worse when pursuing a story.

“I’m not sure I like the way you’re staring at my husband.”

With a start, Becca turned to see Rush’s wife at her side, smiling and holding out a glass of champagne. “Oh! Hi, Lucy.” Thank goodness it was a friend who understood Becca could appear more than a little fierce when she was concentrating. “Congratulations to Rush.”

“I’ll pass it along.” Lucy was radiant in a strapless ice-blue gown, pride in her husband sparkling in her dark eyes. “Dare I ask who has your attention?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a story. Well, it is, sort of.” Becca clamped her lips together to cease the babbling. “I’m rattled.”

“Never thought I’d see it,” Lucy said, linking her arm with Becca’s. “Do you need to walk it off?”

“Sure.” The warm offer drained a bit of the tension dogging her since Lawton’s appearance. “Some distance from Mr. Grab Hands wouldn’t hurt.”

Lucy’s expression sobered. “Do you need an assist?”

“No. I have plenty of practice brushing off people who only want to meet Dad.” She glanced over her shoulder to see her date occupied with the men they’d been seated with at dinner. Eventually, he’d notice she’d left and come racing after her with an inane compliment on his lips before he suggested a weekend in LA. “You’d think the red hair would make guys like that more wary of the reputed temper.”

“The freckles undermine the effect,” Lucy said, echoing Becca’s theory. “Want me to get him tossed out? Rush and I can take you home.”

“Not yet.” Becca’s gaze meandered as they walked from the ballroom to the mezzanine, where guests milled around between the open bar stations. She searched for a safer topic. “It seems married life agrees with both of you.”

“It does,” Lucy said. “I know people think I married him for the money, but the opposite is true. He married me for my common sense.”

Becca chuckled. Although Lucy and Rush might not have had smooth sailing on their journey to wedded bliss, it was absolutely clear it was a love story.

“You know, most of the serious money in San Francisco is represented right here and some of it is single,” Lucy teased.

Most. By reputation or introduction, she knew many of the people in the room. She was well aware of who was loaded, who liked to flaunt it and who preferred flying under the radar. Until tonight, she’d had no idea Parker Lawton had a place among the financial elite. “Do you know Parker Lawton?”

“We’ve met a few times.” Lucy’s lips pursed. “Why do you ask?”

“Put away the matchmaker ideas,” she said quickly. Some days Becca cursed her rampant curiosity, fostered by her father’s habit of giving everything and everyone a fascinating backstory. Unwilling to explain how she’d first heard Lawton’s name, she gave Lucy the cover story. “He’s local and he’s had such success after his military service,” she said breezily. “Bill’s been trying to get him to sit down for an interview.”

“I expected Parker to be here tonight,” Lucy said, her eyes traveling over the guests. “I would’ve been happy to introduce you.”

That derailed Becca’s wandering thoughts. “You did? Why?”

Lucy tipped her head toward her husband, pure happiness shining in her eyes. “Because Rush invited him.”

For a moment Becca’s mind reset the evening, inserting Lawton as her date, replacing tepid compliments with witty banter and a discovery of mutual interests. The man probably had a tuxedo tailored to his impressive physique. Stop it. His wardrobe wouldn’t make any difference, she decided. If he’d been here, as her date or as a guest, he would have harangued her for the name of her source. Still better than dodging Mr. Grab Hands all night, a small voice in her head pointed out.

“How do they know each other?” Becca asked.

“Goes back to high school, I think,” Lucy replied. “Although I didn’t get the impression they were particularly close then. If you need a character endorsement, I’ll go on the record that Parker’s a stand-up guy.”

“Huh.” It seemed the safest response Becca could offer. Sticking a boot in her door wasn’t a stand-up kind of move in her book, but Lucy didn’t toss out character references willy-nilly.

“What’s next for you at the network? I know you were eyeing a move up the ladder.”

Becca mimed locking her lips and tossing away the key. “I’m happy where I am. Tell me what’s next for you. Off the record.”

Lucy’s lips curved into a smile packed with barely leashed secrets. She drew Becca a few steps away from the nearest guests. “We’re expecting,” she said, eyes twinkling. She smoothed a palm over her trim waistline as her eyes darted around to make sure no one was watching them. “I’ll be showing soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Becca said. “You must be thrilled.”

“We’re well beyond thrilled and floating somewhere in the galaxy of obnoxiously happy parents-to-be. I feel a little sorry for everyone who knows us.”

Becca gave Lucy a heartfelt hug. “You’ll be amazing parents. The rest of us will have to get used to a new, impossibly high standard.” When she saw Lucy tearing up, she added, “I may just have to tip off one of the gossip sites.”

As she’d hoped, her friend laughed out loud and the sheen of tears vanished. “You don’t have such low friends.”

“Of course I do,” she protested. “I just keep them stashed in LA.”

Lucy laughed again and, as Rush walked toward them, Becca promised to take her for a spa day soon.

Sipping the rest of her champagne, she made a game of staying out of her date’s sight, making new friends as she worked her way around the room. She should just go home, though she wasn’t ready to be alone and she didn’t feel right about intruding on Lucy and Rush. Desperate for a distraction, she found a quieter spot and sent a text message to Bill, asking about the interview with Theo Manning.

Bill replied immediately, explaining Manning had been a no-show.

She should tell him about Lawton’s visit and had her fingers poised to do just that when she changed her mind. He’d only insist she move in with him for a couple of days. Not happening. She’d be better off getting a room here at the hotel for the evening.

When Bill asked, she shared how well the evening was not going with Mr. Grab Hands. Welcoming the snarky replies, she was soon chuckling at herself for this latest failure at establishing a personal life. Her eyes landed on Rush and Lucy on the other side of the mezzanine and she sighed.

Love was lovely for them. Becca just wasn’t cut out for the interpersonal stuff. She had her career to love. She had a stable of reporters who gave her plenty of ups and downs to juggle. She’d pit a moody reporter against the grumpiest toddler any day of the week. It might not look like a standard life, but it was hers.

Wishing Bill a good night, Becca went to find one more glass of champagne before going to the front desk to book a room. Better alone in a posh suite than home wondering when Lawton would come back and knock down her door.

* * *

AT HIS PLACE, Parker finished shaving and dressed for the gala. It seemed every breath was a new battle to keep his grief at bay. With a last check of his appearance, he decided it wouldn’t get any better tonight. He grabbed the go-bag he kept ready in the coat closet, added another change of clothes and a rain jacket considering the season. Parker planned to be a much harder target for the assassin who had double-tapped Theo. Packing up his computer, he left his apartment, one eye searching for anyone too interested in the building or himself. He thought longingly of the SUV he’d had armored and knew it was too soon to reveal that asset.

Tossing the gear into the small space behind the driver’s seat of his black-and-silver Audi R8 Spyder, he headed out, arriving at the awards gala well past the point of fashionably late. One perk was the lack of a wait at the valet stand. Easing out of the low-slung sports car, he tossed the keys to the valet. He flashed a fifty-dollar bill and pressed it into the young man’s hand. “Keep it close. I may need a quick getaway,” he said with a wink.

The kid grinned conspiratorially and promised Parker a zero wait time. Didn’t matter. With the upgraded locking system, Parker could get into his car without the key he’d handed to the valet.

As he walked through the extravagant lobby, he scanned the attendees milling about on the mezzanine level. Resisting the urge to tug at his bow tie, he did his best to believe he looked like all the rest of the men in tuxedos. Although he preferred his military mess kit on formal occasions, tonight he needed to blend in with the upper echelons of San Francisco society.

He knew it wasn’t wise to pester her again after she’d made it clear she’d speak with him tomorrow at her office. He just couldn’t wait. A man was dead, cut down in his prime by a coward who’d ambushed him. Eyeing the free-flowing champagne, Parker hoped to have more luck this time. He deserved a chance to share his side of the bogus story, to counter every unsubstantiated claim in that email.

More important, he intended to make her understand that Theo should be allowed to rest in peace, free of any scandal casting shadows over his honorable service.

She would give him the name of her source by morning, and he would take that information to Detective Baird.

At the top of the wide staircase, he wandered left, bypassing the first two bars and the long lines of men and women in glittering formal wear. Reconnaissance was the first step in getting a handle on the situation and the woman. After two circuits of the areas designated for the event and the acquisition of a champagne flute he was using as a prop, he still hadn’t found her.

She was here. He kept his gaze roving, eager for a flash of her auburn hair or those long, creamy legs. Striving for the patience he used to demonstrate in the field, he planted himself where he could watch the majority of the guests come and go.

At last he spotted her, walking up the stairs from the lobby alone. Where was her date? Her red hair gleamed, swept up off her neck in a sleek twist. The short black dress and sky-high heels with the sparkling straps winding around her ankles showed off her toned legs. At her door, in those heels, she’d been almost eye level with him. Her bright blue eyes, full of defiance and intelligence and amped up for the evening, had captivated him, putting an unexpected sizzle of attraction in his blood.

Forget that. He didn’t need her to like him, and he’d blown any possible personal advantage by being a jerk earlier. Now he’d have to adjust his approach. He moved cautiously, using the crowd as cover to follow her when she reached the top of the stairs, so she wouldn’t bolt. He wasn’t in the mood to chase her around a hotel or out into the chilly October night.

He didn’t want to tell her about Theo, didn’t want to use his friend’s death that way, but he was prepared to fight dirty and play the sympathy card if necessary. He couldn’t afford to give the blackmailer any more of a head start.

How to get a stubborn woman to talk? He drifted after her as she aimed toward the ballroom where the dinner and presentations had been held. To save the rest of the men named as targets, he needed to succeed on his first attempt, not flounder around hoping for her cooperation.

His skills didn’t run to charm, and with his heart in a vise over Theo, his patience was waning. The best option was to draw her away from the party, isolate her and make her see the wisdom of cooperating with him.

She tossed back her head, laughing at some flirty greeting from a man who appeared at her elbow offering champagne. Then she suddenly turned toward Parker, as if she’d sensed him staring.

Parker smiled, holding his ground while he waited for her to react. Her eyes went wide with recognition. From one second to the next, her initial shock shifted into a glare that would have split him in two if her eyes had been weapons. He merely raised his glass in a silent salute.

She turned away, returning her full attention to the people surrounding her.

He started toward her, taking his time, assessing the people around her as he practiced polite phrasing over and over in his head. She continued to check on his progress, something he found inappropriately satisfying under the circumstances. With growing confidence, he anticipated having her full attention, and the name of her source, before the night was over.

Fluttering her eyelashes at her entourage, she excused herself and moved toward the restrooms. Did she really think that would stop him?

Another man halted her, blocking her path just as she turned the corner. She stepped to the side and the stranger did the same, in that awkward dance of two people who were striving to be courteous.

Parker saw the danger a moment too late. The stranger’s startled expression clouded over and he yanked Rebecca around the corner and out of sight. Hurrying through the crowded space, Parker wondered why she wasn’t screaming. The woman had put up more resistance against him.

He turned into the corridor only to be blocked by a second man. Younger, trimmer than the first, he was moving into position to make sure no one interfered. Not your day, Parker thought. With two quick strikes, he disabled the sentry and pulled him out of sight of the partygoers.

He raced down the hall toward the stairwell, where Rebecca was struggling against the stranger’s hold, fighting to stay on this side of the door.

Parker charged forward.

“Halt,” the man ordered. “This is not your concern.”

Parker skidded to a stop, trying to place the clipped accent. Still fighting, Rebecca glowered, pointing an accusing finger at him, her mouth opening and closing on words she couldn’t get past her captor’s throat-crushing arm.

“Let her go,” Parker said, taking another step. The man pressed a syringe to her neck. Rebecca’s body arched violently and then went limp. “No! Stop!” Parker shouted, advancing once more.

The man’s mouth twisted into a nasty gap-toothed smile and as he wrestled Rebecca’s body into the stairwell, Parker saw a pale scar bisecting his cheek from lip to temple.

Parker leaped into action again. The stranger couldn’t have her, not when she was Parker’s best chance to identify the person trying to blackmail him and discredit his team. He plowed through the door and straight at them.

Startled, the man shoved Rebecca’s limp body at him and raced up the stairs. Parker eased her to the floor and pressed his fingers to her neck. Finding a pulse, he started after her assailant, only to hear the fire alarms go off. He didn’t believe for a second that there was a fire, but he was the only person who had good cause to doubt the alarm.

If he left her there, the accomplice could grab her or she might be injured by people fleeing the building with the false alarm. Scooping her up and over his shoulder, he hurried down the stairs, as voices of frightened people heeding the alarms and emergency lights filled the stairwell.

Knowing he couldn’t wait at the valet stand with an unconscious woman over his shoulder, he headed for the parking area. “Come on, kid, where’d you put my baby?” Pressing the panic button on the extra fob in his pocket, he waited for the response. When the lights flashed and the horn sounded, he hurried over to the Spyder and punched his code into the panel on the door.

Settling her into the seat and fastening the safety belt, he checked her pulse again before closing the passenger door and sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled at the press of the start button and he maneuvered out of the parking area before it clogged with staff and guests escaping the hotel.

“Just a producer, huh?” Parker snorted as he followed the path of least traffic resistance away from the hotel. “Someone wants you as badly as I do.”

This latest unexpected development bothered him. Was the goal chaos or was there a logical end game? All of his training warned him he was dealing with two opponents with different agendas, yet it seemed quite a coincidence that they would attack at the same time.

What he needed was more information from her and about her. He wouldn’t get the first until she woke up. There was no telling how long that would take, or if she’d be cooperative when she did. If he could find a safe place for her to sleep off the drug, he could use the time to dig deeper into her past for a possible kidnapping motive.

At the next opportunity, Parker shifted his route to head west. There was a property with an ocean view that he kept as a rental under the company name, complete with a safe room. Initially he’d planned to live there and he’d handled every detail of the security measures as an exercise to see what could be done more than because he feared a home invasion or an attack.

The rental, currently empty, would be their safest bet. He drove around for half an hour until he was sure he wasn’t being followed. When he carried Rebecca inside, he took her straight to the safe room and tucked her in on the love seat, covering her with a cashmere throw.

He removed her high heels and cleared the safe room of items she might use against him. He removed any tech that could be used to communicate with the outside world. He didn’t want her giving away their position to his—or her—enemies.

With a little luck, in a few hours she’d wake up and they could have a calm conversation without any extra ears or distractions. Armed with information, they could go their separate ways and never have to speak to each other again.


Chapter Three (#u04b5a70d-2142-5337-8918-0057d38dded8)

Becca came awake slowly, her eyes gritty and her throat dry as she tried to get her bearings. The lights were dim and she had the immediate impression of being in a pleasant small sitting room. Someone had removed her shoes, tucked her in and covered her with an incredibly soft throw. The gesture left her wary rather than comforted. What happened?

Easing herself upright, she found herself on a love seat upholstered in deep burgundy leather so smooth it felt like silk to the touch. Not Bill’s house. She didn’t recognize the space, couldn’t name a single friend who had a room like this. Where were her shoes?

“Hello?” Her throat was dry enough that she sounded like a frog. How long had she been here? She called out a couple more times, receiving no answer.

Fear trickled down her spine, a chill under her skin that burned as questions burst through her clouded mind. Where was she? Who brought her here? Why?

She stood up and the room turned in a sick, lopsided circle. Falling back, she let the love seat catch her as she tried to force herself to remember something. Anything. A bottle of water had been placed on the end table between the love seat and chair. Terribly thirsty, she reached for it and then snatched her hand back. The bottle looked new, but that was no guarantee it was safe to drink.

“Think,” she whispered to herself. Someone had put her here, and she had no intention of making it easy for them to keep her. She fingered the hem of her dress, vaguely recalling her boredom with her date. They’d been at a hotel. A party. Snippets of the evening floated in a disjointed parade through her brain. A grand staircase, free-flowing champagne and beautiful people twisted in a kaleidoscope that made her eyes ache and her head pound.

When she felt steadier she stood up again. Doing a slow three-sixty, she took in the rest of the room. The space was cleverly designed in a narrow rectangle with a refrigerator, microwave, small oven and sink making up a kitchenette at one end. On the opposite end of the long room was a single door and next to that a set of floor-to-ceiling doors. She walked closer and found a Murphy bed.

“I’ve been kidnapped by a tiny house architect,” she said aloud, imagining Bill’s laughter and snarky retort.

This was more luxurious than some of the movie trailers she’d seen while working on sets with her dad. She bounced a little, discovering the floor didn’t have any give the way a trailer floor often did. Another tremor slipped over her skin. A trailer could be moved anywhere, at any time. Who would do this?

There were no windows, only a lovely painting of the Golden Gate Bridge spearing out of a thick fog bank. All of the lighting came from LED fixtures in the ceiling. What she assumed was the entrance door was painted the same warm ivory as the rest of the walls, but with the oversize hinges and crossbars, it looked more like a bank vault. She walked over, pushing and tugging at the spoked handle. Her grip was weak; her entire body felt used up and she couldn’t make the wheel budge in any direction.

A flat panel on the side of the door lit up and a feminine computerized voice announced, “The status of the safe room is secure.”

“Good to know.” Becca tapped the panel, and a command screen appeared. Not seeing an icon or a button to unlock the door, she spoke clearly in the direction of the speaker above the panel. “Unlock safe room.”

After a moment, the computer denied her request.

“Thanks for nothing,” Becca muttered. She walked the length of the room, looking for a switch to make the lights brighter. Apparently that too was controlled by a system outside her reach. Not even the reading lamp on the end table tucked between the love seat and the oversize tufted leather armchair responded when she flipped the switch. “Where am I?”

More silence. Apparently not even the computer had an answer.

She went to the kitchen sink and tested the water faucet. The water smelled fine and looked clear. The cool water on her hands refreshed her and she blotted her face as well before finding a cup and drinking her fill.

Her memories returned in fractured images. She remembered walking with Lucy, but not what they talked about. There had been a strong man holding her tightly. He’d smelled funny. Odd. Too sweet and strong for a cologne, the odor had made her head swim. Chloroform? Was she recalling fact or was her mind weaving in some fiction?

Uncertain, she crossed to the other end of the room, opening the bathroom door, finding no windows and no obvious escape route. A glance in the mirror had her scrubbing away the mascara smudged and streaked under her eyes and down her cheeks. Noticing a red mark at her neck, she rubbed at the spot, remembering the pinch and sting of a needle before her world went black. Someone had shouted. Who had it been?

“Where am I?” she asked, returning to the center of the room.

“You’re in a safe room.”

She jumped. This reply was not automated. The voice, as rough as sandpaper thanks to one of those altering devices, filled the room. “Cooperate, Ms. Wallace, and you will be released unharmed.”

She heard the unspoken flip side of the statement. If she didn’t cooperate she wouldn’t be released. “Come in here and say that,” she said with all the bravado she could muster. “Show yourself!” Her temper mounted as she waited for a reply. “You coward! It will take more than voice alteration and an automatic door to avoid the penalty for kidnapping me.” She needed to keep him talking, needed information about her captor.

“We’ll see.”

Male, she was sure of that much. Ninety percent sure, anyway. Those voice gadgets could do bizarre things. “Let me out!

“People will be looking for me.” She hoped they already were.

There was another long delay before the reply. “Rest. Drink plenty of fluids. We’ll talk again soon.”

“What do you want from me?”

“For now, I want you to rest.”

“Where are my shoes?” She shouted the question at the door and pulled on the handle again. Her frustration soaring to new highs, she smacked the control panel, hoping for a short circuit if nothing else.

“Escape is impossible without the code and my palm print.”

She swore at the door and the electronic panel that was currently dark. “Unlock this door.”

“As soon as it’s safe, I will.”

“When this door opens I’ll—”

“I understand your distress. You will not be harmed in my care.”

Becca shivered. Something about the voice, the cadence of it, felt both familiar and frightening. “I won’t make the same promise to you.”

“The basics are stocked for you,” the gravelly, distorted voice said. “Meals will be provided three times each day.”

When left to her own devices, she didn’t eat three regular meals each day. “What makes you think I’ll eat?” A hunger strike might be her fastest way out of this room.

“Eating is your choice,” the voice replied. “But I will not allow you to harm yourself.”

“Oh, that’s your job, huh?” She crossed her arms to hide her trembling hands. “What do you want? Money?” Had one of her notoriously bad dates gone off the rails in an effort to get her father’s attention? “Name your price.” She’d gladly give up the password to her untouched trust fund account in exchange for the code to leave this well-appointed prison.

“No,” the voice said. “Cooperate and this will be over soon.”

Cooperate with a faceless kidnapper? No way. “Buddy, this won’t be over until I’m free and you’re locked up in a prison cell,” she shouted at the ceiling.

The speaker crackled once and went silent. The vault-like door remained closed. Knowing the effort was futile, she walked to the panel and poked at it again anyway.

One dead end did not a hopeless situation make, she told herself, not quite believing it. She couldn’t bring to mind any situation quite as bad as this one.

Her father’s film company had been detained once in Turkey. It had been a miserable and uncertain forty-eight hours under house arrest, before all the paperwork was considered acceptable to the authorities and they were allowed to leave.

As stressful as that had been, this was worse. Here, she was alone, trapped by someone who had yet to make any real demands. She felt her molars grinding on the tension and forced herself to take a few calming breaths.

She’d survived worse things than this. Turkey had been dangerous. Working the story with Bill in Iraq, right on the Iranian border, had been a huge risk. Anymore, dating was akin to Russian roulette. No way was she going out of this life in the role of a helpless captive.

“What do you want from me?” she shouted at the door.

The silence built and built until she ended it with a loud, long scream worthy of the worst horror flick. Cutting loose, she released all her bottled-up fury into the sound, imagining her captor’s ears bleeding from the assault.

He might be in control for now, but there had to be something here she could use against him. Her dad had gone through a horror flick phase and she’d learned a great deal about improvised weapons on those sets. Not to mention all the time she’d spent with prop masters, learning how to fashion amazingly realistic things with little more than duct tape and a good idea.

Her captor had been smart enough to confiscate her high heels. No matter. That was only the first, and most obvious, option. She reviewed the small room through a new lens, with the primary goal of escape.

The love seat wouldn’t be much help, unless it had a pullout option. It didn’t. She examined every inch of the shelves and the items they held. The CD cases could be sharpened with a little effort.

For at least the tenth time since she’d woken up, she reached for her cell phone and felt that swell of panic when she didn’t find it. How pathetic to be so dependent on a device no bigger than an index card. She’d noticed that her captor had also stripped the space of any technology that could be used to communicate with the outside world. Not even a remote for the television remained.

That meant careful planning and forethought. Was all this for her specifically, or just because she was unlucky girl number whatever? She battled back another surge of fear and blinked away the tears threatening to turn into a pitiful sob. She would not let this bastard watch her cry.

Having noticed two surveillance cameras, she retreated to the bathroom, which was the only place he couldn’t keep an eye on her. Maybe no cameras in the bathroom qualified him as a decent sort among the kidnapper set, but it did little to improve her opinion of him.

* * *

PARKER WATCHED THE woman carefully through the two cameras he’d installed in the room, feeling better now that she was moving around so well. Fighting back was another good sign.

The drug hadn’t kept her down long, thankfully. In the two hours he’d watched her sleeping off the effects, he hadn’t come up with an acceptable explanation to offer if he had to take her to an emergency room. The only friend with medical training he trusted in a situation as sticky as this one lived in Nevada, and also happened to be the third man on the blackmailer’s list.

Her blatant search for something to use as a weapon left him smiling. She didn’t give a damn that her captor knew what she was up to. Grit and courage were traits he admired. He shook off the sensation. He didn’t want to admire anything about Rebecca Wallace. She was a means to an end and he should stop wasting time coddling her.

If she was strong enough to argue with him and fight with the locked door, she was strong enough to tell him her source. His finger hovered over the communication link before he pulled it back. As soon as he demanded answers, she’d know it was him keeping her locked away. What would he do with the information at half past one in the morning anyway? Better to wait, to learn more about her. He’d prefer to find a way to handle this without exposing himself to a lawsuit or criminal charges.

It was a relief when she ducked into the bathroom and out of his sight, ending his one-sided debate.

There was no way for her to escape. She’d accept that soon enough. Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anyone else to hear her screaming, though he hoped she didn’t do that again any time soon. The woman had excellent projection and stamina. Rubbing his aching ears, he returned to his search into her background, looking for anything that made her a target.

He glanced up at the monitor when she emerged from the bathroom. She’d let her hair down and he’d bet the clip was tucked in her bra or somewhere she thought to use it as a weapon. Fair enough. When she brushed a finger under her nose, he zoomed in on her face and cursed himself. She’d been crying. In the one place where she knew he couldn’t watch.

What had he done here? After a few hours, he was already dangerously close to feeling guilty about locking her in the safe room, even if it was for her protection. Guilt didn’t suit him. He assessed and took action according to mission parameters. That philosophy had served him well in the field and equally well in his civilian endeavors. It would serve him well as he tracked down the blackmailer.

Parker pulled the tie from his tuxedo collar, wrapping and unwrapping the length of fabric around his knuckles. He’d mined her school records from high school through college. She’d made straight A’s through a tough course load peppered with every form of drama club and literature classes. According to her first résumé out of college, she’d held lead roles in some of the stage productions. He supposed that went along with being the daughter of a powerful force in Hollywood. Those details trickled down and eventually disappeared as she applied for jobs that took her away from Southern California. She’d had an interesting journey to her current post as a producer.

Nothing in the first layers of her background pointed to motive for kidnapping. His mind followed the logic back to his first theory that the scarred man’s attempt to take her was connected to the blackmailer and the source feeding the media lies about Parker’s team. It wasn’t the least bit uplifting.

Satisfied she was alert and out of immediate danger, he felt better about leaving her unattended while he made the quick trip over to her place. She wouldn’t be comfortable in that dress indefinitely. Hopefully a gesture of goodwill in the form of clean clothes would be a step in overcoming her justified anger.

With a sigh, he synced the app that would let him keep an eye on her and this condo through his phone. As he changed clothes, he decided the only silver lining was that she didn’t seem to remember he’d been around when the scarred man grabbed her. He didn’t expect that to last much longer.

* * *

BECCA PACED THE length of the room, considering her options. In the bathroom, she’d taken the clip from her hair and broken it in two pieces. One was inside her bra, the other tucked into her garter. She wanted to be prepared if her captor came in and tried something. As weapons, the pieces wouldn’t cause much damage, but they might buy her a few precious seconds to get away.

She loosened the zipper on her dress, wishing she could take it off. Although the little black dress was considered a wardrobe staple, perfect for every occasion, she was ready to be done with it. What she wouldn’t give for yoga pants and her threadbare college sweatshirt. And some thick socks. Her sheer stockings did nothing to protect her feet from the cold tiled floor.

It was a peculiar experience for her to not know the time. Her entire life revolved around her daily routine. Good grief, she wanted to know the day. Was anyone looking for her yet? Had a ransom been issued? Would her captor be demanding payment from the network or her family? She supposed that depended on the reason for taking her captive. If the goal was money, he’d be better off dealing with her directly. She could just imagine her dad ignoring a critical voice mail or email because he had a movie to finish or business to handle.

Tears threatened once more. He’d always been tough, though she knew he loved her. They loved each other. The gap had just become too wide after her mother died. Flattened by his grief, he’d never quite made it back to really connect with her. They hadn’t had a real conversation in months, and that last one hadn’t been uplifting for either of them. She hoped that terse exchange wouldn’t be their last.

Her stomach rumbled and she decided to make use of the basics her captor had stocked. Finding peanut butter in the cabinet and bread in the refrigerator, she used a spoon and made a sandwich. “Good thing I don’t have a peanut allergy,” she said, raising the sandwich to the camera. “Did you check my medical records?” She poured another glass of water from the tap, not ready to trust the chilled bottles.

She ate standing up, refusing to be caught at a disadvantage. “It really is a good use of space,” she said, in case her captor was listening. “Efficient too. Must have cost you a fortune with the design, the build and all the security measures.”

Security. The word ricocheted through her brain. Parker Lawton handled security for high-end clients like the Gray Box data storage solution company co-founded by Rush Grayson. Could he be foolish enough to hold her hostage? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. He had been dumb enough to stick a boot in her door and demand information.

Much as she tried, she couldn’t recall seeing him at the party. Of course that didn’t mean he hadn’t been there, only that her memory was still recovering from whatever drug had knocked her out. If—when—she got out of here, if Lawton was the captor behind the speakers and cameras, she would make sure gold theft was the least of the charges against him.

With renewed resolve, she returned to the bathroom and closed the door. This was a safe room per the computer and her captor, making it a safe bet that the room was inside a building. If she could loosen a pipe or somehow cause a leak, that would draw someone’s attention. At the very least, her captor would need to come in and repair it, giving her an opening to escape.

She knelt down to peer under the sink, and the lights went out. Biting back a startled scream, she scrambled to her feet and reached for the door handle. It locked under her hand. She was trapped in the dark, half expecting some monster to lunge out of the shower stall, when the deep, altered voice carried through the closed door.

“Time to talk, Ms. Wallace.” He was in the safe room, having made his move when he knew she couldn’t attack.

She pounded on the door. “Lawton, is that you?”

“No.”

It had to be. “Prove it.” She hammered another fist on the door. “Let me out.”

“In good time. I need some information.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the weak plea that nearly promised him anything in exchange for her freedom. Becca Wallace did not beg.

“If you cooperate—”

“Oh, stop with the threats and get to the point,” she snapped, somehow keeping her voice steady.

“Your show has a good reputation.”

What? She bit back a sharp retort. Maybe it was her awful date. Surely Lawton was smart enough to know he couldn’t win her over with ridiculous, mild compliments. “Good? We win awards, thank you very much.”

“How do you decide on ideas for the show?”

The question threw her off. Lawton or the dumb date? “I can assure you we don’t let kidnappers dictate our topics.”

“Walk me through it,” he insisted.




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